Abschiedsablauf bwz. Ablauf der Abschied

So, this very well might be my last blog as JMG in HGW. I don't know if I'll continue posting stuff occasionally or not. Maybe. I didn't do a great job with it as it was, though. We'll see.

As I'm writing this, I'm sitting in my room, waiting for the Hausmeister (head maintainance guy) to come by. I don't move out until Monday, but when I leave my room it'll be like 6 am...too early for the apartment administration to be on duty. Thus he's gonna check over it now...make sure I didn't break anything or remove any furniture. Oh, there's the doorbell! Must be him.

Yep, Hausmeister was here. Now it's to the apartment director to get my deposit back (hopefully in cash, so I can close out my bank account and not have to wait for a transfer to go through--it's all either electronic or paper transfer here--no checks). Bank's only open for another 3 hours between now and Monday, so I'd better go now.

So, I went to the bank after I said I would. Stood in line for awhile. Remembered I didn't have my passport, and figured they'd ask for it. Left and bought some soy milk instead. Went home and enjoyed my new purchase on some cereal. Yum. Started walking back to the bank, this time with my passport. When I was about halfway there (this isn't exactly a long trip; maybe two minutes) I realized I had no idea what my American bank account and routing numbers were. To transfer my leftover German money to Bank of America, they'd need those for sure. Went back and looked them up. My third try at the bank was a little more successful. The account got closed, but they couldn't do a transfer without leaving the account open. They said I couldn't close it from afar, so I just took the money in cash. This means I've got a nice thin envelope of some very large bills coming back with me to America. Not enough to declare or anything, but let's just hope I don't get mugged in the Köln train station.

I'm starving. I think my rice might be about done. Let's go check!

Yep, by the time I got the kidney beans washed and canned corn drained, the rice was done. I eat that mixture with a healthy dollop of "El Tacqito" salsa, which is really not very good at all and makes me homesick for even the cheapest, least authentically Mexican "American" salsa. Judging from the fact that I keep buying it to put on the bean-corn-rice mixture, however, must mean I think it's better than nothing. I would definitely be up for a visit to Carlos O'Kelly's once I get back; too bad I'll be basically the only HPUMC ex-youth group member in Topeka....

This is Friday of my last week at school. The cookie-handing-out actually started last Tuesday with one class that was cancelled for this week, but it really got going on Monday. Along with cookies, there were murder mystery lessons for the 8-11 grades and a word-paraphrasing/guessing game (think Catch Phrase) for the 7th. I got lots of flowers, lots of cute cards/class pictures, a couple German flags, and some Uni Greifswald paraphernalia from the teachers. For some reason--maybe because it came at the end of a long line of goodbyes, or maybe because it sounded so incredibly sincere--but the goodbye from the principal (with whom I actually had very little to do this entire year) was the one to make me start getting sentimental. The guy has a jolly round face, nice curly gray hair, a big smile, strong handshake, and--like any German worth his weight in greeting cards--has a knack for extended, cordial goodbyes. I tell you, they put the Americans to shame when it comes to making speeches. Everybody--and I mean Hausmeister, stand-in for the apartment director, lady at the bank, not to mention people I actually know--has at the very least wished me a good trip home and all the best for my future. Germans are big on goodbyes and thank yous both, which I guess is why I've gotten so much of this leaving formality. Each goodbye is also a thank you, and each thank you a goodbye.

I've been struggling all year to learn all my students' names, and to be honest, there were a few I could never keep straight. Instead of becoming less important to me as the end approached, however, I become more adamant about making sure I knew who everyone was. For some reason, it seemed important that I remember their names, even after I've left. I guess it's a way of hanging on. A hope that I can go through the seating charts years from now and still picture faces. That when I look at the signed postcards, "Max," "Johann," "Theresa," and "Anna" will mean something more to me than looking at a list of top German baby names.

A couple days ago, or maybe a week, I was sorting out the large stack of extra handouts I had. Mixed in with the worksheets I'd made and texts we'd discussed were my notes for teaching various lessons. It was amazing to compare the most recent with the oldest. At the beginning of the year I wrote down everything for myself, and in considerable detail. More recently, something like "brainstorm on food, part 1 with partner, discuss part 2, write own opinion" was a lot more common. Maybe a couple prompt questions too. And even when I made notes, I often didn't look at them during the lesson at all. One of the best discussions I ever had with Gesine's 11th grade class (second only to the debate on capital punishment) was during a lesson on nationalism that I prepared no more than 10 minutes before class (that wasn't MY fault by the way...I never intentionally cut it closer than half an hour). Anyway, point is, I definitely made progress as a teacher. Or at the very least became more confident.

