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An intermittent update until I become less lazy, and more interesting... back with Heidelberg soon!!!

16 January 2011—Frankfurt am Main

I ventured into Frankfurt with my lovely hosts of the past few days—Ingo, Claudia, and their son Jonah.  The city was a fascinating juxtaposition of old and new.  Glass and metal stood beside timber frames and stone.  It was a lovely day, one of the few that I have experienced free of rain thus far, so I strolled the streets with an ice cream cone.  Pictures should suffice…

Claudia and little Jonah.

Römerberg Plaza.  This area was destoryed in the Allied bombing of April 1944, laying in ruins for years until the city restored it's historic center in the early 1980s.

Frankfurt seems to be a whee bit flooded...

Dom Sankt Bartholomäus, aka Saint Bartholomeus's Cathedral (for us Amerikaners).

Dom Sankt Bartholomäus (inside).

A fancy building.

Ingo and little Jonah.

The new and the old.

A view of Frankfurt from above.

A view of Frankfurt from above.

Alte Oper.

Pulse.

My poor shoes are not so happy with me.

 

17 January 2011—Offenbach am Main

My German dictionary and I conquered the washing machine, and the grocery store.  Exciting, eh?

Eins, Zwei, Drei Berliner

14-15 January 2011—Berlin 

 

Who Knew was playing in Berlin at the Comet Club.  It was there last show during their (quite short) German tour and I really wanted to see them.  I slept in far later than I intended, and was slow to get going.  I managed to grab a train around 17:15.  It arrived in Berlin at about 21:25 and the show started at 21:00 (or so the internet had told me).  That was perfectly fine, I generally go to concerts about an hour late.

I really should learn to plan better or at least give myself more leeway for the mistakes I inevitably make and the obstacles I encounter.  The train arrived in Berlin at around 22:00.  We had been delayed by a medical emergency.  Stepping into the hauptbahnhof in Berlin, I was immediately overwhelmed.  It was far larger that I had expected.  All I had was the name of a station, and I saw no maps to aid me in deciphering which train I should board.  As I wandered in circles I saw a sign with Warschauer Straße.  I remembered seeing this near my destination on google maps.  I boarded the train and hoped for the best.

When I arrived at Warschauer Straße my instincts told me to go right.  My instinct were wrong.  I walked for nearly a mile before I concluded that I was going the wrong direction.  I was suppose to cross a river and I hadn’t.  I turned around and trekked back the way I had come.  I passed the station again, shortly thereafter was the river, and then the Comet Club, my final destination.  By the time I arrived, I was two hours late.  Which could have been fine, but I had also been mistaken about the start time.  Posted outside, it said 20:00.  I was three hours late.  Scheiße.  I missed the show.  The sign also had an event posted for 23:00, so I went in anyways.

I grabbed a beer (a Berliner, as I was in Berlin) and took a seat.  23:00 is early for Berliners, and the club was sparsely populated.  The music selection was fantastic, leaving me quite content to relax in a corner with my beer and listen. As I observed the room around me, I found myself wondering if I had entered a gay club.  Each collection of people was either exclusively male or exclusively female and no interaction.  It looked like a middle school dance.  However, as more people arrived, and more alcohol was consumed, this changed.

On my third beer, a Colombian approached me.  The ensuing conversation would be comical for an outside observer.  We bounced between his poor English and my forgotten Spanish, while surrounded by German.  He bought me a shot of Yeager and I had a few more beers.  The dance floor had filled and I was finally ready to join the party.

I like how Germans dance—a free-spirited flailing of all limbs that may or may not coincide with a beat.  They dance like I do.

It was not long before I began harassing strangers.  On my first attempt, I was unsuccessful.  I tried to tell one guy that I liked his shirt (it simply said “love music, hate facism).  He didn’t speak English.  And, while I could probably say something as simple as “Ich mag deine t-shirt”, I failed to recover any German competency that I might have.  Later, I saw someone sitting on the edge of the stage.  He looked bored, sad, less than happy.  I approached him, and honestly, I don’t remember exactly what I said.  It included the word “smile” a lot.  I then dragged him onto his feet to dance.  We became friends.  We’ll call him Hans (for anonymity, entertainment, and to mask the fact that I don’t actually remember his name, I likely forgot it immediately upon hearing it… well, mostly the latter).

Now 4 or 5 in the morning, Hans and I left the club with his friend.  I didn’t trust him (the friend, that is).  Eventually, I became fed up with him and simply walked away.  Shortly after, Hans caught up with me, rid of his friend.  We went and grabbed some food.  I’m not really sure what it was I ate; he ordered for me.  There were noodles and I think there may have been some meat (I’m really on a role here with the whole vegetarian thing, aren’t I?). 

I had intended to spend the night in the train station, not wanting to pay for a room, and simply grab an early train back to Offenbach.  Hans refused to allow me to do such a thing.  And, although the sky was turning light with the dawn, he set me up on a futon in his apartment.  When I woke up in the morning (mid-day), he prepared breakfast and sent me on my way.  I probably should have paid more attention when he gave me directions.  As soon as I walked out onto the street I realized I had no idea where I was, or where I was going.  I started walking.  Eventually I found my way.

Oh, and on the train you get your beer in a legitimate glass.  Beer in GLASS on a train?!?!  Only the Germans.  Rad.

