Isn't it funny how one day, you're just breezing along through life, comfortable in knowing who you know, not really expecting to make any new friendships or relationships, and the next thing you know, your life is changed, your circle of friends has grown, and you'll never be the same?On Thursday evening, it was my responsibility to welcome the Junger Chor Speyer (the Speyer youth choir) to our town, mostly because the rest of Bard's touring choir lived over an hour from where the Speyer choir would be staying for the night. Bard was well-received last year when she visited Speyer, and I wanted to make their visit special, too.
When they first arrived by bus, several hours late, in the dark and rain, I was only able to meet the director and her husband, and then, only briefly. From there, it was a whirlwind of activity--leading them to the hotel, hitting a deer (and hoping the large tour bus wouldn't hit us in the process), running for pizza as a sorry replacement for a sit-down dinner in a local restaurant, struggling with the language barrier and the general uneasiness of getting to know strangers. It was immediately a learning experience.
My confidence flagged when I was approached by a tall, dark-haired, middle-aged German man who asked me something I couldn't understand. When I answered with, "Say that again?" He blustered, wagged his head and wandered away. I found out later that he was Herr Burgermeister, or the mayor of Speyer. "I am the Burger King," he told me in shaky English, laughing at himself. It turns out that he had taken English for thirteen years but retained very little of it. He was a bit lost in America.
As I stood in the hotel lobby, worrying about their food (too greasy), and their drinks (too sweet), and the language barrier, and their general well-being, one of the choristers approached me and spoke in slow but easily-understandable English. Honestly, I don't remember the exchange, but I remember knowing that the walls were coming down. It was a general conversation--we shared names, she told me that they'd had a long, long bus ride, that perhaps the bus driver had been lost--even going the wrong direction--and that they had lurched to a stop on the way to the hotel.
"That was because we hit a deer," I said. She glanced around for help. Speaking to a young German who stood close by, she asked, "Was ein 'deer' ist?" He responded in German, and she nodded in understanding. "Did it run away?" She asked. "It, um..." I made a large gesture with both of my hands. "It sort of...rolled away." We both laughed. Laughter I could understand.
It's a strange feeling to sit in a room full of people speaking a language you can only barely understand when you hear it directly spoken to you, and very, very slowly. It's another thing when they're all talking and laughing at once. Are they talking about me? Are they laughing at the food? I watched them point, amused, at the grease that was dripping off their up-ended pizza, and I felt more than slightly embarrassed as they filled their cups partway with Coke...then partway with water. The kids and I had assembled small treat bags for them, gifts from different businesses in our county who make unique food items, like fresh-pressed cider, baby swiss cheese, chocolate buckeye candy, and beef sticks. The beef sticks, I learned later, didn't go over very well (greasy, salty and very strange), but they smiled and nodded when I asked them how everything tasted. All of them, I noted, drank the cider and ate the cheese gratefully. I also learned later that they drink apple juice, wine, and water when at home. Rarely do they drink soda. And I had bought fifteen bottles of Coke products.
But little by little, I got to know them and learned more about each of their personalities. Robin was shy. Stephanie was smart and funny. Felix was agreeable, bubbly and always smiling. Angelina was enchanted with the American drinking fountain that she'd only seen in American films. Johnny was concerned that we would think they were "stuck in the past" because of their 2,000 year-old city and their beautiful churches and buildings. Julian was silly and full of energy. Hubert was somewhat of the "dad" or "big brother" of the choir. And Jochen was sensitive, intelligent, ornery.
It was Jochen that I particularly took a liking to. His sense of humor and orneriness was apparent when we visited a local store where the woman giving the tour repeated over and over that the things there were hand-made, not from China. I rounded a corner to find Jochen snapping a photograph of a white box that was clearly labeled, "Made in China." I grinned, and we had a discussion about the ubiquitousness of foreign-made products, with me telling him about the problem of Wal-Mart and him telling me that it's hard to find German-made products in his hometown, too.
Over the course of the next few days, I talked to Jochen about the issues in the United States, and he told me that some of these issues existed in Germany, too. But many of the things that we deal with, he and his friends did not understand.
They laughed at the signs on the doors of a public school that said, "No guns allowed." Wasn't that just common sense, they said? Jochen was saddened by the English slogans printed on children's t-shirts, things like South Park catch-phrases and other disrespectful messages. He said that, in Germany, young children wear these English t-shirts because they're from America, but they don't know what the phrases say or mean. Often, they are vulgar or inappropriate, and very young children wear them, not even realizing. I was struck by their desire to emulate our youth, who wear these things fully aware of what they're saying.