It's hard to put into words what this experience has been. Perhaps it's telling that I find it so hard to believe that I was here twice as long as I was in Heidelberg--and that, though I'm looking forward to being home for awhile, I never really had a countdown going; I could quite easily extend the stay. September was not long ago at all. But at the same time, when I think about what I've experienced since then, it seems quite a lot. I mean, yeah, it's true: I didn't accomplish everything I wanted to here. I didn't tutor anyone; I didn't make a whole lot of progress in Spanish; I'll be going back with tons of acquaintances, but only a couple real friends. But I'm not unpleased. In fact, I'm still very pleased. Other than a more-than-ideal number of days spent wet and cold, all the memories are good ones. Have I grown as a person in the past year. Yes. I should probably go on a diet when I get back. Have I grown as a spiritual being? Lernte ich besser Justine Greve kennen? Did this experience exceed my expectations and then some? Certainly. No doubt. Ja wohl. So thanks Senator Fulbright... Pädagogischeaustauschdienst... Greifswald... Alex-von-Humboldt. It's been truly awesome.

(Imagine) all the people

You'd have thought I was Lord Voldemort crossing the threshold to Hogwarts the way the 7A screamed and ran away as I approached the cathedral. Made me smile. They're 7th graders, see, and despite the fact that I was going to see them perform, they're not THAT good at acting. The giggling is a big hint that the fear is fake, and while Felix routinely claims that seeing me has just ruined his perfectly good day, he kind of undermines his credibility when runs after me in the schoolyard to tell me that.

What I was at the church for--the play/dance production--was excellent, by the way. Probably the most enjoyable modern dance performance I've ever seen, though I realize that knowing half the cast made me a little biased.* I only see these kids once a week and know relatively little about their personal lives, but I feel kind of attached to them. Certainly attached enough that when they do well, I'm really proud.

Like with the Big Challenge, this state-wide English competition that some of the students participated in. Over 1,000 7th graders competing total. Alex-von-Humboldt kids took first and second overall. Yeah. Not that I had anything to do with that, but it's still cool.

It's amazing to me how often I see people I know here--at least as often as I do when I'm in Topeka, but there I had a couple decades to rack up that many acquaintances. It's a nice feeling to be recognized, especially when some of the people smiling and waving are ones who don't seem so enthusiastic when they're at school.

If I can afford to come back here before I finish grad school, I really want to. Not just come back to Germany, but to Greifswald. And preferably in the next 4 years before the younger ones graduate. I really want to see what's happened by then--what they're like, how they've changed. I want to see if they've gotten really good at English, because some of them are quite impressive right now. I want to see if Marvick is still polite and charming, and if Julia's found it hard to be religious in the former East, and if Paul got into a college in Florida, and if Johannes still has that adorable curly blond hair.

It goes beyond the kids, though. I took several roads less traveled the other day while biking and ended up in a damp, deciduous forest near my house. As I stood among the weeds and trees, mosquitoes swarming all around, I had the same feeling: that somehow I belong here. There's that cheesy song "I lost my heart in Heidelberg" that all exchange students to that city are supposed to come back singing. I did not. But here...for some reason I've felt that way from the very beginning. I definitely want to go home right now, but I know that as soon as I do I'm going to miss this place like crazy.

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*The music helped a lot, too. It was all Russian (/Soviet) with lots of Tchaikowsky and Khachaturian.

A People's History of the Last Few Weeks

I haven't made a judgement yet on whether or not people are "basically good." I suppose it may be more accurate to say that they're "basically morally neutral," although I feel also that if morality comes from or is defined by people, it makes sense that the rules of morality are things most people see value in. That's logic, though. If I were to make the call on gut feeling, I'd say yeah. "Basically good" is definitely the impression I keep being left with.

Take the Swoggers, for instance. They took me in to their gorgeous, rustic-y cottage in a village in a valley in northern Wales. Took me out to eat at the local pub, showed me (from an archaeologist's perspective) the local cemetery. Drove me all around the area, and to the seacoast, and into England. Talked about important and interesting stuff. Treated me like a relative instead of a random girl whose college education funding was tied up with John's grandfather's charitable foundation. Awesome people. Freja reminded me a lot of Brenda Day, for the one or two people that might mean anything to...

Or take my couchsurfers. Strangers willing to drive me to Hadrian's Wall , tell me about post-USSR Lithuania, fix my camera, analyze British maternity-leave policies, joke about American politics, and stay up late watching people miss each others' points in televised religious debates. Honestly, I don't even do most of that with people I actually know.

