It was bad weather, they said, that caused the cancellation of my flight from Newark to Frankfurt. So after a morning of frantic phone calls, we were able to reschedule, with Munich added into the mix.
You can imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered a nearly cloudless sky over Newark. And from two thirty to nine, I saw a lot of that sky. I wrote, I read, I hung out at the Mediterranean Bistro at my terminal. While waiting for my chicken with hummus, I made a sufi-like figure out of my napkins, fork and dull red paper band.
I waited.
As I moved through the boarding line, I noticed several Polish passports. On flight, I was luckily enough to sleep and chat with a Polish-American woman. She was the one who informed me that there was a strike going on at the Frankfurt airport.
We reached Munich at 10:30 in the morning, and I had slept only two and a half hours on the flight before. My flight for Frankfurt would be at 2:00. I could hear the awkward smile our captain might have had as we landed, as he told us that there was still a strike and that we may not get our luggage. We should. But, well, no guarantees.
I waited in Munich. Passport control took nearly two seconds, as the terminal was nearly empty. There was a free 20 minute online service, and my next flight was already said to be verspätet - delayed. Not wanting to spend for a full meal, I grabbed some water and chocolate, and began to wait around. Again.
Nearly an hour before my flight, I met a woman from Sweden, originally from Somaliland. She was coming back from Dubai, and was planning to open a store there. We spoke in English, and her flight wasn't for another hour after mine, so we parted fairly soon.
But I was in Deutschland, and I was trying to speak Deutsch as much as possible. But on this final plane ride, I slept more than I stayed awake, and when I was finally in Frankfurt, I was eager to leave as soon as possible.
I got to the Frankfurt Main Station at about 5, and I was exhausted. Having been stared at awkwardly by two younger guys in the airport train station, and offered "help" by two others in Frankfurt - which I declined - and aided by an elderly man to get the right ticket, I was so glad to be on the train.
But of course, it wasn't over yet. I had been so rushed to get on the train, I had completely forgotten about the class sections. I had hopped onto first class, and when train officer came to scan tickets, he found me awkwardly sitting there, with my suitcase, backpack and purse, looking like I was about to fall asleep.
When he realized I wasn't a native, he gave me some leniency, and simply led me down to first class. And then I didn't arrive in Marburg until 6:30, during which time the sun was going down.
Although I had made detailed instructions on getting to the hostel, I was well over my capacity to function at this point. After taking a bus halfway through town, I began wandering, uncertain if I was going the right direction.
But I was saved! Thankfully an older man wearing a black Jack Wolfskin jacket, with one arm seemingly missing, stopped and asked me where I was headed. My German, at this point, was more like scrambled eggs, but he helped me towards my hostel. We took the simplest route, and I realized that my own concoction of directions was extremely overly complicated. On the map, I hadn't noticed a bridge that ran through the river. I and written all the twists and turns of an alternate route, while in actuality, the hostel was just off the main road, across a bridge. Next to a bar called Havana (with pictures of Che and all outside of it) and my favorite bookstore - The Red Star Bookstore and Cafe (Der Roter Stern Buchhandlung und Cafe).
And so I was at the hostel. Safe and sound. With awkward community showers, with at least one roommate, but, regardless, I made it. Finally.
