A travel addict's life and love in Germany
Another week gone, already?? Wow.
Smelling
Fresh sheets when I went to bed on my first night back.
Tasting
Strawberry pizza. My niece and nephew beg me to make them this yummy dessert pizza with a sugar cookie crust.
Seeing
Our apartment – and Germany – with fresh eyes. It’s good to be back and it all feels new again.
Feeling
Like a 747 ran over me. The jet lag is a bit worse than usual this time.
Hearing
The police and fire truck sirens – that’s when I know I’m really in Europe.
It seems travel is often about checking your expectations against reality. Reality for Park Gruel, er…Park Güell, in Barcelona was pure misery: mobs of screaming school children, tour bus groups sitting hip to hip on the serpentine mosaic tile terrace bench, vendors aggressively hawking cheap goods throughout the park (including those shrill bird noise maker things), musicians strategically placed along all pathways, and graffiti carved into the plant life.
How is this supposed to be fun? I have to ask, is this really what Gaudí had in mind? A dropping-off spot for mass bus tourism and school groups? The park is surely being destroyed by all the people climbing on the stone structures (the guards couldn’t keep up with them, but caught who they could), those carving their names into the cacti, and by the children crowding around to “pet” the famous mosaic salamander. The Mann and I thought a steep admission price would curb some of this.
Perhaps we arrived at the wrong time of day (mid-morning). Maybe in the dead of winter or in the evenings the park ceases to be a circus. But what I imagined the experience to be, and what it really was, was disappointing.
It breaks my heart to see these beautiful sites across Europe being turned into some kind of crass, cheap, crowded horror show. Of course I know that my presence there just adds one more body to the crowd. I don’t expect these beautiful places to be empty. I am trying to distinguish between those travelers who are really there to enrich their lives, respect the site, and learn about it, and those who are dropped off long enough to snap a few photos and buy a caricature of themselves.
It makes me question why I really want to see these places. It changes my travel plans for the future, makes me want to seek out lesser-known places and forget the biggies. I’m admittedly a bit of a sucker for major sites, but it’s because I want to bear witness to them, to experience them, to touch history, to contemplate the complexities and awe of human life. Maybe now my travel life is evolving, however.
Visiting major sites has rarely been a memorable – or fun – experience. In Paris, I ran from the Sacré-Cœur. The metro train couldn’t suck me underground fast enough. In the Louvre, most of the people didn’t seem particularly interested in the art, only snapping photos of the art and moving on, which made it awfully distracting for those of us who really wanted to visit the art. In Prague, I woke up at 5 AM just to have a peaceful sunrise walk across the Charles Bridge and into the city.
Does it really make a difference to my life if I see the Sistine Chapel in person, smashed in, elbow to elbow, with everyone else, faces tilted up, and getting screamed at by the guards to take NO PHOTO because the company who restored the ceiling holds some kind of copyright? I hope I never do THAT again. Or is it better to use the time to get lost in some local neighborhood and end up sitting on the edge of a fountain with a few shriveled nuns and eating a life-changing gelato?
My most meaningful travel experiences have been in places where I got away from the major sites, tossed out any kind of plan, and just wandered into wonderful surprises. I adored(!) Slovenia for its quiet earnestness and un-Disneyfied feel. I had way more fun at Marie Antoinette’s Petit Trianon and hamlet than I did in that monster Versailles. My quiet day in the ruins of Paestum was way more evocative than crowded Pompeii. My funniest Prague moment was discovering the quirky Jára Cimrman museum at the base of the Petrin Tower.
So, at the very least, Park Gruel reminded me once again to check my expectations and to seek out meaningful travel experiences elsewhere. It was certainly an eye-opening experience, and I truly hope the city takes more care to preserve that unique place.
The only open spot of the bench terrace I could photograph
I’m embarrassed to say that The Mann and I spent a week in Barcelona the first week of April, right after Easter, and I’m just now getting around to writing about it. I was so busy this spring that I never got around to sorting through my photos. Well, better late than never.
