Bremen...Breadmen?

It’s been a day and a half in Bremen and I have no idea what we would do without Astrid, whose glowing personality seems to shine through just as well here as it did to everyone in the States. It’s not the getting around part that would make me nervous. It just feels so embarrassing being in a place where I can’t speak the language more than, “Hello,” “Goodbye,” and “I’m eating bread.”

Our first day was nothing more than a taste of Bremen, but meeting Astrid’s family and seeing her house was a cultural experience on its own. Astrid’s mom in particular is endlessly kind. She and Astrid spend nearly the entire day remedying a problem we’d had with our plane tickets for a weekend trip to Zurich.

Her mom has been taking English classes in order to prepare for our visit and the confusion that arises from our conversations is one of my favorite parts about traveling. Google Translate, which always seems so accurate at the times when it least matters, provides the best fun.

After taking a nap on the first day, we had our first German meal of schnitzel, mashed potatoes, and tomato salad for lunch. Astrid’s parents offered us beer. I politely declined and Joe accepted. Astrid’s mom appeared concerned and asked Astrid why I didn’t want the beer, wondering if it was just the type of beer I didn’t like. It apparently hadn’t occurred to her that I might just not be in the mood for a beer midday.

Many of our humorous cultural differences seem to come up around food. On our second day, Joe and I woke up quite late due to our lack of sleep from the flight on the previous night. At breakfast, Astrid brought out a selection of breads, salami, and spreads. Astrid asked if we would like eggs since she was making some for herself. We said no thank you and I asked if she would be having some of the bread and stuff like us. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, “I already had breakfast!” and sat down with her egg and fried potatoes.

Astrid left for Hamburg on our second evening to attend an event for school. When her mom came home, she enthusiastically showed us a package of sliced white bread, pulled out a panini press, and said, “Astrid say you like sandwiches.” She proceeded to clean all the nooks and crannies of the panini press for about ten minutes and made us some salad. After we finished the salad, she went off to bed and we left the kitchen, clueless as to what she was hoping we would do with the bread and panini press.
-RJ Lynch

Riding in cars with dads

On road trips or en route to scheduled things like dinner or an event, my dad is a terrifying driver. He is constantly trying to get around and ahead of people, jerking between lanes. It is the only time that I prefer to not be riding shotgun, a luxury which my mom often gives me due to my long legs. When I do sit up front, I am tightly gripping the overhead handle.
But there are other times when riding with my dad is the best. When it is just the two of us picking up firewood, returning empties, or any of the other chores and errands we work on together, that is when we are in sync. We both have strong personalities and been called stubborn or worse on numerous occasions, which can lead to some disagreements between us for being too similar. I don't associate times of year with people, save my dad. He is the fall. The time of year when our earth tone flannel shirts are in season, our brown leather jackets are fitting, and we do things around and for the house together. When I was younger, this included things like 'policing the yard' which I will never force upon another person, but now I take comfort in working beside him. Creating a system for hauling firewood from the driveway into the garage, playing patio furniture jenga as we stack tables and gliders, or move things into the musty crawlspace.
This past autumn, he had me come with him to pick up a hoosier that he had found antiquing. We had to go all the way to Norwood which is about a twenty to thirty minute drive. The antique store was in an old mill building that had actually been converted into a very interesting complex of stores, each room a new vendor with new motifs and types of goods ranging from aged Americana to the more expensive boutiques. This was my first time going there, and I only had a glimpse as the place was closing down for the day, but I knew I'd have to come back, and have been twice already.
On our way back, we made comfortable small talk, and not the daily kind like "How is work/school?" but things like Michael Brown, the Ukraine, ISIS and the state of the world (I think 2014 has been a globally depressing year). And it felt right to be in that car, riding with my dad past the foliage looking like flaming trees on the side of the highway.

