The "N" Word (Part 1)

A few weeks later we joined Don and his students for another tour, this time to Nuremberg. I recognized the destination as the location of the famous Nuremberg trials where Nazi leaders were tried for their atrocities in the Jewish Holocaust, but other than that, I wasn't sure what we would see. While riding the train I asked Scott, "So what else is there in Nuremberg besides the site of the trials? What are we going to see?"

 He answered, "I'm not sure what Don will take the students to see but I know the courthouse is there and Zeppelin Field, where Hitler held those huge Nazi rallies. I figured we'd just follow them." I pictured lines and lines of uniformed Nazis stretching one arm toward Hitler, where he screamed hate and from a huge stone podium.

 Don told us the courthouse was really not worth the extra travel to see so instead he led us to the "dokumentionszentrum reichsparteitagsgelände museen," or in English, The Documentation Centre Nazi Party Rally Grounds Museum.

It was housed in a huge red brick and cement building. Construction had been started on the building, which would host Nazi gatherings, before the war, but construction had been stopped due to money shortage when the war started. This explained the very modern looking glass facade where we entered.

Although the building wasn't actually complete until well after the fall of the Third Reich, the Nazis did gather for meetings there when Hitler demanded and used the finished sections of the building along with the adjacent Zeppelin Field for their rallies. Now the building was a museum documenting the rise and fall of the Nazi party. The museum furnished each visitor with an audio tour. We wove around the cold cement building looking up at huge photographs of Hitler and his colleagues through the years. The photographs were lit brightly on the wall while the rooms themselves were dim and and crowded with visitors.

Elle loved the hand held audio tour device. She held it to her ear like a telephone. She purposefully strode from one photo to the next and found the red call number beneath each picture, punched it in her phone and listened intently to the information. Of course, she couldn't understand the actual story that was being told, and there were no photos of the victims of Hitler's reign thus far so to her it was just a great exercise of independence and "being grown up."

On the other hand, I knew exactly what horrors were on the horizon as I listened step by step how this sick man slithered his way up into the three highest positions in the German government. In room after room, museum visitors gawked at the countless photos of the scrawny man with beady eyes. Before I entered even the second room, I felt sick to my stomach, guilty almost. I felt as if, by listening and looking at every moment of the monster's takeover, I was somehow honoring him. I felt as if we had taken some ungodly pilgrimage to walk on the same cold stone floors where he and his lemmings marched. Before long, I couldn't do it anymore. Unfortunately, like the Holocaust museum in D.C., and like the concentration camps themselves, there was no escape. Visitors had to file through room after room until they reached the exit.

 Scott, on the other hand, could gather the information like a historian, objectively. He stopped and listened to each photo's narration while I turned off the audio tour and simply walked forward. Elle wandered through the rooms with her dad and I pushed toward the end of the sickening parade.

Without the earpiece, I could listen to the echoes of the past as they bounced between the stone walls and ceilings and floors. I swore I could hear the barking German orders Hitler gave his men here. I clenched my jaw at the booming acoustics when his soldiers called out to their leader in chorus. I shivered at the fearful sound of thousands of military boots pounding across the cement floors as they infiltrated the halls, following a madman to hell.

I didn't stop moving forward until, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed some photos that didn't feature Adolf Hitler. These were photos of the men and women who resisted, all killed immediately of course. But these were the people I wanted to honor. So I put my audio tour back up to my ear and listened to every word about regular people brave enough to face the devil. I wondered if I could have been part of the resistance, but quickly doubted my own strength. I thought of my son and daughter and sadly knew immediately that I would have kept my head down to protect my own family.

The last room of the museum was dedicated to the Nuremberg trials. Again, I listened to every word and studied every face. On the far wall, actual footage of the trials played and I sneered at the stern faces claiming ignorance. Gruesome footage interrupted their bogus testimony, showing hundreds of emancipated bodies, naked and gasping in a stone gas chamber. One man sat up and looked around himself. Every other body had fallen lifeless while he clawed at his throat in desperation. I snapped my head back to the door, where little Elle would be entering. I couldn't allow her sweet eyes to see it. I didn't want to see it either.

 Instead, I looked into a display table in the middle of the room. In it lay the newspaper headlines of the death penalties sentenced to the leading Nazis, along with a photograph of each and every one dead on stone slabs after their hangings. An ounce of satisfaction worked its way to my heart seeing them, blood seeping from their eyes and mouths, necks limp, the rope still collaring them. One man, though, caught my eye and iced my insides. He was clean faced, no blood. And he had no rope around his neck. Instead he was lying peacefully with his hands folded at his waist. His lips formed a half smile, content almost, and his left eye remained open, staring at me. It seems that while imprisoned, this man was able to get a poison tablet. He was able to kill himself on his own terms by swallowing it, and his one eye and smirk told everyone that he felt as if he had won somehow. I walked away, nauseous, fearing the evil that still lived through that man's one open threatening eye.

The Little Bread Window

On Saturday morning, every seat was taken on the commercial bus headed to Tubingen University, one of the oldest universities in Europe. Frau Becker had organized a tour of Universität Tubingen and a neighboring monastery for the American students and their host families. Don invited Scott, Elle and I to join them. We weren't sure if Elle could handle a full 10 hour day of touring but after our time with the students in Stuttgart, there was no doubt she would love it. Sure enough, the moment we arrived to the departure meeting point, she told me she didn't want to sit by us on the bus, but would rather sit with one of her "new friends."

The first thing Scott and I noticed was the dog on the bus, a mid-size shaggy dog that looked like Benji. He curled up in the aisle at his owners' feet. Since nobody else even seemed to blink an eye, we decided it must be the norm to bring family dogs anywhere and everywhere in Germany. I remembered a book I had read before coming to Germany that joked that it is less offensive to a German to criticize his children than his dog.

The bus driver announced on a loud speaker that we were expected to always wear our seat belts and reminded the men that they should sit down when using the bus toilet. Then we rode for 90 minutes to Tubingen. Scott and I reveled in the chance we had to actually sit next to each other while Elle babbled away to one of the girls she had chosen to sit beside.

We had a choice of an English or German speaking tour once we arrived in Tubingen. Scott and I of course chose the English tour, led by a German woman who had gone to college in America, and had flawless English. The rest of the group split up curiously. The native English speaking students chose the German tour, while their host families whose first language was German chose the English tour. Janine, one of the host-sisters chose the English tour as well, so Elle spent the day shadowing her. The little town of Tubingen was definitely a university town. Most of its residents were students, professors, employees and employees' families. In fact the university was founded even before Christopher Columbus in 1492 sailed the ocean blue!

