A ray of sun reaches through my window and wraps itself around my forearm, which rests lazily over my summer blanket. I awaken from the heat illuminating my body and let the sound of crickets and trickling water from the pond outback be the first signs of life that make their way into my consciousness.
I open my eyes to Park St - an empty paved street lined with green trees and houses on both sides - but then shut them quickly, not ready to let the image of this Massachusetts dawn replace the one thats freshest in my mind: morning life in Quatshausen, where I was just a few days ago.
Its now a bit after 6:00 am and I feel my tummy grummble. It’s begging for Mittagessen. I keep my eyes closed and imagine trotting barefoot down the steps of my grandmothers house, floating through the tiled hallway and past the grand piano, and into her small kitchen, where I find my mother preparing the midday meal. She’s seasoning boiled potatoes with parsley and by her side is a fresh green salad, steamed sauerkraut and an array of juicy bratworsts and charred sausages. Dad’s methodical, thumping footsteps tell me that he’s on his way up from the keller with a case of beer. Oma is already sitting outside, waiting patiently by the outdoor table leading to her small garden, her presence almost invisible if it weren’t for the soft tune she’s whistling. She’s set the table, yet some places lack forks, others have two knives, and water glasses are scattered around in a confused fashion, signs of dementia that grow stronger each time I visit. A heavy tick, tock, tick, tock comes from the grandfather clock inside, letting us know that its 12:30 and time to eat. Around the village other families are gathering for the same occasion, evidenced by wafts of braised meats, savory sauces, and cooked vegetables that float out their windows and through the streets of Quatshausen. We gather at the table outside and Mom puts an apron around Oma, whose white pleated pants might otherwise become the receptacle for salad dressing or drops of mustard. A late summer breeze passes through, wrapping around us in the gentlest way, but we’re so ravenous and we hardly notice the chime jingling softly by our side, arousing a deep and corporal nostalgia for childhood.
I try not to stuff myself as much as I did at breakfast, or last night's dinner or yesterday's lunch. But the flavors are so rich and before I finish one bite I'm eagerly awaiting the next, and soon I’m already heaping seconds onto my plate, wiping up the sauce with a fresh brötchen roll and resigning to the fact that I’ll return home several pounds heavier, as I usually do after a visit to Germany. I wash it all down with a cold beer, a nice contrast to the sun that’s shining on my back and warming up my shoulders.
We sit for a long time, listening to Oma’s stories, many of which I’m hearing for the second or third time, but I enjoy every second of it. Her cheerful energy and youthful giggle somehow contradict the sunken eyes and pale skin that mark her gaunt face, signs of growing old and surviving so much pain and sorrow. Despite her grief, at having lost her husband and son to cancer and having her only daughter across the world in America, she manages to be sunny and charming. I love her so much and am reminded of being a young child in her home, playing boardgames, listening to her play the accordion, watching her knit socks in her rocking chair by the chocolate cabinet.
I clear the table and mom and Oma sing together as they wash the dishes. I retire upstairs to my little bedroom. The afternoon sun makes my pink walls sparkle and I peer out my window to the clutter of old tiled roofs that gather in the center of the village, with sprawling fields and pastures in the distance beyond. I remember playing dolls in this room with the other girls from the village. Antje, Katje, Silvia. I wonder what they're all doing now. After a long day at the playground and running through the streets past the baker and the butcher (who would always give us free ice cream) we’d retreat to my room to eat Milka chocolate bars, gossip about Kevin from the Back Street Boys and hide from my brothers in the storage room by my closet. Now, in the drawers by my bed, I still find childhood drawings and old photographs, even a lone D-Mark, dating back to life before the Euro.
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| Me und meine liebe Omachen, right before delving into a home-made Black Forest cake |
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| Oma, Mom, aunt Zdena, me |
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| Mom and I at a castle in Marburg, a city 30 min from her childhood village |
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| my cuz Cristoph, hard at work |
In early august I arrived in Germany after a few days with my parents in Denmark, where we visited old friends in a lovely town along the North Zealand coast, about a 50 min drive from Copenhagen. The weather felt shockingly cold upon arrival, at least that’s how it seemed to us New England wimps, freshly tanned and still sweaty from the thick August heat that had marked this past summer, one of the hottest and driest in recent history. The rugged Danes, on the other hand, couldn’t be phased by the wind and rain. Our hosts were eating outdoor dinners by the bonfire and skinning dipping in the icey Nordic waters. “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing” Marianne told me, flashing a warm smile. She and my father met traveling in Marakesh in 1970 and they have remained close friends ever since. Marianne’s children, now grown, have come to stay with us in the US many times and in turn her daughter Sine graciously put me up during the summer of 2008 when I interned w the Red Cross in Copenhagen.
So we heeded Marianne’s advice and put on our thickest sweaters and raincoats and wandered along the gorgeous coastline, biked through the countryside and picked wild mushrooms in the forest. We cooked big dinners outside over a firepit and old friends of my parents from Norway and Sweden came to visit. My dear friend Jenelle, who I met in Colombia, also joined us for a couple of evenings and many bottles of wine.
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| searching for mushrooms w Mads |
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fresh picked herbs
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Jenelle on a crisp morning, contemplating the beauty of life!
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| little Augusta, mom, me, Simone + Marianne |
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| our Danish hosts |
The country’s subtle beauty was in stark contrast to the loud and bombastic colors of Colombia that I had been used to seeing over the past two years. Here, instead of gigantic green leaves, lush palm trees and vibrant tropical orchids, the landscape was made up of soft tans and browns and greens, dotted with gentle lilac wild flowers and endless wheat fields. The houses weren’t bright pastels but rather old wooden structures of white and brown. The Danish sun, unlike the fiery and brilliant Colombian rays, is soft and penetrating. It seeps into houses and illuminates kitchens and turns hair into golden blonde. It is gentle and long lasting in the summer, making the days feel endless.
From Copenhagen I went to Berlin, where I spent a few days
at Leah’s house, my best friend from high school whose living with her fiance, Noah, and dancing with the Berlin Opera. One of Leah’s friends lent me a bike and we spent our days cruising through the streets, drinking cappuccinos, lounging in grassy parks, doing yoga and eating Kebabs. One Tuesday morning we happened upon a Turkish market in the center of town. It was full of colorful fabrics and fruits and rows of baklava treats. We pushed our way through the crowds, munching on juicy peaches and tasting the fresh feta, olives, dates, and baked bread that tempted us along the way. Though I'd spent time in Berlin as a youngster (we all uprooted there one summer when mom got a job at the Jewish Museum) it felt as though I was experiencing the city for the first time. Much grungier than Copenhagen, but I found charm in the nit and grit. Berlin is green, lush, has great public transport and is super bike-friendly and diverse, not to mention really, really cheap.
Now I'm back in Northampton, approaching page 100 of my endless thesis, and soaking up every second of life changing around me. I recently spent a few days hiking in the Vermont woods with some old college friends. It's been so nice to reconnect with friends and family, but also with the landscape I grew up with. Years have passed since I've experienced fall and I love being around to witness the changing of the seasons; somehow it feels fitting as I myself let go of one chapter of life and move onto the next.
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