Other people I stayed with I'd met before. Bayern with Christoph was great. I met his family and came face-to-face with the Bavarian dialect. Met his girlfriend and window-shopped for dirndls.* Watched Christoph's soccer game and went to a Southern German Catholic Palm Sunday service. I watched a guy on a German game show (successfully!) identify types of sausage by smelling/tasting the juice that they are packaged in. I saw a Greek-style temple, the confluence of three rivers, and learned that gas is a lot cheaper if you buy it just across the German-Austrian border.

Oh, the Fulbright conference was great, too. Fancy food, fancy room, free time in Berlin. Found some Mexican food, went to the DDR museum. Fulbright-sponsored parties and "music gala" that included a performance by Darius (son of Dave) Brubeck. All great. Would have been nice if it was earlier in the year, though. I met some awesome people, none of whom live anywhere near me, either in Germany or the states. And by now, the few travel days I have left are already accounted for. Oh well. Thank goodness for Facebook.

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*Dirndl. One of those dresses you see on the girls in Oktoberfest pictures.

Silverstein, Silbermond, Mondstein, Mondschein

I walked last night to where the sidewalk ends. It's on the eastern way out of town, just beyond the Max-Planck-Institute, just on the pasture-side of Elisen Park. The latter is a shopping center--a legitimate American-style mall which I discovered last week on a walk beyond the borders, out past Lidl to the spot where the bike path turns to gravel. When I found it I was shocked. Who knew that it was there, that 2.5 acres of America on Mecklenburg-Vorpommeranian soil? It was home, but I didn't want it, and I realized that come July, I'm probably going to miss Germany far more than I've been missing America.*

At the same time that I feel pretty at home here, I'm often struck by how un-German my life is. Probably once a day, I'm taken slightly off guard by hearing German. This usually happens within 60 seconds of leaving my apartment and reminds me how much time I spend alone inside my head. If I don't have school and don't have orchestra and don't meet anyone in the kitchen, I probably won't say more than a few sentence of German per day. Today, for example. I've said "hi," "bye," and a couple numbers while counting out my change at the store. But that's it. And unless I've been immersed in German for awhile, I don't normally use it for thinking. My sound of silence is still English.

Interestingly, however, it's not just German in Germany that catches me off guard. In Britain, it was English. I was in a foreign country, so English just didn't seem right. I loved it, though. It's the most amazing feeling to not have to think at all about what you're saying. I could be articulate. I could be witty. I felt like myself, and that's pretty good for morale.

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*As a country and way of life. Missing people is a totally different story.

Italy & Morocco Entry #4: I look local, I eat local, I go back to where I feel local

The ferry from Tangier to Algeciras was running on a Moroccan schedule and according to Moroccan advertising principles. The “1 hour” 5:00 ferry departed at 5:40 and arrived in Spain 2.5 hours later (having crossed a time zone, the clock showed the trip to have been just 1.5). Once across the border, however, everything was fully Spanish. I could finally (kind of) blend in! I could communicate with words! I also happened to have the nicest hostel room I’d ever stayed in—a private single with bathroom, though I’d only paid for a dorm. The next day I took a bus to Portugal and saw some great Spanish scenery—lots of green and lots of sun. And when I left my coat on one bus after transferring to a new one, I was able to convince the driver (though already running late) to let me run back and get it. In Spain, things were going well.

Luck in Portugal was mixed. CouchSurf host in Faro failed to contact me: bad. Ran into random friendly-seeming guy who showed me to the tourism office, recommended a nice but cheap place to stay, and toured me around town: generally good. Generally. In addition to the city’s sights, Carlos decided I needed to experience the local food, alcohol, and music. Generally I’m fine with that, but with a middle-aged playboy, it was pretty strange. I never felt unsafe, so I stayed out with him, had some surprisingly good wine, great food (some fish & egg dish, olives, shrimp, goat cheese...), and listened to a local band. I got back to the hostel around 4:00 in the morning and decided that, while everything turned out fine, that’s probably not something I should do again anytime soon. Just got too awkward. In any case, it was definitely a relief to land in Germany where you can be alone without getting accosted, where people are reserved and not only won’t follow you around, but probably won’t even strike up a conversation…especially not with a direct inquiry about your marital status. Much of the time, I have no problem with puritanical.

