Stripping the Bed -- Bad Munster, Germany

Rejoicing in our joy, not suffering in our suffering makes someone a friend. 

~Friedrich Nietzsche 

This is my last morning in the Germany loft. It's six am and the only sound is the quiet clicking of my keyboard. My bags are nearly packed -- I just have to finish organizing my plethora of cables, put plastic bags around my smelly boots and locate the case for my prescription glasses. In a few minutes, I'll have to strip my sheets from the bed and stick them in the washing machine (sans dead dormouse) and prepare the space for the next workawayer.

It's always a hard moment. It's a moment of feeling replaceable -- interchangeable, in a way. I mean, I know that I'm a unique person and as such, make a unique impact everywhere I go... but the knowledge that someone else will be sleeping in my bed, feeding alpacas, walking dogs and laughing with Billie and Julia tomorrow makes me feel like a jealous ex-girlfriend.

Which is all very mature.

But it's a hard moment, and that's that. I've only been here for three weeks, but I know where Billie likes to sit on the couch (so when she's around, I never sit there). I know which coffee cup is her favorite (and so I never touch it). I know that she likes cilantro, kalamata olives, fatty yogurt, and thinks my scones are divine. I know how to lead a yoga routine that suits her. I know what and when to feed the cats and dogs, I've learned their names and have even given the most aloof cat a half seductive, half bored French accent.

So I'll be stripping the bed in a few minutes, and it'll be hard. Like it always is.

Well, not always. When I've had a bad experience, there's nothing more satisfying than ripping off blankets and thinking, "NEVER AGAIN." When I left my first WWOOFing placement in Ireland in 2011, the hallelujah chorus was ringing in my head.

But this was not a bad experience. This was anything but a bad experience (although I was nearly kicked by an irritable alpaca yesterday).  My 20 day volunteer gig in Bad Munster has been chock-full, jam-packed with gut-busting laughter, good food, good feelings.

So I'm not singing hallelujah. In fact, I'm looking at my baby blue mattress cover and resenting the two Canadian girls arriving this afternoon. The jerks. Their scones and pancakes had better not be as good as mine.

I haven't written much lately because I've been busy socializing with the dutch girl who arrived on Tuesday. I realize that this is a poor excuse (as most excuses tend to be) for neglecting my blog, but when you really enjoy someone who you know will be leaving in a few days, it feels unnatural to prioritize writing over hanging out.

"I'm sorry. I understand that you're leaving tomorrow and I may never see you again, but I really have to work on my blog."

Something about that sentence just sounds so wrong. Callous. Inhuman. Especially because I travel to meet people like the dutch girl. If I'm too busy curled up in the corner under my checkered duvet and glued to my laptop to listen to stories of a crazy girl's gallivanting about South Africa and volunteer work with cheetahs, something needs to change.

But like all things, I need to find a balance. My balance act in Bad Munster has been none too nimble, and I've dropped the blogging ball far too often. The unfortunate thing is that this next month will be so chaotic that I'm sure it'll be dropped several more times. And probably roll under a couch and be lost for ages.

Until I settle in Istanbul and have three months to learn to juggle again.

There has been so much laughter lately, and it's been hilarious to sit back and listen to the dutch girl making fun of Germany and my dear German host poking fun at Holland. As an American, it was a novel experience to observe country bashing, rather than be the butt of it.

My core has been sore every morning, and it's not just because I've developed an awesome yoga routine for abs.

While laughing, I have:

Carved pumpkins,

Apparently pumpkin carving is a distinctly American tradition, so whenever people commented on the creepy curcurbitas, my host would say, "well, she's American." Other items that aren't commonly found in Germany (that us Americans take for granted) include corn tortillas, popping corn (the real stuff that you make in a pan) limes, cilantro and black beans. I remember being so surprised when Billie said she had to go to a specialty shop for limes. Qua?

 Walked the dogs with Joe, Julia and Maude,

Treat? Treat? treat? treat? Grendle (the closest little dog with his tongue out) runs with such enthusiasm and mostly sideways. To the right.  I chuckle every time I see him.

 Eaten mouthwatering German food,

This is wild boar sausage. It didn't really make me laugh, I suppose -- but it made my soul very, very happy. One of my challenges was to see wild boar in Germany. I might just consider this challenge good and done. ;) sorry, Robert -- I know this is probably not how you wanted to see wild boar, but it's certainly how I wanted to taste it.

