Living in a country that has no history of peace-making between pilgrims and Native Americans means that no one here gives a hoot about Thanksgiving day. In Germany we will all be toiling away as usual on the American holiday, and I will be taking a train to nearby Braunschweig to give a presentation on our zoo kindergarten at a conference. The chances of stumbling upon a turkey dinner in Braunschweig are pretty slim. I will miss the yams and apples--oh, and of course the company. This weekend I did enjoy a homecooked Malaysian meal prepared by our other English-speaking teacher, who actually comes from Malaysia. We ate the traditional meal of rice, spicy chicken, boiled eggs and vegetables the in the traditional Malaysian style as well, which means no utensils. It was fantastic.
With no holiday neatly nestled between Halloween and Christmas, the Germans start anticipating Santa and his reindeer before November hits double digits. Here in Magdeburg Winter came as suddenly as the Christmas season. The relatively mild temperature dropped to below freezing several days ago and has just begun to crawl back up. For two straight days snow fell in huge flakes without sticking and by the third day, perserverence prevailed; an inch of snow covered on the ground and still has not melted completely.
As my fellow zookeepers know, although the snow is beautiful and serene, it isn't exactly a keeper's best friend. Hose nozzles freeze, animals' water dishes freeze, and keeper's fingers freeze. This week I was involved in the task of moving some of the animals to their new, better insulated winter homes. Storks and turkeys were next on the list. How are storks and turkeys transported to their winter homes, you ask? Let me tell you...
Sometimes during the course of my days with keepers (thanks to my still somewhat lacking language skills), I have NO idea what is going on. Occasionally I jump on the back of the keeper cart with everyone else and think to myself, "Gee, I wonder where we're going? And what will we do when we get there?" In this case, the answers were that we were going to the exhibit with the storks and turkeys and once we got there, we were going to chase them into corners and grab them. Apparently this is how one moves storks and turkeys. After a lot of flapping and gobbling, I ended up hugging a rotund male turkey to my side, with his long tail feathers fanned out in my face. And he was heavy. We rode the keeper cart to the new enclosure, and any visitors who happened to catch a glimpse of the cart at that moment would have seen quite a sight--five zookeepers, each with huge birds tucked under their arms. Gert, who was carrying a stork, called over his should to me, "Now don't even think about eating him, American!" The thought had not crossed my mind.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Around the Zoo
Although I have many anecdotes from my personal life to relay, (like how I just got the internet yesterday, or how I have twice now pretended not to understand German in order to avoid men who were asking me out) I feel as though I have been neglecting explaining the animal side of my job. So here is a smattering of my experiences at the Magdeburg zoo.
I think it is fair to generalize that zookeepers the world over are not people people. That's why they work with animals. The Magdeburg zoo is full of keepers who have been keeping for decades; they are staunch, no-nonsense professionals, not all of whom are thrilled to have me around because I represent a changing tide not all are ready for. These keepers like to stay behind the scenes and while they take wonderful care of their animals and exhibits, they have no desire to do presentations or speak with the public. I completely expected this, and I know enough about zookeepers to know that the way to their hearts is through their animals. For the most part the keepers didn't know what to do with me at first. I have been spending time following other keepers around in order to get an idea of how the whole zoo runs so I can work with as many of the animals as I will fit into the kindergarten curriculum. It is time-consuming and means that there is always something new. On one of my first days doing this, I followed a man with piercing blue eyes and an earring. He said almost nothing while we worked and then suddenly after three hours of cleaning enclosures side-by-side, he said "Ich heisse Rene." I was so shocked that he was addressing me that my reply was the German version of, "Uh...what?" He repeated himself and this time I understood. After three hours of working with me, this man finally said, "My name is Rene." I said, "I am Suzanne. Nice to meet you."
