Contentment

I am realizing now that I wasn't terribly happy last semester. In retrospect, it's easy to blur events, but I think they were more blurred while I experienced them. I had some really enjoyable times, but now I think of how early it became dark, how cold it was and how I didn't have any consistent excercise or art (except that which was self-directed and confined to my room).

Wishing that I could experience biking during the summer in Portland once again has now been replaced with having an effective, if shaky, bike here. I feel in charge, and am not taking any courses that I don't want to. The problem with this is that I have so many couses and like them all, even the KSZE & Westeuropa one... I mean, I do not adore that classtime or the speed at which the Munich-born professor speaks, but even so, the subject matter is fascinating.

Some significant developments have been made and happen to coincide with the start of Spring and the end of my travels (for now):

1. I am no longer scared of or intimidated by politics or [neuro]science.
2. I feel very capable and brave, and see being alone as a very positive state for this time in my life.

*Photo taken in Rietberg Park in Zürich.

Venezia

This post originally appeared as a journal entry ten days ago, but with the semester starting and Munich's gorgeous weather, plus my now functioning bicycle, I think I can be forgiven for the delay. Now, to relay my travel stories.

April 13th, 2009

Venice is, needless to say, astoundingly beautiful. The water that fills the canals, sloshing around bends every time a gondola or vaporetto is set into motiont, is the most perfect turquoise-blue I have ever seen. I visited a small mask shop, where the famous beak-nosed carnival masks are made personally and painstakingly by a middle-aged couple in the adjoining workshop. The cuts are so elaborate, the gold so prominent and the amount of feathers always striking, bordering on excessive. I amble through small passageways from my hostel - a gorgeous, inexpensive (for this city, at least) and 400-year-old renovated palace that has only taken guests for the past seven months and includes breakfast and dinner.

TIP: A Venice Museum (Hostel)

I then stop by a large, open air market practically empty of tourists and locals alike, where antiques, books, clothing and jewelry are being sold. I buy three very cheap but fantastically crafted glass pendants (the chains I opted to find elsewhere) and a pair of rather baroque earrings. I ponder a coffee, but feel energized already and press myself to venture into an art museum, yet the weather is too stunningly gorgeous for me not feel that I'd be making a considerable sacrifice. I do very much want to go to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection and the Park Biennale/La Biennale di Venezia, but that can wait. In the mean time, I happen to have wandered into a peaceful, pleasantly hidden courtyard that was connected to an antiquated building housing an art school. It is very mission-like in style, except for the somewhat Moroccan arched windows that seem to be everywhere in this city. It is unbelievably silent, aside from the other pairs or solitary travelers and locals who find their way in and spend the entire time quietly marveling at its beauty. The air is soft and utterly permeated with the honey-like aroma of the serpentine purple Hardenbergia flowers.

I feel a bit like I was in a monastery and have no desire to leave any time soon. A dog barks and the sound echoes through the courtyard, and suddenly I am brought back into the world. My stomach is full of bio whole-wheat crackers, mineral water and Lufthansa-provided dark Lindt chocolate. This morning I had Gruyere cheese on bread, which my grandmother lovingly ordered me to take home with me from Zürich yesterday. I have met some flirty young guys with seemingly good intentions, and that served as a nice reminder that I am in my twenties and condsidered cute (or perhaps just being female is enough). Reassurance is not needed and I am not advocating the valuing of male goal-specific friendliness, but a kind conversation, electrically-charged or not, is always enjoyable.

Italian Vocabulary

sí/no
per favore
prego
grazie
ciao/buingiorno/salve
ciao/arrivederci
mi scusi
buono
no ho capito = I don't understand
Parla inglese?
uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei, sette, otto, nove, dieci
dov'e...? = where is...?
il bagno = toilet
l'autobus = bus

Later in the day I visit two galleries, wander around and explore, talk to other travelers in the hostel, stroll about with two girls from the U.S. with whom I connected fairly well, and prattled on into the night with freshly met yet enthusiastic and kind people.

Side note while sitting at table, after dinner and wine:

Everyone looks like everyone else. All faces are terribly over-symmetrically identical in a way. The more you travel around the world, the more you see this odd phenomenon. It's as if there weren't enough physical characteristics to go around. How odd it is that we think of ourselves as so unique, imagine our outward flaws as so very large and distinct.