 Went apple picking at a mostly abandoned orchard,

There are so many different kinds of apples. Maude and I went walking here, and I would pick a mostly worm-free apple, take a bite, and toss it to the ground. This felt painfully wasteful, but no one was harvesting them and a bite of each variety granted me the stomach capacity to try them all. I blissfully offered a flawless crisp red apple to Maude, and she regretfully declined. Her orthodontist says she can't bite into apples. So I enjoyed them all myself and felt tremendously guilty whilst doing so.

 Drinking wine and telling stories with Billie and Maude until we all stumbled off to bed,

There was a night I stumbled off to bed a bit earlier than Maude, frantically gulped down half a bottle of water, and groggily crawled under the covers. When I woke up an hour later, bursting to use the loo, I realized I wasn't alone. Maude had drunkenly plopped into my bed and was contentedly spooning me. Oh... umm... that's... uh, strange. My fuzzy brain couldn't sort out what had happened, so I gingerly tiptoed down the stairs (clinging to the railing), thankfully relieved myself, and tripped back up the stairs. As I was too tired and confused to kick Maude out of my bed, I just lay down next to her. She spooned me again.

 Gone walking with alpacas,

This sweet little fellow is named "Gatsby". Maude loves him.

Meet Milo, my favorite alpaca. The camelids have to wear their halters so high up on their faces because if they're any further down, the poor animals have trouble breathing.

Billie is an alpaca trainer (a very good one) and gave us a few lessons on leading alpacas. In this picture, she's demonstrating to Maude just how hard you have to pull on a lead rope for the animal to feel pressure. It's not very hard.

This guy took forever. But I had so much fun with the teeth. My goodness. It's been validating for me to live with a family that encourages me to pursue all of these little hobbies I enjoy so much. There was a day I asked Billie if she had time to let me teach her yoga. She hesitatingly said, "well... only if you are able to cook dinner..." In my mind, this is equivalent to telling a child, "well... only if you eat the cake and the ice cream."

Julia and her adorable Grendle. It's rare to find people who laugh as easily and as heartily as Julia and Billie (at themselves, at others, and with others. All the kinds of laughter). Every time Julia walks into the house, it's like a breath of fresh air (in an already fresh house). She has such a positive, warm presence and is the kind of person who makes me want to just sit in a room with her.  Because she fills the room with such good things. I don't know how to explain it.

I love this dog. I want him with me everywhere I go.

I've been thinking about the nature of travel and questioning just how natural this lifestyle actually is -- evolutionarily speaking of course. We're wired to operate within communities, but we've also evolved as hunter/gatherers and wanderers. Up until 12,000 years ago, we lived lives of constant movement. We never grew up in the home in which we were born and raised our own families in that same home. We never stayed in one place for more than a season because herds came and went, crops ripened and spoiled.

But the people must have mostly stayed the same. We wandered within established communities, so even though our scenery was constantly changing, our company rarely did. The company that gave us a sense of belonging, connection, love.

I think most of us are conflicted -- torn between these two urges because we live in a world that no longer encourages both. You get to travel or you get a community, don't be so naive to think you can have your cake and eat it too.

Maybe I'll just join the circus. Those folks get to travel and keep community. 

Most of us are conflicted, but one side generally wins and we spend the rest of our time thinking and wishing that the other side would have won. When I interview people (who have wonderful families and homes), the most common response to "what is your biggest regret?" is "I wish I had traveled more." I met a millionaire jeweler in Morocco, and the man sipped his expensive cocktail and lounged in an obscenely comfortable chair in the courtyard of one of the nicest hotels in Marrakech and wrote down that his "Dream occupation" would be to "Live Aimee's life."

My conflict is the other sort, and it becomes most difficult to face and fight and WIN every time I leave a place like the alpaca farm in Bad Munster.

Maybe I could just... stay. Make friends that I get to keep. Have a circle. You know... settle down a bit. Grow roots.

But I have many circles. Many beautiful spaces to which I can travel to reconnect with a once loved, never forgotten community.

I have Baris and Patrick in Nice.

I have my dear English family in Buckinghamshire.

I have Kim and Jeremy in Wales (although I'll have to reconnect with Jeremy in Kenya).

I have Lochlann and Hanne in Ireland.

I have Svetlana in Denmark.

I have my friends and family in Colorado.

This is another juggling act. Balancing between these two basic urges in a healthy manner. So my life will be one of traveling to experience new places and returning to meet old friends.

