“Go to Germany!”

May 1981. Graduation week at Georgetown. Friends heading off to medical school, law school, banks in New York. Others seemed to have some kind of a plan. I had done little thinking about it. Then my mother: „Go to Germany!“ Why not? I had studied History, mostly European. A two-semester survey course on German History my senior year had captured my imagination. German was my foreign language. The summer months were spent working as a roofer. It put cash in my pocket, was healthy physical work. Late September I board a plane from JFK to Frankfurt. A very young twenty-two year old. Adventuresome, more than a bit nervous.

Das Goethe Institut. Named after Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), Germany‘s brilliant Enlightenment-era writer, philosopher, scientist. The institute West Germany‘s premier language and cultural institution. A ten-week intensive language course. There were several locations to apply to. Munich, Berlin, Frankfurt, Hamburg, Freiburg. But also in smaller, quaint towns. Off to Blaubeuren, ten miles west of Ulm, about an hour car drive southeast from Stuttgart, nestled in the Swabian hills.

A town of ten thousand residents, Blaubeuren was established in 1085 by Benedictine monks who had begun construction of a cloister. Not far from the cloister is the Blautopf, blau blue + topf pot, a spring which feeds the river Blau. Due to its water pressure the spring is funnel shaped, at its deepest point seventy feet. The blueish color is a result of its limestone chemical properties. In the Middle Ages legend had it that each day someone would pour a vat of ink into the water.

The Swabians also had a tongue-twister associated with the Blautopf: Glei bei Blaubeira leit a Kletzle Blei . . . ´s leit a Kletzle Blei glei bei Blaubeira. Near Blaubeuren, there lies a block of lead. There lies a block of lead near Blaubeuren. Reminds me of my father who would test us. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Or. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck. Or. Sally sells sea shells by the sea shore.

Frankfurt airport. Have my bags, including bicycle. Need to hit the bathroom, and ask: Wo ist das Badezimmer? Where is the bathroom. My first interaction with Germany and Germans, in my rather underdeveloped German. A bathroom in Germany is where you take a Bad, a bath, or in most cases, a shower. The woman smiled. „Sie meinen die Toilette.“ You mean the toilet. Frankfurt. Americans in and out on a constant basis for almost four decades. I wasn‘t the first, or last, to ask for a bath. „Uh, yes, a toilet.“ We Americans tend to be rather discreet when it comes to personal hygiene.

A regional train gets me to Ulm around noon. Since registration at the institute is the next day I sightsee a bit. First check into a Gaststätte. Not a hotel. Family run. Cozy, personal, a local restaurant on first (ground) floor. Tired from the almost sleepless flight, but very excited, I walk the streets of the Altstadt, alt old + stadt town. Climb the stairs up to the top of the Dom cathedral, Europe‘s highest. Take in sights and sounds at the Market Square, the narrow streets, the shops.

Back to the Gaststätte for dinner. A booth to myself. The menu is in German. What else? My second round of interactions with Germans. Gulaschsuppe, Salat and a very tall beer. Weizenbier. Strong, but sweet. I drink two, maybe three. My head is woozy, but manage to chat a bit with the locals. Not sure if I understood anything or if they understood me, but the exhiliration was enorm, enormous. I had studied their history, was curious about who they were, knew that they were different. This wasn‘t a book anymore. Finally, head hits the pillow. A long day. Conquered. Had my stuff. A couple of good meals. Saw, heard, learned.

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