Ususally I do not get to participate in veterinary procedures, but I have had the opportunity to be present for a few. One day I happened just by chance to see three. First one of our kangaroos (don't worry, Mom, it's a small kind, not the six-foot red kangaroos you're thinking of) had an abcess that needed to be treated. I helped restrain the kangaroo, which stood only about three and a half feet tall, but of course that thing could KICK. Fortunately the veterinarian speaks English well and could tell me exactly what to do. The soft, thick fur surprised me because from a distance kangaroos look smooth and sleek to me, not fluffy. But upon closer inspection, this kangaroo had plush fur and very athletic muscle density. The second procedure that day was a treatment for a green iguana that needed an x-ray. The green iguana, being much smaller and less active than a kangaroo, seemed like it should be a cinch after what we went through with the thrashing, spindley kangaroo. I was wrong. First, two keepers climbed trees in the iguana exhibit, which was precarious enough, but to add a further element of danger, the one who grabbed the iguana then had to climb back down without being bitten by the iguana who was acting very much like a frantic fish out of water, flapping his whole body all over the place. Thanks to good forsight the keeper was wearing leather gloves for this task; the iguana latched onto one glove so furiously that he could not be pried off. We took the x-rays with the glove still in the iguana's mouth.
The third veterinary procedure I watched that day was performed on a juvenille red river hog who had been bitten on his stomach by another hog. If you are not familiar with red river hogs, just imagine a warthog the color of an Irish setter and then imagine he has giant ears with bushy tufts of hair on the ends. Now imagine that there is a large, stoic German man sweet talking this little pig while petting the anxious animal from six feet away using a broom. Really, this was genius. The vet needed to see the underside of the hog, but because he was injured, the hog wanted nothing to do with this and barked and snapped when the vet came near. So, to calm the little guy down, the vet took a broom and stroked the pig to quiet him enough that he would allow someone to get a good look at his wound. I don't think the sweet talking had any effect, but it was funny to hear.
Some observations abbreviated for the sake of time:
Asiatic lions are SCARY. Unlike African lions, who often are calm and tolerant, Asiatic lions are very aggressive toward keepers. The male at Magdeburg emits a deep rumble from his chest constantly if keepers are near, and every now and then he lunges at the gates, bellowing like the innocuous MGM lion would sound if you accidentally had your TV volume turned up way too loud. Even when I knew he was going to pounce toward us, it was difficult to ignore the gut reaction to run away, back up, or at least wince. This animal is a perfect example of why a forgetful keeper is a dead keeper. We check all our locks three times. Always.
The Germans desire for order extends beyond punctual transportation to their zookeeping. The German keepers have (what I think is) a strange compulsion to clean the outdoors. On more than one occasion I have had a German zookeeper follow behind me and re-rake places I have already raked. Don't they know more leaves will fall tomorrow? At the same time, I seem to clean the indoors TOO thoroughly for them. They always stop me and tell me it's good enough.
Wubbo is a 22-year-old chimpanzee. He likes people-watching, bananas, blowing kisses and plastic containers. Also, Wubbo likes me. The keeper who raised him, Sonja, spoke with me (in German) about this. After I had worked all day in the ape house she said, "Wubbo likes you. He doesn't like everyone, you know. Sometimes a new intern or trainee or anyone comes in and he gets very upset. He lets you watch him eat. With you he is very calm." Wubbo has diabetes and let me watch while Sonja tested his blood sugar. When Wubbo was finished, he received a pear for his cooperation and his mate, Nana, who does not have any blood sugar condition but wanted a pear of her own, offered her foot to be pricked and tested as well. Sonja obliged and Nana ate her pear.
At Magdeburg zoo there is always some kind of poop to be stepping in. It is not a matter of if but a matter of when, what kind, and how much. I do not reccommend Asiatic buffalo.
In my previous zookeeping work, I had to do a lot of chopping up of small rodents, chicks and horse meat. After a while a zookeeper doesn't think twice about snipping off tails and heads and doesn't ever cringe at the cracking of tiny spines. But I never had to actually slaughter the animals myself. They always came in compact frozen bags. The Magdeburg zoo raises all of its prey animals and feeds fresh meat to the carnivores, which means of course that someone has to kill the meat first. In the middle of our day, Sonja explained to me that we had to go to the kitchen to get the food for the animals. This meant that the sweet lady who wanted me to tell her all the names for our cleaning tools in English was going to bash in the heads of a line-up of 30 small animals. And she did.
