June showers bring June flowers

Location: MONTREAL, QUEBEC, CANADA

When I first arrived in the house, my landlord gave me a detailed tour. He showed me my room, the kitchen, my bathroom, and the community washing room. He told me about turning on the fan over the oven so it would not overheat. He demonstrated the proper technique for opening the irritable washing machine, without flooding the room. He instructed me to turn on the bathroom fan when I showered so the room wouldn’t be humid. However, he failed to mention that the added moisture would contribute to a significant fungal bloom alongside the toilet.

While putting up my towel this afternoon, I noticed a darkened ring around the toilet base. Thinking it might be a shadow, I ran my toe through it. A clean line appeared, uncovering the wooden floor beneath and simultaneously covering my toe with a black film. Interested, yet slightly disgusted, I peered over the toilet searching for an origin, and discovered the fungal bloom tucked neatly into the base of my toilet.

In my last post, I raved about the organic food market on my block. You may be pondering whether I am now growing and fertilizing my own sustenance to simply avoid crossing the intersection. Please cease and desist. This is not the case. I may be unaware of some Canadian cultural norm, but my experience has taught me to not eat in the bathroom nor consume anything that resides within the bathroom.

Faced with a rapidly cultivating problem, I Googled “mushrooms growing in my bathroom” and was surprised to find a plethora of posts regarding similar predicaments. I wondered if perhaps I had been the culprit. Had I forgotten to turn on the fan one day? Did water drip from my towel, which hangs slightly above the burgeoning garden? Had there even been enough time for this mushroom bundle to flourish since I moved in?

Few online comment boards are reliable and I read advice ranging from calling the Health Department to setting the 'shrooms on fire to pouring bleach on the roots. I opted for the more passive aggressive approach and told my landlord. After all, he forgot that detail in the walk-through. 

Identifying Features

Location: MONTREAL, QUEBEC, CANADA

When I left this morning, I left for the absolute unknown. Did I need a visa? Who are my roommates besides just names in an email from a Craigslist posting? Would English be suffice or should I have studied harder in French class? From my nervous mannerisms, you could’ve presumed I was apprehensively traveling to a war-torn nation or third-world country. Not so.

Different cities. Different continents. Same first initials. Bienvenue à Montréal!

Unlike Munich, I had serious reservations about my latest internship in Montreal. For weeks, I couldn’t understand my apprehension regarding my stay with our seemingly docile Brothers to the North. For all intents and purposes, Canada is the United States. While the borders strictly divide the two, both countries speak English with the same accents, dress similarly, and have common cultures. Even my internship, with the International Civil Aviation Organization, was more closely related to my studies and I had confidence in my educational preparedness. Yet, the intimidation remained.

When I travel, I search for cultural assimilation. I learn snippets of the local language, accept most reasonable food offerings, walk aimlessly around the city solo and lost in thoughts, partake in cultural celebrations, and occasionally venture into the nightlife. But in Montreal, I found myself looking for recognizable American influences, hoping to grasp onto something comforting. A Subway shop on the corner. The occasional spoken or written English. Someone else dressed in winter wear, despite it being Canada’s summer.

While I found these identifying features, I simultaneously realized I was denying myself the chance to actually assimilate. I had failed to notice the potentially comforting features Canada can offer.

For instance, the townhomes are my favorite aspect of Plateau Mont-Royal. They are a veritable hybrid between a brownstone and je ne sais quoi. The most striking features are their entrances. Each one is uniquely different -- different intricate staircases, different colors, different ornamentation,  etc. But each with a pretty little square foot garden and the first of Spring’s blooms. So chic, so subtlety beautiful.

  

Additionally, there are few places more comfortable to me than an outdoor café. While in Germany, it was too cold for outdoor anything, but I found refuge from work and my roommate at Café Dulcé. The cappuccinos, blueberry muffins, and cream-laden desserts heavily contributed to my 15 pound weight gain over the three months. But each drink was truly magical. 

On my second day in Montreal, I adventurously ordered an amazing concoction of mocha coffee poured over an orange peel, smothered with whipped cream, and topped with chocolate shavings and orange peel shreds at Brûlerie St Denis. I haven’t the slightest reason for the inclusion of oranges, but it sounded exotic and the coffee and caffeine did the job. I finished my coffee and settled back into writing when I obtained the company of a dragon fly. Apparently, it didn’t think I had finished completely and munched on the few chocolate sprinkles in my coffee. 