Italy & Morocco Entry #3: I go for the Moroccan experience

Morocco was a culture shock. I was white. I was alone. I was a woman. I didn’t speak Arabic, or French, and I didn’t come with my own rolls of toilet paper. It was a little overwhelming that first day in Meknes, as I realized what all of this meant. After dropping off my stuff at the hostel, I went out to explore the city. Soon, I had a male contemporary at my side, refusing to take hints like, “I’d like to walk around alone,” and thinking that “I’m going to go back to my hostel” was an invitation for him to spend the night. After walking around together for awhile, I invented a boyfriend and successfully started back toward the hostel alone, only to find myself suddenly blocked by a large man speaking Arabic at me. I tried to tell him in French that I only spoke English (the truth for all practical purposes), but that only got me two men speaking at me, neither one of which I could understand. I have no idea what the deal was. I just wanted to cross the street. Finally they gave up and let me pass. I bought some bread and fruit on the way back to the hostel, ate it, and went to bed. It was 7 p.m., but I’d had enough.

When I was in Meknes, as in San Marino, I felt a little like I was the only tourist. I was surprised and pleased when two French women came to breakfast the next morning, relieving me from being the only western woman among a whole soccer-team of boys who were scarfing down bread, juice, and tea, and casting occasional glances my way. Talk about feeling conspicuous. Marrakech was better, namely because there were more tourists. This meant that taxi costs were severely inflated and that there was a little more beckoning from vendors to come look at their stuff, but it was not nearly as bad as I had expected. No one went beyond a greeting or invitation to see what they had (except at dinner time in the market square, when the waiters would actually follow you around for awhile). And frequently, the vendors didn’t say anything at all. Far less pressure than the tourism-tip websites led me to expect.

Walking through the souqs (markets) here was amazing. The streets were maze-like, and you could walk for hours, getting lost and finding your way again, seeing a lot without actually stopping long to look. Since the city was touristy, I expected most people with something to sell to speak at least a little English. This wasn’t always the case. I ordered lunch by pointing and got the prices for groceries with held-up fingers. Speaking of food: it was amazingly cheap. My pointing-lunch consisted of a large sandwich, fries, and drink for the grand total of 13 dirhams, or about 1.30 euros. Just the half-liter bottle of soda would have cost more than that in Europe.

If you don’t mind long bus rides, it’s something to do on your honeymoon: ride on a camel, water the sand with your urine. Stand underneath a black dome of sky on a plane that probably extends forever; stare at the white spots twinkling through. Unless you’re an astronomer, the Sahara’s got more stars than you knew existed—more than you’ve ever seen—more than anyone could count. It’s got wind, too. Stand and feel it swirl past you, feel it brush the sand against your legs, feel the chill. Forget about restrooms and any sort of modern conveniences. Poop in the desert behind a dune. Wrap yourself in a blanket and stand by the campfire. Clap to the music. Walk away from it all and make yourself feel small, and then big—elated, and then peaceful. Feel your heart beat. Feel free.

Any long road trip requires music, and the trip from centrally located Marrakech to the edge of the Sahara was, by any modern standards, long.* We started the day with radio broadcasts in French—news, as you could tell from the intonation of the speaker’s voice. By mid-morning, we’d transitioned to local music. I wish I knew just what we were listening to, for one so I could do some research on it, for two so I could listen more myself, and lastly because I’m not going to be able to adequately describe it here. I’m pretty sure the music was “modern;” at least, it contained some “modern” elements. It often sounded like the voice was electronically distorted, for example, though it was a little hard to tell. Maybe they just have an unusual way of singing. Anyway, the modern music was also fairly traditional in terms of instrumentation and singing style. Vocal lines were full of trills and Arab-influenced intervals and harmonies. Texts were in Arabic—or maybe a Berber language. (Actually, they could have been anything North African or Middle Eastern, for all I knew.) The songs were generally quick, but long and repetitive. Somehow, they perfectly fit the scenery, fit the uphill and downhill and around-mountain winding we were doing, and helped the 10 hours to flow by pretty well. Occasionally, after we made our last rest stop and got closer and closer to the desert, our van driver (short and stocky, sweatered and stocking-capped) started singing along. Not in tune, exactly, but Moroccan music doesn’t seem to be about being in tune—at least not like “traditional” western music generally is. Nothing about the run-down villages we were driving by was perfect; nothing about the poor-looking kids and bored-looking men would have fit a soprano aria. This called for some wailing, called for some sliding on the pitch. This was real, and I was glad the music was, too.

*Of course, no comparison to the “52 days to Timbuktu” that some sign in some Moroccan town famously proclaims.