When I started working in Germany in September the weather was beautiful. Today it snowed. It was the Seattle type of snow where nothing stuck because the ground was too wet, but it became suddenly evident that winter is here. The zoo provided me with a uniform to wear so I don't look like a random teacher jumping over fences into enclosures, but if the zoo's uniform stock is any indication, there has never been a Magdeburg zookeeper as small as me. Hence, my uniform is a spiffy matching set of hat, sweatshirt, polo shirt, khaki pants, thick winter coat and rubber boots, all several sizes too large. So, just picture all of the previous things I mentioned happened while I was wearing clown pants.
I think it is fair to generalize that zookeepers the world over are not people people. That's why they work with animals. The Magdeburg zoo is full of keepers who have been keeping for decades; they are staunch, no-nonsense professionals, not all of whom are thrilled to have me around because I represent a changing tide not all are ready for. These keepers like to stay behind the scenes and while they take wonderful care of their animals and exhibits, they have no desire to do presentations or speak with the public. I completely expected this, and I know enough about zookeepers to know that the way to their hearts is through their animals. For the most part the keepers didn't know what to do with me at first. I have been spending time following other keepers around in order to get an idea of how the whole zoo runs so I can work with as many of the animals as I will fit into the kindergarten curriculum. It is time-consuming and means that there is always something new. On one of my first days doing this, I followed a man with piercing blue eyes and an earring. He said almost nothing while we worked and then suddenly after three hours of cleaning enclosures side-by-side, he said "Ich heisse Rene." I was so shocked that he was addressing me that my reply was the German version of, "Uh...what?" He repeated himself and this time I understood. After three hours of working with me, this man finally said, "My name is Rene." I said, "I am Suzanne. Nice to meet you."
Ususally I do not get to participate in veterinary procedures, but I have had the opportunity to be present for a few. One day I happened just by chance to see three. First one of our kangaroos (don't worry, Mom, it's a small kind, not the six-foot red kangaroos you're thinking of) had an abcess that needed to be treated. I helped restrain the kangaroo, which stood only about three and a half feet tall, but of course that thing could KICK. Fortunately the veterinarian speaks English well and could tell me exactly what to do. The soft, thick fur surprised me because from a distance kangaroos look smooth and sleek to me, not fluffy. But upon closer inspection, this kangaroo had plush fur and very athletic muscle density. The second procedure that day was a treatment for a green iguana that needed an x-ray. The green iguana, being much smaller and less active than a kangaroo, seemed like it should be a cinch after what we went through with the thrashing, spindley kangaroo. I was wrong. First, two keepers climbed trees in the iguana exhibit, which was precarious enough, but to add a further element of danger, the one who grabbed the iguana then had to climb back down without being bitten by the iguana who was acting very much like a frantic fish out of water, flapping his whole body all over the place. Thanks to good forsight the keeper was wearing leather gloves for this task; the iguana latched onto one glove so furiously that he could not be pried off. We took the x-rays with the glove still in the iguana's mouth.
The third veterinary procedure I watched that day was performed on a juvenille red river hog who had been bitten on his stomach by another hog. If you are not familiar with red river hogs, just imagine a warthog the color of an Irish setter and then imagine he has giant ears with bushy tufts of hair on the ends. Now imagine that there is a large, stoic German man sweet talking this little pig while petting the anxious animal from six feet away using a broom. Really, this was genius. The vet needed to see the underside of the hog, but because he was injured, the hog wanted nothing to do with this and barked and snapped when the vet came near. So, to calm the little guy down, the vet took a broom and stroked the pig to quiet him enough that he would allow someone to get a good look at his wound. I don't think the sweet talking had any effect, but it was funny to hear.
Some observations abbreviated for the sake of time:
Asiatic lions are SCARY. Unlike African lions, who often are calm and tolerant, Asiatic lions are very aggressive toward keepers. The male at Magdeburg emits a deep rumble from his chest constantly if keepers are near, and every now and then he lunges at the gates, bellowing like the innocuous MGM lion would sound if you accidentally had your TV volume turned up way too loud. Even when I knew he was going to pounce toward us, it was difficult to ignore the gut reaction to run away, back up, or at least wince. This animal is a perfect example of why a forgetful keeper is a dead keeper. We check all our locks three times. Always.