And as I embraced the characteristics, I felt my self-consciousness subside. In reality, if I don’t speak, the only differentiations identifying me as an American are my short-cropped hair and timidity when crossing the streets. Montrealers walk authoritatively across intersections, trusting fellow Montrealers to not flatten them like a fresh crêpe. I have not acquired this trust quite yet.

I do, however, live about a block and a half from an organic grocery store, which requires me to cross a very short, but very busy intersection. There is probably little, if anything, more comforting to a vegan living in a foreign country than an organic food market, and it earns my patronage and willingness to risk life and limb regularly.

With nearly a full month left in Montreal, I will have many more opportunities to explore and find my comfort. And as I sat sipping my coffee, I promised myself that instead of spending time locked away in my apartment, I will actively seek assimilation, communication à la française, and a tasty vegan crêpe. Minus the dragonfly, of course. 

Fighting Fascism on the 5 o'clock Train

Location: HEIDELBERG, GERMANY

Heidelberg is my favorite German city, followed very closely by Rötenburg and München. I had spent some time in the picturesque baroque city when my Air Force father took my mother and myself abroad for the first of many Heidelberg stops. Despite being an antsy four-year-old with a penchant for dramatics and selfishness, I vividly remember the ominous Heidelberg castle and its two-story tall keg. Of course, at that age I merely thought of it as another touristy distraction on my quest for the next toy store. I think I grasped the concept better during our next trip fourteen years later. 


This weekend, my mother and I again found ourselves enjoying the newly-warm spring air in an outside cafe, watching German couples tie the knot in the courthouse. We clapped and cheered along with their attendants when the ivory-clad couples walked out the front doors under a shower of bird seed. 


However, we found ourselves in a subdued panic at the conclusion of the weekend because our flight back to the States was the following morgen früh. And as the day continued, our plans got a little more complicated with each moment.


Before we even left the Hauptbahnhof, Deutsche Bahn, who rarely disappoints, had accidentally sent a small-capacity train to pick up about twice its comfortable ability. The conductor announced we would be stopping momentarily a short distance from the station to exchange and upgrade trains. Kein Problem, alles gut...

Upon train changes, we realized to our dismay that DB had over booked our train again. We found our assigned car, which was in a frenzy. Everyone was moving around, pulling heavy bags, shoving into each other and angrily glaring down the long line of people trying to move in opposite directions. It was like one of those Chinese finger traps: unless one side relaxes, both sides will stay trapped. 

From our position wedged in the car entrance, I caught a glimpse of our assigned seats. Seats 15A and 15B were occupied. By a couple of guys in tight, white t-shirts, black Doc Martens, and shaved heads. Tattoos of the Iron Cross completed the ensemble. “Oh, great,” I thought to myself, not wanting to alert anyone, especially Mom, to this revelation. Skinheads.

Suddenly, I heard myself talking. “Enschuldigung (clearing my throat) Enschuldigung”. Without missing beat in the conversation, I got a sideward glance and perhaps even a half-exerted throat clear. In their residual desire for white supremacy, they had evidently forgotten basic manners.  However, I knew if I didn’t argue for our seat, we would be standing like the remainder of the passengers. And we had a three hour train ride ahead of us. And I had paid a whole extra 4€ for seat reservations and I was going to get my money's worth.  

As I contemplated how to get out of this predicament, I was reminded of a quote I had read in my German language study:


"...mastery of the art and spirit of the Germanic language enables a man to travel all day in one sentence without changing cars."


Mom and I were traveling the three hour train ride home from Heidelberg, so my German really only needed to enable me for the next few seconds. Or we would need to change cars.


“Hallo. Umm HALLO”. Every time I got louder, yet they kept their conversation running. “Enschuldigung!” Finally, the biggest one turned and stared me down. 

“Ja, hallo das ist meine Platz,” I said. (That is my seat) 

“Diese Platz?” he mockingly inquired. (This seat)

“Ja, diese platz,” I said, sharpening my tone and staring back into his eyes. (Yes, this seat)

Turning to the other skin head, I said, “And das ist auch meine Platz ”. (And that is also my seat ).

I could feel my heart start pounding over my wavering voice. They said something in German and moved ever so slowly out of our way, much to the annoyance of the opposing sides still trying to get out of the Chinese trap. They glared at me and I shrugged like it didn't faze me. I noticed the passengers around me also relaxed. I had sweat pooling at the nape of my neck though. 