I became very aware of our culture the more time I spent with the German choir. They were served pizza several times, and given food-service sloppy joes and canned corn at one private school. At home, they told me, they sit down for lunch and have a formal meal. Tablecloths. Nice dishes. Silverware. Fresh asparagus. Fruit. Red wine. White wine. Mineral water. Brown bread. And here, fruit was practically non-existent in our meals. At each gathering, I noticed that we were overrun with casseroles and sweets, but fresh fruits and vegetables were rarely present. Stephie told me about the first day they arrived, and how they were served pizza with a "fat lake" in the middle. Jochen was so excited to see strawberries at one meal that he practically rushed to the bowl. But they were still frozen and practically tasteless. He was thankful for the bowl of fresh apples, though. Those were mine, I told him proudly. I got a grateful pat on the back.
On the fourth day of their visit, their bus driver raved about a place they would just love. She told them all how great it was, and took them to Dave and Buster's. Did they like it? I asked. One after another, they shook their heads. Unbelievable, they said. The food was very good, yes, but the noise, and the waste of money, and the games--how violent! And young children playing these games! Six and seven years old playing first-person shooter machines! Jochen shook his head sadly, "If one of my seventh- or eighth-grade students was playing one of these games, I would talk with their parents. Tell them this is not allowed." Do your youth not play basketball? Do they not go outside and wrestle or play?
I felt as if scales were falling off my eyes.
I mean, none of this was new to me, but it was indeed more obvious and more troubling than I had admitted before.
Jochen and I compared notes during the last evening of their stay in my area. American schools, he said, seem to have more money. Things are cheaper here in America. Everyone drives cars. There are parking places for everyone. Littering is a problem in Germany just like in America. People don't care; they throw their trash everywhere and criminals put on orange jumpsuits and clean it up. In Germany, buildings are old and in need of repair. In America, most of our old buildings are demolished, making room for new ones that are in need of repair. I know that America isn't perfect, I said, but where do we start to make changes? But it's not just America. It's not just Germany. The problems are big everywhere. We both agreed.
Jochen had mentioned to me on the third day of his stay that he had hoped to stay in a home with children and animals; he really missed his students, he said. While his home stays were very nice, and the people were wonderful, there were no children, he said. So on the last night of their visit, when they came to perform for all of our children's choirs and observe their classes, I approached him and asked him if he'd like to visit a class with children. His eyes lit up.
So I lead him through the halls towards the youngest training class where Mr. Walker, the choir director for the youngest group, was beginning his session with the 7, 8 and 9 year-olds. I introduced Jochen to everyone and told him I'd be back later to see how he was doing. I thought I'd take him around to several of the classes so he could see how they taught, too. But when I returned later and asked him if he'd like to stay there or visit elsewhere, he smiled, "I'll stay right here, thank you." And I could tell that he was getting a good dose of therapy. When he emerged from the room, he gave me a big hug. "Thank you for that," he said. I could tell it had been a much-needed break.
It was very hard to say goodbye to Stephanie and Felix and Hubert and Angelina. It was especially hard to say goodbye to Jochen, because I felt like I was saying goodbye to a younger brother I might never see again. He hugged me and thanked me for the everything, and I felt silly for fighting back tears. Thankfully, in the rush of it all, I was able to get e-mail and mailing addresses from Stephie, and Felix, and Hubert, and Jochen.
The mayor of Speyer, "The Burger King," invited me to visit his city. "We...uh...we...will drink Schorle," he said, which is wine mixed with bubbly mineral water. "And eat asparagus. And liverwurst on brown bread." He rubbed his stomach. "Someday," I nodded, grinning. He glanced around, looking for help. "Was ein 'someday' ist?" he called out, and, not finding an answer, looked back to me, shrugging. I made gestures with both hands, as if weighing something. "Maybe," I said. "Yes. No."
"Ah! Yes! May-be!" he nodded knowingly. And then he rubbed the fingers of his right hand together, making the universal sign for "money."
"Yes," I laughed, repeating the gesture.
"Maybe...in...uh, two, oh, oh, nine?" he said.
Wouldn't that be nice.
So they came in as strangers I didn't understand, but through the magic of the willingness to try, and the universal language of music, love and compassion, I've made what I hope will be lifetime friendships.
And I've learned a bit more about myself in the process.
