“Mad” King Ludwig’s Great-Granddaughter

Turns out I am pretty popular here. It is such a new experience, this celebrity of mine. Walking down streets, I see signs with my name. When I introduce myself, people instantly ask me about the family factory. In fact, I have an entire family building complex, smack dab in the center of town.

According to the little I’ve learned and researched about my Landfried heritage, three brothers came from Germany over to America. If I am not mistaken, they mainly settled around the Northeast and Midwest; one becoming a doctor somewhere in the north. Years ago, I distinctly remember my Aunt Ruth telling me that my father’s mother’s side may come from German royalty, and I often like to fancy myself “mad” King Ludwig’s great-great-great-granddaughter. I have yet to be able to prove that theory, but, on the Landfried side of my father's family, I have gathered a few interesting facts about my heritage.

Several months before I shipped out of America back to the old country, my dad told me that he thinks the Landfrieds originated somewhere around Heidelberg and that they owned a tobacco factory. Now that I’ve lived here a few months, I believe it may be safe to say that we come directly from Heidelberg. Here, the name Landfried is old and prominent, remaining the name of one of the richest families in Heidelberg for centuries. The family still continues to own and run the tobacco factory my father told me about; however, they now run a textile factory as well. Parallel to the Hauptstraße of Altstadt runs, Landfriedstaße. Somewhere in the nearby area is the Landfried cemetery, and we were the first family in Heidelberg to own a telephone.

I've taken it upon myself to see how many places I can find remnants of meine Vorfahre here in Heidelberg. One day, the American Junior Year group took a study trip to the Studentenkarzer, which was once the old student prison. Although it is not still in use today, the student is a wonderful piece of Heidelberg University culture. Opening its doors to derelicts in 1712, the student prison stayed in operation until the outbreak of WWII in 1914. From its founding, the University kept complete control of legal jurisdiction over its students. That meant that if there were any disturbances, the University would handle punishment rather than the city authorities. After summons and a hearing, students would be sentenced to confinements ranging from 24 hours to four weeks. However, as the prison became established and the 19th century wore along, doing time became something of an honor. In fact, students began trying to be imprisoned. The most common offenses were disturbing the peace, inappropriate behavior (students drank one too many beers), or illegal fencing duels. During the first two days of confinement, students were only allowed bread and water. But afterward, they could have any food they pleased brought in from the outside, including beer. were allowed to visit other inmates, attend classes at the adjoining University, or decorate the cells and stairway. Today, nearly every wall is covered with some amazing graffiti, and since the prison was such a hotspot for the cool kids, many fraternities have their coat of arms or monograms on the wall. As I was trying to read some of the graffiti during our little outing, one of my friends tapped my shoulder and led me to a wall. Turns out one of the Landfrieds was a cool kid, possibly even a part of a fraternity.

Tomorrow, I head to the Landfried family building complex, a whole street lined with buildings owned by the Landfrieds. I don't know exactly why I am heading there. I'll probably just take more photos of myself with Landfried signs, but maybe I might get up the nerve to go into one of the factories and hunt down some distant cousin of mine. We'll see...

An Education

"I'll just wait until there is more control in the room." I couldn't help it, my mouth dropped open. What five-year-old kid has that much spunk already?!

As you already know, along with taking classes in Germany, I am also teaching English in an elementary school the the first and second classes. However, my English lessons are really only about a third of the time. During the other two-thirds, I assist in German. That's right. I help teach the little kiddies to add 1+1 or write the letter "P." However, at times, I am of little to no use in German, particularly during the moments when I need to reprimand bad behavior.

One day, one of the teachers I assist asked me to do something, and while I finished my own task, I missed the instructions she gave the rest of the class. When she left to go get a coffee, I was supposed to make sure that order stayed. Unfortunately, me yelling "Genug! Genug! Nein. Macht ihr das nicht!" and gesturing wildly doesn't really make me someone to listen to. One of the girls attempted to help out by telling me what the class was supposed to be doing. However, when I couldn't enforce it, she told me that she wouldn't be participating until someone better able to control the class was back in the room.

To be honest, moments like that make the experience more enjoyable. The kids just have so much personality. However, nothing is better when I can get them to understand something, explaining it in either German or English. Earlier this week, I taught my second class how to count to thirty. We began with merely learning how to say the numbers, and then I passed out bingo cards. For the first round, I called out the numbers. After that, I began asking students to volunteer. By the end of the class, nearly every student was on their feet begging to be the next caller.

Elementary school in Germany doesn't strike me as so different from school in America. Most of the subjects are the same and taught in a similar manner. What is different is the amount of responsibility the students have. Often times, as I ride the tram to my praktikum, the person sitting next to me will be a six-year-old, making his way to school completely solo. Students can leave the room as they please to use the restroom, and when it is break time, they hardly need a teacher to lead them around the halls of the school. The main difference I notice between children inside and outside school in German and the USA is that kids in Germany are not nearly babied as much.

As far as I have been able to observe, this continues into high school (called Gymnasium and a bit different in its set-up in Germany) and also into University. Most of my professors could care less if I show up to class. Furthermore, they don't want to talk to me after class if I do and have a question. I had to pretty much stalk one of my professors to get his email, since I had been unable to find it out the University website, the University schedule, or through AJY.

When I lived in Switzerland, one of my roommates was surprised how much I met with the professor with whom I was working. It just simply wasn't normal. She only met with her master's thesis advisor once while writing it. Back at Gettysburg, I harass my poor advisor sometimes bi-weekly. In efforts to be culturally sensitive, perhaps I should withhold judgment. However, I will say this. I like when my professors want to talk to me. I like when they seem actually interested in my opinion. And I like having people willing to support and help out with my endeavors.

Just Say Yes

While one is in Europe, cathedrals and castles slowly begin to lose their luster. Every time such a cultural monument is entered, the beauty and magnificence are shocking. One is taken aback by the splendor and decadence or the beautiful artistic simplicity. But this quickly passes and one is simply looking at another pretty wall. A few months back, a fellow philosophy student decided to grant me a great honor. If I so wished, I was allowed to place a book on a bookshelf that was once owned by Friedrich Nietzche. I nearly laughed out loud. You see in Europe everywhere you stand, eat, sleep, or defecate, someone important has done the same. Everyplace has a history. (This is not particular to Europe; it is just well documented here. Literally, there are signs on buildings saying, "So and so wrote this famous quote here!"). Perhaps I should be more impressed; however, I've come to find, like with most things in life, the people you meet along the way are the main reason to travel. Europe merely provides a lovely backdrop to eclectic personalities and conversations.