The tour guide led us through the tiny cobbled streets, curvy and steep, and up and down endless flights of tiny stone stairs, worn down in the middle by hundreds of years of climbing feet. We traipsed the town from bottom to top, from the picturesque Neckar river where rows of canoe-like "shtoch" boats lined the shore, to the magnificent medieval castle poised on the tip of a mountain overlooking the countless tiny red roofs of her dominion.

Our tour guide filled us in on the "shtoch" boats as we watched them flow with the river filled with tourists and steered by a man standing in back with a long wooden pole. That is the "poke" stick, from which the boats get their name, poke-barges, or punt boats. They looked like a mix between a Venetian gondola and a good old' American canoe but they have a flat bottom and are exclusive to Tubingen. As it turns out, they play quite a huge part of the community.


Every year, the fraternities host a "stocherkahn" race in the Neckar. It had started in the 1950s as just a few frat boys having fun but now was a full community event with official university sponsorship. Over 50 teams of 8 sign up to race; men and women are both allowed. They name their boat and each decorate their boat thematically complete with full costumes. The tour guide recalled a few of the memorable themes, including one team of university professors (all male) who dressed as traditional German "hausfrauen" (housewives) to race down the river. They held wooden water buckets and sloshed mops around the boat while they floated along in their full "dirndl" costumes and wigs. She also described a favorite from a previous year of oiled up roman gods wearing only skimpy togas and leather sandals.

 The racers have two chances to win. They could cross the finish line first, in which case they are awarded Germany's favorite prize, kegs of beer. I can't remember the exact amount the winners receive but it was a lot, something like 200 liters of beer from the university and 50 liters from the town officials. The second way to win is with the beauty prize, which is awarded to the best costumed team. They win 50 liters of beer. How could an 8 person team possibly drink so much beer? Well, that question is easily answered by the other honor bestowed on the winners; they are responsible to host a party for all the racers AND spectators with free beer. Surprisingly, though, the post-race party isn't necessarily the highlight of the fun. The losing team's "prize" is sometimes even more entertaining. The boat that crosses the finish line last is awarded 4 liters of cod liver oil, which is split up among the team members. Each loser must drink a half liter of cod liver oil in front of the whole party. Their misery in doing so is apparently great fun for the winners.

We finished our tour in the town's Marktplatz, the center square. Like the rest of the town, the open walking mall was on a noticeable grade. We stood on the slanted ground and stared up at the Rathaus (town hall), and it's amazing astronomical clock, that tells exactly where the moon, planets and constellations are at any given moment. Although it was built in the early 1800s, to this day, when the clock's hands overlap, the townspeople know without a doubt to expect some sort of eclipse. My favorite part of the tour was here in Marktplatz.

Our guide pointed to two half-timbered houses standing side by side near the Rathaus and told us the story of the little bread window. If you look closely at the windows on the third floor (which Americans would know as the fourth floor), you'll see one frame that is painted white. That is the little bread window.

It's named for a local legend that took place right after the Thirty Years war in the mid 1600s. People were hurting for money and food at this time. In the house on the right, on the third floor lived a childless couple, who were fairly comfortable, financially. Directly next to them in the house on the left lived a huge family. The father of the family owned the local bakery but their income didn't allow a bigger apartment for their steadily growing family. Every two years it seemed, the mother had another baby. There apartment became so full that the childless couple in the next house decided to help out. They broke down the wall between their apartment and the bakery's family's apartment, then rebuilt a new wall within their own apartment, adding a new room to the baker's house. So, to this day, the two separate houses are connected on the third floor by that shared room.

 So why is it called the little bread window? The childless couple refused to take any money in compensation for their generous gift. Instead, without fail, they would find a fresh loaf of bread left anonymously outside their door every morning.

Reinforcements

After the bells in Stuttgart, Scott and I felt like chocolate and peanut butter together. We were best friends and began touring Germany with light hearts and easy laughter.

Reinforcements had arrived in the form of about twenty students from Grand Valley State University, who would be staying in and around Schwabish Gmunde for 6 weeks, along with their German professor, Don. We were invited by the university to join them and their host families for an orientation on Tuesday evening. Elle was beyond excited to see all the young people and immediately began stalking her favorite "new friends" as we found seats arranged in a u shape around the front of the classroom.

Frau Becker, the international coordinator at Pädogogische Hochschule (Pa-Ho), began the meeting by welcoming all of us. She spoke loudly and enunciated every word. The problem was, she was speaking German. Needless to say, the host families were German and the students were German students, so they all understood. That left Scott and me pretty much clueless until Frau Becker suddenly changed to English. At this point she told the group that there were a few in the group who couldn't speak Deutsch so we were welcome to introduce ourselves in English or German if we wanted. She hadn't mentioned our names, but her body language and eye contact made it clear to everyone that it was Scott and me who were the non-German speakers.

Don introduced himself first, in German of course. Don is a few years younger than Scott. He is tall and fit with the slightest hunch in his shoulders, as some tall people have, maybe to compensate for their height. He has shoulder-length hair, parted in the middle and smooth brown with a few wiry strings of silver peeking through the thick locks. We knew him from Grand Valley but not very well. I had met him once briefly a few years back, and then again just before we came to Germany when we hosted a casual dinner for three GVSU families who had taught at PaHo in Germany. It was at this dinner where Don witnessed my very first efforts at German.

As the German introductions, one by one, curved around to us, I couldn't help but take the challenge. I had been excused to use English, but there was no way I was wasting my three weeks of The Pimsleur Approach CDs to balk at a perfect chance to try it out in front of so many people. By the time all eyes in the room - about 40 pairs - turned to me expectantly, I was ready. Clearly and proudly I recited..."Ich bin Molly Stabler. Ich bin hier mit mien Mann und meine tochter. Mein tochter heist Elle, und Wir kommen aus Michigan." While I talked, I watch amused as Don's eyebrows slowly rose, his eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. By the time I finished my introduction, the room erupted in applause. I was so surprised that for an instant I remained still. Then my natural love of attention took over and I decided to enjoy the fun. I raised both arms and clasped my hands together. Then I pumped my clasped hands on either side of my head like a boxer who's just won a championship, causing laughter and more applause.

As quickly as it had started, it stopped and everyone stared at Scott, wondering if he too would surprise them with a newfound knowledge of German. His face was bright red and he held his breath for just long enough to start a whole new round of laughter. He introduced himself in English. He may have felt a little embarrassed at having been shown up by his Frau, but I'm pretty sure his pride outweighed anything else.

It was with this group that we began touring. Our first day trip was to Stuttgart. Elle immediately chose some college girls to cling to and as we tramped through the city, she skipped along joyously, chattering away to the girls about anything and everything. At one point, she turned to Scott and me, barely able to catch her breath, said, "This is my best day in Germany yet!" Don took us to the top of the train station tower, where a huge silver Mercedes Benz symbol rotated above a 360 degree panoramic view of the city. Elle hopped between the students who took turns holding her up to the fence to look over. Those students who loved kids were obvious, and Scott and I nudged each other, knowing that we may have just found a few babysitters for the next 6 weeks.