The Freedom of Speech

A few weeks ago I got a facebook message from a friend asking if I wanted to go on a hike that weekend, being incredibly unemployed and poor, I was excited to have the opportunity to do something social and fun that cost no money and I'd not been hiking in ages. We were going to Mt. Eisenhower of the presidential range in the White Mountains, right near Mt. Washington. I'd never been to the White Mountains before and was only mildly prepared for the three hour drive. I also started the day on just over 2 hours of sleep. And being poor and with parents on vacation and not buying groceries, I cobbled together a makeshift snack/lunch bag consisting of tortilla chips, frosted mini-wheats, and a piece of cornbread, which I ziplocked and hastily threw into a messenger bag (great bag for hiking right?) and hustled out to Millie (my friend's Yaris).
   We picked up our other two compatriots for hiking, only one of which I'd met before. I was a bit antisocial during the ride up from hunger/fatigue and gathering my energies for the long day ahead. When we began our hike, we cycled through the typical conversations and silences while building momentum for hiking until the natural flow developed. But then, as ascended the rocky slopes across little streams and bridges, we could just speak freely and intermittently without awkward lulls, our topics while nothing profound were still meaningful because they were slightly more than idle chat and uninhibited in a way that only a world without technology and daily distractions can provide. When someone talked, the other(s) would listen because out in the woods it's just you and your fellow travelers, and if you speak it's with more deliberation and purpose, and the silences are more personal either from pensive reflection, or exhaustion after climbing a particularly steep rock-face. It was one of these conversations that inspired me to write this post as a my friend asked "If you were to write a blogpost about this hike, what would you write about it?" And I had to think, because while the views were quite amazing, nothing spectacular happened, no defining memory or nugget to cherish, but I enjoyed just talking to someone, not over the phone (not that people even have phone conversations anymore), or xbox or skype or anything like that, but in person and left entirely to our own devices. I even told a story about a friend I lost (by several definitions, none of them fatal) (Hint hint at an upcoming post). And it is through this mix of naturally flowing conversation mixed perfectly with quiet time that I realized how long it'd been since I'd just talked to people without specific topics in mind.
The top of Eisenhower had some great views, and though sweaty, we decided to get to the top of Mount Franklin one summit over. The guide book accurately claimed Franklin to be disappointing and it proved true as we weren't sure we reached the summit upon arrival, it was a flat path between the other more superior summits despite being a higher elevation than Eisenhower. After relaxing a bit on the sides of the paths that made up this peakless mountain, we began our descent and played another game to pass the time for a while before exhaustion and repetitive letters got the best of us, and we split into pairs between the faster and the not as fast in the final descent.

Cranes, Rains, and Automobiles (Euro-Trip Pt. 1)