Mom and I settled into our seats, only to realize I had rightfully removed Skinhead Nummer Ein  from 15A. What I hadn't noticed was I had also removed Skinhead Nummer Zwei from 15D. A small, elderly German woman smiled at me from 15C and said in German, "It is ok. It was my seat but I didn't want to sit with them anyway. You have your seat. And I have mine".

The men stood in the doorway adjacent to me the remainder of the ride. But it didn’t matter. I had the seats, whether correctly or not, and they were standing. That and I had about sixty other people on the train still in the Chinese finger trap between me and the punks. 

Sound of Music

"The hills are alive...with the Sound of Music"

Location: SALZBURG, AUSTRIA


Tired of being the line leader, Mom and I decided to take two tours the following day. I half expected to encounter someone from my middle school in Illinois or my elementary schools in Alabama or Washington D.C. Chances were extremely high at this point. With no reunions in sight, Mom and I partook in something so touristy, kitschy and tacky, but something nonetheless representative of a beloved childhood memory: The Sound of Music Tour. 


It is one of those movies that you sing along to, even though Julie Andrew's voice is superior to all mezzo sopranos (including a little brother who hasn't yet hit puberty) and one that the parents don't have to ponder whether it could have "bad connotations" as so often cited by my parents regarding other movies, including Disney. It kept my brother and myself passive for 167 minutes on long, family car rides. And we had a lot of long car rides, always ending in Texas. 


As the tour name insinuates, it was a veritable walk-down-movie-lane, except on a bus. With fifty others singing off key. 


The fictionalized movie is based upon the true story of the Von Trapp Family Singers from Salzburg. While working at Nonnberg Abbey in 1926, Maria was asked to tutor one of seven children of widowed naval commander, Georg von Trapp. They were married in 1927, when Maria was 22 and Georg was 47 and their first child was born three months later. They went on to have two additional children, bringing the total of ten children.

The family began singing in Austria in 1935 and moved to the United States shortly before the Nazi annexation of Austria in 1938. There are conflicting accounts about their departure from Austria, but the majority state that the family left prior to the Anschluss on a train to Italy and then sailed to the United States.

No Nazi love interest for the eldest daughter. No discernible age difference between the happy couple or a six month baby bump under a white frock as Maria walked down the aisle. No midnight escapes from the Nazis. For that matter, had they escaped into the Alps, wearing very little protective clothing, and survived the temperament, they would have found themselves in Berchtesgaden, underneath the Kehlsteinhaus, otherwise known as Hitler's Eagles' Nest.  


The United States Library of Congress selected the film for preservation in the National Film Registry as it was deemed "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant". The movie was aesthetically pleasing. But culturally and historically significant, I think not. Perhaps the non-fiction version was too sordid a love affair for Rodgers and Hammerstein, but to not even use the real names, events, or make the escape even feasible...No wonder most Salzburgers have never seen the film! 

The bus continued its cheery sing-along, but as the tour progressed I seemed to be the only one having my childhood crushed. We were ushered to the gazebo made famous during the duet between Liezl and Rolf in "Sixteen Going on Seventeen". But there would be no jumping bench to bench, for me or anyone. The gazebo is locked up tight, but you are allowed to take pictures on the outside. 

The large manor made famous as the von Trapp homestead is, in fact, two separate homes. One home provided its back siding for some of the more infamous scenes, like when Maria and the children fall out of the boat into the lake. Another home was the front side of the "manor", which can be spotted if one looks quickly on the tour as the bus speeds by on the highway. 


Another spoiler: The fictionalized von Trapp wedding did not even occur in Salzburg. For the tour, we were taken to the Stiftskirche Mondsee, located about a 20 minute drive outside of Salzburg in Mondsee, Austria. It was a pretty Catholic church, but not nearly as grandiose or exceptional as the movie. In fact, it was rather dark and gaudy. 


After arriving back in Salzburg a little dejected, we joined the next tour heading to the Austrian Alps, including a tour of the Salt Mines. Salzburg translated means "salt mountain"

Once on the salt mine tour, claustrophobia set in. I was in my long winter coat, two layers of clothes, a jumpsuit provided by the organizers and was seated ponied-up with six other people on what strongly resembled a log flume from those adventure park rides, but with rails. The train, made of about seven cars, hurriedly descended into caverns intermittently-lit by lone industrial bulbs. The wind blew past quickly and the temperature drastically dropped as we dropped. At least that it what my face, the only piece of exposed anything, detected.

