A Day in the Life
The alarm sounds at 12:05 AM. Today is an oddity: I had been able to get almost four hours of sleep before heading to the bakery. Typically, I lay in bed so worried about oversleeping my alarm and missing my internship that I end up just staring at the ceiling. Crawling out of bed, I stumble to the window to see if any of my neighbors are still up – few are. As I breakfast, I read through the day’s US news as it is only 6 PM on the east coast and 3 PM on the west coast.
Still flabbergasted by what I had just read, I change into my white t-shirt, the staple of the bakery. I am still unsure if it is actually a requirement, but white clothes covered in flour seem to be ubiquitous in every bakery. I grab my baker pants (white and black plaid) and bundle up as the outside temperature is hovering around 20°F. Sadly, it is a damp cold, one that seems to suck the warmth from the soul.
Expected at the bakery at 1 AM, I hustle down the darkened street and avoid the revelers returning home from the bars – or perhaps heading to someone’s home after the bars. The bakery is only a four minute walk, and I arrive at 12:58 AM. My knock is always the shave-and-a-haircut rhythm without the two-bits; I am curious if that bothers them as much as it bothers me. They have not mentioned it, yet… The baker welcomes me with a powerful handshake and work begins.
As usual, the day begins with building the day’s cakes, washing the accumulated dishes and then scoring the first round of bread rolls. I then head over to help glaze some of the pastries that have just come out of the hot pig lard (yes, delicious). A couple of weeks ago, I had had problems with decorating the Pfannkuchen. Thankfully, the baker has since given me a second chance. My decorating skills are now much stronger; in fact, I would claim that I have now mastered the Pfannkuchen.
In the following couple hours, I help out forming the daily bread loaves as well as working on the second round of rolls. Throughout the morning, I generally sweep the floor four or five times. This is actually unnecessary, but I hate standing around doing nothing, and I do not want to appear to be superfluous.
I always end my morning by making sure the table is clean, scrubbing off any remaining chocolate, cream and dried dough. I grab some of the freshly-baked treats and bid a farewell to the two bakers. It is 4:30 AM. I hurry down the darkened street and avoid the revelers returning home from after-parties.
I arrive home and will the caffeine out of my system as I need to grab a couple hours of sleep. I have to catch the 9 AM train and bus to Tambach-Dietharz; tonight there is to be a congratulatory dinner for those involved organizing the First Advent concert in early December. The dinner does not start until 5 PM, but I want to make some time to say hello to my friends at the bakery in Tambach.
Catching the 9 AM train and the 9:45 AM bus in order to arrive in Tambach at 10:30 AM, I head over to the bakery and am met with tension so thick that one could cut it with a knife. I make my way back to the actual bakery, which is situated behind from the store front. I am quickly told about some differences in opinion regarding vacation days, which has led to the silent treatment for over a month now. Awkward…
As I return forward to the store front in order to say hello to the master baker and master pastry chef, it becomes clear that my saying hi to those back in the bakery has predetermined my position in their fight. I receive a greeting as cold as a winter’s day. Kicking myself for not sleeping in longer, taking a later bus and avoiding this situation, I write off this visit; this is not my fight, and I am not involved. I head elsewhere to kill some time before meeting up with the party committee.
One of the things that I really love about my current internship is the homework assignments. A current assignment is some non-fiction reading about bread baking throughout the world. This not only is interesting, but it is forcing me to read a book in German. I believe that the baker only gave me a couple weeks to read it, but it has been almost six weeks, and I am only halfway through.
The book is quite interesting, but the sentence structure is distractingly poor. Yes, my German is far from perfect, but I know an incomplete sentence when I see one. There is some fascinating discussions about differences in ingredients in different countries as well as changes in taste throughout history in Germany. The book goes with me everywhere, and is a treat to read while sipping coffee in a German cafe.