It was the first time in Spain for the both of us, and it was a great introduction!
My photo tour:
We enjoyed wandering around the narrow, dark streets of the Gothic Quarter. (And following old men around.)
I have an affinity for Spanish-style architecture and tile work. If I could decorate a home in any style I wish, it would be with splashes of bright colors, Spanish tiles for a colorful accent, and a courtyard with lush plants and a fountain.
In Barcelona, even when you glanced up, you would find beautiful tiles on the bottom of wrought-iron balconies.
We had several long, lazy lunches of paella and sangria.
We checked out the Spanish Gothic Cathedral.
I wish The Mann and I could add a lush, tropical courtyard to our balcony.
The little Santa Anna church, tucked into a hidden courtyard in the Gothic Quarter, was a special place, with a unique layout, wooden dome, and monastic chants playing serenely on the sound system. It had a delightful cloister with orange trees, leafy palms, and a well. No one else was there but us. It was a peaceful oasis in an otherwise noisy, chaotic city. Once we left the cloister and stepped out into the street again, it felt like a shock.
We feasted on tapas for dinner every night.
Our favorite tapas bar was Bar Celta Pulperia, located in the Gothic Quarter – 16 Carrer de la Merce (behind the Esglesia de la Merce church). While other bars may be more refined and stylish, this place was homey, local, and more rough-edged. We went two nights in a row, and on the second night, we were locals. Jorge, who seemed to run the place, had a crew cut, wire-rimmed glasses, and a funny, loud, fast voice that chattered on in Catalan. He definitely served up the tapas with a bit of personality. Once we tried to order pulpo (octopus), but he misunderstood and gave us these chopped up white pieces of something that had a rough texture. I couldn’t eat it, whatever it was. Once we got home, I looked at the receipt and translated what he had given us. Turns out it was pig’s ear (ewwww!).
We coughed up the 17 Euros to visit Gaudí’s Casa Batlló. Definitely worth it!
We fought through the crowds to see La Sagrada Familia. This was a church that I remember seeing in textbooks when I was in school, but never dreamed that I would visit in person. It was stunning! We went up the elevator in the Nativity facade and saw those brown pinecone spires from the inside, and walked down, down, down. The nave was spectacular, the high white pillars like proud trees, the branches spreading across the ceiling, and the construction happening as we watched. It was fascinating to see a cathedral being built in our lifetime. Most cathedrals in Europe are so old, but this was fresh. Contemporary. Someday it will be old, too. I sat and looked at it and wondered what its history would be. What would the people be like hundreds of years from now who visit this cathedral and contemplate its history and the time period in which it was built?
On the way to La Sagrada Familia, we stumbled upon Restaurant Gira-Sol for lunch. Intrigued, we bowed to walk through the short wooden swinging doors, and then went down the stairs in the basement of the restaurant. We ordered one of the menus of the day lunch specials, paella (1st course), albondigas/meatballs (2nd course), a glass of local white wine, and a slice of flan for dessert – and all for 10 euros per person! Only Catalan and Spanish was spoken (perfect!). It was a memorable experience.
We couldn’t stay away from the fresh fruit – and fresh fruit juices! – at La Boqueria Market. It was also fun to see all the fresh seafood.
We stayed at Hosteria Grau, which was completely cute for the price and had a perfect location – a few blocks west of the Rambla and a few blocks south of Placa de Catalunya.
I have to admit the Rambla was not really our type of place. Every time we tried to stroll down it, we couldn’t stand it and ended up darting for the quiet side streets. But we’re really not into the whole circus scene, so that’s just us. 
We also made a visit to Parc Güell, which I will post about next, as I have many things to say about it.
You can view all of my Barcelona photos here.
I arrived back in Germany yesterday, exhausted and confused, but happy to be back here. It seems every time I leave my family, it gets harder to do so (sniff!). The distance seems greater, and I miss that everyday involvement with them.
