A different point of view

T

he first time I traveled outside the United States, I looked forward to a seismic cultural experience that would change my life forever. In reality, I was in my tender twenties and about to embark on a college-credit trip to Germany. I wasn’t responsible for booking flights, coordinating lodging, or even scheduling my own passport photo. I was surrounded by fellow students, all of whom sat squarely inside my comfort zone. Doesn’t sound like much of a cultural experience, does it? But it was, though not on the grand scale I had imagined.    

The first weeks of the trip were spent in a lodge at the edge of the Black Forest. We had language class every morning and excursions in the afternoons. A professor on the trip told us that he and his friends used to study for exams at a favorite cemetery nearby. I was perplexed. Then I saw my first cemetery in Baden-Württemberg. It was a beautiful botanical garden, each gravesite covered with blooming flowers. Rakes and shovels were stacked in common areas for families to use when they came to weed and water. I was touched by this way of memorializing loved ones. A different point of view.

While staying at the lodge, we volunteered to help with general tasks. One of the girls on the kitchen staff was about my age. While we sliced cold cuts for sack lunches, we laughed and talked (in a cumbersome mix of Schwabisch and English) about boys, clothes, and the meaning of life. She taught me a nifty way of tying plastic bags that I still use today. No twist ties? No problem. A different point of view.

The bus we used had a microphone for tour guides. In the pre-cell-phone era, it didn’t take long before open mic competitions broke out. Anyone with talent (and quite a few without it), took turns at entertaining the captive audience. Our favorite was a bookish guy who played Dungeons and Dragons and knew the lyrics to every Dr. Demento song from the 1970s. He did a Kermit the Frog impersonation that was next-level, complete with clever improvisations. Jim Henson would have hired him.

With his performances to keep us laughing, we rolled over the German countryside. One mist-shrouded morning we toured a medieval castle, where I stood alone on the battlements and imagined trebuchets lining the surrounding valleys. A different point of view.

We ate Black Forest cherry cake and “spaghettieis” every chance we could. We took the night train into Berlin and learned to navigate the city buses. We crossed the border at Checkpoint Charlie and bought coffee and newspapers in East Berlin. We listened while a weathered old shop owner lamented his lack of business, in the same way that weathered old gentlemen lament their fates around the world. I became convinced that a breakfast of brotchen and jam was superior to Pop Tarts. In matters weighty or trivial, I experienced a different point of view.

Near the end of the trip, we scheduled a cookout at an orchard near the place where we were staying. The ancient trees were gnarled and gray, towering over us like silent Ents from a Tolkien tale. After supper we strolled along the gravel pathways. A hazy sunset lingered around us, along with the smoke from our fire.

We laughed at our favorite inside jokes, then fell quiet as the sun slipped away. Our talented friend sang softly. “Carolina in the Pines,” in the voice of Kermit the Frog.

I was somehow filled with the wonder and improbability of it all. I felt at home, a citizen of the world, an intrepid traveler keen for future adventure. A seismic experience? No. But like that sunset, it has lingered. And left me with a different point of view.