A different point of view

The first time I traveled outside the United States, I looked forward to a seismic cultural experience that would change my life forever. In reality, I was in my tender twenties and about to embark on a college-credit trip to Germany. I wasn’t responsible for booking flights, coordinating lodging or even scheduling my own passport photo. I was surrounded by fellow students, all of whom sat squarely inside my comfort zone. Doesn’t sound like much of a cultural experience, does it? But it was, though not on the grand scale I had imagined.

The first weeks of the trip were spent in a lodge at the edge of the Black Forest. We had language class every morning and excursions in the afternoons. A professor on the trip told us that he and his friends used to study for exams at a favorite cemetery nearby. I was perplexed. Then I saw my first cemetery in Baden-Württemberg. It was a beautiful botanical garden, each gravesite covered with blooming flowers. Rakes and shovels were stacked in common areas for families to use when they came to weed and water. I was touched by this way of memorializing loved ones. A different point of view.

While staying at the lodge, we volunteered to help with general tasks. One of the girls on the kitchen staff was about my age. While we sliced cold cuts for sack lunches, we laughed and talked (in a cumbersome mix of Schwabisch and English) about boys, clothes, and the meaning of life. She taught me a nifty way of tying plastic bags that I still use today. No twist ties? No problem. A different point of view.

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