My first day in Hamburg. I am a bit tipsy from the delicious and absolutely perfect Riesling from Rheinland. After an intense, yet almost completely English orientation, I took the train from Cologne main station to Hamburg main station: 4 hours. My mentor and her friend picked me up and drove me to my apartment. They are young, vibrant, and incredibly nice. I was so thrilled and grateful to not have to take a taxi. After getting partially lost, we got to the apartment just before the office closed, which meant I could move in right away. I accidentally said, "Ich ziehe mich ein" when I should have said, "Ich ziehe ein" (I am moving in). My mistake was arbitrary, but had I said "Ich ziehe mich aus", then that would have meant "I am undressing". Anyway. It was funny.

My room is a single. Tiny kitchen and dining room. Itty-bitty bathroom and pretty spacious bedroom with a strange side room that has a sink, but no toilet. I am alone here in Hamburg. I have to say, it was wonderful to listen to Etta James, drink wine, and cook as wildly as I pleased without roommates. I don't mind solitude.

Before settling into my room I took a long stroll through St. Georg, which the part of the city that I am living in. I found an adaptor for my computer charger after three tries at various electronic marts. The third time was a charm and I was so happy that I told the cashier, "I am so happy that I finally found that thing!" Like most Germans, he smiled weakly and said "8 Euro 99, please". I know he thought it was funny though.

After discovering that three of the possibly million cell-phone stores in the city only offer contracts (when I want pre-paid), I went to "real", which is the cheap-ass supermarket/everything else you could possibly need store. I bought shit-loads of groceries and trucked them home.

For now, I am pleased. I feel incredibly fortunate. My meal was tremendous, the room is pleasant, I have a bed and kitchen wares. I am fortunate and I know that. I have never lived in a city, but I am prepared for all the excitement and over-stimulation. The only problem here is that I forgot to get sheets from the front desk. No Bettwäsche tonight. There are worse things.

The Way Homeward

Well folks.... Here it is. The last day. I am leaving Regensburg in about an hour, driving to the airport, and flying out of this place. My stomach is in knots, my heart is racing, I feel hungry but can't eat. I think a lot of this has to do with continent to continent flying, but I think a bit of it is because I am leaving this place that I have lived and called home. The truth is I never really connected myself to Regensburg. I love it. It is a wonderful city and I have enjoyed living here, but all that I hold dear here are people and people move and change. I will see them all again someday. I think it is so interesting how much our environments and lives change in such a short period of time. I feel like I have grown and changed so much in just 6 months. How can that be? Maybe it is because I am still young. I am worried though. I am worried because I feel like I can't stay in one place too long. Now that I am out of high school the world seems so vast and calls the traveler in me. I will always call Maine/Wellington my home. My roots are there. I just feel that wherever I am there is always more to see. The cultures are endless.
Here in Regensburg I befriended a girl from Taiwan. She studies in the U.S. and speaks exactly like an American. We really got along. She is so interesting. I learned so much about Taiwanese culture from her. I would ask question after question about her culture. I felt greedy for knowledge. This greed is what keeps me on my toes, always searching for culture in everything. I think I will see Asia. I think I want to bad enough that it will become truth. Eventually.
I guess I will finish the last bit of packing and then watch Desperate Housewives in German. It is much more entertaining in another language. I will be seeing everyone very soon.

The End

Well. Here it is. The end is in sight. Today is exactly 2 weeks until I leave Regensburg, fly out of Europe, and back into the States. 2 weeks from today I will see my mom. I can't believe it is so close. Can it be that today is also the 6 month mark? I have been living in another country for half a year. How have I changed?  Do I look different? Do I talk different? Do I still have the same opinions? Nothing is the same, but then again I am still Lucy. This time away has made me see life from a distance. I don't always think about the little tiny things that will hurt or annoy, instead I have begun to see all things that happen and will happen in the terms of my entire life so far and what is to come.
I have hope for humanity even if it looks bad right now. I hope people will understand the importance of each other and having human connection as well as our connection to the natural world. I hope greed and waste don't overpower love and hope. When we have those two things, eventually the other things will come too. I don't want to give up on humanity. If I do, that means someone else will. I will not. Even when our species is dead and gone and the world is run by insects, I will still believe in humanity.
This entry has drifted away from its original destination. I have to work now. Like in the book "The Road" by Cormac McCarthey, don't forget "we are carrying the fire".