For lunch, the plan was to walk into a huge park area that the city was fighting to protect from a train station expansion. Environmentalists -and Germans are huge tree huggers- had painted construction gates with their opinion of the future construction.

Don left with a few students to buy bread and cheese to eat while the rest found a shady spot under one of the doomed trees to sit. Elle shadowed Thomas at this point. She was so excited later to show me the sign language he had taught her, "crab," and "rabbit," and "My name is Elle."

Scott and I spotted a biergarten close to where the young people would picnic and decided that we would eat there. We thought it may be tough to lure Elle away from "sooo many friends" until we pointed out the trampoline sitting right beside the rows of wooden picnic tables. We filed through a cafeteria style line to choose and purchase food. Scott and I ate wurst and drank bier while Elle sprang around the netted trampoline to her heart's content. When she tired of jumping, she bounded out and galloped to the playhouse and swings just beside the trampoline. Scott and I spent the rest of lunch discussing how underprivileged America is not to have our own outdoor beer gardens with playgrounds and trampolines!!

When the students finished eating, they wandered over to watch Elle jump. I could see the envy in their eyes when they read the sign saying "nur für kinder bis 12", until one student kicked off her sandals and climbed in with Elle. She laughed at our shocked faces and put her hands in the air, mocking a clueless tourist. In a loud drawling voice, she mispronounced each word, "EEESH SPRAKE AH KEYN DOICH!"

Scott and I returned to that biergarten the same night when the students headed to a festival in another section of the city. Don joined us along with two of his former students who had returned to Stuttgart and now live here. Elle had fallen asleep exhausted and was now sprawled out on the grass beside us while Elly, Heidi, Don, Scott and I had beers and joked.

We worried that when a sleepy Elle woke, she would end our fun but we were dead wrong. Amidst our conversation, she sat up, blinked once and looked around. Then she popped up and scampered back over to the trampoline. As evening came, more families arrived and the kids ran around the playground, climbing in and out of the trampoline while their parents drank monstrous mugs of beer.

When Don left the table to go get us another round, I took the opportunity to ask Elly and Heidi about their former professor. Watching him throughout the day, I had admired his calming voice and friendly eyes and I wondered how his coed students reacted to him. "So, tell me, are there a lot of students who have a crush on Herr Anderson?" Both Heidi and Elly laughed at the idea. But they didn't mean it in a cruel way. Quite the opposite, really. Heidi clarified, "No, we would never think of him that way. All of his students respect him too much for that. Whenever the German students get their new classes, they brag when they get Herr Anderson, because he's the best, smartest and toughest, but he still manages to keep such a genuine rapport with all of his students!"

We stayed out too late and didn't climb off the train back in Schwabish Gmunde until well after dark. Scott couldn't help but capture German beer getting the best of me once again, this time in a bush seconds from the bus stop. I still felt great, though. Elly and Heidi had given me their phone numbers and encouraged me to call them anytime. With Don's help, they even convinced Scott to ok a girls' night in Stuttgart some night. Not only that, but Elle was begging to have a babysitter soon. The outlook was great for some time to just get out and have some fun in our temporary home, Deutschland.

The Bells of Stuttgart

I honestly don't remember much about Stuttgart the first time we visited it. Scott and I basically spent the whole time arguing. Standing in Schlossplatz, Elle screamed at us to stop arguing and we were shamed into smoldering silence.

On our way to Stuttgart that morning, Jochen had called and invited us to get off the train a little early to have ice cream with him in Schorndorf. I was really relieved by the invite because I was dying for some outside conversation and Jochen had struck me as a fun, straightforward guy.

The village was beautiful with a square crowded with tents selling produce, meat, bread, cheese, fresh flowers and souvenirs. Surrounding the square were tall Fachwerkhause (half-timbered houses), dark wooden support beams criss-crossing their facades. A decorative maypole, topped by an evergreen tree, stood proudly amidst the houses. Like most small German villages, an archaic church sentried the middle of the square. It's steeple touched the clouds and stone gargoyles shot out from every side.

People were everywhere walking through the square while small cars and hippy delivery trucks maneuvered around the crowds. A boy, probably 10 years old overheard us talking and ran up excitedly to find out if we were American. A mentally handicapped older man approached Jochen for conversation and presumably some spare change. We had a small lunch and ice cream at Jochen's favorite cafe. He didn't know the menu, so I assume it was the staff that made it his favorite cafe. Young, pretty girls worked behind a delicatessen/espresso bar making paninis (called toast here) and crepes, both sweet and savory.

 Jochen pointed out one waitress as a friend of his who models for his artwork. He described his work as sculptures constructed only with clear tape. He showed me a photo of one on his iPhone. It was a woman in a bathtub. The water covered her midsection but her breasts were heavy and visible. Her legs were sprawled spread eagle on either edge of the claw foot tub. One hand hid beneath the surface of the water and one reached for a conspicuously phallic water spigot. I tried to hide my initial embarrassment, assuming it was my own American sexually repressed mentality. Other than the shocking subject, the details were quite amazing when one considered his simple media.

We talked with Jochen for more than an hour and before we left, I told him he'd have to take me out to see the nightlife sometime. Scott stopped in mid chew and gruffly commented on the inappropriateness of a married woman asking men to take her out without him. An uncomfortable silence followed for an eternal ten seconds before Jochen recovered with a question about Scott's classes at the university.

From the moment we were out of Jochen's sight, we argued the rest of the day. Scott pointed out how offended he was by my asking men on two different occasions to take me out without him, and I defended my innocent motive of just needing to get away and let loose for a few hours with someone who knew their way around. As in most heated arguments, our emotions got the best of us and neither really heard what the other was trying to say. Our disdain for each other was palpable. Fortunately, it was a rainy day in Stuttgart and the main street, Kunigstrasse (King street) was not too crowded. I'd like to think we didn't embarrass ourselves too much.

People strolled from store to store in the walking mall made of large rectangular stones. The street reminded me of the miracle mile in Chicago, other than the huge Mercedes Benz sign twirling atop a brown brick tower at the end of the street. Tall modern buildings housed multi-leveled department stores strung together with escalators. Customers shuffled in and out of the tall glass doors. Some led leashed dogs and didn't hesitate even a moment before entering the stores with them.

When the rain fell harder, we squeezed against the building. The eaves sheltered us from getting soaked. It was there huddling together that we both resigned. Scott shook his head and simply said, "Do what you want." I shrugged and thought to myself...and you can think what you want... We finished the day by walking through another of the damp city squares where rallies and demonstrations are usually held.

















