The next day I discovered that I wouldn’t be around to compete in the house singing competition. Yeah. The poor girl directing us was not happy about that considering how we needed a certain number of guys involved. Still, I think that they were better off without me as they ended up winning first place for the small group category.
Soon after, a storm swept over England. I don’t know when the school’s roof was last inspected, but with the winds picking up to tropical-storm speeds, the roofing tiles turned into spinning projectile blades of stoney death. The school closed and locked all of the doors heading into the main building-flanked areas, such as the parking lot and the terraces (our lawn) for our safety. However, it backfired a little when I was running back from the gym with Clement and Emily on Wednesday. While I was in there failing to get big, the storm had reached a fever pitch outside. I think that it might have been raining, but when the three of us ducked outside to get back to our dorms, the wind was so harsh that I could not feel the raindrops over the needles of wind driving into me. I felt kind of bad for Emily. Clement and I were having trouble keeping our balance in that gale, but I could see this taller person teetering like a drunken sailor or maybe swaying like one of the tall pine trees from home that rock back and forth right before the tempest uproots them. We knew that the main door was locked as we passed the terraces, but thought that maybe one of the side doors would offer us shelter. When the first one failed us, Emily shouted “I’m going this way back to house!” preferring to run around the building.
“Yeah!” we shouted back to her, pretending that this was some horrible natural disaster or maybe a battle zone as we assumed Schwarzenegger accents. “Get out of here! Get inside! Get to safety!” To be fair, I would not have braved that side of the building, as it faced the teeth of the storm. Instead, Clement and I battled our way to the next door, me acting as a human shield for him against the wind, our eyes scanning the sky for homicidal roofing slates. The door was locked. We looked at the next door. The sign said it was locked. We ran up slippery stairs to another door. Locked. Ran back down the slick steps. I nearly broke my neck coming down as the wind picked up even further. “We gotta get out of here!” Clement shouted. Realizing our lack of options, we turned to the path Emily had taken. I did not “brave” that path. I ran through it laughing and joking about the wind and saying how much fun it was until the rain found me, after which I ran head down and whooping. I handle fear either one of two ways: I either get furious and want to fight or I start laughing. We burst through a side entrance near the assembly hall and, as I was towing the door shut, Clement shouted “Holy shit it’s nasty out there!” Once we started walking, we realized that the assembly hall was full of kids practicing for the house singing competition and noticed them staring at us. Whoops. Walking back to our dorm, we skirted the parking lot. I happened to look just in time to notice a sleek black car right before a slate slammed point-first into its hood. Looking at the sizable dent left in that sheet of metal, I’m amazed in hind-sight that I stopped while I was outside to take a picture of another slate imbedded in the lawn. Yep. Blonde moment.
Anyhow, the reason I wasn’t going to be around for house singing was because I was heading to Germany! I was excited at first and glad to be going on another adventure. Except that my excitement was kind of minimal. It was strange. I had only the smallest of thrills that faded by the time I got to the airport. When I got to German customs, the officer there asked me what I was there for and I hesitated, not knowing for sure. I finally said sightseeing after he prompted “pleasure?” What am I here for? I wondered. Why Germany and not, say, France? Just because a friend I’d made in Italy wanted me to visit?
I received a varied and very strange welcome to Germany. First off, the people were helpful and friendly (unexpected due to the stereotypes that everyone has set for Germans), every car on the train looked like it could be first class, even though it was only a regional rail, and we passed a rather chubby girl very blatantly changing in front of her window as the train raced by. The train could have been just a little bit faster right then in my opinion. Anyhow, as we passed the landscape, I couldn’t help thinking that Germany just looked like a more heavily settled part of Massachusetts, the state I hail from. However, darkness soon settled and, aside from losing the landscape, I also seemed to lose most of the fluent English speakers. It was as if they had all gone to bed with the sun and I was left in the center of Cologne, like in Rome, running around at night trying to find my hostel. At least this time I knew that I had one booked, but a booking doesn’t matter if you can’t find the place itself before check-in! The website had accurate directions to the hostel from the other train station in the city, but not from the one I arrived at, so I got to experience another confusing, stressful night as I ran through the student district to the main street, down some sketchier streets, back to the main street, past a church, ended up in the student district again, and then FINALLY found the hostel, all due to directions given in broken English/my own lack of German.
After checking into the hostel, it didn’t matter that I was standing in the lobby of a well lit, clean, respectable establishment among friendly people. My heart was still racing from the run, hands still twitching and eyes alert as if waiting for someone to attack me. It was past 11pm and I had not taken that long day very well. I wandered into the dining room, hoping to find some food, and was disappointed. Before turning to leave though, I heard a familiar song come over the radio. I turned and stared at the speakers as they played “Hey There Delilah” and I felt my body loosen and muscles ease. I detest this song. I have always found its vocals annoying, the lyrics unimaginative and shallow, and the music itself just shy of boring. Yet it was familiar. To me that night, as I felt the bag on my back dragging into my shoulders, the smell of the city still in my nose, and the fear of missing check-in still fresh in my mind, that song could not have sounded more beautiful and relaxing to me than Faure’s Requiem. It was like a piece of home; a memory of safety, security, and stability. So there I stood, listening until the last generic, beautiful chord faded out.
I was just settled into my room when another guy walked in. I started chatting with him and he introduced himself as Constantine, a Romanian come to Cologne to study the violin in university. After complimenting his name (I mean, really, that’s just a cool name that reminds me of Roman emperors and ancient cities), I discovered that he had an audition the next day for an international academy. He asked about me, so I told him about planning to study film production and then he asked how one got noticed in that industry. I told him about internships, the power of a good school’s name, and how, more importantly, you often need good connections. He said it was much the same with music and we both lamented how unfair it was that incompetent, well-connected people tend to get better jobs than the learned, able workers. Ten minutes later, a girl walked in and, once she introduced herself as someone from Colorado (what are the chances?), said that she was doing film production and her mother’s friend was a television producer, so this girl already has an internship. Now she’s transferring to UCLA, but got rejected from USC. Why? Because her grades were insufficient for USC (a lower tier school), but her aunt was a significant alumni of UCLA. Constantine and I shared a look and gave morose laughs. Again, what are the chances?
Aside from trying to cool my frustration, the room was boiling and I’m pretty sure that I was coming down with a bug, so I drank enough water to drown a baby seal (or maybe an otter) between tossing and turning in bed, dreaming of a just world where meritocracy and pixies ruled. Hey, I did say that it was a dream. Don’t blame me if it’s weird.
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