Julia and Billie are friends to whom I will return.

Preconceptions: none today

Challenges: I'm totally counting that wild boar sausage. Sorry, Robert. ;)

Shrooms! -- Bad Munster, Germany

Perhaps I know why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter.

~Friedrich Nietzsche 

(I include this quote because I'm writing a play about laughter)

 

Yesterday was my second and final day off with Joe. As we'd whiled away our previous day off ambling around the city of BK, we decided to spend this day off walking around the woods. In search of some German ruins, but mostly just to enjoy being outside. 

The first three weeks in Germany were dismal. Wet, cold, clammy -- positively Irish. But we hit a magnificent warm spell head on last week, and I now feel like I'm in Southern France again.

Southern France, but without the humidity and the constant reek of dog shit wafting up from the streets and sidewalks.

We started early. With pancakes.

Every good day starts with pancakes (or starting a day with pancakes is bound to make it good). I couldn't eat my fragrant, golden, wheat filled breakfast, but I was quite happy to prepare it for Joe, Billie and Julia. I'm the type of lady who wakes up early every morning (regardless of how late I stayed up the night before), and I adore spending these lonely hours puttering around in a quiet kitchen. I like feeling productive when everyone else is asleep. I like how loud the coffee machine sounds when the only other noise in the house is Pitu's gentle snoring. I like tiptoeing to the fridge and delicately closing cupboards. I like having to whisk things by hand because the electric beater is nearly deafening at six in the morning. I like listening to butter sizzling and bubbling in the skillet and I like how quickly the room starts to smell like morning. 

I love it when I can make the whole house smell like morning before people wake up. 

The smells of cinnamon and browned butter. 

Bacon and sausage and eggs and mushrooms. 

Toast. 

Pancakes. 

Coffee.  

So I woke up early to start the day off with pancakes.

Julia had warned us that the hike would be a long one, so I scavenged around the fridge for cheese, veggies, olives and a yogurt like substance called "quark", but pronounced as "qvark". I also snagged the final two chocolates from Billie's last shopping trip (she always buys goodies. I love this about her. I also hate this about her, because she's so generous and I eat way too many). I stuffed the lunch into my purse next to my camera, zipped up my boots, and clomped down the stairs to meet Joe outside. 

Joe has a great sense of direction. As I was born without one of these, I was exceedingly grateful to discover that it's almost as difficult for Joe to get lost as it is for me to find the places I set out to find.

Joe and Julia's hilarious dog. Note the alpaca hat I made for him out of Billie's alpaca yarn.

We started the hike by walking past a nearby vineyard. Not many grapes left, but the colors are stunning this time of year.

I like the line of yellow that runs through the grapes.

Wind turbines produce 8% of Germany's electrical power. They're all over the place. I think they have a beautiful, alien quality. Joe thinks they're hideous. Julia thinks they're lovely. I think it's odd that people have such strong reactions to wind turbines.

Joe hiked the Appalachian Trail not too long ago. Alone. It is my opinion (as a presumptuous acquaintance who hardly knows him) that this experience helped shape him into the independent, bold, assertive (and generally awesome) traveler he is today.

It also made him really fast. And rather introspective. The majority of the hike was spent with the poor guy patiently waiting for me just beyond the next bend in the trail.

Always ahead of me... always. I told Joe that there are several different kinds of people to take on walks/hikes. You have the athletes who blaze full throttle to the end and "conquer" the trail. You have the average type that takes a few pictures, sits on a few rocks, and stops to take a swig from their nalgene every so often. Then you have the people who are a bit out of shape and struggle, huff and puff and "YOU CAN DO IT!" to the end of the trail. Then you have the toddlers who have to stop and look at everything. Then you have the wannabe photographers who have to stop and look at everything and take pictures of everything.

A few minutes in, I started seeing mushrooms.

"Joe!" I called ahead in excitement, "A mushroom! I found a mushroom!"

"Yeah?" my friend replied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"It's a mushroom," I repeated with insistent enthusiasm. "It's a mushroom and it's beautiful."

So I took a picture of the beautiful mushroom. Joe waited.

"Ah!" I screamed happily, "More! Different kinds! I wish I knew how to forage mushrooms. God, it would be so great to take some of these home."

I walked a couple feet, saw a mushroom, whooped happily, rushed to the mushroom, squatted down in the dead leaves next to the mushroom, and snapped a picture or ten.

