Wednesday of the last week of the Princeton in Munich program, we had our final grammar test. This being the third test and Professor Foldeak being rather predictable, we knew exactly what to expect - for the most part. I had semi-studied all of the vocabulary from the workbook, concentrating mostly on the most recent vocabulary over which we had not yet been tested. However, Herr Foldeak threw us a curveball by repeating a vocabulary section that we had had on a previous test, and unfortunately I did quite poorly on that part (although in theory it should have been old material). The grammar wasn't bad, though, and all in all I scraped by with a respectable grade. After grammar class we had the last precept of the program, and I can't say that I was exactly sad to be done with Kafka (although we weren't completely done, still having a test on Friday afternoon). Though the weather this day was nearly as hot and sunny as the previous day, the grad students decided that it would be a good day to visit Dachau, the concentration camp memorial that lies just outside the city (the original plan had been to go Tuesday when we had more time and the reason for postponing it was that it would be too much of a juxtaposition to visit Dachau on a beautifully sunny day and read about the horrors perpetrated there, but that plan didn't work out too well...). Even suspecting this, I had chosen to wear my high heels to go with my outfit that day, figuring that they had been comfortable enough to wear while walking around St. Petersburg, so they would be fine here :P What I failed to remember is that they were only comfortable for me in Russia after I had worn them several times and built up callouses on my heels - I didn't quite bleed this day, but I got some nice blisters for my foolishness of wearing high heels walking around the graveled site of the old concentration camp.
**Warning: if you don't want to read details about the concentration camp, skip to the next paragraph**
The memorial itself of the only camp to be in operation during the entirety of Hitler's regime (1933-1945) was exceptionally well-done, but the fact that we couldn't leave until 2:30 meant that we did, indeed, run out of time. I explored the camp grounds quite thoroughly, but ran out of time in the museum and didn't really get to see much of it at all (partly because I didn't realize the museum was there until the end). The first thing one sees of the camp grounds is the famous cast-iron gate with the ironic inscription "Arbeit macht frei" (Work brings freedom). One of the barracks is still standing, as well as the foundations for the 35 others, neatly laid out in two rows on either side of a tree-lined gravel road. Between the barracks and the main administrative building is a large space in which the prisoners would be forced to stand at attention for hours every morning in all kinds of weather for roll call. The camp fence setup is rather impressive: a five-foot stretch of grassy area before the fence was "no-mans land" - if a prisoner trespassed into this area he could be shot without warning. There was a deep ditch that divided this area, which was filled with water in the time of the camp's operation. On the other side of this ditch laid piles of barbed wire, and the fence itself was a ten-foot construction of electrified and barbed wire, with guard towers every few hundred feet. Escape seemed to be effectively cut off. A small path led out of one end of the camp to the crematorium and execution site, which were even more chilling to behold, especially the gas chambers which were cleverly disguised as showers (although the particular gas chambers at Dachau were never used for mass murder as they were at so many other concentration camps, they served as a model for these other establishments and occasionally groups or individuals did meet their death here). The most sobering part of the crematorium was probably the ovens themselves, designed solely for the purpose of disposing of human remains. The original crematorium was a small brick building and the oven could hold two corpses at a time, but near the end of the camp's operation, when it was hopelessly overcrowded and the death rate from disease and overwork had skyrocketed, the bigger building was built with an oven that could take care of closer to ten bodies at once. As could be expected, there were several memorial sites erected near the crematorium, the final resting place for countless thousands. These memorials and markers of mass graves were chilling and somber reminders of the many who had lost their lives here who were nothing more than a number, and the thousands among their families who will never know for sure their fate. There are also three church-memorials erected on the grounds of the camp: one Protestant (the Church of Reconciliation), one Catholic, and one Jewish. The architecture and layout of these buildings is thoughtful and poignant. Last to be seen is the memorial in front of the still-standing administrative building, which now houses the museum of the camp; a sculpture of emaciated figures tangled in barbed wire and in obvious agony looms over a stone which reads, in German, Russian, English, French, and Hebrew, "Never Again".
I finally entered the museum about twenty minutes before it was to close and rushed through as much as I could, being shooed out by the curators at the last minute (and this isn't the first time that that has happened to me). Our group met up by the entrance to the camp, and many stayed for a discussion of what we had seen while some of us chose to return to the Wohnheim. Thinking about the kind of discussion that went on in our precepts, looking around at the members of the group, and taking into consideration my suffering feet and empty stomach, I chose to return. What we had seen was certainly a good thing to discuss, but I did not want to have the kind of cold intellectual or overly impassioned discussion that I suspected would ensue among this particular group, blandly discussing the logical fallacies of the camp's philosophy or else making rash, emotional, reactionary statements to the horrors we had been reminded of. I never asked the people who stayed what they actually talked about, so I could very well have missed something valuable. But I don't regret my decision to go back. My own thoughts were enough for me.