Earlier in the day, we'd passed the same spot and a group of people hovered around the long white steps in front of a government building. The cul-de-sac ending at the square was lined with polizei vans. A dozen blue police vans curved around the narrow road and police in full riot gear stood around them watching the small demonstration. A woman with a megaphone connected to huge amplifiers yelled in German on the top of her lungs. The crowd around the woman called back now and then, while everyone else walking by, or sitting in the outdoor cafe just went on with their lives as if nothing strange was going on. It seems that loud demonstrations and rallies with someone screaming into an amplifier is a norm.

We had scurried quickly away from the screeching voice earlier in the day, and were relieved that she had left by the time we came through this second time. This time we were able to amble leisurely squinting up at the multiple church steeples surrounding the square. We discussed the possibility of having dinner in Stuttgart before catching the train back to Schwabich Gmunde. Scott had noticed an Italian restaurant near a statue of King Wilhelm who, Scott had recently learned, persecuted his ancestors four generations before.

 Our guess that it was near dinner time was easily enough verified when at 6:00 (18:00 here), every church bell in the vicinity started ringing. The multiple gongs from every direction slammed into each other above us, and echoed as they vibrated away to meet the newest clangs heading back to the square like some huge nautical storm. The power of the sound was overwhelming. Our eardrums swelled with the waves of volume. Elle covered her ears and Scott and I met each other's eyes amused by our mutual awe.

I'll always remember those bells. Somehow, they represent the moment when Scott and I joined the same team on this trip; the moment when loneliness didn't pervade me and when intimacy and opportunity rang louder than any longing, doubt or regret.

Caged Animal (Part 2)

"So what?" I asked Scott when he said it was getting close to 1 o'clock. We were on the bus with plans to go to the train station and catch a train to Stuttgart for the day. Stuttgart is the home of Mercedes Benz and it's the biggest city anywhere near us. It's kind of like the Chicago of this area. I was trying my hardest to fight the depression I had felt the day before and thought a day trip to a new place would brighten my spirits.

"So, if we get to Bahnhof (the train station) at 1:30 and catch a train immediately, we won't get to Stuttgart until almost 3:00. A train ticket is kind of a lot of money for only a few hours there."

I sighed, annoyed, "O.K. Fine. You make the plan for the day then." "Why don't we just get off the bus at Marktplatz in Schwabish Gmunde and take Elle to the Vasserspielplatz (water playground)." "That's fine." I shrugged begrudgingly.

Scott has always had a quirk - a quirk he'll deny I'm sure - of giving me the choice for where we should go or what we should eat or what we should do, and then, for some reason, changing the plans anyway. Honestly, I usually find the quirk amusing and laugh at him when he does it, contentedly going along with his alternative plans anyway, but my mood was not good. Because I was feeling so bad, he was the poor soul who took the brunt of it. His changing the plans at the last minute really irked me this time. In fact, in my state, everything about him annoyed me to no end.

The clothes he wore embarrassed me. The noises he made were like nails on a chalkboard. The words he chose, his gait, the way he hung his mouth, the way he chewed, the way he even breathed all made my jaw tense and my skin crawl. The poor guy couldn't do anything right. It was just one of those awful kind of days in my head when I couldn't stand my own husband.

So, of course, I hated his idea but felt powerless to do anything else. I wouldn't go to Stuttgart for the first time on my own, right? We found a cafe with dozens of small round tables and wooden folding chairs outside on the mall. The weather was an absolutely perfect sunny day in the low 70s. We could see the decorative fountain where children played and Elle investigated all the little water gadgets while Scott drank Coke and I had a mineral water.
A stone-throw away sat a circle of vendors selling fresh produce, meat, cheese, bread, fresh flowers and big grilled sausages perched on thick Briegel bread (briegels are unique to this part of Germany; it's a hard salty bread, half pretzel and half bread). We treated ourselves to three of the hot, juicy sausages while Elle tiptoed through the water.

 The Vasserspielplatz was small but quaint and very creative. The kids had to pump the water into the little steel river using different types of pumps. One was a round plunger that Elle could push down repeatedly to force water up into a pool. One had a paddle wheel that turned with the pressure of the flowing water. Her favorite was a wood and metal swing. She had to stand on it and balance as if she were on a surfboard. When she rocked the swing back and forth, the water pump dipped up and down, causing a spurt of water to pop out of the ground in time with her swinging. The harder she pumped the higher the burst of water flew.

Needless to say, this feature attracted most of the other kids as well, so they would come up behind her and wait for her to get off then climb on the swing themselves. She ran to us crying that she couldn't do it anymore because another kid had made her get off and we finally convinced her that if she stood long enough beside the swing, he would soon get off and she would have another turn. While she waited, a sweet little girl maybe 5 years old approached her. She looked straight into Elle's face and smiled. Elle became nervous and walked to another part of the river. The little girl, with curly brown hair and an endless smile skipped behind her.

Elle wasn't sure how to handle the situation. She knew by now that the kids here didn't understand English and she couldn't figure out how to play with someone without being able to give directions. She ran over to us. The little girl, sure enough skipped behind her and fearlessly came right up to our table. She smiled up at me with huge brown eyes. I handed Elle two chocolate tube-biscuits and told Elle to give one to the girl. The girl took it happily and said, "Danke" in the sweetest little chipmunk voice. "Wie heist du?" I asked her her name and I told her, "Das ist Elle." She nodded up and down so fast, her smile permanent, and the two of them galloped back to the water swing as new friends.

 Elle played happily and Scott and I ordered Eis (ice cream). It ended up being a fine day really so we agreed to go to Stuttgart the next day. I was able to relax into the sweetness of the situation and in spite of myself, let my resentment go, but I still couldn't feel genuinely happy or excited. That in itself was enough to depress me more. I kept asking myself why I wasn't happy when I was here having drinks in an outdoor European cafe on a perfect day with my husband and daughter.

The next day we would indeed take the train to Stuttgart, and the tension that had been notting in my stomach would finally release in a spectacular argument with Scott in the middle of the beautiful Schlossplatz (Castle Square).

Caged Animal

For three days I allowed myself to slip into a depression. I lost motivation to do even the smallest routines that I had made since arriving in Germany 2 weeks earlier. I didn't have the energy to jog. I didn't see the point in listening to my daily German lesson. As much as I learned to say, it didn't help in understanding the quick-speaking locals, and I didn't really have anyone to talk to anyway. I stopped having my evening glass of wine on the balcony, worried that the alcohol would make me only more depressed. I had to swallow a disappointing truth about myself; somehow I only existed through other peoples' eyes, and without any people here from whom to reflect, I felt like nothing.

