The Return to Adventure
“Answer my question,” he demanded. I had turned away from him, as I found the question appalling and knew that nothing positive would come from engaging him. He was rather earnest in his desire to know; he had something to say about what he was seeing.
“I am 20 years old,” Fiona replied, even though it was clear this guy was clearly focused on me. It was just past midnight on an early Monday morning. The three of us were the sole occupiers of a two-track train platform, unprotected from the elements, where it was well-lit but the surroundings were shrouded in pitch black.
I had arrived with a fellow singer; she and I had just wrapped up an evening gig in the bath house at Bad Sulza. We were all awaiting the last train of the night headed to Erfurt. The man was fully engaged in his phone call when he asked when the train was expected to arrive: 20 after midnight.
After hearing this information, he had looked directly at me and asked, “how old is the pretty young lady?” That’s how this story begins.
Fiona could pass off as an early teen; she is short and petite. As to why this man was interested in learning this information, it is still a bit unclear. Thankfully, he attempted to explain: “If she were younger than 14, then we would have a problem. I am over 20, and it would not be a good idea for me to be here with you two. It is none of my business, but you must decide what happens next.” Taking a step forward toward me, he urged me to acknowledge my understanding of his meaning, which I did.
He then told the person on the phone that he needed to get off the train platform. He then sat down at the edge of the concrete raised floor and dropped off onto the tracks below. He walked through the six inches of snow to a closed seating area where one could almost make out his recounting of the story.
To break the awkward silence that held Fiona and me, I asked her, “so, how does pedophilia work in Germany?”
My arrival back to Erfurt found it colder than when I left it. I had turned my hot-water radiator heat off during my travels, and I am now learning that it may take a couple weeks before it returns to fully functioning. It took a good week before I saw comfortable temperatures and now I am only struggling with consistency – currently it is being theorized that my heat is subordinate to other units and I will only receive heat when they are not in need. I have sweatshirts.
The first task was teaching my weekly beginner tap class. My travels back to the states had me missing only one of these classes – the one on Thanksgiving. We are in the process of wrapping up our tap number, “Wrapped Up in You”, by Garth Brooks. I am unsure how the Germans feel about country line dance tapping, but it’s fun for me; sometimes that’s all that matters. For the winter/spring semester, I will attempt a more modern number perhaps. I have informed the class that they will be performing the number for the advanced class that rehearses immediately after them – again, they do not really have to, I am simply proud of my choreography.
Three days after my arrival back in Germany, I once again find myself back in Tambach-Dietharz for the overly rehearsed performance of typical-American Christmas songs. The parental units and I arrived via train and bus and immediately visited the bakery. I was told that I had to give them a private show of the songs I was to sing; I exchanged the performance for some Mohnkuchen and coffee. We stayed and chatted (in German, and I gave up translating for the parental units after the first minute) for the next hour. It was then that we were expected by the advent pyramid as the international singing groups were invited for tours of the church and nearby assisted living home.
The French were late, so we quickly walked through Tambach’s old church. We learned that during the GDR times, the mayor sold the stain-glass windows and pipe organ to the West for some much-needed funds for the town. The church seemed very plain and ill-used. The group then wound its way to the old-folks home where we saw the four color-coded living areas and the amenities available to the occupants. My maternal unit requested that she not be put in the orange section; the color was a bit offensive. I made no promises.
The event started off with a children’s choir from over the mountains. As they were going through their set, my accordion accompanists and I talked about our mutual goal of taking the 5:30 PM bus; he wanted to go home and I needed to be back in Erfurt that evening for another gig. Being a persistent person, he somehow got us right up on stage after the children’s choir. I believe we were supposed to end the evening (the MC had told me that I was the “gem”, the “pearl” of the evening). We jumped up on stage and performed our four numbers: Jingle Bells, O Christmas Tree, Silent Night, and O Holy Night.
We all made the bus and headed back to Erfurt. I was supposed to be back at the Dance School at 7, but we did not get back to the city until after that. By the time I had everyone settled and got the next gig, it was after 8 PM – the dance party there had already started. I offered my profuse apologies, which were shrugged off. It is extremely impolite to be late in Germany. My job for the evening (unbeknownst to me) was to bartend for an adult, social dance party.