On a much happier note, the final holiday in June fell on the following day, so we once again did not have class. After getting up particularly early to talk to a friend, I allowed myself the luxury of snoozing for another hour or so before finally getting out of bed and ready for the day. I "bummed around" my room for the entire morning, until it was late enough to justify making chicken cordon bleu as breakfast/lunch (by this time I was busily trying to use up any foodstuffs I wouldn't easily be able to take with me to Clausthal). Finally, I set out to do what I do best - museum-hopping. This day the Jewish Museum and the Munich City Museum were on my list, and while they were both quite interesting and worthwhile, they don't make it to my list of favorites. The Munich City Museum's exhibit on the formation and rise of the National Socialist (Nazi) party was particularly informative and intriguing - apparently Munich was a huge headquarters for Hitler, being the first place where he began amassing power and support. Around 6 I returned to the Wohnheim, had some leftover tortellini for supper, and shortly thereafter went to bed for lack of anything else to do. I wanted to be well-rested for the Kafka test the following day, but even I will admit that 7:30 is a ridiculous time to go to bed, and my body agreed - it took quite a while to fall asleep. I probably could have spent the time better studying or blogging, but I didn't feel like it so I knew that if I got on my computer I would just waste hours on the internet looking at pictures of cute kittens or YouTube videos of people falling down stairs or something equally useless, and hoped that I would have renewed inspiration to study in the morning. (That's my usual response when I get into an "I don't want to do anything" mood - go to bed and hope I feel more productive in the morning. Only slightly problematic when such a mood strikes at 3 in the afternoon :P) Also, in my defense, I had very little idea what to study for the test - the grad students had emphasized that vocab would mostly NOT be tested, but hadn't specified what would... I emailed one of them and tried to find them personally for some advice, but they weren't in their rooms. I read the novel, and they had hinted that the test wasn't supposed to be too difficult...
Friday. The last day of the Princeton in Munich program. I was especially excited for this day, because a group of five of the female participants in the program had acquired dirndls by sundry methods, and we had agreed all to wear them on the occasion of the final day. So I eagerly awoke early, showered, and set to work on my getup. I wore my hair in two braids, of course, which hairstyle I happen to be a master of (I've grown quite fond of it again over the summer - for about a five-year span I wore my hair in plaited pigtails EVERY OTHER DAY, with the remaining days finding me with a ponytail in my thus-crimped hair (I always braid it when it's wet), but I had fallen out of the habit after cutting 14.5" of my hair off in the middle of my junior year of high school, when I began swimming. Particularly now in my internship, I find the easiest way to keep my hair out of my face in the lab is to braid it - and so I do. :]). I very carefully tied up the orange ribbon on my bodice - only to find out later that I had done it backwards, necessitating a swift re-tying on the train to class. I put my makeup on and looked myself over in the mirror - very Bavarian (and Princeton, since my dirndl is bright orange). 8:15 couldn't come soon enough - we all met down in the lobby and proceeded to class, with many stops for pictures along the way. While our outlandish (or can I make up the word "inlandish" and use it here?), and very attention-drawing garb embarrassed some of our classmates to no end (i.e. Dan H.), others smiled or were impressed with our boldness and self-confidence (or as Dan would put it, lack of dignity ^.^). Friday was also a very special day in our grammar class. Since we had already taken the test on Wednesday, Herr Foldeak took us all on a tour of the Alte Pinakothek to get what must be the fastest overview of German renaissance painters in the world. However, before we could set out on our adventure, there were some administrative things to take care of. We must have received at least 50 sheets of paper each, between the rest of the history book Herr Foldeak had been illegally copying for us (because it was "out of print" - don't they have copyright laws in Germany?), "suggested reading" lists, and other information on continuing our German education. Now, unlike in the United States, where grades are a very private thing which are protected by all sorts of passwords and confidentiality, the rest of the world believes that everyone should know where they stand in the results, and the rewards of one's academic labor should be a public thing. Therefore, when Herr Foldeak handed out our grades, it was one sheet with everyone's name and final grade listed. We were all a little shocked, being so unaccustomed to this, but I suppose it only makes sense - besides, if you pay attention to how your classmates work, none of the results should really be a surprise. There were only two grades of "1" given out (the European grading scale is from 1-4, 1 being the best), to two people which surprised me - but I think they studied more vocabulary than anyone else (or had more strategic study methods) and therefore came out ahead. I, as most of the members of the class, got a 2+ (originally I thought this was a B+, but was later informed that it may possibly be an A-...), so I was content, seeing that as a fair assessment of the effort I had put into the course. After all, I was also in Germany to experience the culture and see whether I wanted to return for a semester of study or a potential job in the future, and not *just* to improve my German.