April 14th, 2009
Best night ever

On a midnight train to Venice... actually, it's 11:23pm. I am sitting on my own in a crisp clean blue and white cabin of a train returning from Padua to Venice. Ten minutes ago I was with six Italians and a Spaniard, laughing, drinking wine from a bottle, roaming the piazzas and communicating in a hybrid version of Italian and English. This all began at Park Biennale at 1:30pm this afternoon. I bravely sought out the Peggy Guggenheim Collection only to find that it is closed on Tuesdays, so I walked to Piazza San Marco and spent a good hour and a half at the Basilica S. Marco, in awe of the golden roof of ascension and the elaborate mosaics.

Afterwards, I made the long journey to Park Biennale along the shore in the scorching Venetian sun. It was impossible not to notice the dramatic increase in humidity in comparison with the skinny shaded alleyways. I sat in the park, on the comfortably moist grass, listening to the birds, the groups laughing and picnicking, the water being splashed around by vaporettos. I listened to a bit of Blind Pilot and Bon Iver, who seemed to fit rather well in the tranquil park atmosphere, and as I began to think of taking a nap, a college-aged girl approached me and asked if I wanted a piece of cake, gesturing to her friends, a picnic blanket and a small feast. Naturally I wouldn't pass up such a chance, even when tempted by sleep (sugar or dreams, what is your drug of choice?), and so I joined them, sharing stories, opinions, translations and food. Immediately I was handed a beer and asked about my studies, home and reason for travel. It was not as much like a questionnaire as it sounds.

Chiara, a friend, me, Alejandro, Marco.

Maria and I.

We played frisbee, took photos and made both classy and obscene jokes - a winning combination. The group, then three Italians (two sisters and their flatmate) and a guy from Madrid, had come to Venice from Padua just for a day trip, and they planned to unwind a little more, maybe enjoy a coffee or gelato, then head back home to cook dinner, drink wine and have a small party. They asked if I wanted to come along - "just 30 minutes with the train!" - and I laughed it off while considering it seriously. We cleaned up the picnic area and set off to traverse through the currently closed Biennale, a great contemporary art museum where the exhibits and themes rotate annually, and which consists of several beautifully designed buildings within the park. We ran around the boarded up site, pointing at all the different country names on the buildings - one for Egypt, one for France, etc., the German one was ominous and oppressive, the Swiss one very Bauhaus - and had a good time.

We then walked back to San Marco, an experience that was still just as hot but seemed to only take half the time as before, and onward to the train station, making a necessary gelato stop along the way. After the short ride to Padua, we went by the university and to their apartment, where we drank, talked, ate, smoked and chuckled for hours, with calm downtime in between. We mostly spoke - correction, they spoke, I attempted to decipher - Italian with English translation breaks. The language's uncanny similarity to Spanish made me very grateful. We set out again at around 10:3om, in the direction of the train station (in the previous hours, five others had arrived and two had left), and i was treated to a walking tour, of the quirkiest variety, I should say, of the city and its delights. White wine in hand, we strolled leisurely to the station, where we exchanged information and made tentative plans to meet for lunch or dinner in Venice the next day. They ALL saw me off as my train pulled out, and even did a cheesy, cinematic chase after it.

I plan to head back the hostel in time to sleep a bit before registering at 5am for my Lewis & Clark Fall courses, return to bed for a few hours, and then enjoy my last full day in Venice. The feelings of calm and happiness I am experiencing now are pure and grand, and entirely my own to keep. I feel whole as I stare out at the light-reflecting yet curiously coal-colored water. I don't mind the contradiction.

April 15th, 2009

Registration issues in the wee hours caused massive stress and dancing around with a borrowed iTouch trying to get a wireless signal. To those of you planning to register for a class at your home university while abroad: Don't. Seriously. You may think that you have it in you to wake up in the middle of the night, when it's 7pm on the West Coast, but even if you do, you have no idea what outside forces will join together to work against you. In my case, it was the wireless gods. Because the hostel computer couldn't get a signal, I missed my registration time and had to sign up late after asking around (at 5am) for the use of someone's computer. I did not get my Behavioral Neuroscience course that I was really looking forward to, and I didn't realize how much I wanted it until after I had to waitlist. It really hurt, actually.

After the chaos, however, I slept solidly for a few hours and then headed off to the Peggy Guggenheim... and L'Academia (which is only 3,25 Euro for EU citizens under 25. They gave me the discount with my Swiss ID card. Ha. Silly. People wonder why Switzerland doesn't join the EU, well it's because it is practically part of it anyway). Modern art for breakfast, classic and antique for lunch. Splendid diet, I would say. I scribbled furiously in my notebook about pieces I loved, specifically Umberto Boccioni's "Materia" (1912). I also liked the commentary the [Guggen.] museum provided for Sironi's "La Ballerina:"

The Italian futurists displayed Nietzchean attitude towards women and considered them a "menace" to men. Sensual, female and nude women were banned as subject matter temporarily. The figure in Sironi's work is a hybrid woman machine, hygenic with metallic high black boots [paraphrased].

