Frankfurt am Main -- Or how modern art continues to baffles me

            Yesterday, we went on a trip to Frankfurt, which is approximately an hour away from Marburg, to go to the Summer Museum Festival.  You may also remember that Frankfurt is the city I flew into on August 4^th so my initial memories of the city were colored significantly by my exhaustion and post-travel stress.

            Unfortunately, this journey did not start off much better.  Our bus left for Frankfurt at 8:00 AM, which meant I had to get up at 6:45 AM to get ready.  Now this time isn’t truly terrible if I’m honest with you (and if I’m not honest in my blog, then where else would I be honest?  Don't answer that).  Lots of people have to get up earlier than that on a daily basis.  In my defense though, 3-5 hours of intense German language school plus homework every day can really take it out of you.  The weekend is the only time we usually have to sleep in so every morning of sleeping-time we lose is quite distressing.  Motivating myself to get out of bed on a Saturday is possibly one of the hardest feats of willpower.  Pretty much every bone in your body is perfectly content to stay in bed and not see another city in Germany, because SLEEP.

Post-language course collapse.

            In addition, you’re traveling with Americans.  The problem with traveling with Americans is that you just KNOW they’re going to be late.  Yes, you are an American, and YOU are going to be on time, but the others traveling with you haven’t gotten the memo that Germans are super punctual and being late is not at all fashionable.  If they’re late, you can be late, right?

            WRONG.  Faulty logic alert!  Faulty logic alert!!  It’s a vicious cycle.  Don’t be fooled!  If you fall for this logic, then ALL THE AMERICANS WILL BE LATE.  This is how stereotypes are perpetuated.  That being said, we left Marburg at 8:10 AM.  Guess why...
            The bus trip was uneventful, although it was my first time on the Autobahn during this trip to Germany.  The weather was gorgeous: sunny and scattered white puffy clouds (which will be important later today).

          The tour bus stopped by the Römer, conveniently located next to a Starbucks.  After a quick Starbucks stop for the homesick Americans and equivalent bakery stop for the gung-ho “being in Germany where bakeries are everywhere is still a novelty” Americans, the group of Fulbright students split into two: one group that would take an English tour through the city and the other group that would take the German tour.  I joined the German tour group, eager to see how much I could understand at this point in time.  You’ll note that this is a significantly improved reaction to the German language in comparison with my encounter on the train three weeks ago.

Some of my fellow Fulbright students enjoying the German tour of Frankfurt.

            The tour was led by a very nice German woman, who took pity on us and spoke slowly and enunciated carefully.  She was quite easy to understand with only a few of her sentences escaping my understanding.  The most interesting fact I learned about Frankfurt was its large history of reconstruction.  Almost every famous building you see on a guided tour like this was rebuilt.  World War II bombings by the Allies destroyed a significant portion of the major buildings in Frankfurt.  Reconstruction of different areas continues today.  There isn’t a section of Frankfurt that does not have a large crane rising over the rubble or run-down ruins of an old building.  At the end, we got a great view of the city and the perpetual reconstruction from the top of a gigantic shopping mall.

A perfect example of old and new Frankfurt behind me.  How many cranes can you spot?

            There were a surprising number of street artists in the square in front of the Rathaus (city hall), including several who appeared to be levitating.  There was also a man playing what appeared to be steel drums.  He was definitely more impressive than the levitators, as he did not have a skeptical group of Fulbright students determining how “levitation” was a trick surrounding him.  What can I say?  This is what happens when you get a bunch of young students together in a group in a foreign country.  We are determined not to be tricked into awe; something must be genuinely awe-inspiring.

My reaction to seeing "levitating" men.  Once a scientist, always a skeptic.

            After puzzling through a solution to the levitating men, a group of my fellow Fubright students and I stopped in a riverside Café for lunch and enjoyed some Middle Eastern inspired-fare.  My “Pasta Al Arrabiata” was delicious and, even more importantly, contained absolutely no potatoes in any form, a difficult feat for any meal purchased in Germany.

            Post-lunch we all picked museums to visit for the rest of the afternoon.  The Summer Museum Festival in Frankfurt is like the Sommer Fest in Marburg on crack: fifty times bigger, incredibly loud, and packed with Germans and tourists.  The coolest part of the festival is that entrance to ALL of the museums for the whole day requires the purchase a single four Euro button.  Four Euros for entrance into over 60 museums!  It’s a geek’s dream come true!