After the Alte Pinakothek we had another agonizing hour before the Kafka test, and I tried to speed-read the German version to make sure that I could intelligently talk about the plot and important interpretations in German. As I had suspected, the test itself wasn't all that difficult, just long and involved a lot of writing. There was an identification section, a couple of short-answer parts, and an essay choice. I was done long before the allotted time, so I handed in my test and headed off to the city center to see if I could get some of my souvenir shopping done before our afternoon tea which would serve as a sort of closing ceremony to the program. Fortunately I had the perfect souvenir in mind for my boyfriend, something that I had been thinking about since I bought my dirndl, so I made a beeline for Kleidemarkt and marched right up to the Tragt section. (Now, I know he reads this and I kind of want his souvenir to be a surprise, so I won't tell you what I bought him. But if you're curious, you can ask me and I'll tell you - I think he's going to love it, even if it may be a little small for him ;]). Having obtained my prize, I triumphantly returned to the group for a positively lovely tea in a charming cafe (made even more wonderful by the free cake provided by Papa Princeton ;]). Many hugs and photos later, we returned to the Wohnheim, where I only had a few minutes to change outfits and get ready for the next activity of the night - swing dancing. This time it was at a big festival, underneath a colorful tent complete with lights and hanging umbrellas (don't ask me why). I was nervous about leaving our stuff at one of the picnic tables in the beer garden (again, because of past bad experiences) but eventually we worked out a place to hide it safely while we enjoyed ourselves. I tried convincing Dan, who had learned to dance the Sunday prior, to come with us, but he excused himself on grounds of being too tired and having other plans. However, after much begging and pleading, we managed to convince Sam, another easy-going member of the group who had tried dancing once, to accompany us (so we were guaranteed at least a FEW dances), and of course Greta came as well, and Sarah was the driving force behind the outing. Initially, Sam was very hesitant and not confident about his dancing ability, but after purchasing a beer at the bar he loosened up considerably. In fact, he became downright friendly, and dancing with him before and after I could notice a distinct difference in his balance, which in my mind shattered all notions that "you can't get drunk off of just one beer." Now, since then I have had some discussions with people who would know who say that it is mostly a mental thing - if you imbibe alcohol with the idea "this is going to get me really drunk", it will have enormously more effect than if you drink it without thinking about it much, or intend not to get drunk - it's a bit like hypnosis. I fully believe this concept, and I certainly saw it borne out that night. But whatever the reason, Sam was much more willing to dance post-beer and I was happy to have a dance partner, regardless of his skill level (having participated in beginner-level swing classes at Princeton, and having a boyfriend of much the same mentality as Sam - I usually have to almost beg him to dance with me - I have danced with some bad dancers, and Sam is far from the worst). The only other person who danced with me that night was a man in his mid-thirties who described himself as a "total beginner" who may or may not have spoken either German or English (I only spoke German to him, but he definitely tried English with me) and knew about three different moves, most of which involved a lot of spinning and which I quickly tired of. He kept coming back again and again until I decided that it would be prudent to look a little less eager to dance instead of straining at the edge of the dance floor hoping that someone else would come and ask me - most people were there with their partners, so it wasn't much of a mixer. There were a few excellent dancers there, but I'm far too shy to go and ask a man for a dance in English, much less German, so I basically danced with Sam and "3-move Marvin", as I dubbed him. Greta disappeared for a while to go souvenir shopping and returned with a nice scarf, but from her description of the other wares at the folk fair (for that's what it was) it didn't seem that I would find anything really good for Mom and Emily, the two important people left on my souvenir-shopping list, or at least not something that would be "German" (i.e. we couldn't find it at a yard sale/folk fair at home). Although the dance went until 11:30, I was ready to leave by 10, and despite Sarah's pleadings for us to stay (the people she knew who were running the event had hinted at doing a dance in her honor), Sam and I headed back at 10:40. We were hoping to catch a "sneak preview" a group was going to (in Germany you can buy special discounted tickets at theaters to watch movies which haven't been officially released yet, usually in the original language, and the movie is not revealed beforehand, so it's a total surprise and grab back) but we misjudged the public transportation and ended up having to walk to the nearest U=bahn stop, which meant that we wouldn't make it in time. This was okay by us, though, so we just enjoyed the night, walking and talking (Sam was by this time very much sobered up). I laughed at the way Sam marveled at my ability to switch between languages - I would be chatting with him in English, then call Mareike on the phone and as soon as she picked up, switch into fluent (or at least coherent) German. I should hope that after a month in the country, I should be at least able to hold a coherent simple phone conversation in German without having to "warm up" first! Finally we were back at the Wohnheim, and I hit the sack around 12. It was a good, full last day :)
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