Wenn man ist, was man isst, dann bin ich ein Berliner

Last semester at Middlebury, I took a German class called Fin-de-siecle Vienna, where we read works and studied ideas from 1900 Vienna authors and artists. One of these authors, Hugo von Hoffmannsthal, expressed an idea in his "Letter to Sir Francis Bacon by Lord Chandos" about an ever-present Sprachkrise, literally language crisis, that plagued the author of the letter, a fictional character created by Hoffmannsthal.

Now, this Sprachkrise described by Hoffmannsthal didn't involve foreign languages or the seemingly impossible translation of idioms only existent one's mother tongue. Rather, Sprachkrise deals with the idea that our emotions are too great to be conveyed by words, which are a superficial mean of communicating between individuals where there is, inevitably, a divide between experiences and a difference of perspective.

Considering that Hoffmansthal (or, at least Lord Chandos, the fictional character from whose perspective the piece is written) found these problems so smothering in his native language, I highly doubt that he ever took on a second or third language just for kicks. These days, I've entertained a love-hate relationship with the German language, waking up some mornings to find myself remembering vocab and how to actually form correct sentences, while other times struggling to remember things I learned in German 1 as a sophomore. Some days I will sit outside a cafe in Mainz and just gush with happiness at hearing some pair of Germans speaking about apple pie recipes or even what time their train is due to arrive. I am genuinely elated to hear the German language being used so flawlessly and also being able to understand it that I sit there like an idiot grinning when the waitress subtly comes up behind me to ask me what I want to order. Other times I sit on the bus and hear everyone chattering happily in German with their native accents, and become enraged with jealousy, anger, and brute strength. I desperately wish that everyone will just stop talking altogether. What are they speaking German for, anyway?

Instead of finding words superficial and inadequate like Lord Chandos, I have instead found that the emotions, jokes, and stories that I am dying to share at some particular moment in a German conversation have lost their importance. Searching for the correct words and piecing together the perfect German structure is just too much work to tell a silly story about putting together 100 boxes (99 empty and one with a pillowcase) and attempting to mail them all to your friend just for fun when the topic of prank wars and Facebook videos comes into conversation. Or to explain to everyone just why you love running so much when they ask you where it is that you go all the time in ridiculously short shorts and a key strung through your running shoes. Or about that time you drove to New York in the middle of the night to deliver a forgotten passport to a friend when discussing important documents necessary for travel. You know. Everyday kind of stuff.

But I will not let grammar and uknown vocabulary hold me back! I shall prevail over my own described Fremdsprachkrise! And you, my native German audience (or victims who must sit and hear what I have to say), will be patient and not lose interest only two seconds into my diatribe! Mistakes are building blocks for learning, I say! And, at this point, my building is much taller than yours!

So there.

I have actually found that people are very patient here when I stutter through German sentences, and have actually even gotten compliments on my language skills a time or two. These compliments, however, have never come from an actual German, but other international students. Regardless, I am proud to say, in the most patriotic way possible, that I haven't been placed as an American right away in many circumstances. I'm on my way. I just don't know where it is that I'm going to yet.

To help students get some culture (and possibly to shed the whole American-vibe) while they're abroad, Middlebury gives out 180 Euro each semester of Kulturgeld, or "culture money." So far I haven't used my Kulturgeld at all, but there are plenty of opportunities within Mainz alone when one considers the different classes she can take in the city (one girl apparently took a class on how to write in old-fashioned German script and got reimbursed), as well as the museums, theatres and concert hall. Heike, the director for Middlebury students here at the university, even said that we could use it on a train or bus ticket to another German speaking city, so long as we proved that we did something somewhat educational there. I myself think that I should push for a reimbursement on the awesome boots I just bought at Real, a more upscale version of Wal*Mart in Germany, where you can buy anything from nutella to a unicycle--"Einmal hin, alles drin" is their all too catchy motto (one time there, everything inside). I feel as if I wouldn't really be capturing the culture of Europe if I didn't at least attempt to keep up with fashion--and I'm a hands-on learner, what can I say. Am I wrong here? ...I'll keep the receipt anyway.

Yesterday (a good German-speaking day, thankfully), Hannah and I journeyed down to the Hauptbahnhof to check out times for travelling to France next weekend, where we will visit our friend Elizabeth in Poitiers, and then return to Mainz with Elizabeth who will stay the remainder of the week with me (she is having her week-off only a week after Hannah and I start classes...something is almost wrong about that). I got my EURail pass that was so graciously given to me by family authorized and my time for my train to Paris reserved--pretty soon I will be able to experience frustration with not only German, but also French. Bring. It. On.

I am nervous, however, about this whole transportation thing. So far I haven't had very good luck in my experiences--and, just on Monday, it was almost made official that I am, in fact, a bad omen in an airport. Monday I accompanied Dito, a friend of mine, to the airport in Frankfurt where he bade farewell to his cousin, Tina, who had studied in Germany for three months and was going to return to her home in Georgia. Tina had plenty of time before her flight, so we popped open a bottle of wine and sat down at the McDonald's with paper cups and had a jolly old time (classy, I know). Berliners were eaten. Hamburgers were ordered. Embarassing stories about Dito were shared. I learned how to say "my name is" in Georgian. Everything was wunderbar.

Then, with still plenty of time left before Tina's flight, the three of us made our way down to one of many important desks in the Frankfurt airport to check Tina's bags. But, because Amanda Quinlan was there, Tina's flight hadn't been properly reserved. Panic struck. Long distance phone calls were made to parents and travel agencies. Receptionists typed lengthy codes into keyboards. About one hour and five fistfuls of torn hair later, everything was finally resolved.

Then, because Amanda Quinlan was still there, Tina's bags were weighed in to be too heavy. She needed a carry-on to displace some of the weight, but the nice lady behind the important desk couldn't know it was Tina's carry-on, because then she would still be charged (oh, the marvelous bureaucracy of it all). So Dito and I ran (literally ran, took a shuttle, and ran some more) to buy the smallest gym bag I've ever seen for 25 Euro. The only possible thing that it had going for it was that it was pink. But it was still not a very pretty pink. Anyway.

Thanks to escalators, moving sidewalks, and oblivious airport workers,Tina is, according to Facebook, now at home in Georgia. I will admit that it could have been worse. But, for your own sake, don't invite me to the airport anymore. I don't think I'm welcome there.

Peace, love, and misspelled last names,
Amanda Quinlan(d)