I spent the evening walking around with two girls, one Colombian, one Chilean, whom I had met that morning. I had satisfying hostel-cooked pasta dinner and talked with a group of Berkley students all originally from California, plus a nice girl from Colorado.

April 16th, 2009
Ciao, Venezia!


I am in the airport fantastically early (due to recent lessons learned) and experienced no stress during check-in or the long security line. I had a fairly inexpensive salad (SALAD! How I have missed you in this land of pasta!) with olives, tomatoes and mozarella, some bread and a banana. Earlier I gobbled down my last two remaining carrots, and my body thanked me for the Vitamin B after three days straight of egg and toast breakfasts. My opinion of traveling alone is positive. One must be more careful in many ways, from walking at night to making sure not to miss a bus or flight.

I was astounded, though, by how many people I met! This never happens in such a dramatic fashion when I travel as a pair or in a group. People sense that you have stories and want so much a person with whom they can share their own. For this reason, travelers bond instantly and magnetically, like children at sleep-away camp. Aside from the Basilica, Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Park Biennale, Academia and the canals, my favorite part of the trip was Padua. As far as meeting people goes, that was the ultimate experience and I will be telling of it for years to come.

P.S. As for the schedule issues in the coming Fall, this is something I can warn future Munich-bound students about and also anyone who studies abroad and could potentially face this problem. Let the registrar do it for you if you are abroad!!

EDIT: I got my neuroscience course!!! After emailing back and forth with the professor and making a very convincing argument for myself, she rearranged the waitlist so that I could get into the class. I am overjoyed by this, and will appreciate the class much more because of the difficulty, i.e. the suffering and squirming. I also go into a capstone course that I had not been looking at before and was actually an alternative plan: the Social Construction of Madness. I had all the prereqs but one, Abnormal Psychology, so I made a case for my experience with children with autism and Asperger's Syndrome as well as high school students who were aggressive externalizers and depressive internalizers. So now I am waiting if I can be put back into Biology (which Webadvisor unregistered me for when I made a stupid error) and if/when German will work out. I still have Psychology of Gender. So yeah... more classes than necessary.

Last notes on Barcelona

A great deal has happened between the last days in Barcelona and now, namely trips to Zürich and Venice as well as an eventual and somewhat more permanent landing in Munich. The Spring semester starts on Monday and I will be taking a series of fascinating courses, theatre/literature, art therapy and puppet-making and performance, to name a few. But alas, before I go on to detail my time in Venice or any recent contemplations, I wanted to write a quick wrap-up of Barcelona, just for finality's sake.

A sample of a typical day in Gaudí's city, when I was not taking a Spanish course, was as follows:

Mulled around in the morning checking emails and preparing breakfast, left the apartment, browsed some boutiques, picked up apples, tangerines and almonds at a shop... Went to Café El Jardín, walked a lot around the area beforehand, gazed at window displays and passed the Museum of Contemporary art... Drank a capuccino, read part of Reborn (Susan Sontag), perused La Central bookstore, bought "Cualquier sencilla intimidad" by the American graphic novelist Jeffrey Brown (translation was simple, easy to understand), went grocery shopping for real food, talked with Ivanna, chatted with Johanna and Andrew online, putzed further on the computer and had dinner before reading.

I have also, out of a selfish desire to return as well as for the benefit of other travelers to Spain, compiled a list of my favorite things in Barcelona.