Some music examples that come pretty close to the style were were listening to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AG8NxCf5NeM (The female singer between 0:20 and 1:30)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3neKACV6-6w&feature=related (This video is weird. But the music is a pretty good example.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8Ffq-FOFqM&feature=related

Italy & Morocco Entry #2: I see some cool Italian things

The whole time I was in San Marino, I felt like I was just about the only person in the country. The 61 sq. km-sized nation is located in eastern Italy and is not reachable by train. Relying on bus schedules scanned and posted on the internet, I missed the last connection there on the night I needed to go, so I ended up having to take a taxi across the border and into my town. I stayed at the hostel there for two nights—the only person in an 8-bed room—and had as the only sign of another human being the occasional occupation of the bathroom I shared with my next-door neighbor. San Marino's capital (San Marino) seemed equally deserted. Other than one group of Japanese tourists, some construction workers, and a few couples strolling between the three towers and along the city wall, there was hardly anyone around. And though I had imagined sunny and welcoming rather than dreary and moderately deserted, it worked. The oldest republic in the world, set up on a hill, guarded by stone walls and towers. Fog just fits.

I got to Riomaggiore in mid-afternoon and found an envelope hanging outside the hostel office with my name on it. Inside was a key and detailed directions to the building I’d be staying in. It turned out to be an 8-person, 1-kitchen, 2-bathroom apartment behind a sliding green door at a out-of-the-way intersection nearly too tight to maneuver my backpack through. It was fantastic. After dropping off my stuff and having the owner enthusiastically tell me about the room’s new paint job and repeatedly ask for my stamp of approval, I went out to explore the city and witness one of the most amazing sunsets I’ve ever seen. When I got back to the room, I discovered two friendly Canadians and a New Zealander. We talked, the Kiwi gave me a run-down on the walking paths (what trails were closed, and how she walked them anyway without any trouble), and I was just happy—still mildly intoxicated from the sunset, already excited about walking the next day. The girl from N.Z. was in the same mood. “It’s just a good day,” she said at one point, and, though I’d spent most of it on busses, in stations, and on trains, I couldn’t have agreed more.

Coming into Vernazza from the Cinque Terre city of Corneglia is positively gorgeous—houses crammed together and painted in bold pastels, bordered by grape-covered hills on one side and teal-y blue sea on the other, white waves spraying up over the dark black rocks at the base of the cliffs. I wasn’t supposed to make that walk, but was so glad I did. For the next section, though, I decided not to break the rules again. I could just hike into the mountains instead of taking the closed coastal path. Ultimately—because I eventually found my way and did not slip or get hurt or die—it was a great alternative and awesome experience. While it was happening, I wasn’t always so pleased. It started raining and then snowing as I followed a trail that didn’t seem to match my map and climbed higher and higher into the mountains. I got soaked. I was worried it’d get dark. The trails were slippery and steep and hardly existent. When I stopped thinking about these things and realized that I was the only thing high up on a brush-covered mountain (no more trees by this point) overlooking the sea, it felt amazing. Then I’d start to feel my cold socks instead and would move on again, walking even faster.

Sometimes things don’t really go your way. Getting drenched the day before two nights of night trains is an example. Or so it might have been, had it not been for the awesome inn-keeper and some friendly Frenchmen (and women) staying in my hostel. In addition to the Canadians and New Zealander, all of whom were moving out that day, there were three travelers from France, who had agreed the night before to let me keep my stuff in the room until I caught my night train. This was great, but I didn’t figure I’d actually get to “use” the room on the second day I wasn’t paying for. On the contrary, they welcomed me back and let me hang out there for several hours. My wet shoes, socks, and pants were able to dry. I avoided sitting at the station for hours in the howling wind. I got to take a shower. It was fantastic.

Every time I told someone in Germany about going to Italy, they made it seem like the trip was an escape to a tropical paradise. I guess I kind of started to believe them, so I was disappointed when I experienced snow once again in Rome. My shoes and one pair of pants were saturated within an hour of setting out to explore the city, and I went back to the train station to get a map and change clothes before going out again. The next pair of pants was soon wet to the knees and I shivered my way through some of the main sights of Rome: Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, St. Peter’s Basilica. By the time I started walking back from the Vatican, my teeth were chattering uncontrollably and I was pretty much ready to find a plane heading home. Thankfully, the snow stopped for good around this point, and I got to see the Roman Forum and Colosseum lit by afternoon sun. That night, I slept in an actual night train bunk, and though it was really just a piece of minimally-padded, upholstered metal, it felt as if I were in the bed of a caesar.