First Beer, First Coffee, First....Strange Egg

My first four days in Germany were spent living with a host family in an old English Tudor-style farm house about a block away from the school. The house was large, with dark, ornately-carved wood throughout and a stairway that seemed to go on forever. The teenage daughter was the only one who spoke any English, which was good since, after a three-week crash course in the German language, my German was limited to asking for a beer, some chocolate or french fries. As a sixteen year old girl, what more did I really need to know how to say?

In the morning, the breakfast table was full of breads, jams, some sort of chocolate and nut flavored spread they put on their toast, and steaming hot coffee. I had never had coffee at home; it always smelled so horrible. Curious and wanting to take in all the cultural experiences I could, I poured some cream into my cup and followed it with a rich-looking, dark coffee. Thirty years later, I cannot say that I remember how the coffee tasted, but I know I liked it. The flavor was strong and bold, that much I know, because in order to duplicate the taste when I came back home I had to drink my coffee black.

On the first day of school, the other American students and I were delighted to learn there was a disco and two pubs right there on campus. Not for faculty or adults only, but for the students. I was amazed. Like the coffee, the beer was strong in flavor. After the first one, I decided I had best stick to the light beer if I was going to have a clue about what was going on around me. My friend and I had a beer and french fries to top off our first day together at school, then walked home. I couldn't help but smile to myself at the irony. My parents were worried about me going out at home and what might happen when I did. Yet, here I was in Germany, walking home from school after legally drinking my first beer in the pub located right there on the school campus.

On the day of our first field trip, I woke up sick. My stomach hurt and I had a fever. My very sweet host mother brought me breakfast on a tray. I know the tray was full, but I only remember one thing on it: an egg sitting in some sort of strange cup. The egg and the cup were accompanied by a small spoon. I assumed the egg was hard-boiled because that was the only kind of egg with the shell still on that I'd ever been served before. I had no clue what was up with the egg cup and spoon but figured there was a purpose for each.

I smiled and thanked my host mother for the food. As soon as she left the room, I stared at the egg as if waiting for it to tell me what to do. Ultimately, I decided the Germans must eat their hard-boiled eggs this way, in a fancy cup, using a spoon. So I tapped at the top of the egg, prepared to start scooping out and eating the cooked egg. Much to my dismay, and the dismay of my upset stomach, the egg was barely cooked at all. It jiggled around in the shell as I tilted the egg cup from one side to another. When I stopped moving the egg cup, the egg appeared to still move. With a cringe and a shudder, I quietly got out of bed, egg in hand, and scampered down to the bathroom where I proceeded to plop the egg into the toilet, flush it down, then scamper back to bed with the empty eggshell in my hand. To this day, I cannot eat eggs that have any jiggle to them or seem to move of their own free will.  Learn more about Egg Cups.

Two days later, I moved onto the school campus, into the dormitory with the other American students. My host family couldn't have been more gracious or wonderful and I still have so many fond memories of them, including the strange, jiggley egg. But campus life awaited and I could hardly wait to begin my experience as an independent American teen in Germany, going to a boarding school with two pubs and a disco on campus.

The dormitory at Internat Schloss Eringerfeld