To make things worse, I felt bad about little Elle having only imaginary friends to play with. I kept thinking of something my friend Sue from America had told me one day as we left a play group at her house. "The best gift you can give your child is a sibling." I beat myself up now for not giving Elle that precious gift when I had the chance.

It was during this 3 day span that Scott returned from work one day excited to tell me he had met another visiting professor from America. He had invited him to join us for dinner the following night and asked me if I preferred to cook dinner or go to the one restaurant in town, which he had dubbed Mario's. I couldn't help but be excited as well. I was so hungry to socialize and I wanted to return to Mario's to see Annamarie and Mario again.

When we arrived at the Italian restaurant, Annamarie had not yet started her shift so we ordered from a young waiter who we later found out was Mario's son. When we ordered milk for Elle, he returned with warmed milk. We remembered then that Annamarie had asked on our first visit if the milk should be warm or cold, and that the owner of a Turkish food stand we visited the week before had insisted that the juice in the refrigerator was too cold for Elle. We corrected him, requesting specifically kalt milche and made a mental note that small German children probably drank their beverages warm so we would have to specify from now on when we ordered milk for Elle. We ordered beers for Scott, Ryan and me.

 Ryan was from New York state and had been in Germany teaching English Literature for at least a year. He was a lanky 27 year-old with spiraled shoulder length hair and a short forehead. While we drank and ate, he told us about his time in German and my interest was piqued when he mentioned a book he was writing. He said he was finishing his fifth draft and getting ready to search for an agent. After grilling him mercilessly about the setting, plot and characters in his novel, I asked if he wanted to hear the idea I had for a novel I wanted to work on while in Germany.

Scott scoffed, "It's a romance."

 "No, it's not just a romance!" I insisted. "Sure, it has an affair in it but there's much more to it than that."

 Ryan said he wanted to hear about it and listened intently while I explained the plot line of the novel. I had been thinking about it for a long time, but until this moment, hadn't even thought of starting work on it. If this 27 year-old had finished a FIFTH DRAFT of his novel, I thought to myself, there was no reason I couldn't at least finish one draft of SOMETHING!

 "The premise is based on something that happened to us in real life. See, when we told Scott's parents that we were coming to live here, they told us that they had lived in Germany when they first married. They'd stayed for a full year in 1955, and in fact, his mother kept a travel journal. She gave me that journal to look through."

Ryan nodded and I continued to tell him my idea to fictionalize from that point on, so the daughter-in-law reads the journal only to infer some secrets about her husband's family from the journal. While struggling with the decision to tell her husband what she has uncovered about his past, she also discovers some truths about her own relationship with her husband. As I rambled on, I became more animated and excited, not only by the book idea, but for the mere chance to talk to someone besides Scott and Elle. I shared the twists and and turns of the plot and the surprises along the way while Ryan nodded approval and Scott rolled his eyes, probably embarrassed by my enthusiasm.

"Anyway," I continued, "Most of the book will actually be a flashback to 1955 Stuttgart through the journal, so I figure while I'm here I can do some research and interviews about the 50s in Germany and start a first draft." I searched his face anxiously for a reaction. "What do you think?"

"Do it! It sounds like something people would want to read." Ryan diplomatically encouraged me.

By this time, Annamarie had arrived and came over to us to welcome us back. She rubbed my shoulder and back familiarly and I savored the touch. Mario peeked his head out of the kitchen to wave to us as well. After two beers, I was feeling relaxed and at peace. I told the guys how good it felt just to drink a little too much and hang out. I told Ryan he would have to take me out on the town drinking some night to let loose. Scott told him I was a "caged animal!"

Before we left, I walked toward the bar to give Mario a quick hug. Honestly, he and Annamarie were the closest thing we had to friends so far, so I wanted to take advantage of any camaraderie I could find. When I approached him, he kissed both of my cheeks, and pulled me in for the hug. He was about equal to me in height, so it was an effortless embrace. His hand rested on the small of my back. When I pulled away and turned to leave, he kept his hand in the same place, causing him to feel my entire circumference, from back to waist, from waist to stomach. I smirked to myself, those Italians are smooth.

 I skipped out to catch up with Scott, Ryan and Elle. "Did you see that? He was able to get an all-around feel of my waist and stomach just by keeping his hand still. He's a smooth operator."

Again, Scott scoffed and shook his head, "You know you loved it, Molly!"

 I laughed, "Yeah, I did!"

"See, Ryan, what did I tell you, she's a caged animal!"

Shopping

Within a few days of playing at the park with Nadine and Lisa, our new friends were gone. Nadine and her girlfriends were taking a mini-holiday with their children while their husbands attended a handball match in Stuttgart. Scott had to start working right away so Elle and I were on our own again. We took the bus to Schwabish Gmunde Marktzplaz to go shopping. I had a list of things I wanted to pick up and the shops here are locally owned and specialized, so we would have to stop at several different shops.

 We stopped in the kamera laden first to see if they could fix my camera which had fallen on the floor. A tiny latch holding in the batteries had broken and I thought maybe it could be repaired while we shopped in the square. When I approached the man behind the service desk, I smiled and began, "Ich bin Americaneren..." but before I could even finish getting the word American out, he chuckled good-humoredly, as if it was so obvious that I was American I hadn't needed to say such a thing. I enjoyed his good nature and continued my request in the best German I could muster.

In the end, he told me in a sort of Germenglish he could send the camera out but the little mechanism that was broken was part of the base of the camera so it would cost more to fix than just buying a new camera. I told him I would talk to my husband and return later in the week. I left the store perplexed again by how the people here can identify me so quickly as an American before I even speak...I was wearing inconspicuous leather sandals so it couldn't be the shoes this time. Maybe the backpack?

We continued our errands, stopping at the butcher for meat, the bakery for bread, the fresh market for vegetables and the pharmacy for some antihistamine Scott had requested. The drugstore was a true pharmacy with a tall white counter behind which stood two women wearing white coats. I approached one of the service windows and explained what I needed for "mein Mann's nase" while Elle wandered the store. The pharmacist typed the medicine request into a computer then shuffled into a back room where she found what I needed. When she returned and gave me instructions, I bought the medicine and turned to leave.

Meanwhile, Elle had found a red balloon on the floor and brought it to me asking if she could have it. I turned back to the pharmacist to ask if Elle could have "that" as I pointed at the balloon. The woman looked confused and didn't know any English so I tried to ask again using a different order of the same words. She shrugged. Just then a woman in the next line scanned the situation and her face flashed with comprehension. She told me with her eyes that she could help and turned to the lady behind the counter speaking in rapid German. Again the pharmacist wasn't sure so the other lady behind the counter approached speaking a quick German sentence. The only word I understood was "Nein" so I knelt down to Elle. "Elle, the lady said you can't take this. It's the store's so we have to leave it here." Her little lip pouted out as I pulled the balloon from her grip and turned to leave.