España: The Land of Picasso, Bull-fighting, Tapas, Flamenco and perfect weather: Final Installment

The next day I was on my own again. I went to the real Alcazar, which is this wonderful extravagant palace with gardens 10 times the actual size of the palace. Great stone arches lead into a paradise that I imagine the Garden of Eden would have looked like. The call of a bird I had never heard rang through the tall eucalyptus and palm trees. It was a peacock or should I say many peacocks. I got to see the male impress the females with his enormous bouquet of beautiful shiny blue, green and brown tail feathers. I walked past orange trees heavily laden with decorative fruit, oriental plants, jungle flowers, beautiful stone fountains, pools and other fantastical flora. That night I went to one of my hostess's Flamenco dance classes. I thought I might dance, but that wasn't happening. You need high heels and more experience. I got to watch some of the foot work though and that prepared me for what I would see in an actual performance later. The Flamenco class took place in my hostess's tiny studio. There were 8 people other than myself. The dancers stomp so hard on the wooden floor that it sounds like hundreds of gun shots going off at once. It was so loud!
The next day I bought a croissant from the only German bakery I could find in the city. It was heavenly. It was so soft I had to be careful not to squish it in the bag on my way home. I parked myself on the roof terrace and prepared for what I knew would be an incredible food experience. The buttery warm pastry flaked off easily in my hands. As I sunk my teeth into that light feathery fresh delight I got a lovely crunch from the perfectly browned outside and was pleasantly surprised by a silky smooth and soft inside. I ate it in a million ways. I couldn't figure out how to handle such a treat. I flaked pieces off with my fingers, I broke chunks off and popped them in my mouth and I just bit right into that pastry. I made it last as long as possible. When I was done eating it I could still taste the buttery goodness in my mouth.
That night I went to see a real flamenco show. It felt like a dream. First we were introduced to the singer and guitar player. The singer was out of this world sensational. He was so into the music and I couldn't help but get goose-bumps. The guitar player was this tall skinny man with long fingers that flew across the strings. The female dancer was beautiful and the male dancer was too. Their faces were so intense and their feet moved at lightning speed. It was almost inhuman. The interesting thing about Flamenco is that it seems like every single muscle in the dancer's body is contracted. Everything is tight, sharp and clean. It almost looks like it hurts. The tradition is still incredibly alive in Spain and I could see that everywhere I went.

España: The Land of Picasso, Bull-fighting, Tapas, Flamenco and perfect weather: Part 4

The next day I finally got to have adventures with my hostess. We put up a few posters for her Flamenco class and then went to a traditional restaurant to eat some tapas. When I say tapas I mean TAPAS! They were incredible. We both started with wine. Then came the thick toasted white bread with gespatcho on top and juicy chunks of Spain's famous cured ham. Then, part way through that came the whiskey marinated pork fillet with whiskey marinated roasted garlic cloves (there must have been 2 whole heads of garlic on our plate) and fried potatoes, all of which was completely smothered in delicious green Spanish olive oil. Part way through that dish came the stuffed eggplant filled with veggies and tender baby shrimp all of which was covered in a lovely layer of melted cheese. When we were almost finished a waiter brought us a plate and said what was on it was a secret and smiled. To our delight it was tender chicken covered in a sweet almond sauce on top of more fried potatoes and drizzled with more olive oil. As you can imagine we were both in food comas after that. After a siesta we took to bicycles. We wove our way in and out of tight alleys, dodging people, baby carriages and motorized vehicles. It was really incredible to experience the city like someone who lived there. We went to a Teteria, which is a place to drink tea on pretty cushions on the floor or behind lacy curtains and smoke Shisha (water pipe), something that is really popular in Europe. I love it and can even blow smoke rings! I met some of my hostess's friends, one of which was an arabic dancer in that very Teteria. She worked there by dancing throughout the restaurant and entertaining the customers. It was not meant to be sexual in the least and it didn't appear that way. However, she was incredibly beautiful and sexy and a really excellent arabic dancer. Once a late hour of the night had dawned my hostess and I took back to the streets on our bikes. It was pitch black, but the many lights of the city lit our way. It was exhilarating. We put up some more posters and called it a day.