The Germans desire for order extends beyond punctual transportation to their zookeeping. The German keepers have (what I think is) a strange compulsion to clean the outdoors. On more than one occasion I have had a German zookeeper follow behind me and re-rake places I have already raked. Don't they know more leaves will fall tomorrow? At the same time, I seem to clean the indoors TOO thoroughly for them. They always stop me and tell me it's good enough.
Wubbo is a 22-year-old chimpanzee. He likes people-watching, bananas, blowing kisses and plastic containers. Also, Wubbo likes me. The keeper who raised him, Sonja, spoke with me (in German) about this. After I had worked all day in the ape house she said, "Wubbo likes you. He doesn't like everyone, you know. Sometimes a new intern or trainee or anyone comes in and he gets very upset. He lets you watch him eat. With you he is very calm." Wubbo has diabetes and let me watch while Sonja tested his blood sugar. When Wubbo was finished, he received a pear for his cooperation and his mate, Nana, who does not have any blood sugar condition but wanted a pear of her own, offered her foot to be pricked and tested as well. Sonja obliged and Nana ate her pear.
At Magdeburg zoo there is always some kind of poop to be stepping in. It is not a matter of if but a matter of when, what kind, and how much. I do not reccommend Asiatic buffalo.
In my previous zookeeping work, I had to do a lot of chopping up of small rodents, chicks and horse meat. After a while a zookeeper doesn't think twice about snipping off tails and heads and doesn't ever cringe at the cracking of tiny spines. But I never had to actually slaughter the animals myself. They always came in compact frozen bags. The Magdeburg zoo raises all of its prey animals and feeds fresh meat to the carnivores, which means of course that someone has to kill the meat first. In the middle of our day, Sonja explained to me that we had to go to the kitchen to get the food for the animals. This meant that the sweet lady who wanted me to tell her all the names for our cleaning tools in English was going to bash in the heads of a line-up of 30 small animals. And she did.
When I started working in Germany in September the weather was beautiful. Today it snowed. It was the Seattle type of snow where nothing stuck because the ground was too wet, but it became suddenly evident that winter is here. The zoo provided me with a uniform to wear so I don't look like a random teacher jumping over fences into enclosures, but if the zoo's uniform stock is any indication, there has never been a Magdeburg zookeeper as small as me. Hence, my uniform is a spiffy matching set of hat, sweatshirt, polo shirt, khaki pants, thick winter coat and rubber boots, all several sizes too large. So, just picture all of the previous things I mentioned happened while I was wearing clown pants.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
...Longer Stories Shorter
I sat in the Seatac airport trying not to cry and suddenly realized I needed to stop reading the book I was in the middle of because things were not looking good for the protagonist, and there would be no way I could contain myself if he were to die on page 245 while I was flying away from home. I managed to get myself onto the plane, but it was one of the worst planes rides I have experienced. Somehow the seats were smaller than any plan I have ridden and the man next to me seemed to require not only his own sixteen inches of seat, but at least three inches of my seat also. The worst part though was that pressure kept building in my ears. I don't know why this happened, but by the time we landed in Chicago, sounds floated to me like I was in a bubble and my ears ached terribly. In Chicago I found my connecting gate and asked an attendant if she had any tips to relieve this issue and she told me to chew gum. Considering the intensity of my problem, I thought this was silly, but I was willing to try anything.
Back in the air a short time later, I realized gum would not solve my problem. My ears ached all the way to London and when the flight attendants asked me questions, I responded only based on the context, not because I heard anything they asked. I spent three or four hours in the London airport, but my stay there was surreal. Signs and lights swirled around me and I felt very much like I was underwater. If I sat still, the whole place spun like in the cartoons when Tom or Jerry used to get trapped in a keg and come out drunk. (They don't really have cartoons like that anymore, do they?) I had to concentrate to keep my balance and walking around reminded me of being on a ferry, where floors sway slowly beneath your feet. Somehow I made it to my gate for round three.
It is strange to me that the most homesick I have ever felt came over me just a day after I had been home. I would have expected that homesickness would creep up after many months abroad or at least many weeks away from family. Instead, it hit suddenly and hard, just hours after I had been at home. I fell into an exhausted sleep on my futon mattress on the floor. Sophie was glad to see me.