"Here. Here is for you. Stand next to speaker," the abrasive Austrian said as he ushered us to a small box labeled ENG/MAN/FRE/ESP. He pushed the ENG button and we listened to a recorded explanation about our current location and frankly, why we should give a damn. All in an nice English package.


By about the third cattle drive into yet another cavern with another piece of antiquated and unrecognizable machinery, I didn't give one damn any more. Let's be honest. It was about salt. Salt mining, salt collection, salt distribution. It was salt in my Sound of Music wounds. 

High School Musical - Austrian Style

Location: SALZBURG, AUSTRIA

American tourists are easy to spot and their inability to camouflage with the locals makes for great prose. In a tropical destination, they are the ones with pink skin, only further accentuated by their white sneakers and matching white tube socks. In Asia, they are outfitted in fanny packs and raised voices, all in hopes that the lowly hostess will suddenly understand English at a higher decibel. Side note: For some reason it always seems to be in the excoriatingly pinched Northeastern accent. In South America, they are decked out in baseball caps and t-shirts in support of their favorite sports team, be it local or national, but always American.  However, in Europe they apparently wear electric blue sweatshirts.

Mom and I had arrived only an hour earlier to Salzburg via Ljubljana on the heels of a serendipitous 24 hours. After a quick morning tour around downtown Ljubljana, thankfully minus the rain of the previous day, we packed up and settled back into train travel. This time, our train car was significantly nicer and smelled of new carpet, rather than stale body odor and unfiltered cigarettes. We shared our six person cabin with one rather unpleasant German man for only a short time before it was time to make the train swap again in Villach. This time our train was Deutsche Bahn, the standard German trains by which all train lines should aspire. 


Our train sped along the tracks with the indelible clackty-clack, until it reached speeds where you don't feel you are even moving. The scenery of Spring's newly greened trees, rust-red tiled roofs and long forgotten bridges and fortaments, rushed past in a fog of color. When we arrived at the Salzburg Hauptbahnhof, a familiar city and warmer weather awaited. 


I had visited Salzburg a few weeks earlier, but Mom and I hadn't been back together in nearly five years. The first time was a miserable experience felt through the fog of a seventeen year old's self-induced, tequila-flavored beer hangover and the aftermath that comes from arriving home at 4 a.m. The second time was a spirited jaunt with a pair of English ladies following our brief introductions to each other the night before disembarkation. I was looking to make the third time a charm. 


Then I saw them coming from up the road, all clumped together like a blueberry pie. Nothing more American than that. And then I saw them up close. 

As the group drew nearer, we saw that their sweatshirts had the Dutch, German, Austrian and U.S. flags embroidered and encircled by the script "Spruce Creek High School Marching Band Tour 2010". SPRUCE CREEK?! My alma matter high school? 


"They can't possibly be from Daytona. I mean, your school colors are orange and black," my mother noted observantly "Think about it...two coincidental run-ins with people from your two previous schools, it just doesn't happen".


Resigning to "mother knows best", we kept up our pace towards the mountain opposite of the castle for some nice sunset pictures of the city. But, as another wave of blue approached, I noticed one had a NASCAR hat on and white tennis shoes. My suspicions were confirmed. I thought, “How many Spruce Creeks can there be?” 


So I asked the oncoming group “Spruce Creek in Florida?” The group looked stunned and had a mix of “yeses” as I explained that I had graduated Creek in 2004 and my brother followed in 2009. I think they were most surprised to hear English, much less in their native Southern drawl. They invited us to dinner...dinner with all 200+ teenagers and chaperons. Caught up in the novelty of the past two run-ins, Mom and I accepted their offer and continued with our planned tryst around downtown Salzburg at sunset. 


Before the uproariously loud dinner later that night with ravenous American high-schoolers and exhausted and bullied wait-staff, I stopped to really think about the cliche "small world".  In the last three months, I had run into a college acquaintance in Amsterdam, met another at the Munich Security Conference who was working Congressional Delegation logistics and had communication with a handful of ERAU students, both past and present, living and working in Munich. Now, in just 24 hours, I had met another alumni in Slovenia and a gaggle of representatives from my high school. 