Days One and Two

12 January 2011—Mainz, Hessen, Germany

 

When we landed in Frankfurt, the sun was only just beginning to rise.  Despite our long delay during departure, we were only five minutes behind the expected arrival.  I was shocked when the customs officer did not ask me a single question.  To be honest, I was kind of hoping for the opportunity to be slightly obnoxious.  Instead, he simply studied, stamped, and returned my passport in an eerie silence.  I suppose the name “Hoffman” alongside birth in Germany garners one a free pass.  Or they simply do not care as much as I had imagined. 

After a bit of aimless wandering, several failed attempts at attaining internet, one passport scare, and multiple mountings and dismountings of my pack (a serious feat at 58 pounds—I nearly topple over every time I hoist it onto my back), I finally settled into an little bistro.  After paying far more than desirable, I had internet, a croissant, nutella, and a delicious hot schokolade.

My circumstances upon arrival had been less than ideal.  I had about $60 in my bank account and $100 in cash.  Everything else was dependent on USPS, successful forgery by my mother, and a speedy transfer at the bank.  However, a bit of my luck changed when I found an email from Ingo, the son of my mother’s former landlord (and my former nanny) here in Germany.  I may not have had money, but at least I had a place to sleep.  Previously, I had seriously pondered living in the airport for a few days.

           

At the train station, I boarded the wrong train and ended up in Mainz instead of downtown Frankfurt.  A happy mistake, as I hoped to visit Mainz at some point anyways.  I shoved my pack into a locker and began exploring.  It was raining, but otherwise pleasant.  Mainz was freckled with bits of vibrant graffiti hidden in its crevices, which I found incredibly intriguing in contrast with the quaint architecture and age of the city.

It was not long until I found a used bookstore.  It was lovely.  The shelves were packed floor to ceiling with old German philosophy and literature texts.  Such bookstores are my greatest weakness in life.  I succumbed to my desire to indulge, but managed to indulge only moderately.  I purchased a copy of Goethe’s Faust and a book on Wittgenstein.  This was probably not the best idea for several reasons—I am carrying everything in a pack and books are heavy, I cannot read German well (yet), I’m broke—but I couldn’t resist.  Hopefully this will not become a habit.

I knew Mainz was on a river.  So my goal was to find it.  After a fair bit or wandering, intermittently entering shops to escape the rain, I stumbled upon the river.  It was flooded from the recent snows and rains.  The docks were partly submerged and a street sign protruded from the water’s surface.  The chill of the rain was beginning to seep into my bones.  While seeking suitable shelter, I grabbed a pretzel from a street vendor.  It seemed to be the cheapest food I could purchase.  Shortly after, I bought some gelato at a café.  I was shocked to find that neither the vendor nor the server at these locations spoke ample English.  In my previous travels it had seemed nearly everyone spoke enough English that I was spared embarrassment.  Alas, ordering consisted of severely butchered German accompanied by extravagant hand-gestures.  It seems you enjoy your gelato more when it is ordered in such a manner.

           
When I made it back to the train station, I still had plenty of time to waste.  I saw a ‘Hair Express’ with cuts for only 13 Euro.   It was cold outside, I had excess time, and I had intended to get a trim before leaving the states, so I walked into the salon.  No one spoke English except for one customer readying himself to leave.  Upon seeing the coinciding looks of confusion on the faces of myself and the two hairdressers, he proceeded to offer translation services.  He relayed that I wanted “a trim to keep my hair healthy” and the women nodded, shuffled me toward the sink, and the man left.  Intelligible communication ceased and my hair had been surrendered to a women with whom I could not clarify my desires.  About a half hour later she was finished.  I looked normal.  Success.  

I finally boarded a train to Ingo’s around 18:00.  Exhausted, I would intermittently wake from sleep, frantically attempt to figure out where we were, hopelessly try to read the rail map, doze off again, and repeat.  Once in Offenbach, I exited the train and emerged in a city larger than I had expected.  After spinning in circles while attempting to orient myself, a stranger approached me.  I looked lost—and I was.  When I asked him for directions he replied that he was not a local, but promptly herded several others on the street and offered my inquiry.  They directed me toward a map that eased my confusion only slightly.  While assured the street did exist, I still had no idea how to find it.  My pack began weighing on me heavily when I finally stumbled upon my destination.

            
Ingo has a son, Jonah.  Jonah is five and does not speak English.  He talks to me incessantly and stares at me, waiting for a reply.  I often fail to offer one.  He must think I am terribly dumb.  We struck an understanding, however, once he exclaimed 'kitzeln mich.'  Tickle me, simple enough.  As long as I was chasing or tickling him, I really didn’t need to struggle to understand his German.  Problem solved.

           

13 January 2011—Offenbach, Hessen, Germany

 

I set out the day with one goal—to find tomato soup.  I was successful, and encountered these added perks along the way:

...I saw Snookie, but she had bleached blonde hair and was speaking German.  While the former would make her even more ‘Jersey Shore,’ the latter cancels it out.  Therefore, I argue that she is Snookie’s exact equivalent.

...I saw a cute hairdresser through a window.  I seriously considered getting my hair cut again.

...I discovered that large-breasted, hard-nipped mannequins are a universal.

...Oh… and brace yourself… I ate meat.