Welcome to the Staedel Museum! ...and temporary biergarten?

            I went to the Städel Museum of Art and spent three hours wandering through the halls with two Fulbright students.  The museum had some spectacular pieces of old art, some pieces of art that were just old, and some pieces that were neither spectacular nor old.  On that note, modern art is a genre that continues to elude my understanding.  If I could have created the same piece of art myself, why is it art when someone else does it.  For example, one of the special exhibits was of one man’s fingerprints.  Just fingerprints.  What?

            Some of the ancient art was amazing: the Rembrandt and Remeer paintings blew me away.  However, some of the artists seemed to need a lesson in body proportions.  Dear ancient artists, a baby’s leg should be bigger than the baby’s head unless something is terribly wrong with said child.  In addition, just because you think someone’s head looks small, doesn’t mean you should draw it WAY smaller than the rest of the body.  Or maybe you should.  I mean, hey…you still got into one of the premier museums in Germany.  Who am I to talk?

            Just wait, I’ll fingerprint myself or draw a disproportionate baby someday, and then I’ll be famous for sure.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve done both of these things, and I’m still not famous.  Maybe I need to rethink my “get-famous-quick” plan.

Dear modern art piece, I'm not sure I know what you are, but I'm pretty sure you'll haunt my sleep for the next week or so.

            After alternating between quietly contemplating and snickering our way through the Städel, we continued to another café (see a pattern?) for Nutella crepes and tea to avoid the pouring rain that had descended on the city.  Told you to keep an eye on those fluffly white clouds from before… Our time was soon up, and we said “Wiedersehen!” to Frankfurt before hoping on our bus back to Marburg.

Los geht's!

Author's Note:  This is my journal entry (slightly edited for better clarity) from my travel to and first day in Deutschland.

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I’m exhausted.  In every way a person can be tired.  Emotionally.  Physically.  Ecumenically.

Okay, so maybe not that last one (I'm SO funny when I travel), but suffice it to say I’m pretty gosh darn tired right now.

Let me recount for you the excitement of my first day in Germany.  It started at 3:15 AM in Los Angeles, California.  The morning was cool and lovely, making my choice of jeans, boots, and a tank top perfectly reasonable.  I checked my smart phone to see what emails had come my way, and to my horror, found out that my flight from LAX to Philadelphia had been cancelled due to aircraft maintenance.  

Aircraft what now?

As calmly as I could I lumbered blearily to the kitchen where my mother was putting some pieces of bacon in a skillet and informed her that I had no idea how I going to get to Germany.  If I didn’t make it to Philadelphia, I couldn’t catch my flight to Frankfurt.  After a brief conversation with a US Airways representative, I was able to reschedule my flight through Phoenix, adding time to my already long and arduous journey.

With the details confirmed and new tickets printed out, I stumbled blindly through check-in and security at a different airport (a condition required by the stop in Phoenix) and made it to my gate.  I remember the only clear thought in my head being, “Please, let this be the only mishap today.”

            

Oh, how little I knew of what was coming.  My flight to Phoenix arrived at 8:13 AM.  I disembarked with my ukulele in hand and backpack fully loaded.  I then proceeded to speed walk across half the Phoenix airport to make it to my gate in time to board the flight to Philadelphia.

            

Squished next to an old lady with a big poofy red coat on, I gritted my teeth for 4 hours of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with sleep.  However, sleep was elusive as red coat’s lady red coat invaded at least a third of my own seat.  Not eager to look a gift horse in the mouth, I thanked heaven for the small mercy of making the connection.

            

Then, the god of airplane connections frowned upon me, and its visage was terrifying.  I waited for 2 hours in the Philadelphia airport, waiting for Flight 702 with service to Frankfurt to board.  The 4-hour layover turned into a 6-hour layover.

            

Just let me get on the plane.  PLEASE.

By the time we boarded, all the kids on the plane were bored out of their tiny little minds and exhausted.  Cue what felt like 3 hours of screaming crying infant noises on the plane.  It was probably thirty minutes, but who can tell time when sleep-deprived?  I watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and portions of the following movies: Prometheus, Black Swan, and The Avengers.  These were all seen from over the shoulders of the people in front of me, while children screamed around me.

