Solo in le Montagne: Don’t Trust Your Travel Book

Before our semester in Italy began, someone gave us a Rick Steves travel book of Italy. It turned out to be a great gift and we became big fans of Rick Steves, whose travel advice led us on many wonderful adventures. There were, however a few times when his guidance was lacking in some way or another–our trip to Rome being a prime example.

Our first few days in Rome were an absolute success with each of Steves’ recommendations turning out better than the last. In addition to the obvious destinations, (the Colosseum or the Roman Forum) his book led us to an off-the-beaten-path crypt of the capuchin monks lined with skulls of deceased monks (a momento mori– reminder of death). It took us to a spectacular cafe where we received free glasses of wine just for placing our book on the table. And, finally, on his recommendation, we planned to get dinner at a small pizzeria where he claimed the best pizza in Rome was produced.

He did mention that the service could be a little rude, but we thought the great pizza would be worth a little neglect in hospitality. 

 

Pizzeria Baffetto, Rome

We headed down a narrow, cobblestoned side street from the Pantheon. As Pizzaria Baffetto wasn’t due to open for another 15 minutes, we were surprised to see a line already forming in front of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Waiting in line, we noticed a strange sign on the door. Two stick figures, one wearing a backpack and one holding a backpack in front of it. A big red “X” over the one wearing the backpack and a big “OK” was next to the one holding the backpacks.

Okay, a little strange, but Italians never fail to raise the bar on strangeness. When the doors opened, we took off our backpacks and carried them inside.

This little joint could have been straight out of Jersey. A cramped room jammed full of tables, tiled walls you could barely see for the jumble of pictures and memorabilia that covered them, and a wood-fired oven in the back corner.

Two Italian men were shaping and throwing pizzas in the oven and pulling them out again minutes later, crisp, golden, cheesy.

We ordered our pizzas, one with eggplant and another with zucchini flowers (an Italian delicacy). While we waited for them to arrive we scanned the pictures covering the walls. A short, squat, old man with suspenders, glasses and a cane made so many appearances we could only assume he was the owner.

Even as we were taking all of this in, that same squat figure appeared in the doorway; complete with suspenders, glasses, and cane. He stared intently around the room with a slightly crazed glare and then began shouting at the staff in Italian.

We sort of chuckled to ourselves about this, remembering Rick Steves’ warning about the rude service.

A moment later, another flux of visitors came through the door and the owner stared at them, unwelcomingly, with those beady eyes. The last to come through the door were two young people–a guy and girl–clearly tourists, wearing backpacks.

As soon as he laid eyes on them, the owner began yelling in Italian and the two kids turned to stare in surprise and confusion. “NO! NO! Solo in le montagne! No zaini! NO!”

The kids were stunned and tried to ask what was the matter. These tourists clearly didn’t speak a word of Italian; they were completely lost.

We tried to help, calling across the room “Take off your backpacks! It’s your backpacks! Take them off!”

At this point, the owner began beating their backpacks with his cane, still shouting “NO! Solo in le montagne!” In case you didn’t catch that, it translates, “No backpacks! Only in the mountains!”

In desperation, the bewildered kids pleaded, “We don’t speak Italian!”
The owner, still delivering blows with his cane: “No Italinano? OUT! OUT!

At this point we were standing up, cupping our hands, and shouting, “TAKE YOUR BACKPACKS OFF!”

Finally, they got the message and pulled their backpacks off. Immediately, the shouting and beating stopped, and they were allowed to take their seats (in light of their first impression, it still amazes me that they chose to do so…).

The owner resumed his beady-eyed stance, neck forward, staring around the room.

Just then, our pizzas were unceremoniously deposited in front of us on tin plates. And, I have to say, Rick Steves was right: this was the best pizza I have ever eaten. Paper thin crust, burnt around the edges, sauce so hot it would scald you. The most incredible stringy, bubbling cheese.

 

Pizza with zucchini flowers.

 

But really, Rick Steves? Slightly rude service? A bit of an understatement.

That said, would I go back? Absolutely. Any authentic Italian experience should include a hefty helping of the absurd.

15 Things About Germans that Will Strike Americans as Strange

When you visit another country there are things that you expect to feel different. Maybe the clothing, the architecture, the language, etc. But after having lived in Germany for about 9 months, these aren’t the things that continue to take me off-guard and manage to continually make me feel like I have two left feet. Except for the occasional pair of lederhosen, people pretty much dress the same, the houses have four walls and a roof, and even the language, while different, sounds remarkably familiar. But there are many other things, often very small that continue to feel very odd. Here are just a few of them.

[My experience is primarily within Bavaria, particularly Franconia; things vary a great deal throughout the rest of the country.]

1. The Post Office Owns Everything

In the US we go to the post office to…send mail–and that’s about it, right? Not so in Germany! The Post here has its own bank–Post Bank. It has its own bus line–Postbus. It offers horse drawn carriage rides at Christmas time. Recently we got a new prepaid phone plan and discovered that our plan needs to be reloaded manually–by the post office.

 

2. Doors With Handles…That You Push

This one still gets me every time. You go to a business, walk up to a door with a handle and pull…and nothing happens. And then you realize the door says “drucken” or “push”. Why?? It is odd to have business doors open inward to begin with; why add a handle to the confusion?

3. The Most Un-Doggy Dogs

In Germany, dogs tend to be extremely well-behaved. So well-behaved, in fact, that most of them walk themselves. Walking through the city, it is a common sight to see a dog completely leashless trotting ahead of its person. In the parks, the dogs romp free–and occasionally circle back to their owners. Many times I’ve tried to hold a hand out to get the dog’s attention for a quick pat, and the dog blatantly ignores me and keeps going. Not once have I been approached or jumped on by a dog here. Another common sight is a dog patiently waiting outside a business for its person–sometimes tied up, sometimes not. 

4. Dogs in Restaurants

You don’t see this all the time, but to an American it can be quite shocking. You are sitting in a nice cafe or restaurant, and, all of a sudden, you notice a furry friend under a neighboring table! But, once again, dogs tend to be strangely un-doggy and incredibly well-behaved here, so they simply lay there quietly without disrupting the meal.

5. Grocery Stores are Madness

When you go to a grocery store in the US, there is normally a long chute at the checkout line where your groceries accumulate so you have plenty of time and space to pack them away. Often the cashier packs them for you, or another employee assists you with the bagging.

Not so in Germany! When its your turn at the cash register you had better be ready to throw all those groceries in bags or shovel them back in your cart (unbagged) as fast as the cashier pushes them through, AND be ready with payment when he or she is finished. No nice chute exists here. You are lucky if there is a foot of counter space. And if you don’t have all those groceries away before the transaction is finished? The cashier will usually start pushing the next customer’s groceries through right on top of yours!

My husband and I usually grocery shop together just so we can appropriately handle this stressful experience. When we are the next customers in line we brace ourselves as if for a race; “Are you ready? You get the money, I’ll bag, okay?”

6.  Toilets

Toilets in Europe are generally a little confusing. In the US every toilet is more or less the same. In Europe there might be a handle to flush, or a button. Or there might be a button on the wall, or TWO BUTTONS, and, occasionally, there is no toilet seat. But the most perturbing thing of all is the German poop-shelf toilet.

As you can see, where there should be a basin of water there is instead a shelf. An above-water shelf. I won’t go into too much detail, but I’m sure you can imagine the complications a toilet like this might pose. I’ll just give you three words for the sake of illustration: ODOR, RESIDUE, LODGED.

In every public bathroom, in every stall, there is a toilet brush. And each person is expected to use that toilet brush (on a public toilet!) because, with a design like this, residue is inevitable. 