     I recently had the extreme fortune to travel to Germany, Switzerland and Amsterdam thanks to the incredible support of friends and family. Germany was the start and end to our trip staying in Bremen with a friend who had been an exchange student at my school two years ago. We were there for forty-eight hours before Zurich. During this time, we roasted sausages over a fire at my friend's house, but the most significant part of my first experience in Germany was drinking in a field, visiting my friend's horses. This could technically be done anywhere in the world, in the U.S. not quite legally. But it was the first time where I was enjoying the moment, the three of us together again, enjoying a drink, feeding and petting horses, taking funny pictures. Because as is my general philosophy, travel isn't about the places, but the people and experiences. So even something as universal as a field for horses can become an occasion for a special moment, a unique memory. Another interesting, more minor detail, was that apparently the German literature market is less sexist than ours because all the Harry Potter books were by Joanne K. Rowling, instead of J.K. They have an easier time accepting that women can be good writers than we do. But that is a whole topic in and of itself, one which is not the nature of this blog.
    We left for a day of bus rides through the rolling hills of the German country side which was picturesque and spotted with wind turbines and little villages. At the exact time to the minute we were due to arrive in Zurich, after ignoring several announcements from the driver because my German is scarce, we arrived in Konstanz, Germany. Everyone got off the bus, we panicked for a moment that somehow we had been on the wrong bus and went to ask the driver, who unfortunately couldn't speak a lick of English. We showed him our tickets and pointed, and he started saying 'nein' interspersed with more phrases and words I couldn't quite catch. Uh-oh. We were stuck in the middle of Germany with no way to get to where we needed, or so we thought. Fortunately, a French woman overheard our plight and my French, being slightly better than my German was able to gather Zurich was the next stop. We were immediately relieved and I was glad to have the most minimal multilingualism to sort it all out.
     Zurich for me is a crane and a view. There was some amazing architecture, Grossmunster Church had spectacular stained glass and an incredible organ that looms ominously over the rest of the room. I struggled to follow the No Pictures signs as the whole building was just stunning. It did allow me to judge the other tourists snapping away on their smartphones with no regard for the rules. But the views, all of the distant Alps, were amazing. I've never seen such a beautiful mountain range, not that I've seen many to really compare it to, but it was such a perfect backdrop that complimented the old stone buildings and lake of Zurich. I took several pictures almost any chance I could get, jealous of the phones that had panorama modes while I had a digital camera from 2008 which is basically a relic though only 8 years old.
    As a sort of art/cultural exhibit Zurich had three very different installations going on in the city. The aim was to demonstrate what it would be like if Zurich was a coastal city with a big port. The smallest part was those little metal things tie on to along the lake and canals throughout the city, the second part was a rare foghorn that was scheduled to go off roughly once a week to simulate a ship entering/leaving port. But the biggest, most ostentatious, and most controversial part of this exhibit was a giant green defunct crane smack dab in the center of the city. To some it was a hideous eyesore, to others it was amazing and they wanted it to be a permanent fixture. For us, it was a hilarious mixture of both. We facetiously began obsessing over "The Crane" the almighty creation and supreme being.  And thus by being unimpressed by this art, we found humor in it, which in turn actually gave it value that we did appreciate. It is an interesting process to put value on a thing you don't initially take value in. Thus for us the crane was more personally enjoyable though still kind of a hideous fail in terms of being a cultural display especially given its size. Before returning to Germany, my girlfriend and I made various crane pictures and hid them around our friends' apartment for them to find hopefully scattered over a long period of time. Each picture had statements like "I am Crane, You are Crane, we are Crane" Upon discovering at least some of the crane pictures we got a message from our host saying "I am so goofy right now." And that was my Zurich experience, and while it has some of the best panoramas I've ever seen, and given me fond memories, I don't feel inclined to visit it again.
End of Part 1. There will probably be 2-3 separate posts before this thrilling adventure concludes.
Have a story worth sharing? Email me at thegettingthere@gmail.com and I'll gladly post your story.

A Letter To My Younger Self

I was reminded of you recently, you were an asshole, hell I still am in some ways. But recently, I listened to music I hadn't heard since you were around. It was the soundtrack to Into The Wild. All Eddie Vedder. Remember how our Roommate would play it almost to the point of exhaustion? Like that one Lord of the Rings scene we caught him watching over and over? But hearing that music. I was back in the freshman dorm room. Heartbroken, embracing my pseudo-independence from my parents who were paying for that expensive tuition. Going crazy with a new social life at our first co-ed school in about 6 years. Having classmates we actually enjoyed being around after the social oblivion that was high school. We tried dating, we fucked it up, casual hook ups, drinking, diner runs and walks through woods. This was the best entire year of my life, and while the me you were then might not have deserved it as much as I might now, you needed it more. Your fuck ups and friendships and amazing memories have made me into who I am. And hearing Hard Sun and Rise Up made me miss all that in a way I've never felt nostalgia before. I wanted that heart-ache from being just out of our best relationship to date, to have so much still ahead of me, leaving hte country alone for the first time, being an almost real adult. Which is not to say I'm at the end of my line, no, we still have so much ahead of us at the ripe age of twenty-five don't worry. But I miss having that restless, unrealized, unbridled potential that came with adolescence. Pretty soon you'll go to England for the first time, it'll be your first time off the continent and you'll have a great time. Romance will come and go, and you will drop out of school for a while, travel more, and have a really hard time for a while. And I appreciate you doing all that, because it has made my life into the wonderful thing it is today even with all the little struggles I am still dealing with. I can handle them with ease thanks to you. And I hope to see you again soon.
-J. Moran
Have any travel stories about amazing people you've met or places you've been to even if it is as close as your own city feel free to email them to thegettingthere@gmail.com I am accepting all submissions.