• Lola Mora Delicatessen: amazing traditional but plastic table clothe that made me think of middle-aged Mexican housewives who prepare lunch as their husbands and sons go, once again, to watch the cock fights. In this delicatessen I perceived that the Spanish really understand the indie persuasion, hipsters, and all of these ridiculously stereotypical but nonetheless fascinating and intellectual subgroups of society. They offered quirkiness, good products, art and music, kind service. These are the elements that together create the successful 'hole-in-the-wall' but raved about hipster haunt that kindly caters to vegetarians.
• The drawer man sculpture in the Dalí Museum
• Huge wall-papered room in MACBA with couple undressing and initiating sex as a pattern, repeated over and over in a Rorschach-like visual pun that proved an outrageously colorful sight.
• The rolling chairs and other stoll or couch-like objects with wheels, the people sitting, laughing and spinning as part of a public art piece in the MACBA area.
• The dance performance part of La Dansa, with the crumpling of paper and the body; the petite elegant woman with a pixie cut contorting herself, wrapping the paper continuously around her head.
• The theatre piece from Amsterdam, also part of La Dansa and in English, at the performing arts center. The seemingly eternal stillness of the players, the actors, then the beginning of their monologues and the concurrent montionlessness of their bodies... "I imagine I am a forest, growing, reaching, lusting for the sunlight" [paraphrased]. They each imagined themselves and included the other characters and the audience when desired. Lights out, switch places. When the lights came up, they were in the same positions. The violent shaking that their bodies involuntarily exhibited from holding a position so long was memorable, as was the notion reached in the conclusion, of the endless possibility of the imagination.
• The Germans! They were everywhere!
• Biking along the beach, through the narrow roads, around tourists and other pedestrians.
• My Beautiful Parking, the bike shop
• Reading, loitering in bookshops, devouring the English section and taking furtive glances at the Spanish one.
  
• Walking, walking, walking until my back and legs ached and cried out at night with pain in the creaky, flimsy twin bed.
• Not being afraid of lighting the fire for the gas range stove anymore. Once singing the tips of my arm hairs and not noticing until Ivanna tittered uncontrollably and pointed it out.
• Sunbathing, reading, eating, drinking or just thinking on the small but perfectly-located and ever-sunny balcony.
• Developing my personality, maturing, blah blah psychobabble.
• Catalunya Square, watching the people feed and frolick around the pigeons, taking in the Spring warmth with my book.
• Well Park Güell and Sagrada Familia, of course.
  
• Primavera Park, Montjuïc, the beautiful walk up, the well-manicured garden and the panoramic view of Barcelona (where the skytram brings you).
  
• Hearing Swiss-German on two seperate and stomach butterfly-inducing occassions.
• Picasso Museum: his early and concentrated self portraits
• The attractive, calm-voiced German man with his gorgeous boxer dog.
• Kiki Smith: "Her Memory," an exhibit concentrating on femininity, seated/standing/lying levels of posture, birds in flight, death and the life cycle, windows, glass and sculpture. This was in the fantastic Museo Miró.
• Sensing, very acutely and not a moment too soon, that I will go insane without a bike and to the constant, reliable easy freedom it provides.
  

My Night in a BCN Airport: Finding Humor in an Otherwise Shitty Situation

As I sit in my well lit, comfortable room in Munich feeling very at peace and positive, I cannot help but reflect on the scaled-down tragicomedy that I endured one night ago. What happened to me was what frequently happens to those who travel, are stressed or an overly confident that the world acts only in their favor. I had seen it happen to my parents and to enraged customers many times before, yet I never thought I - in an egotistical fairytale complex sort of way - would fall victim to it: I arrived 10 minutes to late for my check-in time for the Barcelona-Munich flight, although before boarding began or the gate closed, and was not allowed to make the flight. The check-in time was cerrado, a concept that I took a long moment to comprehend. How can you close time?

What? This can’t happen.

It did though, and after talking to many different airport employees, I was told that the only option was to buy another ticket. The cheap ticket I had found through a travel site did not permit rebooking OR the issuing of a refund. I was completely out of luck and again could not believe that, to reveal how fortunate I have been in life, this could happen to me. Two other German women were talking hurriedly with the employee at the next window, and I realized that they were in the exact same situation, also intending to go to Munich. The only difference was that they had been in the airport the whole time, drinking coffee and relaxing before the flight. I suppose I could blame the extra long bus ride to the airport, but it was quite obviously my own fault. I had gotten so used to European standards of travel, especially train, and started to maintain an unconscious belief that travel within the EU was equivalent to domestic travel in the US. One mustn’t arrive a freakish two hours early, I rationalized, for a one hour flight. There had been some close calls before, but never anything like this. Maybe the American standard of paranoia regarding punctuality and plane travel is not so bad, I thought.

I purchased the ticket with Spanair, my original airline, after comparing prices with Lufthansa. The current time was 8pm, and my scheduled flight took off at 10:30am the next morning. Feeling as though I had said my final goodbyes to Barcelona and to my flatmates, I opted rather decisively to spend the night at the airport. The story that follows is an account of the fifteen and a half hour ordeal, from the wait time to landing, complete with sketches and writing that fill thirty pages of my small Moleskine.

My night in a BCN airport.