My jet lag this time seems worse than usual. I didn’t feel well yesterday and crashed into an accidental nap (I usually try to stay awake until bedtime on the first day). After dinner, I finally had the energy to rummage through my suitcases to show The Mann what I brought back (Brown sugar! Spices! Chocolate chips! BBQ sauce! Wine that we love from Australia! More books! New shoes!).
During his Manncation, The Mann cleaned the apartment up and it looks great. It feels so fresh being back. The apartment seems unfamiliar again. I love this about returning from a trip: it reboots your life and makes things seem new again. I walked through the door yesterday and was reminded of the scent of the apartment. Oh yeah, I know this place. I’m slowly rediscovering the way I live my life within these walls.
Germany feels so fresh again. It’s so beautiful here. It’s so very different from where I was in the U.S. The light is different. The air is different. The sounds are different. The roads and cars are different. The landscape is gorgeous here. I’m happy I’m back.
My photos from the month of August, taken the first week of August before I left for the U.S., and before Germany apparently turned to winter. See July photos here.
Smelling
Dog breath from my mom’s sausage dog, who stands on my lap and pants in my face.
Tasting
Root beer. A ton of it.
Seeing
Fleets of cars with “W ’04,” “Nobama,” and “God is My Co-Pilot” bumper stickers.
Feeling
Like an elephant from all the horrible food I’ve been eating, coupled with a few weeks of lethargy.
Hearing
The new Arcade Fire album. Again and again.
Check out more Five Senses at No Apathy Allowed.
My life in Germany feels like a distant dream. Do I really live there? I feel like I have two lives: when I am here in the U.S., it’s as if I never left, and when I’m in Germany, it feels so natural, as if I’ve always been there. On Monday, I fly back to Germany, to that other world. Time has gone so fast these past few weeks.
Being back here, being strangled by the Bible belt, feels incredibly strange. Life here is strange. The infrastructure here is incredibly poor, especially by European standards. The roads are a mess, always have been, but now the entire city is under much-needed construction (funded by stimulus funds). The lights are out along the highways at night because the city can’t afford to keep them on. Driving at night through the construction and without streetlights is a nightmare. Meanwhile, the cops are out on the highways in droves setting up speed traps and pulling people over. I’ve never seen so many people getting pulled over in my life. I guess the city is desperate. I can only be reminded of this recent NY Times article, which I couldn’t agree with more.
I can’t believe I survived living here for six years and lived to tell about it. The people here are fiercely conservative and religious, so religious they don’t mind shoving it down your throat in judgment (at a normal retail shop yesterday, the cashier even asked me, “Where do YOU go to church?” and then when I left they handed me my bag and said, “God bless, honey.”). They complain and worry about not having health insurance (or they tell horror stories of someone they know who wasn’t covered and ended up with horrific medical bills because of an accident or illness), but in the next breath they defend American “freedom” and blast Europe’s “socialism” and “government-run” healthcare. When they find out I live in Germany, it seems another planet to them and they can’t understand why anyone would live so far away from the U.S. and from this town. Some people see Germany only as the Nazis who created the holocaust. Yes, someone told me, “You’re living with the Nazis?” (Sigh.)
In short, I don’t fit here. Even when I lived here, I struggled greatly with this place. I felt so radically different. Yet somehow in my time here I collected my life, found a root here, learned how to create a home both within myself and where I physically lived, and built a life for myself, complete with my dreams for who I wanted to be and where I wanted to live and who I wanted to be with. Those things have manifested. I’m proud of who I am. And Germany fits me. I chose a good man, and I chose a country I’m proud to live in.
The past few weeks I’ve gone to all the places that I’d missed, my favorite restaurants, my favorite hangouts, etc. I drove by my old house, a bit of an emotional experience. Yet an interesting process is happening. Those things here that I used to love don’t have as much meaning or pull as they used to. My favorite art house theater was oddly packed with people on Sunday, so I left, missing my old quiet Sundays of sitting in the theater practically by myself. I tried to go to my favorite museum, but now they are charging $8, and I refuse to pay that much for a place that I’ve been to dozens of times. I tried to go to my favorite park, but it was so horridly hot and humid, I was the only one there and after a few minutes I felt the breath had been knocked out of me. There are so few options here, for entertainment, for culture, for enjoying life, for a decent career path, for finding like-minded souls. In this town, you go to church, you go the mall, you go to the movies, you eat out, and you, frankly, get fat.