Lockdown

      The whole world knows the events that began April 15^th 2013, from California to Syria, Boston has received the hope and support of millions for peace and justice. And with such global interest in this little town, the internet is ripe with accounts of people's experiences from the bombings to the Friday Lockdown. This story is no different other than the fact that is mine. The bombings happened, and everyone took to the internet, clicking refresh rapidly. What usually detaches us from the emotion of people's expression, was full of prayers, pictures, and as is the tragic norm angry cries many of which were racist. These behaviors, for better or worse continued all week. I haven't always been the most emotionally expressive, but this shook me. Sure, I am from a suburb but Boston is my home. I am a Patriot and home is one of my biggest ideals and things I believe in. I wanted justice, swift and blind. No wars, no bombings, no death, no glory. Reality brings complexity that will slow down this process, but now that the media has done it's job and then some with wild accusations harming innocent people's reputation (Shame on you, New York Post), I don't want Tsarnaev's trial to be widely broadcast until a verdict is given.

      I was hoping things would die down as the legal and police forces handled the investigation. Then Thursday night came, I had heard there was a shooting nearby at MIT, but was hungry and wanted to be out enjoying the nice weather so I went with a friend to get some late night cookies at Insomnia Bakery. This is when I was hit the hardest, we heard snippets of conversations from the people we passed with the latest details but the night sky was burning with sirens, surrounding us. And when you are trained your whole life to believe that these noises mean dangr and get out of the way, when they circle around you like buzzards, it gets to you. My cookie was still good but we got back to our dorms with shaky legs and watering eyes. My bedtime story that night was updates from the streaming police scanner I found online. A week went by and I still had to fall asleep in a city of fear.

     Friday was the lockdown. Our school was closed, no one could leave and food was brought to one of the dorms to feed everyone so we didn't have to head to the dining hall. Buzzfeed and photo sites were loaded with pictures of empty Boston streets. They displayed a serenity I did not want to know. TVs stayed on, and students gathered around. It was stifling and uncomfortable, the air felt more recycled than the 'updates' the networks were providing us. Our spirits were strained with nothing to do. More shots were fired, and I was just waiting for more bad news. But then, he was caught. Justice had finally been done, and he was rushed to the hospital. And this was only the beginning of my happiness.

     The work of all the people, and not just the exemplary Boston Police Department, that kept my people safe was astonishing. After the Thursday night firefight, the BPD did not fire a single shot, and the final shots were from a scared 19 year, bleeding out under a tarp. I feel for this kid, I do. But I still want him to sit forgotten in a jail. But even more impressive, was in a historical fashion, an entire damn city shut down. To reiterate our latest motto 'You messed with the wrong city' because Boston has been training for emergencies like this and has been drilled twice in the last few years with 11 million dollars invested in responding to threats like this. We are one of the most prepared cities to handle this, and handle it we did. Respect to all police officers, mbta employees and even Dunkin Donuts employees who worked in our temporary ghost-town, to keep our Boston safe and running. We wish no ill will towards Chechnya or the muslims, save our few more ignorant people. But it was their equivalent hate-filled lost souls that did this to us. We are not perfect, but we are Boston Strong.

Long Overdue

“Beer-Induced Van Gogh”

It is a bit hard to recollect this story. The memories are foggy, scattered, and if asked to provide a proper timeline I would doubtlessly fail miserably. I remember a light chill in the air, fair weather, crowded streets, and creaky barroom floors. I also remember a pulled pork sandwich near the end of the night that I still wish I had ordered…

By that account itself, I would have to say that the mission was accomplished. Another Saint Patrick’s Day, and I managed to not have it suck. I think I’m starting to get good at this.