To start, I have never bartended before. Second, while I was not mixing drinks, I have no idea what some of these bottles contain. Apfelschorle and Apfelsaft? Why do people have nicknames for Sekt? And four varieties of white wine and five of red? It was overwhelming, especially when you throw in making change in Euros. Seriously, when one is used to breaking down the currency in quarters and then no longer having that as an option, one may end up looking like an idiot.
I was thankful for all the patient people who kindly repeated their order and clarified when something was missing. But to the people who waved their money in my face and tapped the countertop to show their impatience, screw you. I need to ask for more information before accepting some of these gigs.
The very next morning, I found myself back at the dance house for a tap group rehearsal – still in the works and still beyond my capabilities, but I am learning a lot. This effort is testing my patience and that of the group leader. Still, this may be building to something great… or the technical requirements will sink it. Time will tell.
From this tap rehearsal, I rushed to Weimar for a dry-run before our evening gig. The music leader wanted to make sure that I had some practice with the microphone before we got to the bath house. We then collected his two backup singers and headed to Bad Sulza.
Sunday morning brought a major snow fall for the area – the trees were covered in snow, the roads were also. The concept for our band, called “Ensemble RGB”, was international. The leader, a German, had also invited a trio of Syrians to perform. The three groups were to switch off throughout the four hour gig, from 9 PM to 1 AM. As we were in a geothermal spring bath house (with lithium-laden water), the other two groups could enjoy the water while one group performed in half-hour sets.
Unfortunately, the Syrians got off the train at the wrong stop, got turned around and ended up heading back home for the evening. The leader change his mind about having long sets, and we traded off every ten to fifteen minutes. This left no time for bathing, even though the bath house requested that we perform in swim trunks.
Our evening started punctually at 9 PM on a Sunday evening with approximately a hundred swimmers listening to our concert. In fact, the swimmers could not escape our sounds; the bath house pumped the music through the area and also directly into the water – we were everywhere. Our stage was set up on a circular platform centered high above the pools. Our view encompassed the entire domed structure allowing us to see everywhere, even through the windows to the indoor/outdoor pools where folks could dive under the wall and bathe outside. And at our height, the heat was a bit oppressing. The establishment made sure there was plenty of water for the performers; we were forbidden from consuming alcohol.
At 11 PM, our audience dropped to the teens. I was also learning that the last train back to the city would be leaving well before our gig was to end. I had little desire to crash on the group leader’s floor. I asked the sound guy if ten people were a typical Sunday audience; he said yes and that he would recommend just putting on a CD for the rest of the evening. Even though our band leader wanted to push through, the organizer was emphatic that we should call it an evening.
One of the backup singers also needed to head back to Erfurt, so she and I made our way out and walked to the train station. It was dark, cold, and snowy, and there was little signage in the small town to point us in the right direction. A little after midnight, Fiona and I found our way to the partially-shoveled platform in Bad Sulza. There was one other guy there waiting for the train; he was on his cell phone.
So, even though we told him the train was leaving at 12:20 AM, he never returned to the platform; he missed the last train of the evening. While I contemplated if I should feel guilty about not shouting at him as the train’s expected arrival approached, I told Fiona that I was a little offended that the guy implied that I was a pedophile. She responded that she was surprised that I told him I understood his meaning; she said she didn’t follow his logic. He was speaking in German, so I doing a bit of filling in missing pieces for words that were slurred or mumbled. Perhaps I did not understand; she, being a German, definitely did not comprehend his meaning.
Fiona proposed that maybe I was not the one in the wrong; rather, he was. Perhaps he could not be on the platform with a younger woman. Regardless, she is 20 years old. The awkwardness of that evening lingers today.
Fiona also informed me that the street cars stopped running at 1 AM, which was our expected train arrival. We both ran down the stairs from the train platform in Erfurt to the street car stop; she made the last train of the evening; I did not. I started my walk back home. I got to the next stop (Anger) and noticed that one last train was expected to arrive in two minutes; it was my train. Its final stop: my stop. This train came around a gentle, foggy corner from a direction it never travels, picked me up (and some odd Goth figure), and took me home. Sometimes things end well.
The last couple weeks have been a tour of Christmas markets around Germany. I have taken the parental units to the markets in Erfurt, Dresden, the Wartburg, Eisenach, and Waltershausen. Much Glühwein has been drunk. Bratwursts have been consumed. Rhombicuboctahedron stars have been contemplated. There is still more to experience.
