Language Barrier Problems
Despite the colder temperatures and the guarantee of afternoon showers, I woke up Saturday confident that I would be able to take my self-guided tour through the city. Once I had gotten ready, I headed down to Rewe--the food market next to Kilianstedan's train stop--to grab a few snacks for my adventure.
After purchasing a bottled smoothie, a roll and a chocolate bar I headed out of the grocery store with my food in hand. As I took a bite of the bread and was looking towards the train station I heard a human voice utter, "Cuckoo." Before turning my head, I couldn't help but wonder who the crazy German woman trying to capture my attention was.
The woman wasn't German. She was Mariam.
My partner from last week's adventure motioned me to follow her to an outdoor table where we could chat. While following her, I couldn't help but look to the sky with disdain to help emphasize my desire to be left in peace on my sightseeing Saturday.
As we sat together, Mariam asked if my phone was working. I told her no, since I had never received a call or text message from her. She then asked if I wanted to get coffee. I declined, telling her that I had to get going.
"Are you going to Frankfurt?" she asked. In this moment, I once again lied to one of five people I know in my small German town. Instead of confirming that I was going to the city, I told Mariam that I was returning home. I walked away, turning back just in time to see a glimpse of disappointment in her face.
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I returned to Rewe after a successful day of sightseeing and shopping to pick up a few food items I was in dire need of. While walking down an isle with a few items in my hand, a column of food jumped out at me in the corner of my eye. It was the "American" food section.
The odd collection of items all fit on five shelves that were about a yard wide--which was probably why I hadn't noticed it before. I boasted items such as "American Sandwich Bread," "Marshmallows," and "Barbeque Sauce." As I scanned down the shelves, I noticed a box of mac n' cheese on the bottom shelf corner.
Although it wasn't Kraft, I grabbed a box. While the pasta was sort of expensive, I rationalized that because all of the men I am vaguely interested in are on the other side of the globe I would probably not be receiving or giving any gifts of adoration to anyone, so I could buy myself this box of mac n' cheese.
Once I got home, I decided that I couldn't wait until Sunday to eat my mac n' cheese. The curiosity of whether it tasted good or not was eating away at my patience. I grabbed the box and flipped it over to read the instruction which were in German.
My “American” mac n' cheese betrayed me. Taunting me with the idea that I could make it because it was American and I assumed the instructions would be in English.
Fortunately, I've been making the beloved dish for nearly ten years. So I filled the pot with water and brought it to a boil. As I opened the box, I noticed there were two packets. One with the noodles and the other with the cheese. I picked up a packet and shook it--convinced it was the noodles I absentmindedly ripped opened the packet and dumped it into the water.
The water turned a familiar orange.
Turns out my stovetop mac n' cheese had two packets of noodles combined with powdered cheese. I gave the box my trademark glare and pulled a new pot out to start over once I had dumped the watery cheese and noodles in the sink.
After correctly cooking the second pack of mac n' cheese correctly, I sat down to eat. Unsurprisingly, it tasted mediocre at best. I dumped the correctly cooked pasta meal in the sink with its non-cooked noodle brethren for me to clean up tomorrow.
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I had just gotten home from church, when I noticed that I desperately needed to do laundry. Like only one pair of clean underwear left in the drawer desperate.
Luckily, the flat I'm staying in has a washer and dryer in the unit. I knew that the knobs of the machines would probably be in German, but I was confident that I could figure out how to operate the machine using my German-English dictionary. I stuffed a load of laundry, my dictionary and detergent into my carry-on duffle bag, since I don't have a laundry basket and headed towards the basement.
For 10 or 15 minutes I sat on the cold pavement in front of the washing machine translating. I then threw in my laundry, put my soap in the machine and selected the proper settings.
Silence. The water wasn't running. Obviously my translation skills need work.
Another 15 minutes passed by before I gave up on using the machine and headed back into my flat. My only option was to wash the clothes by hand.
I glanced into my sink as I headed back into my flat and let out an exasperated sigh upon seeing the soggy noodles in my sink. I let my 50's floral duffle fall off my shoulder onto the floor as I selected a garbage bag to throw the noodles in since I don't have a garbage disposal.
The noodles were mushy and soggy. Sort of like the intestines from the fetal pig I dissected in 7th grade. I quickly threw the noodles away and rinsed out the sink a few times before handwashing two loads of laundry.
Instead of going back outside and down in the basement to place my laundry in the dryer, I decided to hang up my clothes to dry. It was getting late and I didn't feel like waiting up for the clothes to dry.
After running out of places to drape clothes in my bathroom, kitchen and bedroom, I opened my closet and began hanging t-shirts over the exposed part of my closet rod. (Which is a shower curtain rod between two rods.)
While placing my final shirt on the rod, the bar came loose and crashed to the ground. Creating a pile of damp and dry clothes on the linoleum floor. I couldn't help but look up to the sky and say, "You're so funny!" As if God had set up the rod to fall to the ground as a practical joke.
I quickly picked up the damp clothes and found new places for them to dry wrinkle free before flopping into bed, discouraged by my inability to be a functioning adult.