I joined couch surfing for this particular reason. Never particularly good at striking up conversations with strangers, I decided this would the best way for me to meet locals as I traveled. It has never felt unsafe, but to be honest, it has always been a wee bit strange. There was one time that a friend and I met a fellow couch surfer back in Basel. After telling us how he'd been hit by a car a couple weeks back and then had to save the life of the guy who hit him because he was having a heart attack, we started to doubt his veracity. Then after he told us he had made 10,000 CHF in one month by selling department store credit cards, we decided we had met up with a grade-A bullshiter. It was around twilight and we were sitting by the Rhine together listening to a concert a little distance off. I was telling him a little bit about my research when he jumped up and told me I simply had to see this cemetery. Thirty minutes later, my friend and I were standing in a medieval cemetery during a torrential downpour with this kid we had just met.

Only a couple weeks ago, I met a British man who was motorcycling across Europe and the Middle East. He had just come back from Turkey and Iraq, and my friend and I enjoyed the stories he shared with us over dinner. While hosteling, I've met a person studying English in Dublin and spending a weekend in Madrid for the Arnold Classic. In Morocco, there were several girls actually living in the Hostel. My friend and I would come down to the common room to find them mixing the solution for henna or simply drinking another pot of tea. There have been graduate students from Africa, peace corps volunteers, fellow students, upper-class Norwegians, and married couples vacationing. This is traveling for me. It is the conversations I have in broken English with a girl from South Korea complete with miming. It is saying yes because it is worthwhile to take a risk. It is asking someone you've just been talking to for five minutes to join you for dinner or coffee. It is making plans to visit in the future, although you know they'll probably fall through. But most of all, it is a camaraderie and openness that is rare in everyday life.

Singing Songs and Drinking Beer

The man in the front of the dingy cellar room slammed a sword down onto the table before him. As his call for silencium echoed slightly through the crowed room, everyone opened up their song books and began to sing another Lied in German. After the first verse, we raised our glasses and drank. After the second, we did the same, and once again after the third verse, I prost-ed my neighbor and drank again. What in heaven's name was I doing here?

Although I wouldn't call myself a large supporter of the American university greek life scene, I do find it endlessly fascinating. Since coming to Germany, my interest has found a new home within the Studentenverbindungen here. Similar to our fraternities, the Verbindungen in Germany have a long history steaming from the beginning of German Universities in Prague, Vienna, and here in Heidelberg. The student body during these times were split up into sects called Burse that were defined by the regions from where the students came. Along with representing the interests of their particular regions, these Burse would also often have their own dorms and markers. Overtime, these sects morphed into formal groups and then secret orders in some cases. Each group developed their own traditions and signs for recognizing other members. During the 19th century, they lost a good deal of secrecy but still thrived. In particular, one practice, Mensur, or fencing between the various other brotherhoods, held strong. Today, many of the Verbindungen have held on to their traditions and are often classified by their Mensur practices. A schlagende Verbindung have compulsory ritual duels for all members. A fakultativ schlagende Verbindung also practices Mensur; however, participation in voluntary. Lastly the nichtschlagende Verbindungen no longer practice Mensur. Nowadays, the Verbindungen still receive a good bit of criticism for perpetuating and practicing racism, sexism, elitism, and extreme nationalism.

Now, I have no idea with which type I live, but I am assuming they are most likely a nichtschlagende Verbindung. Most of the guys are pretty laid back while still enjoying their traditions. From what I've been told, it is not a very traditional fraternity and they pride themselves on the diversity of their members. In any case, the Semesterkneipe I attended was extremely interesting. Everything was in German, and I happened to be sitting next to a man in his 60s or 70s. (For many of the Verbindungen, membership is lifelong). The event lasted maybe about four hours longs with brief breaks here and there. Beer flowed, presentations were given, jokes were told, guys were initiated, and songs were sung. I felt like Jane Goodall surrounded by a bunch of chimpanzees or a kid in a candy shop. Here I was in a Verbindung cellar drinking beer with a forty-year member and singing songs about immortality and brotherhood.

German Studentenverbindungen Kultur: check!

Autumn in Heidelberg

I went away for a week and came back. The weather had chilled, and I turned on the radiator. Classes started last week, and I've just finished my second. It is the time of year I love: the leaves begin to change, the wind slightly stings my face when I am outside, and it is perfectly acceptable to burrow in my room with a book. However, it is not quite the same as being home. The leaves have hardly yet changed here. There are no reds, oranges, and yellows burning on the mountains that surround the city; they are still largely green. There is no apple cider to sip in the evenings. No apple festivals in orchards. Not a single scarecrow and bale of hay at some doorstep. Yet, it is still autumn, and along with the change of seasons, beginning my classes and internship has been cheering.

After spending the first two weeks of the school year visiting classes, I've settled on taking Creative Writing, Theater, and a literature course focusing on the turn of century before last. All of these classes are in German, and so far have been a challenge without inducing me to pull out my hair. I've also gotten an internship at an elementary school teaching English. Out of everything, I may learn the most German from this practicum. This week was my first week, and I am working with children between the ages of five and eight. Next week, I'll begin to teach my own English lessons; however, I also just help with the general classwork. Since the children may be able to count to ten, say cat and dog, and maybe tell me what their name is in English, I am forced into using my German. They don't make fun of my sentence fragments, tell me the words for things when I ask, and enjoy my miming when I can't figure out a phrase. In fact, these children have been the most patient teachers I've had yet.

With two months left of my stint in Europe, I find myself a little traveled out. So, I've decided to hunker down a bit in Heidelberg. Along with my internship and classes, I am also going into a high school to help older kids with their English and joining a choir. I also need to pick my research from Switzerland back up and finally finish it. So for now, I think I'll be hanging out in Heidelberg and the surrounding areas.

However, since I won't have many exotic photos for you from here on out, please enjoy these photos from my fall break. I took a trip to Rome, Marrakech, and Madrid.

A UNESCO world Heritage site in Morocco. Ten families still live in this ancient village from the 13th century

On my way to the Sahara desert in Morocco.

