I miss:
the Baker music building--specifically, practicing there late at night. Flipping the lights on when I come in, playing as loudly as I want. Scratching out the high notes and hard parts at full volume, no need to be concerned that someone might realize I'm still just faking that run at rehearsal Q. Playing fiddle tunes even though I can't fiddle. Playing the piano without comparing myself to certain student-accompanist piano prodigies. With freedom to sound terrible, I often play my best.
I love:
how Germans, especially older Germans and male Germans, have the train routes/schedules in their area memorized. "You came from Greifswald? Left early this morning? Then that must have been the 7:38 Regional Express to Hamburg over Stralsund and Lübeck, eh?" Um...yes... Yes, exactly. Frequently, they know more about your voyage than you do. If you don't remember which path you're taking from A to B, you'll get the queston: "When's your train leave?" followed by "9:45? Ah, so you must be changing in Münster." Then, if they're old, you might get their thoughts on that particular stretch of track ("yeah, that's some nice scenery"), or a story about one time they changed in Münster ("it was the winter of '62 and I was trying to get home for Christmas...").
I am aware of:
being "the American." This isn't always a bad thing. People are generally kind and curious when they hear where I'm from, and since the ouster of Bush, politically oriented comments range from neutral to positive, instead of bordering on antagonistic. I don't even necessarily mind being expected to answer questions on behalf of the whole country, since talking about that sort of thing is a big part of my job here. But when someone starts telling a story about their trip to America, or mentions something that they heard happened there recently, I suddenly feel I'm being observed. "Ich bin vor ein paar Jahren nach Amerika geflogen," began the 1st clarinetist during an orchestra social event. And though he knows I understand German just fine, and though I'm sitting right next to him and can hear the storyteller as well as he can, my stand partner Kurt leans over to me. "She went to America," he half-whispers and looks at me like parents look at kids when they want them to get excited about something. ("Look, Aunt Janie's got a slide! And your cousin likes ponies, too!") If it's got to do with America, it must also be of interest to me.
I miss:
walking back to the apartments from Owens, after practicing there late at night. Especially in the winter, when it's cold.
I miss:
doing the above and not caring that's it's cold.
I didn't realize:
it was a snow day—not until I tromped through a stiller, slower-moving Schönwalde* to find the schoolyard empty and not a Fahrrad in sight. This was proof enough for me. Already up and out, I figured I'd walk around and enjoy the winter wonderland. It was perfectly still--no wind, no icey fog--and I hardly felt cold, so the atmosphere was excellent as I walked along a tree-lined path near my house—the little bit of forest that the developers did leave. I stopped at one point to look around at all the white-lined black braches and take it all in. When I started moving again, I saw a man in the distance, walking alongside his dog. What do you do when you pass the only other person in a silent forest sparkling white under the cover of snow? Where do you look? What do you say? Sometimes I'm thankful for the distraction of dogs.
I miss:
having an apartment. Having a couch, chairs, numerous places to sit. And those Baker chairs that let you rock back...those were nice.
I should like:
the hospitality. The world over, it's often southerners who get the credit for hospitality,** but people in East Germany have a decent reputation for it as well ("they don't have much, but what they have, they'll share"). I do like the hospitality sometimes, but not when it involves gifts and money. I always have something of a problem with gifts because they make the relationship unequal, puts someone in debt. And I know that when I give presents, I don't usually think about this--I like giving people stuff without a specific reason--but I don't feel comfortable on the receiving end. Even when it's little things: a box of chocolates from Carsta, a free 3 Euro ticket to the theater. It's worse when you don't even know the person. "I'll treat you!" I heard numerous times when the Greifswald orchestra went out for drinks with the Bremen choir. There were a couple of us who didn't order anything (I don't want a glass of wine, so I'm not going to spend 5 Euros on one if I can help it) and we were repeatedly asked if we were sure we didn't want anything. I can't even let someone I know buy a drink for me, much less a complete stranger.
I miss:
roommates. Having someone to get excited with and someone to complain to. People to watch movies with. I miss laughing with someone, rather than alone. I miss hugging people.
I miss:
physical contact.
I had:
plans to go ice-skating, at the outdoor rink in Stralsund. An onslaught of “winter weather”*** prevented intercity travel, however. Slightly disappointing, as I like ice skating and hadn’t been since middle school. Instead, I walked around Greifswald. Walked to the harbor. Walked out onto the frozen Baltic Sea. That I had never done. It did not disappoint.
I miss:
you. At least sometimes, almost certainly.
I was:
in the town of Binz on the island of Rügen, staying at the youth hostel where the Universitätsorchester Greifswald was holed up for a solid weekend of practicing. Practice, eat, practice, sleep, practice, eat, practice, practice, practice, was pretty much how it went, but I did have about an hour to explore on Saturday after lunch, so I put on my coat and went out to walk on the beach. The wind was unbelievable: the tall grass bordering the sand was bent over like a massive light green combover, and the waves on the open ocean were white and violent. On the shore, the wind was strong enough as it was, but on the pier where I was going directly into it, it was almost impossible to walk against. I didn't have any gloves, and my fingers lost feeling as I took my camera out to snap pictures that failed completely at capturing what I saw, much less what I felt: the cold, the wind, the ocean spray. The intensity of this thing that’s life.
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*Area of town I live in. Means "beautiful forest" but consists of highrise buildings. It's like the American suburb joke about naming streets after the trees cut down to build them."
**I actually have no idea if this is true. But it seems that way, right? Like, Spain and southern Italy? The Middle East and all of Africa? Texas? Maybe.
***...as they'd say on the news in Kansas...