Yesterday I went to my storage unit to dig some stuff out of boxes that I’ve been missing. The Mann, by the way, did a beautiful job of organizing my things so that the boxes with stuff I need is right up front. I highly recommend hiring a German for your moving and organizational needs.
I felt a bit emotional, peering in at all my worldly goods. I miss them. I miss my beautiful blond wood furniture. I miss the furniture that my grandpa lovingly crafted for me, including my bed frame. I miss having my books around me. I miss my pottery and my dishes. I miss my artwork. I miss my travel mementos. I felt this sweeping homesickness for my home environment the way I used to live it. Sure, they are just “things,” objects, but they are a root for me. I miss the feeling of being able to decorate and make a home. I hope at some point my stuff can join me in Germany.
So, in short, I may miss my belongings and home life, but as far as my past life here, the lights are out.
Smelling
The sickly fermentation of the white wine bottle that exploded in the car seat because of the heat.
Tasting
My mom’s cooking.
Seeing
The huge, blue, incredibly bright sky that I’ve missed so much.
Feeling
Sticky and hot from the summer heat and humidity.
Hearing
My baby nephew’s first attempts at words, followed by his laugh.
It seems the longer I live in Germany and the more I become accustomed to German life, the stranger the U.S. seems when I come back for a visit. When you are absorbed in another culture and you leave your own behind, I think it makes you more aware of the nuances of your own culture, especially when you come back to it with fresh eyes. I can’t help but compare the two cultures – how else can I provide myself a frame of reference for my new life? As I’ve said before, one is not better than the other; they are just different. But I can’t help but admit my bias for Germany.
While The Mann is enjoying his Manncation in my absence, I’m just overjoyed that I can read cereal boxes again. It’s a relief to be back in my own culture to “rest” a bit. Even if I don’t like certain things about the U.S., it still just (naturally) makes sense. Everything clicks. It’s a relief to be back in an environment where my language is spoken and I don’t have to think about the language around me. I was starting to feel a bit exhausted with the constant German, not to mention the exhaustion that couples with trying to understand the cultural nuances in every infinitesimal moment of the day.
I think living away and then coming back to my homeland makes me more critical of my country and yet also more appreciative of its good aspects. It’s good to be back. Yet it also confirms to me again that I’m happy with my choice to move to Germany. I think it was the right choice and I love my life there.
The first time I was in Berlin, I left the city in the hush of the early morning hours. I awoke at the ungodly hour of 4 AM, slipped into a taxi, and sleepily watched the streets in the morning darkness on the way to the airport. Berlin was at the tail end of my first trip to Europe, and I didn’t want to go home. I felt my heart was being pulled out of me as I rode in that dark taxi speeding towards the airport. I had completely fallen in love with Europe.
During that first trip to Berlin, a paltry two days, it surprised me how captivating the city was. I wanted to return someday. The first weekend of this past June, I finally did. We had a long weekend in Berlin to celebrate The Mann’s 40th birthday (yep, and I’m just now posting about it!).
I think Berlin is one of the most exciting cities in Europe. It’s not mothballed in its history. It has a dynamic energy, felt on its streets and in its growing pains. There are so many layers of its history, all that are completely fascinating. To me it seems this is a city with a bite, with some depth.
It was interesting on this trip to have The Mann at my side, a native German, who has his own perspective and memories of the city. His parents had also taken him there for his 18th birthday, and he said back then he would never have imagined that at his 40th birthday he would so freely be walking between West and East Berlin.
With every trip to Berlin, I just want to see and know more.
See more of my Berlin photos here.
I'm a Europhile living with my German sweetheart ("The Mann") in the Frankfurt area, Germany.