Over

and over

and over again.

I took many pictures of mushrooms. Joe started playing with sticks.

"Do you mind that I'm taking all these pictures?" I asked timidly, hiding my camera and feeling ashamed for forcing him to stand around and play with sticks as I lollygagged.

"No, no," he responded quickly, then smiled saucily as he added, "It's just... there are going to be a lot of mushrooms."

"I promise I won't take pictures of all of -- AH! A purple one! Joe? Hey! Hey, Joe? I'm sorry, it's just... the mushroom is purple. How often do you see purple mushrooms?"

Bacon mushrooms!

We kept walking... and walking... and walking. My boots are not made for this type of tramping about, and I could feel my feet chafing in the unpleasant way that leads to nasty blisters. We sat down to eat vegetables and cheese around noon. 

"Do you think we're almost there?" I crunched noisily on a carrot and my stomach grumbled. 

"I have no idea. We still have to get to the restaurant, but it shouldn't be too far beyond that." 

"We haven't passed the restaurant yet?"

"No."

"Oh. Do you want a carrot?" I asked contritely as I proffered the orange vegetable, wanting to redirect the subject away from how long it was taking us to reach the ruins. 

"I'm allergic to raw carrots." 

"Oh..."

We did make it to the fort -- over two hours later.

We only stayed a few minutes, sitting at the top, absorbing our surroundings and debating on whether or not we ought to phone Julia to ask her to pick us up.

If I weren't an unreasonably prideful yoga teacher, I would have flown back to the restaurant and borrowed a phone to call Julia. Nothing about walking back to the farm sounded nice at that moment.

But I was too embarrassed. I'm a certified yoga instructor and Joe is a swashbuckler who just completed the Appalachian Trail. On a barely heeled broken foot. What would Julia say when she answered the phone to hear me whining about my blisters?

So we walked back. And because we found a shortcut and I kept my camera in my purse (mostly), we made extraordinary time.

 And then we saw him.

Upon first glance, I wasn't sure what I saw. There were shoes... straps to indicate a backpack... and... and that was it.

Is he wearing a body suit? He must be wearing a body suit -- else I'd see pubic hair. Tan lines. Something. ACH! Nope, there it is. Swinging away. Definitely stark naked, this fellow. Should I make eye contact? What do I do? Do I say hello? Smile politely? Ask him whether or not he knows he forgot to get dressed this morning? 

In the end, I just looked straight ahead and then rubbernecked a bit. It's not every day you see a stark naked German strolling through the forest.

Joe and I exchanged confused glances, had a laugh and then started making up naked man's story.

"I bet his backpack is stuffed full of those red magic mushrooms. Maybe that's why he's naked. And I bet he lives in one of those hunter huts and forages for apples and walnuts and acorns and chestnuts. And he's a great hunter of wild boar."

Joe humored my preposterous conjectures, but didn't participate in inventing a life for our nudist friend. 

A hunter hut -- very common in this part of Germany

Then we found bones.

"I bet he uses these in his magic mushroom ceremonies!"

It was a mite disturbing to find a stick shoved up this bone...too many mushrooms.

I was once again exceedingly grateful for Joe's acute sense of direction. When I'm in unfamiliar places, I take pictures of landmarks and street signs. So I don't get horribly lost. I'm abundantly aware that I have no sense of direction, so I simply plan accordingly. Just like I know I'm a god-awful driver, so I usually choose to ride my bicycle.

But during this hike, I was far too consumed with mushrooms to bother with landmarks.

"You do know how to get back, right?" I worriedly asked Joe before we left the fort. He looked at me like I was a little crazy.

"Umm.... yeah."

I am a little crazy. After about half an hour of walking, I spotted a familiar mushroom.

"Hey! Hey, Joe! I just found a mushroom I took a picture of on our walk to the ruins!"

"Shouldn't be that hard."

"aaaah.... true. But it means we're going the right way!"

"well, yeah."

It took us four hours to walk to the ruins. It took us an hour and a half to walk back.

But now I have mushroom pictures. A copious amount of fungi. Four hours worth of dillydallying.

As we thought Monday was Joe's last night, Billie made us a mouthwatering German dinner. Potato dumplings, goulash and sauerkraut. We drank wine and chatted and Joe decided to stay another day.

I went to bed a happy, happy lady.

Preconceptions: Germans are hilarious. I haven't laughed so hard in a very long time.

Challenges: None today