Colosseum in Rome.

Hallo! Ich heiße Hilary...

For once, the Pennsylvania State obsession with standardized-test-taking may have come in handy. During all my years of filling in bubbles and finishing sentences, I was always taught: leave no question unanswered. And so, while I sat in a German seminar hall and realized that I had no idea what the proctor just read to us, I decided I should do exactly as I was told in high school: leave no question unanswered.

I had gotten the basics of the Hörverstehen portion. The man was reading a piece about gold; what it meant in the past and its uses today. However, past the general context, I had no idea what he read. After two years of studying German, I can safely say I can structure a grammatically perfect sentence with baby vocabulary. When I don't understand someone, it is normally because my vocabulary isn't strong enough. So as this man read his article about gold, I imagined the Charlie Brown teacher standing in front of me. Where I fail with my vocabulary, I excel in creativity apparently. Question number one: How is gold extracted from the ground? My answer: With sulfur, chlorine, and big, strong men. Question number four: Why was gold important to the Incas? My response: Because they were killed for it by Cortez. Much of the test went on this way. During the writing portion, because I didn't know what one of the words in the directions meant, I wrote 600 words instead of "200 at most." Whoops.

Needless to say, I thought that I had miserably failed the DSH (the entrance exam to take classes at the University and test one's knowledge of German). And yet, two days later, I found myself in another testing center. Apparently big, strong men are required to remove gold from the ground. I had scraped by on the writing portion of the DSH and now had to take the speaking portion. My name was called with one of the other AJY students, we went into a room, and had 15 minutes to read an article. Afterwards, we traipsed upstairs and into a room with two proctors. My hands were shaking, my heart pounding. I can write you a novel with my baby German; however, I can't speak it, especially when I nervous. The lady proctor looked at me and asked me a question. Once again, all I heard was the Charlie Brown teacher, and in my defense, I have problems understanding English when my nerves are as hyped up as they were that day. I didn't understand the question, but I knew I had to answer with something. Remember: leave no question unanswered. So I said: Hello, my name is Hilary. I am a philosophy major from America. I am really excited to take a literature course here at Heidelberg University. She looked at me, paused, shook her head, and tried the question again: why did you decide to come to Germany?

However, apparently I came to Germany because my name is Hilary, and I am a philosophy major (sad thing is this may not be so far from the truth). I passed this portion of the DSH as well, which means I ended up with the DSH 2. I am allowed to take pretty much any class at the university but I can't start my masters. I am okay with that.

Otherwise, I've realized that I haven't yet posted any photos of my time in Heidelberg. For your viewing pleasure: a view of the city castle and me with some friends.

Vying for a Praktikum

Holding true to my normal habits, I am attempting to get an internship (Praktikum) here in Heidelberg. Since I am a little tired of taking regular university style courses, an internship seems idyllic. I get experience, credit, and a lighter course load. As of right now, I am still in the process of interviewing at a school with four other students from the American Junior Year (AJY) program. We are all vying for a position to teach English in a German high school.

This last week, we had our first portion of the interview. All five of us traipsed into a classroom and stood in a line in front of twenty-five students between the ages of 15 and 17. After introducing ourselves, we each took a group of about four or five students. Our first task was to simply talk about our lives in America and their lives here in Germany. The second task was to read an article about September 11th out loud to them and then discuss it.

Although the conversation was a little awkward at first, I was able to get two of the students in my group to really talk to me. They were learning about September 11th and the subsequent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. We spoke about the conspiracy theories surrounding 9/11, and whether or not they are widely accepted in the USA. We discussed the role the media played in America and around the world. We talked about how Americans view the wars, and the role the American military plays around the world. The best part was that I wasn't the only one that seemed to be getting into our discussion. At the end of the session, the teacher asked what the students thought. Only three students raised their hands; two were from my group and they said that listening to my opinion and explaining theirs to me was very fascinating. I later found out that some of the other AJY students were only able to get their group to discuss the article for a couple minutes before reverting to discussing favorite bands and singers. While I was recommending documentaries on media coverage during the Iraqi War and the American education system, other groups were exchanging names of bands.

Unfortunately, I don't think I have the job. A lot of the other AJY students want to teach and have education majors. Nonetheless, I have another interview this week, and I am keeping my fingers crossed. I didn't think I would enjoy the interview as much as I did.

I Know What Happened Here

The first time I rode a train through Germany was eerie. Sometimes still, I'll be standing at a train station in misting rain, and the same feeling will hit me again: I know what happened here. World War II and the Holocaust were not terribly long ago. Furthermore, Germany's fabulous infrastructure of rail lines and roads are remains of wartime construction and maneuvering.

Maybe I am becoming a little too Anne of Green Gables-y with my imagination. But perhaps some emotions are just so strong that they leave behind echos. I get the same feeling when I am alone in the battlefields at Gettysburg. I know what happened where I am standing, and I can't help but think about the story this place could tell. So when I am at a old train station here, I wonder who else passed through, where were they going, and whether they knew. However, normally, such thoughts rarely cross my mind. Germany is different from the country it was in 1933 to 1945. And I am often too caught up in my modern day stresses and worries to think about history. Nonetheless, there are still just these moments where it hits me: I know what happened here.

Last Saturday, my friend Anna and I went on a hike up to the Philosophen Weg (Philosophers Way), which winds around the Heiligenberg (Holy Mountain) bordering the Neckar River. Having heard about ruins of a Kloster (monastery) on top, Anna and I began a rather convoluted trip to the summit. However, what greeted us before we reached the Kloster was this huge outdoor amphitheater. We had been expecting to find ruins from the Middle Ages, but it was obvious this strange edifice was built rather recently. From further exploration, we discovered that the structure is one of about 45 "Thingstätte" or "Thingplatz" built during the Third Reich.

The Nazi's Thingstätten were part of the "Blut und Boden" (blood and soil) movement of Joseph Goebbels. A "Thing" harkens back to ancient Nordic/Germanic outdoor gatherings. The Nazis attempted to recreate these gatherings with shows of propaganda, meetings, or youth rallies. Originally, 1200 Thingstätten were planned; however, the movement was rather unpopular (probably because of the rainy German weather) and lost favor with the Nazis in 1936. This particular one was built from 1934 to 1935. Strategically located on the "holy mountain," it is nestled between two different monasteries' ruins. During the reign of the Third Reich, it was often used for youth rallies because of its close proximity to the university. Today, it is still used for various concerts or festivals.

There were very few people around, the sun was shining, and there was a slight breeze rustling the grass. Nothing could have been more eerily normal. There are reminders from the Third Reich everywhere. They are in the mountains, the death camps, the streets, rail lines, and within the people. I can't help but wonder how much these little unconscious elements affect the people who have grown up in Germany, who must claim what happened as part of their history. The other day, I was trying to read this German article about artwork. What I understood from it is that, in modern German artwork and much of the artwork of Europe, there is often a void. This reoccurring void symbolizes a sort of moral rift in our history. It represents the genocide that tore a hole in our humanity. I don't think it will be possible anytime soon to get away from this void. Because even though it is often subconscious, it is there seeping into normal everyday.

Insomnia auf Deutsch

Every night around two or three o'clock, I wake up. I roll around for little while until I can't stand it any longer. Sitting up in bed, I'll yank out the earplugs I am wearing and grumble sleepily to myself.

Since I live in the middle of the Altstadt (Old City), there is always a lot of noise. I also, somehow, probably for the sake of cosmic irony, ended up in a fraternity house. Nonetheless, neither my location nor the people traipsing around outside my window are the cause for my insomnia. No, I can't seem to fall back asleep because all my thoughts are in German.

I am no stranger to insomnia. For the last several years, I have religiously followed all those ridiculous "sleep hygiene" rules in efforts to curb my wakefulness. However, every now and then, no matter how much warm milk I ingest and meditation I attempt, I'll still find myself staring, wide-awake at the ceiling for the vast majority of the night. I didn't think things could get any worse than that; however, they can. You see, it is far more frustrating to be incapable of understanding the thoughts hounding one's brain. I'll wake up, and I can't seem to grasp any meaning from the German gibberish flying through my head. I know they are my thoughts, but it makes no difference. I don't understand.

Sometime back when I was frantically trying decide between Germany and Austria, one of my professors told me that it would be exhausting to think constantly in another language. But I've found that is an exciting exhausting. I'm elated when I can understand everything one of my professors said. The highlights of my days are when I am able to have full conversations in German about anything from the weather to relationships to art to videogames. I've also made it a sport to try convincing non-Germans that I am a native speaker. Nonetheless, don't overestimate me. I have the vocabulary of a seven-year-old, the fluency of a toddler, and I am trying to convey the thoughts of a twenty-year-old. Needless to say, to all the fraternity brothers I live with, my choice of words is endlessly funny.

Staying the Course

My last week in Switzerland went by in a whirlwind. A few last days in the library, a couple visits from friends, packing, a meeting, and a birthday hastily pushed me through my last days. Afterwards, I met my mother in Venice for a short vacation before arriving in Heidelberg, Germany five days ago. Forgive me for my neglect, and bear with me as I update you on my thoughts concerning this last month.

Switzerland was not at all what I had planned. That is not to say that I had a bad time there; it was an amazing experience, one I would repeat if given the chance. However, things did not turn out as I had first envisioned. Originally, I was so thrilled about a research stay in Switzerland for two reasons. The first was that I was planning on going on for a graduate degree and possibly researching/teaching after finishing. The second should come as no surprise to those who know me: I was thrilled to be in another country again. There were other perks such as finding my way around on my own and practicing my German. Nonetheless, my main reason for going to Switzerland was to test out my passion for research. But what I have found is that I have kein Lust für Forshung. I liked my topic; it is very interesting to me… but I was going batty.

Oh yes. Here I am. Back at square one. More frustrated than ever.

Here is how it always goes. After a few months of learning a new trade, I normally become antsy and overcome with cabin fever. Perhaps this took root in my younger years. I could never really settle on what I wanted to learn, so I tried everything: ballet, clarinet, drums, mallets, knitting, sewing, soccer, golf, track, tennis, volleyball, swing dancing, various languages, and there was even this sad attempt at mastering yodeling. This thirst to try anything and everything that passes through my head still plagues me in college. Charmed with the idea of becoming a Renaissance woman, I run headlong down pathways at breakneck speeds only to get halfway to my destination, decide everything is all wrong, and change directions.

And now, I am at one of those points, the place on my chosen pathway that I start to think, “maybe not.” And suddenly, the very last thing I want to do is go straight and stay the course.

Perhaps this is not a problem. I’m still young; I am allowed to change my mind. However, lately, I’ve been told more and more that I need to start to settle down a little, to narrow my focus, to not just shave the surface, but also find depth in some field. I know this “depth” people speak of well (although not through personal possession). Everyone I met in Switzerland had been ruthlessly trained and tried. From street cleaners to garbage men to professors to bankers, everyone had chosen their field and intensively studied and trained. Most teenagers in Switzerland do apprenticeships of some sort; they learn how to become waiters, street cleaners, or landscapers. Regardless of the job, one had to have acquired skill and education. It was, to say the least, impressive. But I can't help but think, that this life is not one for which I wish.

I am at war with myself in my head. The safe and secure option, the one I always thought I’d take when I was younger, is easily in front of me. Focus. Get a degree. Go to graduate school. Get a job of some sort and make enough money to live comfortably. This is in sight and in reach. However, there is a little me that I picture inside my head, who is jumping up and down, screeching, “NO, NO, NO. I don’t want this. Not one bit. Not at all.” What's worse is that I am too well aware that this may just be a product of my age. Disillusioned college students are a dime a dozen.

Do I stay the course, or shall I listen to the little me having a fit in my head?

My Imaginary Panopticon

"Boun Appetito!" Our waiter placed two very large pizzas in front of my friend and me with a bit of a smirk. To top it off, not only did we have the waiter watching our eyes bulge at the amount of food we had accidentally ordered, but sitting to our right were two German boys who were getting a kick out of watching two American girls order full-size large pizzas for themselves. A silent challenge had been given: could they both eat a such large pizzas by themselves?

We did. Not to worry. The stereotype that Americans are fat and eat copious amounts of food has been upheld another day.

On Saturday, my friend, Jordan, and I set out for Bellinzona. Nestled in the Alps, Bellinzona is a large town in west of Ticino, the Italian-speaking canton of Switzerland. Although Bellinzona is the capitol of Ticino, it is actually best known for its three castles (Castelgrande, Montebello, Sasso Corbaro) which were recently named UNESCO World Heritage sites. Because of its prime location, Bellinzona acted as an important trading center during the Middle Ages. So although Jordan and I did plan our visit with the intention of taking our mouths on an Italian food tour, seeing the castles was our main reason for choosing Bellinzona.

After touring the Saturday market and stuffing ourselves with too much pizza, we began to waddle up to the first castle. (Perhaps eating a huge pizza before hiking the Alps was a bad idea?) In any case, we reached the first castle without getting too exhausted; although, at least on my side, all the chocolate and hours sitting in libraries certainly have done on a number on my stamina. We explored then hiked back down and headed towards another little mountain with the second castle perched on top. About halfway up, both of us, huffing and puffing, plopped down on a stoop with some gelato to watch more fit Swiss tourists hike jovially up the steep ancient steps. Finally, we reached the top, and looked around a bit. After about an hour, we peered up at the third and final castle. To hike or not to hike? The answer turned out to be a tiny voice, true to the Italian spirit of the region, saying, "Siesta, take a siesta." So we moseyed down towards the ramparts around the castle, laid down in the grass, and fell asleep in the sunshine.

A little while later, we met up with a fellow couch surfer from Bellinzona to find out about the town from a local. Sheepishly, we admitted that we had only climbed to the second castle, not being able to fathom another hike and more panting. However, he placated our embarrassment by explaining the difference between Swiss Germans and Swiss Italians through this little story. (I entreat you to add in the Italian accent while you read this; it'll make it that much better).

We leave the Alps to the Swiss Germans. They can climb and hike them all they want. What we Swiss Italians do is drive up as far as we can into the mountains. Then, with backpacks full of meat and food, we walk about thirty meters to a cabin and stay there until our food runs out. Then, we drive back down the mountain. Oh yes, we leave the work to the Swiss Germans.

There is definitely a bit of a cultural divide between the different cantons and regions of Switzerland. The more I travel around, the more pronounced it becomes. However, there is also a specific cultural difference between most of Switzerland and my small town American upbringing that was one of the hardest things for me to handle when first arriving in Basel. At stores, when I smile apologetically for my high German (not the same as Swiss German and you better bet this is a problem), I am stared down. When I laugh at a little mistake I make, someone else will roll their eyes. If I accidentally catch someone's eye on the tram, I better look elsewhere as quickly as possible. If I ask for help from someone on the street, I'll get an answer, but one given grudgingly.

You see, I'm used to waving at random people as I walk through my neighborhood. One time in Gettysburg during the snow-pocalypse of 2009/2010, a friend and I stopped to help an older lady shovel the walkway in front of her house. At grocery stores in PA, I have full-out conversations with the check-out clerks. I was even told by one of my Swiss friends that I am not like Swiss girls; I am more open, cheerful, and friendly. Unfortunately for the Swiss, this is saying something seeing as a few of my friends from high school used to call me an emotionless robot.

There is a little bit of a stiffness in most social interaction in Switzerland that is hard for me to acclimate to and at the beginning, affected all my actions in public. During my time in Uganda, I learned how to get over myself. I stood out constantly, fell down on a regular basis because of the pot holes, and just made a general idiot out of myself because of cultural differences. But it didn't bother me, because when I laughed at my follies, others would laugh with me. However, here, it felt like I was in a panopticon. I look like everyone else, but when I open my mouth, wear sweatpants, or smile a little too much, people know and disapprove of my deviation. Perhaps this is unfair of me to say, but I feel like conformity to social rules is rampant here. At first, I tried my hardest to comply. My "bitch, back off face" got so much better here than it ever was in Uganda, I made sure to constantly look tip-top, and I stayed out of peoples' ways in stores and the libraries saying as little as possible and not asking for help when I needed it.

But after this weekend, I give up. The Swiss Italians taught me something by displaying a little more warmth than up here in Basel. The divide between the first languages and their attached cultures is something along the lines of 63% are German-speaking, 20% are French-speaking, 6.5% are Italian speaking, and .5% speak Romanisch. (Other languages from immigrants make up the remaining balance). Anyways, the Italian speaking portion of Switzerland is small, but they are still proud of their culture and language. So why shouldn't I be proud of mine as well? If I want to walk out of the house in sweatpants, I will. If I catch someone's eye, I'm going to smile. If I run into a pole, I am going to laugh at myself. When I try to speak German, I won't apologize for not being a native speaker; I am trying my best.

This is my resolution for the week. Time to stop disciplining myself so I fit in a little better here because, you know what, people probably care a lot less than I think they do.

Keine Vögel und ein bißchen des Tod

Up until now, I know I have probably given off the impression that the whole purpose to my stay in Switzerland is to eat chocolate, make coffee, and run away from birds. You see, during my first several weeks here, my research wasn't exactly hunky-dory, and it seems that the more confused or frustrated I am, the more my blog becomes a bit trite and silly. However, now that I've managed to take a picture with the ugliest bird alive and have had to stop buying chocolate because I've made myself sick one too many times, it is time for me to talk about what I am actually doing here.

Yet, we can't simply just jump in with my research topic; so let's go back about seven weeks to my second day in Switzerland. It was my first meeting with my supervising professor here. Nervous, jet lagged, and confused, I showed up to our meeting fifty minutes late after a little misunderstanding. In any case, I managed to come prepared with some notes, a list of planned interviews and contacts, and a timeline. Originally, I had applied and received the ThinkSwiss grant to research issues of identity and justice surrounding art reparations following the Holocaust. However, during that first meeting, my professor told me that he thought we should do another topic, one that was more interesting to me. Although I tried to explain that this topic was my idea, and that I had been following art reparations for years, he ended up being a good deal more adamant than I. Reluctantly, I relinquished my original research idea and began the search for a new one.

Unfortunately, in Hilaryland, focus is a bit of a rare commodity. Hence, a good part of the first portion of my stay in Switzerland was simply finding a new topic. My searching took me to Amsterdam, various monuments, cemeteries, a concentration camp, and numerous libraries. About three weeks ago, I began to finally settle upon a new topic: death and nationality.

Benedict Anderson, who wrote Imagined Communities, the first major book about nationality, claims that our concept of nation first took root in the printing of vernacular languages. However, it seems to me that mere language isn't enough to convince people to lay down their lives for a country. What is it that makes our affiliation with a nation state so strong and potent? How does death play a part in strengthening social ties? Particularly, are enemies and sacrificial bloodletting necessary in national building?

Cheery, no?

Along with settling in with a topic, I am more easily finding my way around the libraries in Basel. This too is contributing to an alleviation of my angsty control-freak ways. That having been said, I was unfortunately wrong in thinking that I would be allowed to check any books out from any of the libraries. Apparently, since I am an Auslanderin (foreigner), I cannot leave the libraries with any books. In one respect, I suppose this is nice because now I am forced to work within a certain time. On the other hand, sitting in the same library reading about death for several hours on end is driving me a bit bonkers.

More Baby Steps

In Uganda last year, my aversion to seeking medical attention was effectively stamped out. One can only projectile vomit for so long before thinking it might be time to see a doctor. This year, as I stated in an earlier blog, I am going to overcome my fear of birds. In efforts to keep everyone up-to-date on my progress, I've attached a photo depicting the leaps and bounds I've made in this endeavor of mine.


Please note how terribly hideous that bird is. Also note there are birds above my head as well. I'm rather pleased with myself.

However, I sadly cannot claim to have triumphed completely over my issue. When I returned home from my trip this weekend, I turned on the light only to find bird poop everywhere. On my computer, my books, some papers, bed, windows, backpack, floor, pens: everywhere. (I am actually wondering whether there was a flock of birds that commandeered my room; I don't believe it is possible for one bird to produce that much waste). After dousing all my belongings in bleach, I managed to calm down a bit. Unfortunately, my room still reeks strongly of about three different household cleaners, and I am still a little wary of touching anything.

The Woes of a Monoglot

Generally, I can bother people into oblivion playing 20 questions. There are no limits to my curiosity, and in most cases, it gets the best of me. However, while I can ask for help in my classes, reading through a paper, or filing out an application, for everyday general things, asking for help is simply not okay. It is as if there is some line I am unwilling to cross; a line dictating that about which I can and cannot inquire. This little issue of mine is exaggerated here. Often times, when I finally foster up enough nerve to ask a question, I can't understand the response. I remain at square one, but now I have an audience to my ineptitude. So instead, I prefer to fumble through things on my own, making an idiot out of myself rather often.

When I first arrived in Basel, I searched high and low throughout the kitchen for a drip-coffee machine. What I found instead was a moka pot or macchinetta, a strange contraption of a coffee maker I had only seen once in my life before. Could I have simply asked how to use it? Yes. Would that have been easier and smarter? Yes. Alas, I did not. Rather, I studied the moka pot, attempted to open it, or tapped it against the table hoping it would just magically open on its own. I read articles online and watched youtube videos explaining how to use a macchinetta. It was all to no avail. Although I had figured out how to use it through my extensive studying, I couldn't seem to get it open to actually make any coffee.

My inability to simply ask my housemate how to open the moka pit had a negative effect on my mental stability this past month. During the school year, I down somewhere between three to six cups of coffee daily. I'm a college student; coffee and water are synonymous in my world. Thus, for the first few weeks in Switzerland, I went through caffeine withdrawal paired with jet lag. Everyday I enjoyed headaches, supreme sleepiness, and accidental three hour naps. (Granted I could have gone to cafés, but Switzerland isn't terribly economical. The cheapest coffee I've been able to locate is the equivalent of six dollars or more for roughly six ounces). I didn't give up however. Every couple of days, I would angrily pick up the moka pot and try to open it. Finally, my efforts have paid off, and I sit here today thoroughly caffeinated and pleased with myself.

What have I learned from this? Apparently nothing.

For my research, I really need to pick up some books from the library here. Unfortunately, it isn't quite as easy as pulling a book of the shelf and checking it out. For starters, I am having some problems figuring out their cataloguing system. Secondly, only one of the books I need is in the main library. I also need books from departmental libraries, the museum of culture, and the art museum in town. Some of these books I am allowed to check out; other ones I can only read in their respective libraries. Add in the fact that I still haven't settled completely on a single topic, and I am feeling a little lost.

At most of these places, there will be librarians to help me, and I know that I need to ask for help in locating the books and following the protocol of each library. As I see it, I have three choices:

1. Hope that the librarians speak English. However, since I have a slight command of German, this would equate to me being lazy. Also, I don't think it is fair for me to be in a German-speaking area and expect people to talk to me in my native tongue just so that I am comfortable.
2. Ask for help in German. A little better than the first one; however, it also means I have to haltingly stumble over my inquires and try the librarians' patience. And then, there is no guarantee I will understand whatever response they give me.
3. Try to figure it out on my own. But this may mean I am looking at another coffee scenario, and I don't have a month to figure out Basel's extensive library system.

Unfortunately, one of the woes of being a monoglot is constantly watching your dignity spiral down the drain.

An American Appetite

There were never any clues, and nearly every day the location would change. In search of a little sweet peanut-buttery goodness, I would dedicate hours to finding where my mother had hid the Reeses Cups. Originally, she began with stashing whatever little sugar we kept in the house in remote kitchen locations. But as I became more clever in my methodology, she also became more cunning in her hiding places. For years, this little dance between our wits and cravings continued. Even today, the chocolate is never in an obvious location.

I should probably thank my mother for making it nearly impossible to use chocolate as a crutch while I was growing up. Obviously her aims had my best interests in mind; however, I think her tactics may have backfired a little bit.

It began innocently enough. I was walking through the supermarket and stumbled into the chocolate aisle. Before me was an array of any type of specialty chocolate for which I could ever dream. In awe, I carefully selected one chocolate bar: milk chocolate with hazelnut filling. It seemed right. I am in Switzerland, the land of chocolate, after all. At home, I broke off a piece. Delicious. It took me a few days to finish the chocolate bar, right in time for my next grocery shopping trip. This time, I decided to pick up a few different bars: one with white wine and raisins, one with truffle filling, a orange one, and another hazelnut one. Upon returning home, it occurred to me that I had never seen my housemates enjoying a piece of heavenly Swiss chocolate. In fact, my housemates are incredibly healthy in general, consuming only about half of the amount of food I eat. Immediately, I felt embarrassed by my American appetite, and I decided that clearly I couldn't leave the chocolate in the kitchen for them to stumble upon. So I hid my stash out of view in my room. Two days later all the chocolate was gone.