So it begins…

You want to be that ambling nomadic Dylanesque figure you’ve always admired? Well then, here’s your chance.

Over the next few hours, I plan to observe and ponder this bizarre muddle of expectant strangers at El Prat Airport in Barcelona. This for a girl who, as a child, busied herself with elaborate theatrical pieces, roles filled by oversized paperclips, in Mailboxes, Etc. while her father filled out countless forms. Right then. Here are the details:

Original time of departure: 19:55 April 6th
New flight: 10:30 April 7th
Current time: 22:15
Hours remaining: 12 hrs. 15 min.

The first two hours have not been terribly unpleasant. Now, when the night crowd arrives, crawling out of their shadows, this is when the entertainment starts. These are the Red Eye flying, bargain-addicted travelers; they are the pissed, tired and hungry foreigners who have been screwed over by their airlines and are just, for fuck’s sake, trying to get to London. These people are the elderly hyper-punctuals and, the suave young loiterers with their crunchy gelled hair and infrequently victorious attempts at picking up the stranded and forlorn female travelers.

There are those who look as if this wait has no psychological impact on them whatsoever, as if they just happened to drive extra 10km for that cup of coffee they could have purchased down the street. Scarcely any children are around, but in their place is a staggering display of paper espresso cups, covering all available table space. There is also the fact that it is ridiculously crowded here for 10pm on a Monday night, and there are multiple games of cards, never-ending and varied in nature, concerned faces, gift-wrapped packages, waiting eagerly and pregnant with potential atop luggage, rides on baggage carts, and hushed conversations. In the midst of all this, there is also me. Hello, El Prat de Ilobregat. In the coming hours, we will become fairly well acquainted.

Original time of departure: 19:55 April 6th
New flight: 10:30 April 7th
Current time: 22:15
Hours remaining: 12 hrs. 15 min.

The first two hours have not been terribly unpleasant. Now, when the night crowd arrives, crawling out of their shadows, this is when the entertainment starts. These are the Red Eye flying, bargain-addicted travelers; they are the pissed, tired and hungry foreigners who have been screwed over by their airlines and are just, for fuck’s sake, trying to get to London. These people are the elderly hyper-punctuals and, the suave young loiterers with their crunchy gelled hair and infrequently victorious attempts at picking up the stranded and forlorn femaletravelers.

There are those who look as if this wait has no psychological impact on them whatsoever, as if they just happened to drive extra 10km for that cup of coffee they could have purchased down the street. Scarcely any children are around, but in their place is a staggering display of paper espresso cups, covering all available table space. There is also the fact that it is ridiculously crowded here for 10pm on a Monday night, and there are multiple games of cards, never-ending and varied in nature, concerned faces, gift-wrapped packages, waiting eagerly and pregnant with potential atop luggage, rides on baggage carts, and hushed conversations. In the midst of all this, there is also me. Hello, El Prat de Ilobregat. In the coming hours, we will become fairly well acquainted.

Observation #1:
It’s peculiar how linguistic quirks, filler words and idioms from your mother language spill out of the mouth violently, rapidly and without your knowledge or permission. I overhear a man with impeccable, rapid English who nonetheless repeatedly says “pero, pero que…, bueno, or sí, sí” in conversation.

Observation #2:
A giant group of Spaniards most likely returning from Mexico is talking loudly, wearing obscenely bright colors and sombreros, eating, laughing, and taking chaotic group photos. I wonder what they are doing here, why they aren’t going directly home or onward to the next destination. Strange…

Observation #3:
The noise is what is most surprising. It could easily be 2pm, based on the level of energy and volume with which the people all speak.

This place is like an overly lit and very spacious bar, although albiet located.

Sketch: paper plate, crumpled paper pastry bag, apple core

Observation #5:
It is getting colder with each passing hour. My friend’s warnings about the frigid temperature in the Istanbul airport may hold true here as well.

Sketch of one of van Gogh’s drawings


Observation #6:
The Italians – they have ceased to be Spaniards in my reassessment – are howling like wolves. This was sparked by a simultaneous “Oooh” emitted by a group of teen girls (presumably from the same group). The boys responded in kind, only as animals.

Night. Night. Night.

Van Gogh was obsessed with the shadows, alleys and lurking miscreants that came out at that time. Bars are always ripe for social observations. Oh yes, it’s strange that I see myself now, with a rapid turn-around at age 13 (public school and puberty being likely contributors) into a more outgoing person, as an extrovert. I am passionate about psychology for many reasons, though, and one of them is that I understand what it feels like to be an outsider, as well as what this perception does to a person. It means to live with a self-imposed stigmatization that is more egoistic that outwardly obvious, but detrimental nonetheless. In the end, to bring to mind Susan Sontag, it is all about the ego.