The parts I do remember were some starting drinks in what we (Joe, Myself, and my old flatmate, Gabbi) thought would be a hopping part of town. Maybe it was that most of the locals wanted a change of scenery for the year, or maybe beginning to drink at noon is a bit too early on St Patty’s. At least I think it was noon… regardless, it was dead, and we decided to move on.
We hopped and we hopped. Bar after bar, and in good Irish tradition, the night got better with every emptied pint glass. Thanks to Gabbi, we made ‘friends’ with two gentlemen at the final bar, who decided to buy us all Irish Car bombs. I remember the car bombs, and I remember not paying for a Guinness, but I know I had more. Joe destroyed a pulled pork sandwich, I was envious, and Gabbi was the target of a flirty man attempting to end his holiday the way I’m sure at least half of Boston did that night—with company between the sheets.
Eventually Joe and I decided to call it a day. Gabbi ditched her suitor, and we went our separate ways. Unfortunately we gave no mind to the time and found ourselves in the T with no more trains operating for the night. We began strategizing how to get ourselves back to Joe’s place when a scraggly young man came down the station’s stairs with a violin case. He stood off to the side for a time, standing idly and looking about as Joe and I continued to debate on waking someone to drive us home, or to get a cab. The scraggly man must have eavesdropped, because he soon came up, and asked us if all the trains were gone. He was just as disrupted by the news as we were, and soon pitched the idea of getting a cab with us. It made sense—three people would make it cheaper. We made our introductions, and tried not to give him too much shit when he told us his name was Patrick, and that he had been busking with his violin all day. You can’t really get more cliché than that.
We got up the top of the stairs of the station and ran into another lone wanderer. He asked us if we missed the last train out. We answered in diminishing voices, displaying without any shame that our extravagant nights had carried us away and caused us to lose track of time. There was probably a laugh, but all I heard was his invitation to drive us home.
Looking at the situation in retrospect, yes, we were two drunken men and a skinny Irish fiddler. We didn’t hesitate when offered a ride from a complete stranger. Maybe it was that we all subconsciously thought that the odds were in our favour if he jumped us, or tried to do something fishy. But there are still so many things that could have gone terribly wrong that night. The odd part is, though, that things didn’t go terribly wrong.
Things went terribly epic.

The three of us followed our stranger down the roads to get to his car.
“I know I parked it somewhere around here,” he said a few times as he looked down street after street.
Things were beginning to look a bit sketchy. After a few more ‘wrong streets,’ Joe and I exchanged a look, mentally agreeing that if this guy took us down some alleyway, or to a car that looked like it saw more drug deals than gas stations, we were going to bolt.
Finally, we heard, ‘ah there it is.’
With tensed muscles we turned the corner and looked upon a 1995 BMW 6 (how I remember the make of the car I have no idea. Alcohol is a strange thing). Seeing the mildly ritzy vehicle prompted a sigh of relief. After all, how bad could a guy be if he has a BMW?
The engine roared on, and as the stranger buckles his seatbelt he turns and says, ‘You guys alright listening to Willie Nelson?’

At that point, we pretty much knew that our stranger was a badass we could trust entirely. We all clicked our belts in, and then rode off into the early morning night.
A Joe, a Josh, a Patrick, a stranger with a BMW, and the sounds of Willie Nelson; we cruised down streets I can’t remember, and passed sights I could never claim seeing. The ride had more in common with a surrealist painting than a legitimate memory. The picture stays in the back of my mind, streaked with blurring yellow lights, black and blue shadows—all of them flowing together like a stream out of the frame. Somehow the most memorable part of that night was that car ride, and yet I can’t recall any more details than what I just wrote.
I don’t remember what the names of the bars were, I don’t remember the streets or locations we stumbled through, and I faintly recall falling into bed. But I do remember the people I was with, the colours of driving through Boston’s darkened streets, and I remember that the best part of my Saint Patrick’s Day was how it ended with two strangers being more generous and friendly than some I’ve referred to as ‘friends’.
There is probably some moral in that story, but I don’t know if I want to look for it. I’m not one to advocate ignorance over truth, but sometimes, a memory is just so damn good that one shouldn’t tamper with it. The lack of precise recollection just makes the whole day that much better to me. That painting is complete for me. I’m just going to let it hang on the wall, and ask no questions of technique or process.

But I think that guy’s BMW might have been soaked with pot smoke…

-J. Fensterbush