|
Rootlessness "I feel a bit stiff," Sherry mentioned upon arising. "The second day is always the hardest," I told her. After a quick shower to begin the day we sat down with Helene for a quiet breakfast. Tony had already left for work and the girls had gone off to school. Helene said her girls were a bit chagrined that I wasn't up before they had left for school. "We want to give our farewell wishes to the man," they had said. Our first experience with a host family had been nothing but positive. Not only were our hosts friendly and interesting, but (an unexpected bonus) we also received beds, supper, showers and breakfast. Helene even phoned our next host family to make arrangements for us. Sharon was already looking forward to another shower. We headed for the bike path running along the canal. At a T intersection a car caromed towards us. Sharon expertly swerved around the heavily braking vehicle. Sherry freaked, jammed on her brakes and skidded. To avoid piling into the back of her, I quickly maneuvered around her, then the stopped vehicle. Those mountain bikes had wicked brakes. The canal bike path was being repaved. We plodded along suffering a soupy muddy mess. Sherry was glad she had her mountain bike with its knobby tires giving her good traction. I tried going around the worse places by riding on the grass. Still, in a short time, my legs looked as if they had developed a bad case of brown measles. The route took us all the way to Erlangen, past rose gardens of every imaginable color and style. Deciduous trees lined the road. Their leaves were beginning to change in hues of brilliant reds and yellows. Our only stop was for lunch at a stream with picnic table where we devoured our German staples: bread and fruit. The Adidas factory almost lured us inside, but we resisted the temptation to keep our already heavy bikes from gaining even more weight. About a kilometer from the little town of Eichmuhle we spent the night in the countryside with host Reinhard. The huge farmhouse was two hundred fiftysix years old, built in typical Bavarian fashion with huge wooden timbers. We marveled that we were staying in a house older than our country. The rooms were remodeled and Reinhard had created an airy openbeam effect that was very attractive complemented by his wooden furniture and hardwood floors. Reinhard had bought the farmhouse from the eight others he used to live with communestyle, who one by one got married and moved away. Reinhard was a throwback from the sixties, complete with sixties ideology and a marijuana joint. He was full of information and was more than willing to share it. Reinhard was on leave from his job as a kindergarten teacher. He had helped create an alternative kindergarten called antiauthoritarian. From my understanding it employed male teachers with, shall I say, different pedagogical ideas. When we first arrived, we asked Reinhard if he spoke English. "I speak a little English," he had replied. As our conversation progressed, it became readily apparent that Reinhard possessed more than a rudimentary grasp of the language. At one point, telling us about the kindergarten he worked at, he paused, pondering the word that eluded him. Consulting his dictionary, he found the word that had created his greatest linguist pitfall for the evening: "Ah, 'rootlessness.' Of course," he said, snapping the dictionary shut. A friend of Reinhard's, Achim, arrived at supper time. We had bread, tea, fresh farm cheese from a friend down the road and fresh eggs from the chickens out back. While Achim and Reinhard went for a beer and a toke at the pub, we hit the hay, snuggling down in our sleeping bags. The house was a little cool for us, heated only with sparingly lit wood stoves. |
|
|
Book Info