Enough of self-pity and homesickness though. The children were glad to see me again, and I was glad to be back to help my Canadian co-worker, Shannon, with the workload. I found that some of the zoo employees had donated some house-hold goods to me. There was a bag with silverware and a couple of sheets in it, which I accepted gratefully (not mentioning the fact that I had no bed as yet to put sheets on). I also accepted a frying pan and two casserole dishes (again not mentioning that I have never in my life baked a casserole and have no plans to do so).
The animals were the same as always. This job is different than what I am used to in that I do not work consistently with the same animals. I see some of them on a daily basis, but I am not always doing the handling or the keeping and some days I am doing both. Since the keepers speak hardly any English, the language barrier is always an obstacle. I guess that is why it is called a barrier. Yesterday as I was riding in the keeper cart (like a golf cart, but for keepers to ride around in and tote their keeper tools etc.) I was getting to know two keepers I had not worked with before. We had just finished cleaning some of the hoofstock enclosures, llamas, reindeer, and a couple species of wild cattle, and we needed to take our wagon full of debris to be dumped in the compost pile across the zoo. The other two keepers had a discussion about the vehicle that I could not entirely follow because I could not remember what the word "bremse" meant. We all hopped in the cart and Frank drove off toward the administration building. As we approached, I thought, "wow, I would not be going this fast. Does he always drive like this?" A couple of administration employees dodged us. We came to the edge of the zoo and stopped. Frank bowed his head and as we all hopped out of the cart, I remembered what "bremse meant. Brakes. Something was wrong with the BRAKES on the vehicle. Fortunately we all survived and knowing what I do now, I would say Frank is an exceptional driver.
I will try not to be remiss in my blogging, but I don't want to make any promises.
Friday, November 7, 2008
...Long Stories Short
One of the problems with blogging or journaling is that at a certain point, the writer always falls behind and has to play catch-up until the writing coincides with real time. In my case, evidently, it took about ten posts for me to fall behind.
Firstly, I stayed one night in my new apartment before flying home to the Pugeot Sound area for the wedding of my dear friend Sharmarie and her (now) husband, Troy. I was so excited to fly home that I hardly slept. Also, since I had only a futon mattress on hardwood flooring for a bed, it was a rather uncomfortable and chilly night. The next morning I got up and showered, realizing that my shower leaks water all over the bathroom floor. I remained unphased, since I was so thrilled to be going to visit everyone. According to my itinerary, I was to fly to Frankfurt, then Chicago, and then Seattle. Not ideal, but it would get me there. I had booked this itinerary through a website called Vayama, and had received an email from them two weeks before I was going to leave. The email stated that there had been changes to my flights and that I needed to call Vayama. I used my phone card at a phone booth to call, and was relieved when the woman told me that my first flight had been moved to a later time. I asked this woman three times if my connecting flights still worked. It was my only concern in this conversation. Three times the agent assured me that my connections worked.
So, that morning I walked to the train station and expertly figured out which platform to stand on, then which stop to get off at, and then which bus to take to get to the airport. I arrived at the Berlin airport almost three hours early, an entirely unnecessary precaution, since it is not a huge international type of airport where a traveler might have to go through a lot more security or wait in long lines everywhere. I bought some gummi candy and was feeling pretty good. The flight to Frankfurt was uneventful and only about an hour. Then everything exploded. I got to the ticket counter where British Air told me I needed to go to American Airlines, even though my ticket said "British Air" on it. American Airlines told me I had missed my flight. They said it took off the same minute that my plane landed from Berlin. Being a normal individual, unfortunately bound by all the limits of the time/space continuum, there was no way I would ever have been able to catch that plane. American Airlines said they couldn't help me and I had to go back to British Air. By this time I was nearly in tears, but hanging on to the hope that there would be still some way to get to Seattle that night. The woman at the British Air counter was adamant that she could do nothing except book me for the same flight the next day. I cried. Not the messy, sobbing kind of crying, but just the kind where a person appears composed while little tears slid down their cheeks. While I cried I asked about taking flights anywhere in the whole US and then connecting to Seattle, and about taking trains to nearby European cities to catch flights to Seattle--ANYTHING to get me there. But the woman, although very nice, was not into my method of problem solving and booked me to fly to Chicago the next day.