Who are we other than the minds we possess and the bodies we inhabit? [This is an atheist’s statement if there ever was one.] We relate to others only in terms of how similar or dissimilar they are to us. If we find their shared characteristics and foreign ones fascinating, we are then compelled to see them as fascinating. When the differences are too great (or when they are perhaps really our own qualities but exaggerated like the disturbing reflection in a carnival mirror in that person’s seemingly cumbersome fashion), we are uninterested in the individual.

Current time: 11:00pm
11.5 hours to go, and I desperately want to scoff at that miniscule amount. I have slept that long before. I have been suspended in flights on long-distance plane trips in that amount of time. This should be manageable. It is highly likely that I am still in denial of what lies ahead.

Or maybe the Spanitalians are actually Portuguese. It is normally not this hard to tell. It just sounds so similar but not quite identical to Spanish.

Thoughts on Venice: [A planned trip that I rethought after this unexpected expense]

Ultimately, the option of rescheduling or canceling my trip (and not losing money in the process) is not up to me but rather to the travel company. It can’t hurt to make a list of pros and cons for later reference, though.

PRO – Venice Apr. 13-16

- I really want to go (in life or now)
- The beauty, architecture, canals and museums, plus the markets and people
- The sun, the moments in cafés that will be had
- It will still be very festive after Easter, I believe

CON – Venice Apr. 13-16

- Money reasons, especially after having to purchase the ticket back to Munich from BCN
- I have been sitting in cafés and unwinding or reflecting for the past month. It’s almost getting old.
- Registration issues with my classes [for Lewis & Clark College in Portland next fall], waking up at 5am for it
- It will be so very expensive

With this BCN-MUC ticket I could have traveled from Munich to Copenhagen to Stokholm and back to Munich (the 217 Euro combination of plane tickets I researched earlier), the trip I am planning for July and August. Gah.

Why am I still here? I want to go home. Home: Munich, Portland, San Carlos, even Tempe with my parents. That is more homey than this airport.

Oh god. It’s only 11:15pm.
11 hours, 15 minutes left.

Stop. Counting. It’s like math class as a kid. Tick, tick, tick. When will that damn bell ring? I want to go to recess, play four square and eat string cheese. Are these my own memories? Collective consciousness ingested through film and television? I think they are somewhat my own. I remember the string cheese vividly.

I ate snails last night in Spain. Out with flatmates, four glasses of wine (over a many hour period). There was also something that might have had…

Interrupt due to Observation #7:
RANDOM SPONTANEOUS APPLAUSE, YELLING. Then silence. Some people filmed it. What the hell was that about?

…ham in it, but you couldn’t tell because it was breaded and fried, with no visible… chunks. Meghan (also not a carnivore) ordered it and we sinned together, each making the other’s misstep slightly less shameful. Bad semi-vegetarians. Bad, bad, bad. Hilarious jackassery on Charlie’s part, with the squealing piglet imitations and all.

BEST thing about going back to Munich = Far. Less. Mullets.

Observation #8:
I was amused by and photographed a bouquet dispenser in the greeting area for arrivals. “Hi hon, I picked up these flowers for you, along with some Cheetos and a Coke – man, is that a multi-purpose vending machine!

Observation #9:
Terminal A is, as if its name were to reflect its letter grade in cleanliness, better equipped with better seats (the ‘comfy’ kind) and has more restaurants than Terminal B. There is also non-stop classical music. If B is poorer than A in aesthetic niceties, is C therefore much mangier than B and therefore the ultimate in shoddiness?

Flight of the Bumblebee is playing and my heart has started to race.This melody is way to stressful for this environment, I couldn’t imagine a worse pairing. Perhaps pop music and gang violence, though I can’t say for sure.


Observation #10:
I’m sorry not to mask my utter wonderment, but I just saw the first homeless person here. That is to say that his home is the airport, so perhaps that title does not fit – nor is the pretension and disgusting classism implicit in the novelty I saw in this situation excusable. But still, the thought of living here, spending both your nights and waking hours in this vast fluorescent hell… the knowledge of its unfavorable conditions for sleeping followed by the submission of sleeping here, where it is warmer and safer than outdoors, and where there are many toilets… that is surprising yet understandable to me. The fact that I could afford to pay for my stupidity by booking a new flight, the fact that I can afford to fly in general, have a laptop, attend a private university, have an individual room and health insurance and all these luxuries means that I am not aware of suffering on any real level. I am not lacking in amenities or belongings, family support or education.

