Brussels to Sarajevo
Nov. 1, 2005
Achen, Germany
I am sitting here on the bus underway from Brussels to Sarajevo, Bosnia and Hercegovina with a busted knee and wounded pride. I left Brussels this morning (after a lovely few days with Marie-Rose in that beautiful, so civilized city) on the bus. Here in Achen we stopped for a break and to change buses. When I returned from the bathroom in the rasthaus (think Howard Johnson rest stops) the bus was gone. I had dawdled a little because this was the first time back in Germany since I fled in 1991 after four years living near Dusseldorf. And the bus was serving Nescafe instant so I thought I would get a bag of cookies and ingratiate myself.
I circled the parking lot three times as the German truckers chuckled at my frantic search. My huge backpack and carry bag full of presents and papers put me off balance so when I absentmindedly stepped up on a curb for another look in the rasthaus for a familar bus face I tripped over it instead, tearing my pants wide open, gashing one knee and bruising the other. Truckers were amused - the baaastards. I was almost in tears, thinking, "Oh my god. I am stuck in Germany!"
Finally I noticed another nook where the bus might be. Eureka! I ran up, panting "Ich suche der bus for Sarajevo!" They reassured me, the giant pink bus was in fact going to Sarajevo. All I could think of saying at the point was, "Here are some cookies for everyone." Since everyone had already finished their coffee and moved on a cigarettes they found my offer a bit strange. But the bus driver dutifully offered each rider one. Turns out, it's harder to offer communal gifts to people whose language you don't share.
So here I am in a pink powderpuff bus with 15 strangers and two drivers near Cologne. We have the finest of American media to amuse us: a video of the most violent fistfights on the Jerry Springer show. I can't believe I am driving through Germany watching a bad Jerry Springer video. (By the way, the fistfights are all staged, like professional wrestling. There are three variations on how they begin and unfold.) Funny to be back in Germany even if it is just passing through. To see German signs and hear German as the language of the land. It's appropriate that I am only passing through Germany, a place I once lived in intensely but left behind what seems like a lifetime ago.
Achen, Germany
I am sitting here on the bus underway from Brussels to Sarajevo, Bosnia and Hercegovina with a busted knee and wounded pride. I left Brussels this morning (after a lovely few days with Marie-Rose in that beautiful, so civilized city) on the bus. Here in Achen we stopped for a break and to change buses. When I returned from the bathroom in the rasthaus (think Howard Johnson rest stops) the bus was gone. I had dawdled a little because this was the first time back in Germany since I fled in 1991 after four years living near Dusseldorf. And the bus was serving Nescafe instant so I thought I would get a bag of cookies and ingratiate myself.
I circled the parking lot three times as the German truckers chuckled at my frantic search. My huge backpack and carry bag full of presents and papers put me off balance so when I absentmindedly stepped up on a curb for another look in the rasthaus for a familar bus face I tripped over it instead, tearing my pants wide open, gashing one knee and bruising the other. Truckers were amused - the baaastards. I was almost in tears, thinking, "Oh my god. I am stuck in Germany!"
Finally I noticed another nook where the bus might be. Eureka! I ran up, panting "Ich suche der bus for Sarajevo!" They reassured me, the giant pink bus was in fact going to Sarajevo. All I could think of saying at the point was, "Here are some cookies for everyone." Since everyone had already finished their coffee and moved on a cigarettes they found my offer a bit strange. But the bus driver dutifully offered each rider one. Turns out, it's harder to offer communal gifts to people whose language you don't share.
So here I am in a pink powderpuff bus with 15 strangers and two drivers near Cologne. We have the finest of American media to amuse us: a video of the most violent fistfights on the Jerry Springer show. I can't believe I am driving through Germany watching a bad Jerry Springer video. (By the way, the fistfights are all staged, like professional wrestling. There are three variations on how they begin and unfold.) Funny to be back in Germany even if it is just passing through. To see German signs and hear German as the language of the land. It's appropriate that I am only passing through Germany, a place I once lived in intensely but left behind what seems like a lifetime ago.
posted by A.W. Woodall at 1:57 AM
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