In between pages, I contemplate my time here in Germany and what goals I still need to accomplish before heading back to the states. It dawns on me that perhaps pursuing a masters program is unnecessary; what if I instead pursue a certificate at the local trade school. Becoming a certified master baker in Germany would be quite the accomplishment. I determine to look into that avenue – rubbing elbows with other young hopefuls, who would all be 16 years old as they would have just finished the tenth grade before attending a trade school…
I head over to the organizers home, and we head off to the restaurant where the party will be held. The restaurant is themed as the American South. There are decorations of spurs, longhorns, and cowboy boots. All the barkeepers wear cowboy hats. There are Route 66 posters and pictures of the owners with horses covering the wall. And, unfortunately, there is a confederate flag…
After seeing the set up, I ask how many people are expected to show. Even though the flu has taken out a number of anticipated attendees, the estimate is still over 30. I was asked to bring my ukulele, but had not anticipated such a large group. I definitely did not dress like I was going to be giving a concert. The folks arrive, and I play three sets throughout the evening.
In between sets, I sit and talk with those around me. I continue to be surprised when I hear that people think I have a good voice; they obviously have not heard the community theater talent of the Chicago suburbs. They admit to me that they are not familiar with the song I am playing, so with each set I attempt to play extremely popular songs like “Take Me Home, Country Roads” or “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. People clap along, but I really had not prepared any German hits. To my surprise, the organizer is able to get the group to sing a traditional German song for me. Honored, I record it.
An interesting character I meet informs me that he is the local king – the king of the shooting club. His Majesty apparently is the best shooter and has been crowned for the year. His Highness demands that I return so that he can properly teach me how to cross country ski; this sovereign formerly competed in biathlon. My Liege does refuse my request to become a knight. However, he is friends with a guy that spends the summer in the Alps making cheese in Switzerland. [I am to meet this guy tomorrow to discuss my participation this year.]
At other tables, the locals are surprised that I am not yet married. Apparently, this is inconceivable. At my age, I am told, many of them had had children that were as old as they were when they had them (i.e., she was 17 when she had her first daughter; at my age, her daughter was 17). I find myself nodding and smiling as they debate if this option is too young or too old for me. I am learning that there are a good number of widows to choose from.
As the evening festivities wind down, I am informed that the original plan to have me spend the night with the organizer, a man I know, will no longer work. I am to take a spare bed at another’s house. Recall that busses stop running at 8 PM. I meet my host family, and we depart the party shortly before 10 PM.
After arriving at their home, I am given a quick tour and drop my belongings in the spare bedroom. The very pleasant 66-year-old hostess states, “surely you cannot be too tired to go to bed immediately.” She suggests we sit for a while and talk and tackle a bottle of sparkling wine. Her 70-something husband serves the Rotkäppchen, and we talk about life. As would be expected, I talk about my life leading up to my decision to leave work behind and throw caution to the wind. I am complimented on my German language abilities and hear about their life in East Germany and how they made things work.
No matter how many times I hear stories about life in socialist East Germany, I am always amazed and fascinated and enraptured and awestruck. It is these stories that earn East Germans a place in my heart. Perseverance and ingenuity – traits that I would like to think that I, too, possess.
I talk with the couple about my issues with my visa pickup; the initial meeting went without a hitch, but I was given the third degree when I was there to pick up the new one. It is clear that we will have a paper-war next year when I go to renew. Each new person I meet at the foreigner’s office has a very different perspective on what is required. It is beyond frustrating. (I did receive my new visa.)
I am also able to tell them about doing audio guide work with a local company. I had the audition at the end of January; I was informed last week that I have my first session at the end of March. The couple does not seem as excited about this opportunity as I am. Regardless, theatre performances, voice work, ukulele gigs, and my internship keeps me going in this very foreign land.
We wish each other a good night at 11:45 PM, and I head to the spare room. I clear off the stuffed dog from the twin bed and make sure none of the dolls are staring at me. I turn out the light and quickly fall asleep.
