Unfortunately I had been so efficient at planning what I wanted to do and see in Munich that on Saturday when I woke up, my last day in the city, I actually had no idea what I should do. I didn't feel like tackling any of those things on my "to-eventually-do" list, or even the more pressing items (like packing), since I still wanted to do laundry and take only clean clothes to Clausthal. I finally headed out into the city at around 9 to see if I could find some final souvenirs for friends and family, and chanced to run into none other than Sam, heading in for the same purpose. I gladly offered to accompany him and it was much more enjoyable hitting up the souvenir shops and wagons with a friend. Most of the stuff was just too kitschy for my taste, but I did eventually manage to find something cute for a very good friend of mine (and resist buying several unnecessary souvenirs) and a piece of jewelry that will hopefully suit my sister's rather unpredictable style. However, even after looking at the majority of souvenir shops in the city center we couldn't drag out our adventure much past 11, and so I reluctantly took my leave of Sam. I had other plans in the city center, but they technically didn't start until 12...
I GOT TO SEE GRIFFIN ON SATURDAY!!!!!!!!
So, Griffin is only about one of the kindest, most thoughtful, most servant-hearted people I know (with the possible exception of my boyfriend). He is one of the first people I remember meeting at Princeton, at the PEF fall cookout, partially because of his unusual name (and accompanying nametag, upon which he always [and sometimes exclusively] draws a griffon) and partly because of his unusual look, with his excessive height and crazy hair. He was part of the Welcome Team and as such brought me (with his partner-in-crime, Alex, who couldn't be more opposite to him) candy and encouraging notes at particularly stressful times of my freshman year, such as midterms. His striking sense of the ridiculous and willingness to go on spontaneous adventures has led to some good stories over the last two years and a solid friendship that will hopefully last past graduation (Princeton just won't be the same without him). His younger sister, Lillie, is a year below me (unfortunately, she's nothing like him either, as I found out) and was also participating in the Princeton in Munich program, so his family decided to kick off a vacation in Europe by coming to Munich to pick her up at the end of the program. When I heard that Griffin, one of my best friends from Princeton, was going to be in Germany, and not only that, but in Munich, I was ecstatic, to say the least. I had dedicated the entirety of Saturday afternoon to hanging out with him, but we hadn't yet decided precisely what we would do. We had agreed to meet at his hotel at noontime, but I was so excited to see him that I couldn't possibly wait that long, and by 11:30 I was already pacing the lobby of his hotel, waiting for him. He finally appeared at about 11:45 and, in quintessential Griffin manner, observed in a completely monotone voice, "You're early." After getting thoroughly grilled by his mother - "Does he have enough money? Does he know how to get back to the hotel? Do you have a cell phone, in case anything happens?" - and assuring her that since he had just graduated from Princeton, he could probably take care of himself, even if he wasn't with someone who had spent an entire month in the city (her concern made me smile), we set off to find adventure. Or rather, lunch.
After we had filled our stomachs, we wandered over to where I had previously marked the location of a bike rental store, only getting lost once along the way (and not really lost, just ending up in a different part of town from where I was headed). Unfortunately, when we got there we were informed that all of the bikes were back at Marienplatz for use with bike tours, so we had to walk all the way back to where we had JUST come from. We got there, only to be informed that they needed ALL of the bikes for the tours and couldn't possibly spare two to rent out, which was incredibly frustrating. So we went to another bike rental place that was closer to Griffin's hotel in the first place, though it cost us a couple of Euros more to rent from them. Poor Griffin! He never complained, but happened to mention in the midst of all this wandering that he had foolishly chosen to break in a new pair of dress shoes the hard way only a couple of days before and had serious blisters on his feet - oops! Finally we obtained the bikes and set off to explore English Garden as I had been hoping to do for weeks. The big attractions in English Garden are the perpetual surf wave, caused by the shape of the bottom of the fast-flowing Isar, and the Nude Meadow, where people come to sunbathe, well, nude. The latter we weren't particularly interested in seeing, but it was a cloudy and surprisingly cool day, so we weren't in too much danger of coming suddenly upon large groups of the unclothed. In fact, I had planned it to be much warmer than it ended up being, and wasn't quite dressed warm enough, but as long as we were moving it wasn't too bad. English Garden is the largest inner-city park in the world, and we rode the entire length of it (after all, we had rented the bikes for three hours, so we had plenty of time). There was lots of woods and plenty of fields, and at one point we even stumbled upon a massive herd of sheep - yes, real live wooly bleating sheep - complete with shepherds and sheepdogs. I almost expected Babe to come running around the edge of the herd and to hear "That'll do, pig"... :D I was kind of looking for the surf wave and had gotten it into my head that it was at the opposite end of the park, so we rode down there and went to the river, but it was wide and flat and shallow. We then rode back up the park along the river, hoping to stumble upon it, but no luck. By the time we got back to our starting point it was starting to sprinkle and it had been a little more than two hours, so we gave up our search and returned the bikes. When we mentioned that we hadn't been able to find the surf wave, the owner of the bike rental shop rolled his eyes, said "WHERE do you guys study, again?", pulled out a map, and circled a spot right next to the corner of the park where we had entered - not on the other side, as I had thought. Oops. In my defense, I had never actually looked up WHERE the surf wave was, just assumed that if we went into English Garden and followed the river, we'd find it. Well, in order that the afternoon not be completely wasted, we walked back up to the park to see the wave - and it was worth it. I almost started drooling, imagining surfing that wave in an open-deck canoe as I used to in high school. :) The cool and drizzly weather didn't deter the more hardcore surfers, and there were about a dozen of them lining up on either side of the river, waiting for their chance to surf the wave. The unpleasant weather did mean, however, that only the better surfers were out - which was a treat. I got some super-sweet videos and pictures of the action. Then we meandered back towards Griffin's apartment, but I was loathe to see him go. We stopped at an ice-cream place for a treat and to give us an excuse to talk longer, to my delight (I think Griffin did it for me, though - he's lactose intolerant :P), but eventually it was time for us to part. The sight of a familiar face had really brightened my day, and in my excitement I forgot to get a picture with Griffin, something that I will probably always regret, but at least I will have the memories.