What are the odds? You can’t make this stuff up. Well you could but it wouldn’t be nearly as believable. 

Riddle Me This, Riddle Me That...

Location: LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA


My mother looked at me through her steamed-up glasses over her steaming glass. "This is likely the most expensive hot chocolate I have ever had," she acknowledged, probably in reservation to her current situation. I nodded, realizing that 500 Euros is pretty expensive for hot chocolate, give or take a few Euros. The chocolate was good, but it wasn't that good. The bar stools were comfy, but not that comfy. The service was cute, but not that cute. I looked outside the cafe at the pouring rain and silently mourned for our one and only day in Slovenia. 


My father once brought me home a souvenir-shop t-shirt with SLOVENIA printed in big red letters across the front with the Bled Castle depicted in yellow and black. At about ten years old, I had no clue where this country was located. Or why he chose this as my souvenir. At the age of 23, I hadn't learned much more about the country and many of my contemporaries even failed to point it out on the map or mistakenly picked Slovakia instead. All I knew about Slovenia was while Dad had "been there, gotten the t-shirt", I had gotten the t-shirt, but not been there. 


I also knew that Slovenia's capital, when its name is spelled out, looks a case of Tourette's on a keyboard.  In fact, I picked the country solely because of the capital's name: Ljubljana. Pronounced lou-be-on-na, our trip was as discombobbled and unusual as the city's name. 


En route recounts are always a matter of "you had to be there" and therefore, our trip from Munich to Ljubljana required your attendance for the full effect. Everyone has troubles with their travels and everyone thinks their misadventures are cause for alarm and an hour long story about a minute detail, which during the event, probably felt like the weight of the world. Ours was no different, though forgetting our non-refundable tickets at home, purchasing brand-new tickets at nearly double original price, nearly missing our train and a language barrier sure did add some spice to the story. 


As our train sped along the tracks, stopping ever so often, my nerves finally began to unwind. We transversed through Germany, with its many red-roofed buildings surrounded by lush, green parks and mountainous backdrops, into Austria, which looked very similar. We had to change trains in Austria and when we stepped from our train to the train bound for Slovenia, I suddenly felt like picking up chain-smoking, donning a dirty newsboy cap and saying things like "Mother Russian". At least I would've fit in better than I did in my polo, jeans and Coach tote. 

Our train dropping us in Ljubljana...thankfully

"Where the hell are we supposed to go," my mother swore, in probably one of the only cases to which I had ever borne witness. She was watching people take their luggage, rolling bags and all, across the tracks to join their transports. Thank goodness I had told Mom to pack light.  Our cattle car, luckily, awaited us at the adjoining platform. We stepped onto the closest car, walking past the inquisitive stares of some older gentlemen and their unfiltered smoke clouds, as they both spilled out of the smoky, film-covered windows. The car we happened upon was the dining car. The rest of the train seemed to be overpacked, so we took the first seat, bags tucked tightly next to us. 


Now, I am not a skittish traveler nor do I judge a country's status by whether it is subjectively "pretty". However, the look of subtle terror on my mother's face quickly regressed any of my initial recoil. Without letting on to my mother, I kept looking at the Slovenian language section in my travel book, hoping some of the words would suddenly reveal their meanings to me in German. I wasn't being picky. 


"Would you care to sit with us? We couldn't help but notice you speaking English," said a man in a lovely South Britain-accent and seated in the table behind us. Leave it to Mom to find the only Brits (probably the only other English-speakers) on the train. The two gentlemen were on their way to visit friends in Sarajevo. The idea alone of spending more than a few more hours on this train frightened my mother; the idea of going to a former and still dangerous war-zone intrigued me. I couldn't help but notice one was missing a finger. The idea alone that perhaps I was sitting next to a master bomb-maker frightened me; his real occupation, a yachtsman on something like the 20th largest yacht in the world, intrigued my mother. But the fact that he was more secretive about his job than I had to be about divulging my internship at the State Department,  only intrigued my mother more. 

As the train chugged along, the sky became grayer and the buildings became more concrete. All in varying shades of gray, taupe, sand and beige. It almost reminded me of living in USAF base housing when your options for paint colors were white, eggshell, off-white or Elmer's glue. Painted letters depicting the long since forgotten, yet still being advertised, household goods or automotive parts, cracked and chipped, revealing the more vibrant color from the original painting, circa 1950. The familiar yellowing lace curtains attempted in vain to add some delicateness to the stone facade while assorted pieces of laundry dried in tiny alcoves and concrete balconies.