 "No," the woman in line called to me in English, "She said you can have it. She said they don't know where the balloon came from so she can take it." I turned and beamed at the woman in appreciation. "Vielen dank!" I gushed. Then I picked the red balloon up from the floor and handed it Elle. She hugged the balloon to her chest and we walked to the next store.

 Elle had lucked out on our trip into the city. At nearly all the shops, she walked out with something new gifted by the people behind each counter. At the buch laden she had been handed a sucker, at the clothing store, a chocolate. The baker reached over the glass display to give her a tiny toothpick flag. She had even been treated to an impromptu game of peek a boo with a man shopping with his wife.

 That evening, Elle bounced the red ballon around our little kitchen while I made dinner. She squealed and yelled as she punched it into the air and chased it. Soon, she was yelling at an invisible friend she had transported here from America. "KENDALL!" she shouted. "CATCH IT BEFORE IT FALLS!" Then the game changed as she scurried around the room snatching at the ballon. "KENDALL, you can't steal it from me!" I felt for her loneliness, and when Scott got home, he immediately sensed my low mood. "Let's go for a walk after dinner," he suggested. "That will make you feel better."

 Elle borrowed Lisa's tricycle from the garage and we all walked the winding bike path around the village. As we strolled, a dark blanket of clouds enveloped the hills around us. Despite its beauty, I couldn't help but feel its heaviness. I felt the same ominous gathering in my stomach. I feared an oncoming depression if I didn't find someplace where I felt I belonged. Scott reminded me that we had felt the same loneliness when we traveled in the pass and before long I would have tons of friends and too much to do.

New Friends

Elle needed a friend, so I took her by the hand and led her up one flight of stairs to knock on the landlord's apartment door. Armien, an olive-skinned, baby-faced man of 35, with dark eyes and black hair had welcomed us to stop by if ever we needed anything. I had met his wife, Nadine, along with their little daughter Lisa (pronounced Lee-za) very briefly when we arrived a week earlier. When Nadine answered the door, I reintroduced myself and, in German, I haltingly told her we were going to the park and wondered if she and Lisa would like to join us. By then Scott had followed us upstairs and Armien had come to the door. Nadine answered in German that she would come to the park in a few minutes after she changed out of her shorts into jeans. Then she asked, "If it's better for you, I can speak in English if you would like?" We all agreed to meet at the park in about 15 minutes, and to speak English.

At the park, Lisa and Elle played side by side in the stones and took turns pushing each other on the swing while Nadine and I talked about her time in California, and Armien and Scott chattered about places they had traveled. I guessed Nadine was a few years younger than her husband. She was equally fresh-faced with olive skin and round friendly eyes. She reminded me of my friend Lisa from Mothers and More back in Grand Rapids. She had the same natural beauty, the same smooth, mid-length dark brown hair, and had the same happy willingness to answer every one of my questions with informed, but not condescending advice. Nadine told me all about parks, zoos and pools where moms took their kids to play in the area. She invited Elle and me to her apartment to play anytime and suggested that we make plans to go to an amusement park together soon. Right away I felt at ease with her laid back demeanor.

As we all walked back to the apartment, Lisa and Elle held hands. I put an arm around Nadine's shoulder for a quick playful squeeze and said, "Thanks so much. You'll be my new best friend here."

At the park, Nadine had told me of a nice bike path around the village where I could run, so when we got home, I changed into my running clothes. I slid on my running shoes, plugged in my ear buds, and jogged up the road Nadine had mentioned. When I came upon the first left, I turned. It's where she told me I would find the beginning of the path. The street was narrow and looked more like a long driveway, but I continued. Many of the small streets here looked like curvy driveways. I passed a man leading a proud chestnut horse. The man watched me curiously as I passed, and I followed the path away from the house and barn.

Within minutes, the path ended abruptly. I stood looking back and forth, scanning my surroundings. There were green fields everywhere. Nadine said the bike route went in a circle away from town then back to the same path where the playground had been, so I knew I must have turned on the wrong street. In the distance, I spied a man on a bike riding between the green fields. I thought that must be the path I was supposed to be on.

 I really didn't want to run all the way back to the main street, so I decided just to wing it. I sucked in a deep breath and began running through the tall grass toward the right path. The uneven mounds of dirt beneath the grass challenged my ankles, and I focused with each step, willing my feet to stay sturdy. The thick green grass reached past my shins and I said a silent prayer that snakes weren't common at this latitude. I looked behind me and saw I had run about half the distance between the farm and the bike path. When I turned around, a huge rabbit popped up out of the grass, jetting hurriedly through the field, his eyes bulging in fear as he shot away from me. I jumped back startled, then laughed at myself as I continued to run.

 Once I reached the smooth black bike path, I settled into a relaxed jog between the grassy fields. My iPod shuffled to a West African hip life rhythm. Green and green and green stretched out forever all around me, interrupted only by blurry splotches of red roofed villages bunched in the distance. High mountains covered with thick evergreen trees lined the horizon all around, as if the scene were part of a huge bowl. The green fields rolled up and down like the smooth swells in the middle of a great sea.

Neat lines of tall trees, evergreens and apple trees, maples and ash trees, separated some of the rectangular fields from each other. The ones without trees were still distinguishable. Each farmer's individual mowing pattern made their patch of land unique from the next. And although, the whole was green, each shown a subtly different hue in the early evening sun. Bunches of tiny yellow flowers overtook one field, white wildflowers skipped through the next. In another, feathery balls atop spent dandelions swayed in the crisp evening breeze. I thought of a portly grey-haired woman shaking a huge old quilt in the wind. Although the sun sank close to the horizon, it shone brightly. Billowy clouds fluffed the azure sky, casting gigantic shadows across the patchwork.

I inhaled deeply, pulling the beauty and freshness into myself. Cool, crisp evening air filled my nostrils. It smelled like newly mown lawns and freshly spread fertilizer. I lost myself in the moment, forgot the function of running and just glided across the scene.

Ahead of me, the curvy black path peeked between the green swells, leading me. When I reached a sharp turn on the path, I glanced behind me. I jerked my full body around and caught my breath. The sun was gone but its rays had transformed the blue sky into the brightest pink, almost opaque in its depth. I jogged slowly backwards in awe, seeing the fields for the first time again, colored now by the fuchsia light cast from above. I was overwhelmed by the blessedness of this place, the blessedness of this moment, the blessedness of my life. I thanked God for glory and grace. I turned around and ran again.

The fullness of my soul, the renewal of my spirit propelled my feet back toward the tall red clock tower in the center of Bargau.