I returned to the Wohnheim with mixed feelings, and still no desire to pack, though my departure on the morrow was growing ever closer. Fortunately I was spared from this unpleasant task by a group outing to a nearby restaurant as a sort of "last hurrah". The fare was traditionally German (my favorite) and quite delicious. I resisted the urge to order Wiener Schnitzel, my old standby, and instead decided on a dish of Knödel, Beefsteckel, and Weißsalat, which I mostly chose because it included bacon in the salad and I knew that Knödel were both very traditionally German and quite tasty. The meat was unfortunately a little tough and the Knödel dry unless I soaked it in the sauce from the meat, but overall it was a good, hearty meal. And of course, in true German tradition, I washed it all down with a beer. That's right, Erin Mills drank an entire half-liter of beer. It was the first *real* alcohol I had ingested, well, ever. A couple of sips doesn't compare to sitting down and drinking an entire 0.5 liters of alcohol (that's more than a standard beer bottle - they usually come in 0.33 liter sizes). And yes, I felt the effects, undeniably. Things in my peripheral vision started to fade just a tiny bit, but that wasn't as noticeable as the swirling sensation of my head. I felt that I didn't want to move it too quickly or everything might tip from horizontal. It felt a little bit like after you spin around for a long time and are just recovering from being dizzy - things are no longer spinning but you still feel that everything is not nailed down quite as solidly around you as it normally is. Now, since this was my first time ingesting a significant quantity of alcohol, I was hyper-aware of the potential effects and doing my utmost to both recognize and stifle them. I was extra-conscious of my volume and tried very hard not to be loud or extra chatty (or at least not any more than usual - honestly, I'm a pretty loud person, as a rule). I must have been succeeding because about 3/4 of the way through the meal Sam, who was sitting across from me and who had nearly finished his beer, lamented, "I'm such a lightweight." Then, observing that my glass was at a comparable level to his, he squinted at me, observing me for a moment, then asked, "Why aren't you as drunk as me? You never drink!" Cooly returning his gaze (but with an impish grin), I replied, "How do you know I'm not as drunk as you? No one has ever seen me drunk to know what I act like." Sam had to concede that this was good logic, and it was an honest answer on my part - I was semi-unsure whether what I was feeling was even from the alcohol or the fact that I was tired and had just eaten my first hearty meal in quite a while. And indeed, when discussing the matter with my boyfriend later, he remarked, "Well, oftentimes you act the way a lot of people do when they're a little drunk (referring to my chattiness)." So I think we can say I was buzzed at the most. And at this point that's quite enough for me. As a matter of fact, I don't really even like that feeling - I've heard people say that you have "a couple beers" to make conversation easier, but if I don't need that aid, why bother?
To celebrate this last meal, at which both of the grad students and Professor Rankin were in attendance, a couple of the other program participants had gone to a chocolate shop and purchased chocolate cockroaches, in reference to the main character in Kafka's Metamorphosis. The grad students loved them and generously shared the delicious vermin with us - renewing my resolve to purchase a significant amount of German chocolate to be liberally distributed as souvenirs once I return to the US. Finally we had all finished our meal and it was time to return once again to the Wohnheim - as I walked out of the restaurant I noted satisfactorily that my balance had not been at all affected by the alcohol (and snuck a sideways glance at Sam who had even ordered a second half-liter of beer halfway through the meal, but he wasn't exactly stumbling drunk either, just a little dreamy). Back at the Wohnheim I finally had to face the reality of my approaching departure (a funny juxtaposition there ;]) and traipsed down to the basement to start my laundry. I was intending to watch a movie with some of the other members of the group, but was sent upstairs furtively to sign thank-you cards for Hannes and Mareike and got distracted talking to Dan H. for a couple of hours (partially because his birthday was the following day). As could perhaps be expected, a rather rowdy group of individuals met in one of the communal kitchens to "take care of" the remainder of the group's alcohol supply, and I was invited to join, but decided against it after considering the frightfully large collection of bottles on the table (including absinthe cigars...??), the lateness of the hour (it was now past midnight), and all the packing I had yet to do. There may come a day when Erin Mills decides to drink more than just a little bit - but it won't be the day before she needs to travel across the county. So I instead brought my laundry back to my room so that I could pack first thing in the morning (though it wasn't all quite dry), laid it out on my various shelves and sills, curled up in my bed with the too-big pillow and thick comforter for the very last time, and enjoyed a few hours of very sound slumber.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
The Last Holiday
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 :)
**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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