Now, I love urban decay. I love to photograph it and walk through it; I just don't want to stay in it. The cabbie from the train station smelt like onions and drove us through the cinder-blocked Ljubljana. Because neither Mom nor myself speak any Slovenian, the cabbie turned on the radio to kill the silence. “This Love” by Maroon 5 filled the taxi and I felt a bit more at ease. When he pulled us up alongside the nicest hotel in Ljubljana, I felt even more relieved. 


After checking into Hotel Slon, which proudly displayed a picture of Bill Clinton from his visit in 1999, we went to unpack in our room. We really only had the remainder of the day and part of the following morning to get in all the sightseeing. However, sometime in the fifteen minutes it took for us to unpack and unwind, I had managed to loose our room key. I went downstairs to replace the key and while retrieving a new key from the front desk, I heard an all too familiar West-Coast accent.


I turned to see a handsome, tan gent in his early twenties, dressed in a white v-neck t-shirt, jeans and a black blazer. His spiky blonde hair and huge grin only furthered my suspicions that I was running into a fellow countryman.


"Hey, are you from the States?" he asked with a broad grin, like it was some pick-up line.
"Yes, are you?'" I asked, like it wasn't obvious to the both of us.
"Hey cool, I'm from California. LA area. Where are you from?"
"Oh, Florida. Daytona Beach"
"Really?? I almost went to school there. Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. You know it?
"Yeah of course. That is where I go to school"
"No way! I went to the Prescott campus" [ERAU has two residential campuses, one in Florida and one in Prescott, Arizona]


About this point, I thought, "These types of run-ins really only happen on television or in corny romance novels". I was in neither and was fully aware of that fact. My internal commentary was noting nothing more than a passing observation, which had been strongly influenced by the Disney movies of my youth. We spoke for a few more minutes about the coincidences of running into a fellow alum so far away from home. And then, my passing observation passed just as quickly out of my life.

Drinking dulce at Dulce

No sooner had Mom and I emerged from the hotel lobby doors, but it started to pour felines and canines. Mom and I grappled for our umbrellas, but determined to make the best of the short time we did have, continued to walk along the now deserted streets. After our pant legs had soaked up quarts and we had snapped a few pictures, we found refuge in a coffee bar aptly named Dulce. 


We ordered two hot chocolates with whipped creme. When it arrived, it was not quite as thick as chocolate syrup, but not as thin as hot chocolate to which I am accustomed . “This may be the most expensive cup of hot chocolate, but it is by far the best” I commented, peering out again at the unapologetic weather beating on the café’s glass windows. Mom smiled and said, "I'm just happy we made it here and are together." Like a sappy television show, the rain abruptly stopped.

Now, in comparission with my three months of interaction with German and Austrian hospitality workers, the Slovenian personnel were something unusual: hospitable. The waitress provided translation help, gave us ideas for dinner once the hot chocolate buzz subsided, and sighed a huge relief at the end saying, "Ah, I did it". We smiled at her, reminded her that her English was great, tipped well and walked out into drying streets. 

We visited the Ljubljana Castle and captured some creative panoramic photos of the city. We soaked up more water in our pants walking around Town Square, simultaneously giggling at the flamingo-colored St. Franciscan Church of the Annunciation (what a strange color for a church). We walked many times across the uninspiring Dragon Bridge and the beautiful, carved stone Triple Bridge over to St. Nicholas' green domes and imposing twin towers. But, it was the nooks and crannies of the city that enchanted me. Ljubljana was graciously decaying. Paint peeled in long strips off of concrete walls colored by green moss. Wood doors warped, revealing their wrinkled cracks and the sepia tones glittered next to the rusting industrial tones of the windowsills and rain gutters. 

Before dinner, and needing to change out of soaking clothes, we went back to our room. And there sitting on the desk was a handwritten note from the "Riddle Guy" asking my mother and I to dinner with him that evening. Again, I thought "Well, now we are going to have dinner, have a long distance courtship, and it is going to end in marriage. Underneath the stars at a castle. Isn't that what the fairy tales told me as a child?"