Most diet gurus recommend that people should hide food from themselves. The theory is that if the food isn't in view, people are less likely to take little nibbles here and there. They've got it all wrong; I am going to give you a better piece of advice: get European housemates, and leave the guilt-inducing food in plain view for all. The theory here is that knowing you will be judged for eating that second piece of chocolate is deterrent enough.

Ornithophobia

Sitting on my mattress, I took a deep breath and finally unfurled myself from the fetal position. After pacing for a little while, I considered myself to be mentally prepared, or at least as prepared as I could hope to be. I laced up my tennis shoes, donned my rain jacket, and grabbed my automatic umbrella. Slowly, I opened my door and peered out into the darkened common room of my shared flat. Sensing no movement, I knew that my adversary was still in the kitchen. As I inched the kitchen door open, I poked my umbrella through the gap, prepared to hit the open button at any moment. A few seconds later, after surveying the situation, I breathed a sigh of relief. I then dashed to the balcony door and slammed it shut.

About a half an hour before this little episode, I had just finished cleaning up after having cooked my lunch. The kitchen heats up rather quickly when one uses the stove; so as usual, I opened the balcony door to let in some air. A few moments later, having gone to my room to retrieve a book, I heard a strange fluttering noise. To my chagrin, a little black and white bird hoped into view on the other side of the kitchen door. Bypassing my first instinct to scream and run, I pulled the kitchen door shut, shut all the doors to my housemates' rooms, and then ran into my own.

Let's take a little time out from the story here. I like to think that I try my hardest to overcome my fears and insecurities and face up to situations that make me uncomfortable. However, faced with one of my worst fears, I quickly regressed into a childlike state. For years, birds (any type except for ducks and penguins) have been a beacon of terror in my life. They are everywhere. They swoop down from the sky into your face. They carry numerous diseases. They poop on your head while you in a meeting with a bunch of people you have never met. All things considered, this fear of mine is completely rational. Really, watch Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. Completely rational.

So what was my reaction as I sat in the corner of my room listening to the little vermin hop around the kitchen? I checked the clock to see if it was too early to call my mother back in America. To my delight, she was driving to work. After about ten minutes, Mama managed to calm me down and helped me to face the fact that I couldn't sit in my room until one of my housemates came home.

Clearly I am not as brave as I like to think myself. So I have a new goal for my time in Switzerland: it is time to overcome my little problem of ornithophobia.

As I was walking through the park next to my apartment a little later, there was a man sitting on one of the benches. Surrounded by birds, he had two pigeons on his left leg and numerous birds flocking to the breadcrumbs he was pulling out of a bag. For a moment, I paused and considered sitting down next to him. "Hallo, ich heiße Hilary und ich habe Angst für Vögel. Könnten Sie mir bitte helfen um mein Angst überzuwinden?"

But I decided baby steps are probably better. Perhaps I should start with simply not flinching when one flies by me.

The Joys of Grocery Shopping

In the last couple years, it has come to my attention that I should probably become a little less high-strung about certain aspects of my life. So what if I haven't yet ended world hunger or started my own NGO saving little children from malaria and other preventable diseases? I'll get there, eventually. Nonetheless, while I know all of this, unless I am constantly busy, I often feel as if I am selling myself short or not doing all I am capable of doing. This is obviously something I need to fix.

In typical Hilary-fashion, I quickly followed this realization with planning how to become a more peaceful human being. Naturally, this meant I needed to spend a semester in a Buddhist monastery; monks are very tranquil people. However, after reading that I'd have to shave my head, and that there are mandatory twelve hour meditation periods where I'd be hit with a plank of wood if I fell asleep, I decided a Hindu ashram would be better. Switzerland doesn't have these, at least not that I've found; nonetheless, surprisingly, the country seems to be doing the trick anyway.

The purpose of my stay in Switzerland is to do research. Even though I've hit a few frustrations with methodology and designating a topic, I've found the going to be rather laid-back. Disturbingly laid-back. Here I am in Switzerland reading books and taking notes; for a little while, it seemed I might implode from the calm.

I can imagine how this sounds. Based on the implicit rules of traveling abroad, I am supposed to be experiencing crazy, new, and strange things. I am supposed to provide a portal others can live vicariously through. I am supposed to be thrown out of my comfort zone, struggling to adapt to my foreign experience. Thus far however, my experience hasn't been chalk full of outlandish occurrences. Rather, it has been making me appreciate little subtleties to everyday life that I frequently forget to enjoy back home.

Although public transportation is fabulous here, I've found walking to be my preferred choice of transportation. Basel is beautiful, and often the best part of my day is a simple walk somewhere. In a city untouched other than by an earthquake in 1356, old mixes with the new throughout the town. The Mittlere Brücke is the first bridge to cross the Rhine River, and it connects Little Basel with Greater Basel. Just yesterday I discovered there is a little rivalry between the two portions of the city separated by the Rhine. Every year, Little Basel has a celebration on the Mittlere Brücke where three men dance with their backs to Greater Basel. To retaliate, Greater Basel erected a Lällekönig (tongue king) on the building facing Little Basel across the bridge. Today, there is newer high tech king under the old one who periodically sticks his tongue out the other side of Basel.


Grocery shopping has also become quite an adventure. While the two main supermarkets here are Migros and Coop, all over one can find bakeries, smaller shops, and marketplaces. To spice things up a bit, I've been trying new chocolate, cheese, and cuts of meat every time I go to the shops.

Practicing my German has also been enjoyable albeit frustrating at times. I can try to read the preparation instructions on my dinner, read signs around town, talk with my housemates, talk with random people, or eavesdrop on those next to me on the tram.

Often, at home, I can get away with receding into myself. However, since I've come to Switzerland alone, I am learning how to strike up and carry on conversations with complete strangers, and how to become a little more outgoing in general. Being alone also highlights everything a little more too. I can focus on the scenery and events going on around me. I get to take time to just go down to the Rhine and do my reading there. In less than a one minute walk from my apartment, I can sit down and gaze at one of the most beautiful views I've discovered here yet.


It isn't exactly an ashram, but I am still learning how to focus on the moment and enjoy the simplicity of everyday.