Throwing Stones

Scott and I sat on a giant, long log, worn smooth from people sitting on it. We watched Elle playing on the kinderspielplatz (playground) beside three German children. Elle climbed the ropes and slid down the slide happily as the other children sat in the tiny stones that made the bed around the play structures. Scott and I cynically wondered if the German children would throw the stones. We smirked, reading each other's thoughts.

Back in America, we had recently had dinner with an American family who had done the same trip we were on now. At the dinner I had asked Megan, the wife and mom of two small daughters about parental etiquette on a playground. "Do the moms speak to the other mothers' children?" I asked. Reflecting on Americans' own sensitivities concerning our children, I didn't want to break any unwritten codes that German parents had about their children. Megan hesitated and tilted her head, furrowing her eyebrows, unsure what exactly I was asking.

 I clarified, "For instance, if children on the playground are doing something...like throwing rocks or some..."

Her chin popped up, understanding the question and she interrupted. She was definitely sure that this would not be a situation in which I would find myself. She declared very adamantly, "German children do NOT throw rocks."

Scott and I glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. I could read his mind. Uh oh, our daughter will be a handful over there if German children don't even THINK of throwing rocks.

So now, we watched the three German children very intently, almost holding our breath with anticipation.

Elle went on jumping from slide to ropes, climbing the ramp of a tall wooden boat. When she got to the deck of the boat, she scanned the playground from above. I noticed the instant she spied the other children as her eyes zeroed in on her next mission. She turned and scurried down the boat ramp, running over to us while pointing at the three kids.

"Can I go play with those kids?" she panted. She was rounding out her u-turn before I could even finish saying yes. I didn't blame her for her excitement. It had been three or four days since she had interacted with any other children and she had already declared that "playing with adults all the time is boring."

 She slowed as she approached the children, two girls and a boy. About 10 feet away, she began walking. At five feet away, she tiptoed. At three feet away, she stopped to observe. With the tiniest movements, she examined the kids, bending over slightly, tilting her head and squinting at their busy hands. Having concluded her study, she inched a little closer to the three, who were hunched in a circle around the mound of stones they were building. I guessed the oldest girl to be 8 and the younger girl and boy at about 6 years-old. No other parents were in sight.

 She took a seat and proceeded to push her own little pile of stones together. Every few seconds, she craned her neck to check if her potential playmates noticed her. In only a few moments, she realized her tactic wasn't working so she galloped back to us hopefully. My parents surely can solve this problem, she must've been thinking.

 "Mommy, I want to play with those kids but they aren't playing with me."

 "Maybe if you go sit closer to them. You could even just sit in their circle with them and start helping them. They'll let you play with them if you do that." I said.

"Noooo," she whined. "I want to ask them if they will play with me."

"O.K., Let me think how you could ask." I ran the few words I had over and over in my head until I came up with the closest request I could construct. "Try saying, 'spielen si mit mir, bitte?'" (Will you play with me please?)

 Elle repeated the phrase back to me three or four times before she had it memorized, then she turned to walk back to the kids. Halfway to them, she lost her nerve. She returned to me begging, "Mom, please tell them for me!"

 I wagged my head back and forth, "No Elle. You have to ask them yourself."

 "Wwwwwwhhhhhhhyyyyy?" she pleaded.

To my surprise, Scott joined in her argument. "Molly, why can't you just go ask them to play with her?"

 It seemed obvious to me, but I answered anyway, "Well, because...they are kids. Elle can just go sit by them and they will let her join them. Plus, they're bigger kids so they don't want to play with some little kid who has her parents ask them to play with her." I coaxed Elle to repeat the phrase I had taught her again and told her to go sit by them and say the phrase. Her bottom lip stuck out, "But maaahhaaam, can you come with me?"

 "No"

"Why not?" Scott asked again. He was getting annoyed with my stubbornness.

"Because Scott, those kids do not want some adult coming over to play with them. If Elle wants to play with other kids, she has to approach them on her own. If I go over there, those kids won't want anything to do with me OR ELLE."

Scott rolled his eyes, "Well I guess we'll have to disagree." He stood up and turned to Elle, "I'll go with you Elle, but you have to say what mama told you to say."

She nodded agreement and led Scott over to the circle by the hand. They stopped just outside the circle. Scott looked huge standing beside Elle, and he must have looked gigantic from the three little children's perspective sitting on the ground. Scott nudged Elle, and she carefully repeated the phrase. The children didn't respond in any way. I knew that if I had heard her tiny request, the kids must have heard her too, so when Scott turned to me with questioning eyes, I shrugged.

 Scott cleared his throat, "Entschuldigung si." (Excuse me) The biggest girl looked up at his towering stature. He nudged Elle and she repeated the phrase. The two girl looked at each other, unsure. Then to all of our horror, the three children turned their backs on Elle and Scott and laughed out loud before returning to their exclusive task.

 Elle and Scott returned to the log, heads hanging. Elle's little lip quivered, then her mouth pursed before tears began pooling in her big brown eyes. "Mommy, I want to play with them but they just ignore me. I even said what you told me to say and they just laughed at me."

I tried my best to comfort her, but remained realistic. "Elle, those are big kids. They don't want to play with you if your dad is right next to you holding your hand. Just try to sit in their circle with them. Then they will let you help them."

She pulled her shoulders back, inhaled a deep breath, wiped her eyes and marched back to them. This girl REALLY wanted to play with other children! She sat only inches outside of their circle this time and began a pile of stones.

Within moments, the two girls opened the circle and scooted on either side of her. "See?" I elbowed Scott. The girls began speaking to Elle, presumably asking her questions in German. Elle stared down at her stone mound. She certainly didn't understand a word they were saying, but she didn't even look up at them. The bigger girl asked a few more questions. Elle continued to ignore them. Then, as quickly as they had approached her, the two girls hopped up, skittered away and sat in a different area of the playground. When they started a new pile of stones, the boy ran over to join them and Elle was left alone again.

"See?!" Scott elbowed me back. "They think she's weird because she won't speak to them. You should just tell them she can't speak German!"

 "We'll have to just disagree, I guess."

 Elle erupted into a fit of crying, sitting hopelessly alone next to her meager pile of stones. After she buried herself in my arms to cry, we rubbed her back and apologized for the situation. Both of us were at a loss on how to help our daughter and hated to see her so rejected. To make it worse, both of us thought the other handled the situation wrong.

 "Elle's tired'" I said. "Let's just go." Feeling isolated and vulnerable, we began walking away from the log bench. Scott put a crying Elle on his shoulders and we shuffled away, defeated.

We turned back to the playground when we heard a peppering of stones against wood. Sure enough, the three children were gleefully throwing handfuls of stones against the side of the wooden boat. Scott and I met gazes. We knew those brats would throw rocks!!!!