Swallow that first, then whine about one night in an airport. This is an exception to my normal daily activities and a fairly romanticized notion of adventure, not my forced way of life.

The TIME is: 12:00am

10.5 hours left
First attempt at sleep was made.

Duration: 25 minutes
Method: As the benches were designed to discourage people from lying down and thus have a large half-trapezoid steel bar between each seat, reaching a position that mimicked something close to comfort proved challenging. I wrapped my scar around my eyes, faced belly toward rather than away – this is impossible and could result in curving your spine in an inhuman way – from the divider, in something like a fetal position, used my bag and large jacket as a pillow, and a smaller jacket as a blanket. This worked pretty well, but my comfort level was about here:

See Graph

Food Consumed Today:

- Bran cereal with strawberries. Only the small boring ones were left.
- A few stolen stale biscuits from my flatmate’s forgotten box in the kitchen
- SUSHI BUFFET

• Rolls upon rolls of sushi with salmon, avocado, cucumber, crab or other ingredients, lots of grilled asparagus, tomatoes, a little rice, more sushi. Dessert: scoop of orange ice cream, kiwis, lychee berries, unidentified candy that Charlie declared to be rat droppings, candy. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so full in my life. I was not hungry for about 7 hours afterward.

- Apple, cheese on baguette with strange lackluster tomatoey spread, most of a baby Toblerone, water
- Second apple

Current Apple Ration: 2 eaten. 1 remaining.

I also have bran cereal in my suitcase…

Moment of Weakness 12:48am
I ate the second to last triangle piece of Toblerone. It’s almost all gone now.

The classical music never stops.

Second Attempt at Sleep:

Duration: 41 minutes
Method: See previous trial
Results: I feel mildly refreshed, but my eyes feel terribly dry and I could probably sleep for about fifteen hours if placed in a big cushy bed in a pitch black right now. My dreams were fantastically psychedelic, rapid, colorful, and creative. Sleep deprivation and classical music can have that effect, I suppose. Also, when a person is very exhausted, the brain enters REM immediately to recuperate from the lack of rest and the dreams are exquisitely intense.

I had the scarf wrapped around my head like a blindfold, blocking out the light. It looked very silly [Drawing].

Current Time: 1:50am
Remaining Time: 8 hrs. 40 min.
Time goes faster when I write than when I try to trick my body into sleeping. [Drawing of bed in Munich].

I desperately need to brush my teeth.


Update 2:20am
Time Remaining: 8 hrs. 10 min.
I feel better after washing my face and brushing my teeth. The nighttime ritual also established some sense of normalcy and helped to eat up time, of which I have plenty. I have never been this on time for a flight in my entire personal history. Ha.

Noteworthy Victory:
I have found and secured a bench for myself with NO CENTER BAR! Lying down! The negative side is that a man in the bathroom right next to this bench is hacking up a lung and lots of mucus. Where did that classical music go?? I also have a neighbor on this bench who is reveling in its semi-sleep-worthy capacity. She looks normal, young, well dressed. Just another person who messed up and didn’t want to book a hotel. Her feet smell horrendous, though, and she has kindly removed her shoes to allow fellow bench dozers a better whiff.

Current Time: 3:56am
Time Remaining: 6 hrs. 34 min.
I had a somewhat successful attempt at sleeping and made things more or less comfortable. Even though I have not, in all these naps and attempts, drifted out of consciousness and was always cognizant of the sounds (hand dryer, four times in a row… your hands are fucking dry, ok?) going on around me, it’s been helpful to have a little bit of peace. I am already excited about the stores opening in the morning – New Things To See! – and going through security at 5am or so. I have a window seat in the second row. Munich. Munich. Bed. Bed. So much thinking while I try to sleep. In my thoughts I am more articulate that what I am writing now. The effects are already showing, which makes me feel weak. I pulled so many all-nighters for IB classes in high school or exams in the past three years of college. This should not be so hard. Oh nooo… asshole spitting man sauntered over to the bathroom just now. Here we go again.

I feel a certain sense of solidarity with this nice jeans smelly feet girl sleeping two seats over. We are both trying hard and putting in a great deal of effort into accomplishing something highly unlikely to succeed: sleep in this airport. I feel guilty chewing bran flakes and moving the plastic bag. I tried no to move around too much while lying because it rattle the bench. It’s an odd thing to bond with a stranger over something so miniscule and without their knowledge.