Establishing Guidelines

How long are you in Europe? Until the end of December. What are you doing? Research and studying. Do you know anyone? Not really... How old are you? Twenty. This is normally followed by a chuckle, a moment of thought, and then the assertion that I am courageous. I'll take the compliment; however, I am quickly finding there is a very, very thin line between courageous and stupid.

At the beginning of the week, I left Basel for an IFT conference in Amsterdam. With over 28 countries in attendance, it was interesting to listen to the arguments, discussions, and ideas each delegation had about how to keep Holocaust remembrance alive through research, memorials, and education. However, after the conference was over each evening, I was left to my own devices. It was after these few evenings that I realized I needed to set out some guidelines for myself if I didn't want to cross over the line to stupid.

1. While traveling alone, if one wishes to stay alone, one should not smile... ever. Smiling is my default expression. This causes a number of different issues. For one, my smiles are mixed messaging; one could mean "get the heck away from me" or "please do say more." Also, after four years of orthodontics and a mild case of OCD when it come to brushing my teeth, apparently my smile screams American. (I learned this one evening when a young dentist in Basel spent five minutes staring at my mouth and asking me to smile for people.) So as a rule, if you are a single female traveling and you don't want to be asked for directions, a drink, your home country, or your name, don't smile.

2. If one is shy, traveling alone, and no longer wishes to be alone, one should find other people standing alone, wander nearby, and pretend to be madly engrossed in the same thing they are watching. I am not one to strike up a conversation. However, if I don't want to be left to the mercy of others, I need to find a way to make myself available to social contact (without smiling as this seems to only induce creepiness).

3. One should not wear anything distinctive. After leaving the conference one evening, I put on a pair of jeans and left on my cardigan and neck scarf. After an hour of walking around Amsterdam, taking in the sites, and trying to find a damn cookie (I never did), a man walked up to me and told me that he had seen me two times before, pointing to my neck scarf. Apparently, he thought that "the third time was a sign that he needed to meet me. Did I like to dance by any chance?"

4. Don't wait for others to do what one wants. Take initiative. I've been to Amsterdam before, but only at 7:00 in the morning. One hears so much about the Red Light District at night; I wanted to see it in full swing. Probably not the best place to explore as a solo female, but had I waited to meet someone, discern their character, and then drag them to the Red Light District, I would have gotten to see it at 7:00am again.

5. No matter what anyone yells, one should not turn around. If I am going to be honest, I actually learned this one in Uganda. However, it came in handy while I was walking around the Red Light District and two men told me I should become a prostitute.

6. When one is invited to explore the city or hang out, one should always be discerning about one's company. If all possible, try to get reasons as to why this person would be fun or safe to spend time with. "I'm not a terrorist" is not a good argument.

7. Although it is nice to meet new people, one should always keep in mind that it may be better to do something alone. I don't mind eating alone; in fact, I often prefer it. However, after reading numerous articles about traveling alone and meeting people in hostels, I decided to invite the two Ghanian men with whom I was sharing a room to get dinner with me. Dinner turned into a hike, then an argument over what to eat, and ended with both of them quarreling over who had upset me the most.

8. Do not be afraid to be alone. Some of the best fun I had was discovering little things and scenes for myself and being able to enjoy them as I pleased.

The Color Green

Stroking my chin, I gazed at the completely black painted canvas before me. Was this one different from the last three I had seen scattered throughout the exhibition? Perhaps. I looked closer and tilted my head, modeling the behavior of the posh art critic that had just walked up beside me. And then I saw it, this painting had a different blocks of black.

As I walked through Art Basel, apparently the largest and most important art show in the world, I struggled at times to understand the symbolism that was supposed to move me. I've always had this problem. When reading The Great Gatsby in school, I could not understand why the color green was so very significant. "Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther … So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." (The Great Gatsby 115). Beautiful prose, and I understand the purpose of the light. But why did I have to analyze the color green?

I soon stumbled upon a piece of art I could easily understand. It was colorfully painted, the primary color a light blue. However, at each of the four corners, there were rifts in the paining, and the entire canvas was covered in staples. At first, I only thought, "pretty colors." That was until I read the title, American Optimism. The purpose of the hundreds of staples clicked; they represented an attempt to keep American optimism and perhaps, in some cases, illusion alive when it has been challenged so often the last decade. Did I understand what this artist was saying?

Sometimes I wonder just how much meaning should we give to artwork, music, and things. It seems that with every tangible, hundreds of intangibles can be attached to explain its significance. However, are things really so complex or do we over think something that was simply meant to be beautiful or straightforward? I have no doubt that symbolism exists in nearly everything; thus, just how much does it affect our lives and thoughts?


This is a photo of the Münster in Basel. The figure on the left is called "the seducer," and the figure on the right is called "the seduced." If you look closely, you can see symbolism at its finest on the seducer's back. That is a snake, representative of the man poor intentions towards his seduced.

Illegal Immigration and Four Flights of Stairs

"Guten Tag! Könnten Sie mir bitte helfen? Ich muss diese Platz finden." (I gestured to the address I had written down before leaving America on Monday). "What!? 45 francs?!

And just like that, my German went out the window for the rest of the day. So I traipsed back into the airport to buy a bus pass; no ridiculously priced taxis for me. Mind you, I had already trekked all around the airport for the last half an hour trying to find a working ATM, someone to stamp my passport (I was convinced I had illegally entered the country), and someone to explain public transportation to me. I ended up with no ATM, no passport stamp, and a bus pass for the rest of the month.

Originally, I had intended to pack only one suitcase thinking that lugging my luggage all over town would be a little rough. Boy, was I right, two was too many. Although I tried my best to follow my housemates' instructions, naturally, I boarded the right bus and rode it the wrong way. After getting on and off three times at the end point, the bus driver offered to help. Once again, I tried to use my German, and perhaps it was a good sign for my accent that he thought my native language was Spanish. Eventually the lovely bus driver showed me where to get off and gave me a map. He then had people at the front of the bus call to me in German when I was supposed to depart. It was terrifying. As long as I don't open my mouth here and try not to look confused, no one can tell I am from America. Here was a whole bus of 20 people speaking to me in German and English simultaneously while pointing out the window.

An hour later than expected, I finally showed up at my apartment building to find that my room is about four flights of spiral stairs up. As often as I have learned this lesson, I just keep messing it up. When one travels, one must be able to carry one's own things.