España: The Land of Picasso, Bull-fighting, Tapas, Flamenco and perfect weather: Part 3

The next day I was once again alone looking for adventure. I decided to get in some distance with the most reliable form of transportation I know: my legs. I walked down small alleys and saw more and more old churches. More than I have ever seen in Europe. I found the river that runs through the city, Gaudal Quivir. It was huge and even though the weather wasn't ideal I walked along it for a bit. I found the Torro del Oro or Tower of Gold and the Plaza del Torros where bull-fights still take place this day. Apparently the way a bull-fight works is that the bull-fighter (a man dressed in fancy black and gold) comes out with a red cloak on and then proceeds to taunt the bull with the cloak. I guess the red infuriates the bull and gets it really worked up. Then the bull-fighter takes spears and impales the bull with them. This takes a while because he continues to throw spears until the bull stops moving. The bull will sometimes run for quite a while with numerous spears in its body. Once the bull is dead two horses come out and the men tie the bull to some rope attached to the horses. As an expression of the great success of the fight the bull is dragged in circles around the ring and the crowd cheers. At the end the only remnants of the bull are circles of blood in the sand. I was told that the meat was traditionally eaten, but I don't know if that is the case today. I refused to see that. I realize it is a very old tradition, but I wasn't going to be cheering about the brutal killing of a bull. After I saw that I walked back toward the heart of the city and found about 3 incredible palaces to explore. While walking in one of the gardens a man on a bicycle road up to me with a rose in his hand. He handed me the rose and asked "Como te llamas?" (What's your name?). I said "Gracias" and walked away without answering. I realized it wasn't a good idea to take the rose a bit later when I looked behind me and the man was looking at me through the trees. I made sure he saw me take the rose and throw it on the ground. I felt bad, but he didn't bother me again. I learned that by taking the rose I was leading the man on. I think it is fascinating how traditions like that are still so frequent. In the Plaza de España I talked with my mom for a quite a while only to discover after the conversation that I was charged ridiculous roaming fees and had only 80 cents left. I was so distraught that I simply cried on the castle stairs watching the lovely tourists in silly row-boats. Even though they were silly I couldn't help but think it would be fun if I had had someone else to enjoy them with. Crying made me feel much better and since I couldn't do anything about my problem at the moment I continued walking. I walked home and had an incredible and well-deserved siesta. After my nap I showered and put on my cute new dress and went to El Rinconcillo for some tapas. While standing by the bar eating Garbanzo beans and sipping a glass of red wine an old man came up to me. At first I was unsure what was going on. He laid a paper napkin with some writing on it next to me on the bar. I asked him "Para mi?" and he nodded and left. I was so curious so I picked up the napkin and read it. Naturally it was in Spanish, but I could understand it pretty well. It was a love note. I have never been so affected by such a small gesture in my life. The man must have been 80 or so. He was shortened by his years, had a sort of hump in his back and every hair on his head was white as fresh snow. Regardless, I was taken. I thought if only he had been my age. Why don't men write love letters anymore? I think people think it is creepy. Yes, maybe it was a little bit, but still... If it is meant in ernest, why not? I gushed. I have never been complimented in such a way. Maybe I needed that reassurance even if it came from someone not so perfect. You tell me. Is it possible to move away from the creepy side of it and take it as a huge compliment?

About That Time

Well, it is that time. I am finally homesick. Since I arrived in Regensburg I have missed my family and friends. It was never anything I dwelled on though. It was sort of just part of being away, like a vacation. It never made me cry and I didn't have any great desire to go home. Now, however, the vacation period is long passed and I am in it for real. The homesickness I have is not paralyzing. It is only present in moments of quiet, when I am alone. It is a slight gnawing in my stomach and chest. I have only teared up twice. It isn't so very bad, but it is present. The fact that we only have 10 weeks left here makes it sound so temporary. It is hard for me to settle into a NEW semester when this entire trip is over half over. I love it here. Really I do. I have a part in a play. I have a job. My german is improving quickly. I have really good friends, etc. Regardless, I would love to be at home sitting at the dinner table with my parents drinking a glass of wine and chatting about things that aren't so important. Knowing that so much love exists is what makes one homesick. Knowing that all of the people who know me and love me are far away is scary. No one has to tell me that not much time is left and that I should enjoy it, I know that. I am just realizing that it has been a long time and missing home is all part of my experience. At least I am happy. This is the longest I have ever been away from home and I am pretty proud of myself for only being slightly homesick. Being homesick also makes me glad because I have something to miss. I have something to go home to. I am not alone. Never truly alone.