Germany Story
By overseas correspondent Kara Christenson
Stepping into the number 33 to Bismarckplatz, I glance up and down the aisle, searching for an empty seat. A woman five yards away pushes a stroller-load of purchases out of the bus. I ponder whether or not there is really a child in there as I arrive at her former seat, only to find that she has been replaced by a whiskered old man with a frisky dog and bad body odor. I turn around, searching in vain for any remaining options, when the bus jolts suddenly into motion. Reaching too late for the nearest solid surface, my hands flail uselessly as I’m flung backwards down the aisle. Lucky for me, my fall is broken by a pole to the head. A man nearby, who also appears to be a student, asks in rapid German if I want his seat. I refuse politely and with as few words as possible, but my accent is evident. “You are from America?” he asks in careful English. “Ja,” I say. He speaks in German again, “So do you like Heidelberg?”
Ahhh, Heidelberg. Getting used to life in Germany has given me many a headache, and not just from riding public transportation. Oh no, riding the bus is the easy part.
Stepping off the bus at Friedrich-Ebert Platz, I run through the directions to the grocery store one more time. I begin making my way down the most life-threatening street I’ve ever experienced-the Ploeck. Dodging bicycle after bicycle, I finally reach Pennymarkt-a tiny (and fortunately very inexpensive) grocery store. Despite the lack of selection, I find myself confused. What exactly is “Fettarme Milch”? My brain translates this as “Fat poor milk.” Does that mean skim? As I contemplate the likelihood of “American Peanut Butter!” being anything like American peanut butter, an elderly woman removes me from her path by shoving her cart into me. She snatches the last jar of one brand of strawberry jam, eyeing me as though I had plans to steal it from her. I pick up a jar of peanut butter, think better of it, and go for Nutella instead.
As I pay for my groceries, the ruthless old woman pulls her cart into the tiny aisle behind me. I pack my groceries into my backpack as fast as I can, opting to carry what won’t fit instead of repacking-a loaf of bread, oddly called “Toast” and “Butterkaese”-“butter cheese.” Whatever that might be.
Walking back down the pinball-reminiscent world of the Ploeck, I hug my bread to my chest. I spectacularly avoid being smashed by two last bicycles and finally reach the bus stop, only to realize that there is no stop on the other side of the street. I’m going to have a difficult time going back the way I came on a bus. Sighing, I ease myself back into the endless traffic of the Ploeck-I’ve got a little bit of a hike.
I’ve figured out a lot since that first afternoon in Heidelberg. Like that peanut butter is not necessary for survival, “Fettarme” does indeed mean skim, and “Butterkaese” is actually pretty good. The Ploeck is still dangerous and riding the bus still occasionally ends in bruises, but Heidelberg has turned into my home. Not only that, but living in Heidelberg has turned the German language into more than just a major-now it is part of my way of life. So do I like Heidelberg? If I see that student again, I’ll have to tell him “Ja natuerlich!”-Yes, of course!