Upon getting the Frankfurt, I breezed through customs and picked up my luggage.  I probably brought too much luggage; it was difficult to handle it all by myself.  Luckily when I made it to the Zug (train) to Marburg, I was exhausted, hot, sweaty, and near tears.

The worst part? Here I was...so proud of myself for getting to the Hauptbahnhof (main train station), buying a ticket, and getting on the correct train.  Then, when I gave my ticket to the ticket checker, he said "Ach so, du musst GERMAN GERMAN GERMAN OH GOD TOO MUCH FAST GERMAN FOR ANNELISE'S TIRED BRAIN."  All I could do is look up meekly and ask, "Was?" ("What?").

Imagine me as the donkey and the packages as the German language on the day of my arrival.
Yeah, this is gonna go great.

Lucky for me, the University student across from me spoke German and English and was able to translate.  Fun fact: The train to Marburg splits in Gießen.  Half of the train continues onto Marburg.  The other reverses direction and goes towards to Frankfurt before heading to Dillenburg.

Even luckier me, I was on the wrong part of the train to get to Marburg.  At Gießen, I grabbed all my stuff and sprinted to the front of the train.  And then, after a few more stops, I was in Marburg.

Gott sei dank. (Thank god)

Fulbright Nightmares

Author's Note: I meant to post this before I left for Germany; however, I was a bit short on time so you get it now!  Please enjoy my clear distress.

Annelise
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Part 2 of the "What I'm doing the summer before my Fulbright" Series

I think I'm going insane.

No, really.  Straight jacket, maniacal laughter, padded walls insane.

Because I hate WAITING.  And that's all this summer feels like: a gigantic waiting game for August 3rd, which -- just a friendly reminder -- is exactly seven days from now.  I feel like I'm in a never-ending line at a water park, waiting forever for something REALLY SUPER exciting while getting sunburned and increasing frustrated in the process.

It's gotten infinitely worse as time has passed.  On the surface, I may seem pretty cool and collected about the whole Fulbright process.  In fact, I seem too laid back, according to family and close friends, but that's been my way of dealing with the stress of preparing to move to a different continent.

1. Close eyes.
2. Ignore progression of time around you.
3. Slowly gather items necessary for survival in the great (not so) unknown.
4. Internally, FREAK OUT

This internal freak out has come to a head recently as it has been seeping into my dreams.  I usually don't remember my dreams, but the ones I have about the Fulbright are particularly vivid and terrifying.

The most recent found me sleeping on a plane to Europe.  Pretty benign, right? (Sleep-ception!)  Well, as dreams do, we then jumped immediately to customs.  I was suddenly in the Berlin airport, waiting to talk to an official and get my passport stamped

BUT I DIDN'T HAVE MY PASSPORT.  I had a copy of my sister's and my mom's passports but not my own.  I didn't even have an ID of any sort.  In fact, I couldn't prove to anyone that I was who I said was.  An adrenaline-induced panic and terror hit me.  Everyone was staring at me, and I just knew that they ALL knew.  They were all judging me and waiting for the customs official to laugh in my face and send me home.

The reaction of the customs official?  He stuck a barcode on my arm and gave me a sign to wear around my neck...a sign that said, "I'm not allowed to leave the airport."  The Germans, it seemed, were prepared with the perfect form of punishment for trying to sneak into their country.  The remainder of my dream saw me wandering miserably around the deserted airport with this sign around my neck, waiting for the Germans to ship me back to the US.

When I woke up around 2 AM to fling my covers off and stop this terrible dream, my immediate reaction was to look frantically for my passport.  But, as it was 2 in the morning, instead, I blearily rolled over into a much less frightening dream about blueberries that I've been having on and off for the past month.

In retrospect, my dream is an interesting conglomeration of pre-Fulbright stress and commentary on my views on capitalism...

Forgetting my passport is obviously every international traveler's worst nightmare.  Good news is, unlike in my brain, they don't actually let you get on a plane to a different country (at least in the US) unless you have a passport.  But the barcode and sign?  I attribute that to my fear of public embarrassment and my father's obsession with labels (Thanks, dad).  He got a label maker a couple years ago and proceeded to label all inanimate objects and anyone who stood still for too long.  Or maybe the label is my commentary on society as a whole.  THE MAN only sees you as a barcode!  A number!  A cog in the great machine of life!

Or it could be, ya know, crazy stress brain being crazy.

Either way the STRUGGLE IS REAL (in my head).