After walking around, albeit slightly lost in downtown, we finally settled on the most Slovenian of restaurants: the local Italian immigrant pizzeria. We talked about aviation, which is almost a prerequisite for any Riddle conversation. "Riddle Guy" talked about his campus; I talked about mine.  I had spent a summer semester at his campus, so we tried to determine what friends we might have in common. But without Facebook, who can tell the endless possibilities these days?


After dinner was over, we said our brief goodbyes. Nothing fancy. Just blocks away from a castle. Under a striking full moon. 


My encounter in Slovenia didn't end in a fairy tale, though I still have regular contact with "Riddle Guy". And he is still just as handsome. But it was the next 24 hours paired with my time in Slovenia that would make me again believe in the reality of fantasy and fiction...

Follow-up with the April 3rd Salzburg entry

Transaction Unable to Process

Location: MUNICH, GERMANY

After my extension materialized, I went to view a new apartment. It was listed in a part of town way out of my way, but it was a good price and semi-close to public transportation. I asked my current roommate to come with me. When we arrived in the neighborhood, it looked like I had walked into the former Eastern Bloc of Germany. The building’s paint peeled in long strips to reveal its concrete cinder block exterior. Dogs barked maniacally, protecting their piece of broken walkway and slashed chain-link fencing.

However, when I visited the actual apartment, I felt as though I had left Munich and entered Mecca. The landlord’s walls were covered with Arabic script that peered over his shrine of Sunni Islamic religious figures and partially melted candles. I half expected to hear a call to prayer during the viewing.  As we were walking out at a quickened pace, I understood him ask my roommate where I was from. My roommate replied “American” and I heard the landlord start laughing and say something along the lines of “Oh, we are neighbors. I am from Iraq”. I knew at some point in the future, I would have to list this as a “place of residence” on my security clearance if I chose to live here. There isn’t enough space on those clearance papers to explain living in an Iraqi’s home while he is “just visiting” his homeland for a few months.  

The next apartment I visited had a listing which said:

The apartment is within walking distance from the U-Bahn. Located in a pleasant part of Munich, your roommates are a young couple. Will share use of bathroom, kitchen and living room. Available for short-term lease, so perfect for students.

What it should’ve read was:

U-Bahn a 20 minute walk away, if you are lucky enough to catch the green walk-lights. If not, tack an additional 10 minute wait time. But take your time; the neighborhood is full of graffiti that is the neighborhood’s latest art exhibit and hooligans that you can’t outrun. You will be living in a fluorescent, purple bedroom with My Little Pony wallpaper peeling off and a suspicious stain in the middle of the green carpet. The couple will be in their mid-forties, heavily obese, heavy smokers and their German and English are about as great as your desire to live here. When you arrive, the bathroom will be occupied by the husband, who is making obnoxious grunting noises. The kitchen will be suitable for a rat to make nest and staphylococcus to flourish beautifully. Bonus: you will be sharing said bedroom with their six year old child, okay?

But, third time was a charm. I found this beautifully, remodeled loft apartment overlooking a lake. The landlord was an elegant Taiwanese woman in her early thirties and her 18-month old son, who by the way spoke Taiwanese, Mandarin, English, and French and was currently enrolled in German classes. I made arrangements to bring my mother by a few days after the viewing. Unbeknownst to me, I had to pay the security deposit that day. Instead of lengthening the rental agreement signing, my landlady offered to drive Mom and myself to the local Deutsche Bank to withdraw money. After many tries with both of our cards, neither of us was able to withdraw any money. The ATMs kept displaying Transaction Unable to Process. We tried a second Deutsche Bank ATM center. Same error message. Feeling defeated we set another time a few days later to finish the transaction.

On the U-Bahn ride home, it hit me. I had been fighting this hard for this long because I thought God was testing my endurance and resilience. He was actually testing my obedience. I broke down crying. I cried because I knew that another three months in the most expensive city in Germany, without pay, in a position that does not necessarily add anything substantial to my credentials, was counterproductive. I cried for the other foreigners who, by an act of the Devine, were also unable to withdraw money that day. But mostly, I cried because since Mom and I were only a day from embarking on our European tour, I knew I would have to say goodbye to my friends in less than 24 hours.

It was not an easy decision to make. But I am at peace with the decision, and at the time of this reading, I am at home starting the next chapter in my educational course. Back to my family and friends. Back to a warm climate. Back to a job with real monetary income and free housing. And after all, free housing is a transaction anyone would be able to process.