For the record, as we walked home, every single passerby smiled and happily said "Hallo," as they do every time we walk through town.

Ich Bin Americaner

We met Sabrina at Marktplatz (Market Square) in Schwabish Gmunde at 10 a.m.. Elle, Scott and I took bus number 1 from our apartment 8 kilometers (about 5 miles) to the city center for a tour of biggest city near Bargau. When we stepped off the bus, the cobblestone roads and smell of horses set the scene. Sabrina waited on a bench, maps and tourist pamphlets in hand, outside a red brick building that houses the city’s information office.

Sabrina is an English student at the University where Scott teaches. She spent a semester at Grand Valley State University last year and volunteered to orient us to the city. She had long, curly brown hair and brown eyes. She was about my size and was dressed similar to how I was dressed, with faded blue jeans and a casual short, sleeved blouse. We both wore sunglasses and minimal makeup.

 Her English sounded perfect to me, although she apologized for her bad grammar. I tried out some of my German on her and she smiled, amused. “How long have you been learning German?” she asked.

 I answered her in German, “Drei Wochen.” (3 weeks)

 Her eyes shot open and she raved, “WOW. Only three weeks! That is really good for only three weeks!” So throughout the day, I tried out German phrases on her when I could and she corrected my grammar issues (The order of their sentences is totally different than English).

When I told her I had to buy some cough medicine for Elle at the pharmacy, she became a teacher and asked how I would ask the pharmacist in German for what I wanted. I strung together the few words and phrases I knew, “Do you have…”, “I would like…” and “medicine” and I added in the prefix they use for anything concerning children “kinder.” When I tried to say what the medicine was for I realized I didn’t know what the word for cough was. She filled in that blank for me and escorted me to the pharmacist, who stood behind a tall counter in a white jacket. She allowed me to make my request and patiently waited for me to figure out what the pharmacist was saying when she responded with a question about the cough. It was a successful trial run. With minimal help from Sabrina, I walked away with cough medicine for Elle (which, by the way, I had already packed to bring to Germany but for some reason didn’t make it through customs).

I was impressed with Sabrina’s guidance as she walked us through the curvy little stone streets in town. She pointed to different storefronts and told us what we would find in each. When we mentioned specific things we needed, she walked us directly to the place we needed and helped us get it.

Scott wanted to get bus cards for us, so Sabrina took us to an office to buy them and patiently translated the whole conversation she had with the lady at the desk to be sure we got the best deal for how often we would be riding the bus.

At that point, I really admired the girl, and thought she seemed much older than her 20-few years. I let her lead the way out of the store and scanned her up and down from behind as she walked in front of me, thinking she was really a very pretty young woman too. That thought jumped involuntarily to English professor Jochen, and I wondered for just a split second whether Sabrina had ever had Jochen…in any sense of the word.

We walked past rows and rows of tables and chairs set in the middle of Marktplatz where locals sat drinking coffee or glass-bottled mineral water and eating pastries. Once in a while, a tiny mini-car maneuvered through the unmarked traffic circle, through pedestrian traffic to get to a road on the opposite side of the square. The warm morning sun shone down on little white umbrellas in the outdoor breakfast nook, walled in by beautiful old buildings now with modern storefronts. We stopped to admire the water fountain at the center of the square.

 “I want to show you the Kaufland.” She told us as she passed a tiny vegetable stand in front of an ancient church tower and meandered down a narrow side path, shaded between two stone buildings. “It’s the closest thing we have to your Meijer and you should be able to buy a lot of things there for your apartment; things that are not very expensive so they won’t last so long, but will work for the few months you are here.”

 While we walked toward the store, which was inside a small shopping mall complete with a bakery, Chinese food restaurant, a Euro-store (just like a dollar store), clothing stores, a hair and nail salon, and an erotic lingerie store, I asked Sabrina a question I had been curious about. “So Sabrina, do you think that people will know we are tourists just by looking at us?”

 Scott answered, “Well, yeah by our language.”

 “No,” I clarified, “Even before we open our mouths, will they be able to tell we are Americans.”

 Before I could get the question out, she was nodding her head up and down, “Yes.”

 I tilted my head and scowled in confusion, “How? I think we look just like everyone else around us.” I looked myself up and down, as well as Scott and Elle. “I think I'm even dressed a lot like you. How can you tell we aren’t German just by our looks?”

 She laughed and scanned us each from head to toe, shaking her head. “I can’t really say how I would know that you’re American, but we can just tell by looking at you.” I don’t know if she was just being polite and didn’t want to tell us what the glaring difference was, but she was 100% positive that we were obvious Americans as we walked through town.

 On the bus ride on the way home, Scott blurted out of nowhere, “It’s our shoes.”

 “What are you talking about?” I asked him, totally out of context.

 “It’s our shoes,” he declared, matter-of-factly. “That’s how they can tell we are Americans. It’s gotta be our shoes.”

 I looked down at my feet. I wore grey New Balance running shoes with sleekly designed, bright pink soles. Elle’s shoes were miniature near-replicas of mine, and Scott wore black basketball shoes with cushioned, visibly shock absorbent bottoms.

“Huh!” I shrugged and stuck my bottom lip out, considering it. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s it.”

 The next time the bus stopped, a woman got on with a Dalmation dog on a leash. It was clearly not a service dog, but not one person batted an eyelash as it sniffed its way down the center aisle. The woman sat in the seat in front of us, beside a young man in his late 20’s. Her dog scooched himself beneath the seat in front of him, happily planting his bottom end on the man’s shoes. Scott and I glanced at each other in disbelief then snapped our heads back to the scene to watch what happened next.

Nothing. Nothing happened. The man didn’t move his feet. The woman didn’t try to move her dog off his feet. He didn’t roll his eyes or ask the woman to get her dog away from him. She didn’t apologize for the dog. She didn’t even look at the man. Apparently, nothing abnormal had just happened at all!

 It reminded me of a story the marine at the airport, Brett told us about his new puppy he bought in Germany. He said he brought it to the vet for his puppy shots and the dog playfully gnawed at the doctor’s hand. The vet immediately pulled her hand back and swung a full-forced backhand across the small dog’s face. The dog squealed and Brett looked shocked. The vet gruffly declared, “GERMAN DOGS DO NOT BITE!”

The bus bounced along the road, curving through the rolling green hills that divide each little village until the next. We were nearing the sign for Bargau village limits when I randomly said, “Hey, Scott, I know something that’s different here than in America.”

“What?” he asked, curious.

 “There’s no roadkill.” He shook his head confidently, “Oh no. I did see roadkill.”

“Really?” I asked. “What was it?”

 “A chicken,” he answered nonchalantly. I laughed hysterically until we reached our stop.