P.S. Spitting man seems to be feeling better.

The time is 5:15am, and the airport is alive again. Time remaining: 5 hrs. 15 min. It is still too early for me to check in and the latest flights displayed are only at 9:10, but a glimmer of hope exists. I am having a supremely mediocre café con leche and a several day old croissant.

It is now 6:15, exactly an hour later. I putzed around on my computer for a while sans internet-connection and read many PDF versions of Spanish children’s stories that Andrew sent me. Look! I’m being industrious. The battery reached a critical low and I am left to my own devices for the time being. They are playing Beyoncé’s If I Were a Boy in the candy and stuffed animal shop that just opened. Who wants Beyoncé and candy at this hour?

6:17am
I suppose I do. The last mini triangle of Toblerone has been consumed.
Still don’t think I can check in. The latest flight is at 9:10, as it was before.

Observation #11:
There is an utter lack of power outlets in this airport. Where are they?? Have you seen any?

I have developed a nervous tick from consciously sniffling once (it’s really more like a subtle intake of breath) every time I move my hair over my ears. I notice whenever I do this, but just after, when it’s too late to catch it and correct the behavior.

It’s now 7:32am. I am past security and have been browsing around in the shops. It’s all so lively and fancy and I am just so very tired…

But The End Is In Sight!

Shops, shops, shops. Such shiny objects and so expensive, too. I almost fell asleep in a bathroom stall. I closed my eyes and tilted my head down a little, then suddenly I made an involuntary jerk. Awake! Yes, I am awake! The time is 7:55am. I have 2,10 Euro and urgently require orange juice. I think I know where my gate it now. There is a huge waiting space with benches sans dividers. Oh yes.

8:20am
I am drinking an over-priced, far too sweet glass of Minute Maid orange juice and the taste is, at this very instant, much appreciated. I have no complaints. I am watching the planes pass, take off, and taxi like fat oblong seagulls against the pastel pink backdrop of a sky. This is calming, yet I do not know why. That must be the reason they created those enormous windows, to let in light and to pacify and distract stressed travelers. It’s rather hypnotic. After seeing my reflection in the bathroom mirror on this side of security, where the lighting is warmer and less harsh, allowing you to encounter a more human, healthy person in your reflection, I noticed that I did not look all that bad for someone who spent the last 13 hours in the airport without real sleep.

It’s now 9:40am. The benches in the M3 waiting area are so unbelievably comfortable and ergonomically designed. Lack of a soft surface has made me so grateful for them that I’d fill my living room with these tilted back benches, perhaps lining them along the walls as couches or in rows like a movie theatre. Chop a bench in half and you have a love seat, whereas one chair alone is perfect for reading. When friends visit, you can sit face to face, reclining leisurely in your own row of airport chairs.

I have such a headache and am so damn hungry again. I want that emergency chocolate!

10:20am
Boarded. Sitting in the plane. Thank god.

11:50am
This is by far slowest plane flight ever. The clouds look like letters and spell out sideways A and vertical F. AF. I get frantic with anticipation whenever I hear the wheels of a could-be beverage cart moving or the crinkling plastic sound of joy that accompanies snacks. My current greatest fear is (aside from the rational fear of losing luggage) missing the snacks.

I WANT TO GO HOME NOW PLEASE.

Lesson learned. Very expensively, at that. Don’t dilly dally on your way to the airport. Always be early. I was awake for the last snack handout and extended my hand enthusiastically. It was a lozenge. How disappointing. Still, I would have hated missing it.

12:30am
Regardless of all this, the feelings of glee and warmth I experienced while looking over my picturesque fairy tale German city were so profound. I am happy to be back. Tired, extremely sore, and a bit poorer, but glad to be home again. Endlich wieder zu Hause.

The End. El fin. Das Ende.

2:18pm
Just kidding. Apparently all forces are working against me. I am ONE STOP from home and the U-Bahn is stalled indefinitely, so I stand here with my bags. I bought potatoes at the supermarket in the airport so I could make soup tonight. Yeah. They are great fun to carry.

At 2:30pm, April 7th, I arrived in my room, flung open my windows and washed up, dancing with glee at having my very own room again. The weather was glorious and my mood was elevated. I slept for a few hours and then spent time with friends. It was quite amazing after the hectic experience.

Hello again, Munich. I have never been so happy to be home.

Creativity

Music video based on the artwork of Marcel Dzama: