Backpacking Chica

It was the day after I arrived in Germany. I’d just woken up. I immediately checked for new bug bites; a silly habit from Equatorial Guinea. It was cold outside, and I was wearing a sweater. I took my breakfast (fresh bread, marmalade, butter, and yogurt) out onto the porch. The bright spring sun gave everything a beautiful glow. It was nice to have seasons again. What a concept. My grandma’s potted flowers looked absolutely gorgeous. Young vegetables grew in ordered rows; field after field stretched out in front of me. To the right I saw a church tower; it rang once to remind me that it was half past the hour.

It was so serine. So beautiful. So necessary for my happiness. I ate a spoonful of the yogurt. It tasted so…delicious. I wondered why I was so in awe over the flavor. And then I realized: I hadn’t had fresh dairy in more than four months. Weird…and very…cow-like?

I realized I was running late. Today was the day I would be driving two hours north to get my three-month visa for Madagascar. I quickly got dressed in the nicest clothes I owned; khaki field pants, a white button-down shirt (quick dry and insect repelling!), blue earrings, and a colorful headband. It wasn’t much, but at least it was clean. Thanks to my grandma’s washing machine.

The clothes smelled like laundry detergent. It almost smelled better to me than perfume. Ahhh…the luxuries of civilization.

The drive was uneventful, which was good considering I was maneuvering on the autobahn. I stopped at a rest area to stretch my legs. Leaning on the bumper of the car, I affectionately patted the dark red hood and I thought about how perfect this vehicle was for the occasion. It had to be at least 25 years old; a Volkswagen (car of the people!) with zero amenities. Just what I needed, really. I’d turned into a person who appreciated modern appliances so much that it could actually be distracting to have such things as automatic windows, a radio, or…anything other than a wheel and pedals.

I got my visa without much effort. The whole shebang cost me thirty Euros more than I thought it would, ten minutes of my time, and a few nice pleasantries. With the mission completed, I spent my drive home looking forward to the next days’ big occasion.

A friend of mine, Mark, from Equatorial Guinea was coming to stay with my family for two nights…and I was going to get to play tour guide. Even though I’d left EG less than 72 hours ago, I was already excited to have a reminder of my time there.

That night I set my alarm for 5am. He wasn’t landing until 5:45am, but there was no way I was going to be late. Famous last words.

It felt like the middle of the night when I groggily rolled over; half opening my right eye I peered at my way-too-bright watch face. Could it that be …no…it wasn’t …yep, it really was 5:41am. “SHIT”, I cursed. (Pardon my French, but in an effort to retain journalistic integrity, I must tell the truth. You understand.)

I jumped out of bed. I sped out of my room; still pulling on my shirt when I ran down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

I tried to start the car. It definitely was not happy about the rude awakening. Clearly we had not bonded as much on the previous days’ drive as I had thought.

I tried again. Thank the Lord, Jesus Christ, and the Virgin Mary; the engine roared. I backed out of the driveway before it had time to change its mind.

At the airport I got lost in the parking garage. I’m not really sure how I managed this, but I actually entered the correct way, but found myself driving, in the wrong direction, on a one-way parking garage “road” to the exit. I made a slightly illegal U-turn, drove incorrectly down another one-way road and then placed the car into a random parking spot for safe keeping.

It was 6:23am. I was too late. Mark was probably already a citizen of the land where all lost travelers eventually end up; a land of McDonald’s, bad Chinese food, and overpriced alcohol (folks: is that duty free crap really that much cheaper?). I could live with myself if I knew that he was just destined for an eternity of fast food, but the expensive alcohol? That, my friends, I would wish on no-one. Not even my worst enemy. Well, maybe my worst enemy….but that’s neither here nor there.

I ran to the arrival gate, which was rather unassuming. B2. Terminal 1 (if you must know). A ton of very grumpy looking German-people were waiting in front. German people aren’t the happiest looking bunch in general. Add an early morning and zero caffeine into the equation, and you may or may not become the recipient of some well-practiced evil stares.

Anyway, not one person looked like they were waiting for someone from Africa…not that I’m sure what that kind of individual looks like. Perhaps I expected people to be wearing African garb. Maybe someone listening to P-Square obnoxiously on a phone. Maybe a few catcalls. Nope, none of those telltale signs were presented to me. There were a couple of teenage boys who looked like they were up to no good; they had stylish haircuts though, so I thought it safe to approach them (sound rationalization if you ask me). Unfortunately, they were not, in fact, waiting for a flight from Equatorial Guinea. My right eye twitched a little.

So I left to go and search for the various places that Mark may have gone. I should note that this all sounds very calm. So let me clarify: I was frantic. For those of you who do not know, the Frankfurt airport is ginormous. Yes, it is gigantic and enormous…ginormous. Let me reiterate. The Frankfurt Airport is like its own little city. In fact, it should just consider annexing itself from Germany and then it could at least exist in its own, overpriced, Icelandic ash peace.

Mark did not have any contact phone numbers, my home address, or a working computer (believe it or not…his laptop shocks him when he uses it. Yes. His electronics hate him that much). Add to this, the fact that when I get nervous I lose most human traits and regress into some sub-species that includes helicopter moms, crazy ex-girlfriends, and parents that live vicariously through their offspring.

Houston we have a problem.

Taking a deep breath (woosah!), I decided to return to the arrivals gate. If Mark was, indeed, wandering around the airport, it would make sense for him to eventually return to his point of arrival. Nervously picking at my fingernails, I spun on my heels and headed back the direction I had come from.

And then I saw him.

He looked so American…and a little wide-eyed; it was hard not to notice him. The only guy in the whole lower Terminal 1 wearing a baseball hat, and likely the only person in the whole airport that had just spent the last year in an African city. Everything seemed novel to him. He was so excited to be in cool weather, and the fact that there were so many white people (:::cough cough World War II cough cough:::) that he politely ignored the fact that I had totally forgotten where I had parked the car or the fact that I forgot to pay for our parking and we got semi-stuck at the exit gate.

Looking back, his laissez-faire attitude could also have been due to the confirmed typhoid and possible malaria he was suffering from. But I digress.

The next two days were awesome. It was so nice to have a reason to be a tourist in my own country. To have someone who genuinely wanted to see Germany, and to be able to show off just a small percent of the culture I am so proud of.

We drove down the winding Rhine, started counting castles, but ended up just chatting instead. I took him to Burg Liebenstein, a place that I first discovered with my dad and sisters back in 2003. It’s a tiny, unassuming little castle that has fantastic views, good beers, and delicious goulash to boot. I have no idea how they stay in business; it’s never, ever frequented by tourists and they charge a tiny fee of 0.50 Euro per person to go to the top of a crumbling tower.

Racing up the steps to the top, the cool wind whipped our faces and snatched the breath from my lungs. Tugboats lazily motored down the Rhine; the sun flashed off the windows of a town nestled in the hills on the other side. Goats bleated in the distance. We were surrounded by awesome topography, castles, and vineyards. It was just awesome.

Over two large beers we talked about Africa, Germany, and life; basically, to put it colloquially, we were just shootin’ the bull. I am ashamed to say that he poured his beer way better than mine. Note to self: learn to pour beer. Must. Act. Like. A. Real. German.

We hiked through some vineyards up to the Niederwald Denkmal; a huge statue of Germania (I think she is pretty attractive) that overlooks the Rhine. Mark thought she was holding a skull; it was definitely a crown. What racial profiling.

He told me about a contest his family was having; a race to see who could exercise the most over a set period of a few weeks. I’m not sure how much our hike counted towards his final tally (considering we hiked up a mountain to eat schnitzel…which turned out to be steak, but that’s another story), but for the record, I hope one of the females in his family won. As the Spice Girls would say: “Girl Power!”

We rode bicycles to Oppenheim, a small town on the Rhine, to check out the cathedral and eat spaghetti ice cream. Later I posted pictures of this on facebook, and within minutes, my dad commented: “It should be illegal to post pictures of spaghetti ice on facebook, when I am so far away and cannot enjoy it.” Dad: just in case you were wondering, we both had a serving…and it was delicious! HA!

We even went to a Bundesliga football game; a not-so-surprise present I got him as a “thanks” for his help in EG. We appreciated the schnitzel broetchen and apple wine; that is fast food, German-style.

The morning he was leaving was bittersweet. Driving the little Volkswagen to the Frankfurt train station, we sat in relative silence as the towns and farms flitted past the windows. He examined a map of the area; I tried to get myself to wake up fully. Sitting in the station eating a breakfast of cake and coffee on my part, cheese bread and hot chocolate on his, it could have been a normal morning anywhere. Heck, there was a Burger King…we really could have been back in the great ol’ United States. And it really was a normal morning for the train station; a place where people say goodbye all the time.

When his train finally pulled up with only four minutes to spare, we rushed to find his reserved seat. A quick hug goodbye and I was getting off the train. Standing on the platform, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. What does one do when a good friend is leaving, for what is likely a very long time? An awkward wave? A sappy scene out of a movie? No, that is not my style. I don’t do goodbyes very well; I like them short, quick and unemotional.

So I did what I do best; I snapped a picture, said my mental goodbye and walked out of the station.

As I hurried back to the car, I smiled to myself…thinking about how much fun the past few days had been. Glancing over to the railroad tracks, I saw his train start to pull out of the station. Lacing my fingers into the wire fence, I watched it until it pulled out of sight.

Getting into the car, I knew; this was the end of the first stage of my trip. The end of Equatorial Guinea. I had said goodbye to everyone I met there, and I was ready for the next group of people, the next round of experiences, the next batch of crazy stories to tell.

Pulling up to the parking garage exit, I realized I’d forgotten to pay for parking. Again.

Man…what can I say? I get forgetful when I’m nervous!