7. Sitting Outside in the Winter

This is one of the odd things about Germany that I really love. Walking through a city on a cold fall, or even winter day, you are likely to see Germans sitting outside drinking a cappuccino while wrapped in a blanket. As soon as the weather starts to get just a little bit cold, fleece blankets and sometimes sheepskins appear on every chair outside of restaurants. It is definitely a little odd to see people wrapped up in blankets while at a public restaurant, but also wonderful! 

8. Everyone is Always Eating a Pretzel

This is actually pretty much just relegated to Bavaria, but in Bavaria everyone is obsessed with pretzels. And rightly so–they are amazing. But they seem completely unaware of the oddness of their behavior. You see children snacking on them like candy, businessmen eating them on the way to work; pretzels are served alongside rolls at restaurants for dinner, in train stations you will find them in the form of sandwiches, and the list goes on. Probably the oddest pretzel sighting we’ve witnessed was at the opera during intermission. The opera in Nuremberg is a very formal affair–more formal than most weddings. During the intermission everyone gathers in gorgeous room with gilded decor and massive chandeliers, sipping champagne…and munching on big soft pretzels alongside their bubbly. 

Their love of pretzels goes to such lengths that they even apparently find it to be an appropriate form of advertisement for bedding.

9. Beer is Cheaper than Water

When you go to a German restaurant you are not automatically served a glass of water–you pay for it. Germans are not a big fan of tap water (in some restaurants, even if you request it, you will not be given it) and vastly prefer bottled water. In restaurants a bottle of water can easily cost 3-4 euros. Meanwhile, a beer usually ranges from 2.50-4 euros. It is hard to bring yourself to buy that water when you could get a beer instead for the same price or lower…

10. No Open Container Laws

On that same note, you can drink alcohol pretty much whenever and wherever you want. You will see people walking down the street with a bottle of beer, on the subway, settling in for a long bus or train ride, in parks–pretty much anywhere you can imagine. On holidays, such as New Year, everyone takes to the streets with bottles of champagne and plastic flutes to drink and celebrate. 

11. Butter on Sandwiches

I was going hiking with some Germans recently and they prepared some sandwiches to bring along. I was confused to see them buttering bread, but decided that they must be making grilled cheese sandwiches. Mid-hike we stopped and they brought out ham and cheese sandwiches. When I took a bite I was confused and then realized they had put butter on them! When I asked about it they replied, “Yes, it is butter. Why, what would you put on a sandwich?” When I said “mayo” they were horrified and said, “typical American.” 

12. They Don’t Put Mayo on Sandwiches, but They DO Put it on Fries

So instead of using mayo for its intended purpose, they put it on their french fries! (this is actually done in a number of European countries).

13. They Knock

My husband is attending graduate school in Germany. After his first lecture, the professor wrapped things up and he prepared to grab his stuff and head out. But to his complete surprise, all of the students began knocking on their desks. He looked around in confusion as all of the straight-faced German students knocked on their desks, then abruptly stopped and proceeded to pack up and leave. This occurred in the next class and the next. 

14. Waiting at Crosswalks

Germans always wait till the crosswalk light turns green before crossing. It doesn’t matter if there is not a car in sight, or if the oncoming traffic has already stopped for their red light–the Germans wait. I cannot express how painful this is–to be in a rush and get to a crosswalk where it is clearly safe to cross, but everyone continues to stand there motionless. It is very difficult to bring yourself to cross with all of those dutifully law-abiding Germans patiently waiting! (My husband got yelled at once by a fellow pedestrian for crossing before the light changed; “the light is still red, Mensch!”).

15. They Intentionally Deliver Your Mail to Your Neighbors

When we first arrived in Germany I was very confused when one evening I heard my doorbell ring and opened the door to a man in plain clothes standing at my door with a package. He handed me the package and walked away. I shrugged and didn’t think much of it. I received a number of other packages, sometimes from an official post man, and sometimes from apparently random people.

One day I opened my mailbox to find a slip indicating I had received a package. My German was not good enough to understand everything on the slip, but I gathered that I needed to go to the post office to pick it up. So I did.