Twenty-four hours is not all that long. For the first four hours, I sat in a chair watching travelers being greeted by their friends and families at the arrival gate. Four hours was all I could handle of this because it made me sad, since I was not going to be greeted at my arrival point until a day later. I played a game where I tried not to look at my watch for as long as possible. I bought a sandwich. Airport food is expensive and I had only about 20 Euros with me, so I had to use it very sparingly. For the next couple of hours I looked at every single shop in the Frankfurt airport and very carefully budgeted how much I could spend on a book. I sat in the Starbucks for three hours. I could not afford to buy anything, but I was determined to do the most American things possible. When hunger took over, I bought a Happy Meal from the McDonald's. By this time it was already nearly midnight (not quite halfway through my stay at the airport) so I tried to sleep. I tried to sleep in about eight different places in the airport. I mostly failed.
Since I am sure that reading about someone else's twenty-four hours in an airport is about as interesting as actually spending twenty-four hours at an airport, I will not retell the play-by-play any further. I was so glad to fly out the next day. The plane ride to Chicago was about nine hours, but after spending a whole day in an airport, nine hour s on a plane was no problem. I was nervous about my connection in Chicago, but only because I had just missed a connection, not because there was any real reason to worry. I basically sprinted through O'hare. Finally I was on a plane that was landing in Seattle. An entire twenty-four hours late, I landed and met Jared at baggage claim. Whew.
I had not been away from the Pugeot Sound area for long, and while I was in Germany I had not really missed anything American. But once I was surrounded by things like Starbucks and Target and familiar streets, I loved being home. I loved being able to chat with the cashier at the coffee shop without expending a huge amount of effort to understand her or to be understood. I loved being able to ask a question ("Do you have eggnog lattes yet?) without having to phrase the sentence carefully in my mind and repeat it to myself several times before speaking. Most of all, I loved seeing people I know and love.
My first day in town was spent doing a little shopping and a lot of eating and then going to the wedding rehearsal. Sharmarie was radiant, if a little stressed, and if the power had gone out we could have found our way around using Troy's glow. We all went to Sharmarie's father's house for the rehearsal dinner afterward and it was nice just to hear so many people conversing in native English! The next day was entirely wedding. Don picked me up and we first had a healthy breakfast at Sherry's before spending the afternoon doing last-minute preparations. As tends to be the case with weddings, we were running behind schedule and everything seemed on the brink of falling apart, but when 5:45 rolled around we were lined up and suddenly everything was fine. The chanter began to sing and the service proceeded beautifully. Then we partied.
I had only one more day in town, so I made the most of it by gathering (well, really the credit goes to my mom here; she organized it all) my family together for lunch. Her husband Arnold made his famous enchiladas, and even my aunt and uncle from Bellingham drove down for the occasion. Originally I thought it was a little silly to get everyone together when I had really only been out of the country for about six weeks. I mean, how much could they really have missed me in six weeks anyway? But maybe it was more for my benefit, because I certainly was glad to see everyone, and be reminded that the same people I know and love are still out there somewhere, even if I am spending my time in a foreign place where I don't know anyone.
My mom took me to the airport the next day, and I tried to hide it, but I was feeling much sadder about leaving this time than I had when I left the first time in the middle of September. The first time I was excited to see new things and do new things and I didn't know what was in store for me. This time, I knew what I was going back to, and as much as I like it here...well, it just isn't home.
