Flashback Friday: Big Ben and the Bug Bite

Anyone who's talked to me knows that I have a story for everything. I'd imagine it gets a little obnoxious, actually. But, since so many things happened before I came to Germany, I thought I'd do a little Flashback Friday. And what better place to start than on my first international adventure-the one where I was bit by the highly infectious travel bug. Little 20 year old me was flying back to school from a visit home, and I realized that it was now or never. I knew that if I didn't go to London that summer then I might never do it. So, when I got back to my apartment I called up a family friend for some help/advice, and I bought a plane ticket to London for a few weeks later. I booked a hostel for the first couple nights and glanced at some possible tourist attractions, but apart from that I was flying by the seat of my pants. And it almost came back to bite me in the seat of my pants when I landed in the UK. I filled out my immigration card on the plane and then waited in the long line to get through passport control. Finally it was my turn. I handed the woman my passport, and that's when the interrogation began.

-What are you doing in London? (of course with a British accent)
-I'm on holiday.
-How long will you be staying?
-Nine days.
-Where are you staying?
-In a hostel.
-In a backpacker's hostel?
-Yes. (But I'm thinking: I have no idea. I didn't realize there were even different kinds of hostels. I'd never even heard of a hostel before booking this trip.)
-And what are you going to do here?
-Uh, you know, see the sights.
-Like what?

This is the point in the conversation where my mind went blank, I maybe should have researched and planned just a little bit better because I suddenly could not think of a single thing to see in London. I stuttered for a moment and managed to spit out...

-...uh...B-big Ben?

She gave me a strange look and then proceeded.

-Have you ever traveled to any other countries? Are you traveling with anyone? Do you have family here? Do you have friends here?
-No. No. No. No
-What do you do back in America? What are you studying? What kind of job do you have? How much money do you have with you? 

The questions seemed to go on forever as I tried not to panic (which anyone who knows me knows is quite a task). Finally she gave me one last look, smirked and said, "Not bad for your first time out of your country" as she gave me my very first stamp.

Really? That's it? This was all some game? Try to make the little American girl wet herself, or at least cry? Well I'm glad someone could have a laugh at my expense. Just imagine the break room conversation. "Well I almost made this little American girl cry today." (laughter ensues). And then she probably marked it off her passport control bingo card.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Dear Store Clerk, I wasn't stealing...

Dear Tattooed Store Clerk,

I was not stealing from your store. Here's what happened:

I was returning home after a lovely weekend visit with a friend and had only a short time between trains. Since I had been coughing up a storm and had finished my tea on the first train, I decided that purchasing a beverage to get me through the last leg of the trip might be a wise and considerate for everyone involved. I meandered into your store in the train station and walked up and down the aisles with my duffel bag and large purse. In Russia they would have had lockers for me to put these in to avoid suspicion (although I don't think it would have fit, but oh well, it's a train station... people have bags...) I kept running into you as you were stocking in different aisles. I avoided you for one reason and one reason only: I was afraid you might ask if I needed help and I don't like talking to strangers. I deliberated over juices, cough drops and whatnot and then realized that I had totally spaced out and had a train to catch. I hastened to the check out and realized that the lines were a mile long (rounding to the next mile, of course) and judging by the clock which I could see in the station through the doorway, my train was leaving in one minute. I ran frantically back to the aisles to try to return the things when I encountered you once again and you told me that this bigger bottle of juice was exactly the same but a better deal. I really meant it when I said I didn't have any time and had to catch my train (actually I forgot the word for catch so my sentence just kind of faded off after "train"... but you got the point). It was very nice of you to open a new line for me in spite of everyone who probably hated me since they had been waiting for who knows how long. I paid, threw my things into my aforementioned very large purse and ran to my platform, which was, luckily, right by the store. THE TRAIN WAS STILL THERE and the doors were still open. I bounded up the stairs and watched the doors close before my eyes. I pushed the button. Nothing. The train sat there and the people inside did too. I frantically pushed the button a couple more times and hit the door for good measure (with open hand). Then the step pulled up, and I was left standing there next to the empty tracks. As I walked away defeated a nice lady sympathized with me (somehow this exchange with a stranger wasn't so intimidating). I found the next train to my destination and contemplated as I waited. What are the chances that the one I wanted was bound by punctuality and yet this one left 15 minutes late? Karma. Maybe I shouldn't have hit the first one. But in my contemplation time, and between games of "dots" on my phone, I realized that you were not only stocking the aisles, but probably also stalking the aisles, waiting for suspicious people with big bags who don't like human contact. If I had returned the things and tried to just leave you probably would have stopped me and checked my bags anyway. I still would have missed my train. But you wouldn't have found anything because I am not a thief. On the bright side, I had my juice and cough drops on the train and didn't even have to wait in line.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Culture Shock: Reversed

I learned a lot in my 8 months in Russia and didn't realize how Russian (and by Russian I should be fair and say Muscovite) I'd become until I came back to Germany. Within the first hour I was in culture shock that is still subsiding. (Although I did answer the cashier in Russian just two days ago.) Perhaps this is what you'd call reverse culture shock? The shock of the realization that you have adapted to a new culture and are now back in familiar territory. There are a few places that really seem to highlight the culture difference: 1. The grocery store. 2. The roads. 3. The public transportation 4. The home. But now that I think about it I haven't really gone anywhere else so I don't know that that's fair to say. But let 's start at the beginning.

The grocery store:
No one glared at me, although I did have to stop myself from sending out general scowl vibes.
No one's head turned to commence staring upon hearing me speak English.
I didn't have to play gladiators with my grocery cart to get down the aisles.
The cashiers are all ridiculously cheery and friendly. For anyone who thinks German is a harsh language, go to a small town grocery store and you will hear your error.


The roads:
I drove. And it felt fantastic.
I never once feared for my life
Nor did I get car sick.
No one drove alongside the lanes of traffic
People don't really honk, and when I did hear it for my first time back it was a short "toot" with no accompanying shouting or offensive sign language.

The public transportation:
I didn't quite know what to do with the buzz of chatter and laughter surrounding me which was so opposed to the stony silence I'd grown accustomed to (except when I stirred things up and caused a ruckus).
No pushing involved to get on the train.
One girl even had a short exchange with me about the broken ticket machine

Home:
I feel quite rebellious when I occasionally wear shoes in the house (which isn't actually generally acceptable in Germany)
No one panics that I will fall ill or become infertile if I sit on the floor.
Sometimes I whistle in the house and boldly push through the internal panic that someone will scold me for doing so (Russians believe that you will lose all of your money and your family's money if you whistle indoors; therefore it is a whistle-free country. My friends and I have our theories regarding the source of this superstition, but that's a story for another day)

And in general:
I understand what people around me are talking about.
And I do not feel the need to justify an occasional cough, sneeze or sniffle with excuses: I just have allergies/I swallowed wrong/the smell of your hairspray is too much for me/it's dusty! Nobody panic! I am not sick and will not infect you!

But ok, Russia, in spite of your idiosyncrasies (or maybe MY idiosyncrasies...?), you'd grown on me a little. Russians (or should I say, Muscovites) are like coconuts: Hairy (in the winter) and hard as all get out on the outside, but once you crack 'em open all the juice spills out and you discover they're also a little bit fruity (and by that I only mean quirky). And that's not necessarily bad. Although I'm still going to whistle and sit on the floor at will.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.