I handed the slip over the counter and requested my packett. They looked at the slip and informed me they did not have it, but that my nachbar had it. “Who the heck is my nachbar??”I asked. The postal worker looked perplexed, turned to a co-worker, and then said tentatively to me, “neighbor?”

Now, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence where a friendly neighbor who knew me and the postman stepped up and said, “Oh, she isn’t home? I’ll take it for her.” No, this is an official practice commonly utilized, and you are officially notified of it by your postal slip.

Deportation: The Experience of a Privileged White American

Ever wondered what a deportation letter looks like? Now you know.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be deported from a country you are living in? If you are an average, privileged, native, white American like myself, then probably not. Perhaps you have imagined what it is like to be a Mexican immigrant sent home to drug cartels or a Syrian refugee sent back to war and terrorism. But while the issue of immigration is a major social and political issue in the US today, for many of us the concept of deportation is foreign and abstract. As US citizens we have wide freedom to travel the world with minimal hassle. And most of us don’t have plans of moving out of the country.

But what if you did? What if you wanted or needed to move out of the US, but couldn’t?

This isn’t a political statement (though I do have my own thoughts on immigration policy), it is the story of of a unique and unexpected experience which has changed the way I look at personal freedom of mobility forever.

———

As I turned the key in my mailbox I felt the usual clenching of my stomach. I opened the door and a fat, orange envelope was waiting inside. It was heavy and thick in my hands and I couldn’t breathe as I opened it there in the public hallway–too anxious to wait until I reached my own apartment. I hurriedly scanned the twelve pages of dense , formal German; searching for words I recognized. For something that would clue me in to the nature of this document.

I hadn’t made sense of a single sentence before the rock settled in my stomach. This was wrong. The orange envelope, the thickness of the packet, too many pages. I didn’t know anything yet.

But I knew.

———

When my husband got the acceptance letter for a prestigious graduate program in Germany, we were ecstatic. It had been our dream to live in Europe for a while, and he needed to get a master’s degree–which we could not afford. The discovery of free programs in Germany seemed to be the perfect solution. We only had a few months to get everything together–visas, flights, find an apartment, etc. It was overwhelming.

I had been working at Starbucks for over a year with the hopes that this would happen and I could transfer internationally–making the international job and visa process much easier. Unfortunately, Starbucks would not “sponsor” a visa. AKA, they would not give the necessary documentation I needed to obtain a work visa, saying that they would hire me once I was overseas.

The most viable solution then seemed to be to move to Germany with the automatic three month tourist visa available to US citizens traveling in the EU and apply for a work permit while there. My husband was granted temporary legal residency as a graduate student and I had an employer that wanted to hire me and I am American. It should have been easy, right?

———

I stood in a long line of people of various nationalities–old, young, children fidgeting. The place smelled of body odor. And anxiety.

I recited my carefully practiced sentences under my breath. But I prayed the person in the booth would speak English. The game of trying to speak a foreign language while ordering my morning “Kaffee” or “Brot und Kase” at the market lost all its enjoyment when it came to trying to explain the finer points of my legal requests. 

I had learned that it was hit or miss. Some of the immigration officials spoke okay English, some none, and some simply refused to speak anything but German whether they could or not. I looked around at the foreign faces surrounding me and wondered how they did it. Did they speak German? Or English, the current lingua franca? Did they have any hope of someone speaking their language? Did they have friends to help them?

The Asian family ahead of me was moving on. It was my turn. I walked up to the booth to see a blank, disinterested face looking back at me. “Sprechen Sie English?” I ask, tentatively. The man thinks for a moment and then shrugs. “Nein.”

I summon my rehearsed lines. I know I only have a few minutes to convey what I need before the restlessness of the line behind me transfers to the man before me.

I leave the building moments later in tears. Less sure than ever of my situation or what is expected of me. I always leave more hopeless than when I arrive.

