March 12, 2017
We left for Garmisch-Partenkirchen in the afternoon.
Since England is perpetually in its rainy season, the sky was overcast and the air humid–although, knowing the Oklahoma summers, the humidity really didn’t bother me as much as I thought it might. In all honesty, the weather in England did more to calm my nerves than any of the self-imposed coping mechanisms I had in place back home. The rain, especially, helped some of my anxiety in lieu of the aimless wandering I had grown accustomed to on this adventure, although I still sometimes woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
I didn’t realize this environmental remedy until much later.
I and the two others interns (Ashton and Kody) on the international internship with the Airforce arrived in Germany during the afternoon, but, in a strange turn of events, it took us nearly two hours to actually get to the place we would stay over the next few days as Spring Break actually began. I speak some German–enough to have gotten us around. I read well, but speaking is a whole other animal. I stumble out phrases, the words heavy on my tongue. I’m less sheepish, now. More confident, and willing to make mistakes even when I feel like I may fail. I think of some of my students, now–the ones who navigate their own second language on their own time as well as at school. Trying is the best I could do under such circumstances that summer, and as long as I could communicate somehow, we ended up exactly where we needed to be.
We weaved in and out of the Bavarian-style homes that first night, set up on winding roads up the mountainside.
I remember exactly three things from gallivanting across Bavaria:
- I’m still horrible with directions.
- You can find Americans literally anywhere.
- Hiking, or walking, does wonders for my anxiety.
Whittling down the experience to the most memorable moments can be difficult in the best case. One particular experience especially stands out from this day, however, and it begins with this:
We accidentally ended up in Austria.
Yes, you read that right–we ended up in a completely different country. On accident.
Hear me out: It had been several years since I had talked or read or practiced my German, and the Zugspitze (the tallest mountain in Germany) had two different trains leading up the mountainside since the Alps transgress the Austrian border. I was the only one in the party who spoke enough to converse, and in doing so, we boarded the wrong train in our endeavor to make it up to Eibsee, which is an astonishingly crystal clear lake situated in the middle of the mountains.
Needless to say, we got a bit lost.
However, the three of us wandered around the small Austrian village on the border between two countries, waiting for the next train (in the misty afternoon, so we were all a bit grumpy). I sometimes choose my words carefully with acquaintances, although at this point the three of us were becoming more and more intertwined, laughing through the exhaustion and frustration. I stared up at the mountainside as we walked back to the train station, the mist cresting over the ragged edges jutting into the sky. It looked like it would rain, and the clouds loomed over us like shadows.
When we finally boarded the train, we decided to hike our way to Eibsee following series of hiking markers from the next station over–which, it turned out, was not the smartest of our ideas. All three of us eventually had stake out a claim in the middle of the German Alps to piss, and while I toed a line in the country road waiting on them, I watched as a local walked through the pasture that the trail wound through. All three of us, halfway up the mountain, were cranky and irritable.
Why?
It had started raining.
Because the morning had been so clear, none of us had really geared up for the rain, and the rest of the hike up the mountain was tremendously difficult in regard to the mental fortitude it took to continue. I had at least thought to take an umbrella, but even that, with the rain sliding down the hills and the 7 km hike to the shore of the lake, wasn’t enough. Our shoes and socks were soaked, and my toes squished against the fabric with each step forward. When we finally made it to Eibsee, the surrounding businesses were all closed, but I still remember the sense of satisfaction and peace I felt upon sitting on the rocky shore. We took off our top layers and sat on the rocks, staring out onto the lake, the waters still and pristine except for the soft splash of the waves against the wooden stilts of the buildings on either side of us.
I thought about home. I thought about it for a long time. My mother still fretted practically every day I was gone, my sister was planning her own classes in South Korea, the days passed by easily, and the distance–the 4,000 mile distance–separated us by worlds. The entire experience of living abroad and traveling, the isolation and reflection I became accustomed to, was eye-opening on a very personal level. I spent so long–my entire life–trying to please others that I had forgotten what it felt like to be on my own. To do things for myself and my own well-being allowed me the space for the healing I had been so desperately searching for years prior. I had begun that process back in Oklahoma. I was finishing it in Europe. What a notion, that distance gives us a perspective we may have lacked beforehand.
We skipped rocks that evening, with the sun setting behind a layer of clouds. Laughter spilled into the night, and eventually we caught a bus back to Garmisch-Partenkirchen, one of our luckier finds.
On certain days, though, when the rain dances across my apartment porch and the birds sing new tunes to old sonnets, I think about that memory–of walking through the rain, of wandering through the fields of Bavaria, of the silly mistakes and the peace of knowing that I’m only one small piece of a larger puzzle.
Sam