So, that morning I walked to the train station and expertly figured out which platform to stand on, then which stop to get off at, and then which bus to take to get to the airport. I arrived at the Berlin airport almost three hours early, an entirely unnecessary precaution, since it is not a huge international type of airport where a traveler might have to go through a lot more security or wait in long lines everywhere. I bought some gummi candy and was feeling pretty good. The flight to Frankfurt was uneventful and only about an hour. Then everything exploded. I got to the ticket counter where British Air told me I needed to go to American Airlines, even though my ticket said "British Air" on it. American Airlines told me I had missed my flight. They said it took off the same minute that my plane landed from Berlin. Being a normal individual, unfortunately bound by all the limits of the time/space continuum, there was no way I would ever have been able to catch that plane. American Airlines said they couldn't help me and I had to go back to British Air. By this time I was nearly in tears, but hanging on to the hope that there would be still some way to get to Seattle that night. The woman at the British Air counter was adamant that she could do nothing except book me for the same flight the next day. I cried. Not the messy, sobbing kind of crying, but just the kind where a person appears composed while little tears slid down their cheeks. While I cried I asked about taking flights anywhere in the whole US and then connecting to Seattle, and about taking trains to nearby European cities to catch flights to Seattle--ANYTHING to get me there. But the woman, although very nice, was not into my method of problem solving and booked me to fly to Chicago the next day.
Twenty-four hours is not all that long. For the first four hours, I sat in a chair watching travelers being greeted by their friends and families at the arrival gate. Four hours was all I could handle of this because it made me sad, since I was not going to be greeted at my arrival point until a day later. I played a game where I tried not to look at my watch for as long as possible. I bought a sandwich. Airport food is expensive and I had only about 20 Euros with me, so I had to use it very sparingly. For the next couple of hours I looked at every single shop in the Frankfurt airport and very carefully budgeted how much I could spend on a book. I sat in the Starbucks for three hours. I could not afford to buy anything, but I was determined to do the most American things possible. When hunger took over, I bought a Happy Meal from the McDonald's. By this time it was already nearly midnight (not quite halfway through my stay at the airport) so I tried to sleep. I tried to sleep in about eight different places in the airport. I mostly failed.
Since I am sure that reading about someone else's twenty-four hours in an airport is about as interesting as actually spending twenty-four hours at an airport, I will not retell the play-by-play any further. I was so glad to fly out the next day. The plane ride to Chicago was about nine hours, but after spending a whole day in an airport, nine hour s on a plane was no problem. I was nervous about my connection in Chicago, but only because I had just missed a connection, not because there was any real reason to worry. I basically sprinted through O'hare. Finally I was on a plane that was landing in Seattle. An entire twenty-four hours late, I landed and met Jared at baggage claim. Whew.
I had not been away from the Pugeot Sound area for long, and while I was in Germany I had not really missed anything American. But once I was surrounded by things like Starbucks and Target and familiar streets, I loved being home. I loved being able to chat with the cashier at the coffee shop without expending a huge amount of effort to understand her or to be understood. I loved being able to ask a question ("Do you have eggnog lattes yet?) without having to phrase the sentence carefully in my mind and repeat it to myself several times before speaking. Most of all, I loved seeing people I know and love.
My first day in town was spent doing a little shopping and a lot of eating and then going to the wedding rehearsal. Sharmarie was radiant, if a little stressed, and if the power had gone out we could have found our way around using Troy's glow. We all went to Sharmarie's father's house for the rehearsal dinner afterward and it was nice just to hear so many people conversing in native English! The next day was entirely wedding. Don picked me up and we first had a healthy breakfast at Sherry's before spending the afternoon doing last-minute preparations. As tends to be the case with weddings, we were running behind schedule and everything seemed on the brink of falling apart, but when 5:45 rolled around we were lined up and suddenly everything was fine. The chanter began to sing and the service proceeded beautifully. Then we partied.
I had only one more day in town, so I made the most of it by gathering (well, really the credit goes to my mom here; she organized it all) my family together for lunch. Her husband Arnold made his famous enchiladas, and even my aunt and uncle from Bellingham drove down for the occasion. Originally I thought it was a little silly to get everyone together when I had really only been out of the country for about six weeks. I mean, how much could they really have missed me in six weeks anyway? But maybe it was more for my benefit, because I certainly was glad to see everyone, and be reminded that the same people I know and love are still out there somewhere, even if I am spending my time in a foreign place where I don't know anyone.
My mom took me to the airport the next day, and I tried to hide it, but I was feeling much sadder about leaving this time than I had when I left the first time in the middle of September. The first time I was excited to see new things and do new things and I didn't know what was in store for me. This time, I knew what I was going back to, and as much as I like it here...well, it just isn't home.
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