———

So much of our new life was wonderful. An adorable little apartment, winding cobblestone streets, immersion in a beautiful old culture. We were full of hope and anticipation. But we were anxious to get my job and residency settled so we could feel stable and at rest.

The weeks passed and I had not heard anything about my work permit. We watched our savings dwindle. But it would be okay. It would come through and everything would be fine if I could just work.

———

My husband attended classes in another town several days a week. At first I tried to keep busy during the day. But as time passed I did less. I stayed in bed till the mail came. Then I would check it for news. Nothing. Another day until my life could begin again.

Back to bed.

I would hear his footsteps on the stairs and hurriedly put on pants and wait on the couch so he wouldn’t know I had been in bed all day. 

Two or three times every week we went to the Auslandebehorde to ask for updates. Next week, they said. And then the next week. And on and on. 

Every day was a cycle of fear, anticipation, and disappointment. 

We did our best to enjoy life anyway. And we did, while looking out from the castle ramparts, or sitting outside a tiny cafe eating gelato. But with a perpetual cloud hanging over us.

One day we went to the Auslandebehorde, determined to get answers. In broken English they informed me that my application for a work permit had been rejected. I was not a “priority” they said. 

The shock of the statement took me so off guard I could not absorb it. Could this happen to us? Could we be rejected? Denied permission to remain in a country despite having solid work and school opportunities?

I stared in disbelief. Our savings were nearly gone. We were screwed. 

———

In the face of this harsh blow we mustered all the strength we had left, determined to find a solution. Starbucks requested that the application be reassessed–stating that they wanted me and that I would be a valuable asset. No avail.

I was running out of time, but at the last minute I obtained an online job writing for an American Web design company and submitted an application for spousal reunification.

We had to downsize our apartment to get by. I couldn’t leave the country while my paperwork was being processed. I looked on the Polizei with nervousness–afraid I would make some small infraction and be promptly removed.

But overall, things got better. We were hopeful. I had a paycheck, small though it was.

———

I had just begun to relax, to really enjoy this amazing opportunity of living in another country when a letter arrived. All in German, as usual. A friend translated for us–they needed more documents to determine whether I was eligible to stay.

I waited in line again. Anxiously. At the cubicle a woman took my papers. She looked at them and informed me that they would be filed and I would receive “eine brief von die Post.” 

I tried not to let fear get to me. I embraced our life here. I loved the city. We went running. Explored castles, cathedrals, and forests. We collected keepsakes, pretty dishes, a painting to hang on the wall. We planned and dreamed of the places we would travel once I received my permit. I prayed for a letter so I could be approved. I hoped the mailbox would be empty so I wouldn’t be rejected. 

———

It had never occurred to me prior to this experience that I couldn’t  leave the US if I wanted to. I’m a privileged white American. Of course I can go where I want and do what I want.

If I had the money, that might be true. But countries don’t want to take on new residents that they aren’t confident will benefit their national community. I thought I would obviously meet these requirements.

I didn’t.

———

I could not read the tedious pages in the yellow envelope. I caught words here and there, but we needed to translate it. We laboriously typed page after page into a translator. It only took the first page to know I had been rejected. Another to know there was no use trying to appeal it.

They had decided they didn’t want me and, for someone without means, that was the end of it. No one had sat down with us, heard our story, explained what was needed. Just letters in German demanding this or that by a certain date. We never anticipated failure. So sudden. So final.

I’ll admit we had thought about just staying anyways, but the formidable threats of “forcible removal” and never being able to re-enter solidified our decision to give up. 

I was given less than a month to depart.

———

We are canceling our lease, our internet, buying last minute flights, emptying our nearly empty bank accounts. But my husband already has job opportunities lined up and my work is increasing by the day. We have no house or car to return to, but comfortable and loving family and friends will be waiting to embrace us and support us.

I can’t help but think of what it would be like if that weren’t the case. If we had risked everything, for nothing. If our goal in moving had been survival, not simply taking advantage of an exciting life opportunity.