A Familiar Voice

Beginning with my second day in Germany, I started taking one or two walks per day through our small town. I figured if I went straight in one direction for twenty minutes, then turned around and headed back the way I came there would be no way I could get lost. As luck would have it, my twenty minute walk took me through the main part of our town where the outdoor market was, right by all the shops and amongst people going about their errands. My turning-around point was the train station at the end of the street where I could either go right, left or turn around and head back home.

For days this was my walking route because I knew I could walk, explore and get out of the house without getting lost. I walked down our street, took a right and walked straight through town past the butcher, the confectioner's shop, the church, the bakeries and the school, then I crossed the street and headed back home. Everyday, I listened to the people talking and watched as they went about their way. Though I probably appeared to have only been walking, I was also soaking it all in. Our town was small, but it was a big, new world for me. As I became more comfortable with my round-trip walk to the train station and back, I began to expand my horizons and walk in different directions.

One morning, almost two months into my stay in Germany I was walking back from the train station, daydreaming and not really paying attention to my surroundings when I heard a familiar voice. Not that it was familiar because it was the voice of someone I knew...rather, the voice had a familiar sound to it. Now, first of all, I had heard plenty of English-speaking Americans and British people during my walks through town. I had also heard people speaking Turkish, Japanese and Polish...and, obviously, German. Dusseldorf and the nearby small town in which we live are somewhat of a melting pot. Maybe not to the degree of larger cities, but the presence of people from other countries is definitely there.

On this particular day, as I approached one of the cafes in town, the voice I heard was an American voice but what made it stand out from the others was the fact that it was distinctly midwestern. My first thought as I heard her speak was "Wow, she sounds just like me!" Hearing another midwesterner speak when you're in the midwest is no more exciting then seeing yet another McDonald's, but when you're somewhere around 5000 miles away from the midwest hearing a familiar sound is almost as exciting as walking into a surprise birthday party.

The woman was in the midst of a spirited discussion with her equally spirited little girl who was a petite little thing of about four years old with wispy, wild blonde hair that reminded me of spun cotton candy. Without missing a beat, I marched straight over to the woman and declared that I'd just had to meet her because she was speaking English and I just wanted to say hello. In the course of our conversation, which lasted all of a few minutes, I learned she was indeed from the midwest and, as luck would have it, was involved with other women who had relocated to Germany from the United States with whom she had coffee on a regular basis. She informed me of the next coffee meet-up for the group of women, we exchanged contact information and then I was on my way and she and her little sprite were on their way, too.

I walked home with a smile on my face. It was special to speak to people from America but typically, after the conversation ended, I knew I would likely never see or speak to them again. But this time there was an opportunity to go out and socialize. Not just with other women, but with other women who also came from America and who, no matter how long they'd been here, were doing their best to adjust to their new home and the different culture.

I've since wondered how many times I must have walked right past this woman as she made her way though town at the same time in which I was taking a walk. Fate certainly played a part that particular morning because not only did I get to hear a familiar-sounding voice, I also ended up making my first friend in Germany. And she came along just when I was beginning to wonder if I might ever meet someone that maybe, just maybe, might end up being my friend.

Three Months and Staying...

It's been nearly two months since I last blogged. I can hardly believe it. So much has happened since the middle of September and I could have easily written dozens of blog entries. My reasons for not writing were never a case of "Oh, there's nothing to write about." Not writing in my blog became a case of my life becoming intertwined with someone else's life and figuring out how to tell a story while also respecting someone else's privacy. It was a matter of figuring out how to transform a story about two people falling in love and coming together into a story of an American woman living in Germany which is, ironically, the title of this blog. It became a battle of "do I give up the writing I love because it's not quite turning out the way I planned?" or "do I give up the plan because I want to continue the writing I love?"

Though it took me nearly two months to work through the inner turmoil and mental tug-of-war, my conclusion has been that sometimes you have to let go of "The Plan" and go with the flow. Each one of us has a story to tell. Like "The Plan", our stories change as our lives move full-speed ahead, screech to a grinding halt or suddenly take a sharp turn when we intended to just keep going straight. The blog I write may not turn out to be what I had mapped out in my mind this past July before I came to Germany, but it will continue to be my story with all it's twists, turns, ups and downs.

In five more days, I will be here for three months. It is hard for me to imagine my life without Mario in it. Sometimes I have a bad day and sometimes he has a bad day. Sometimes we have bad days together. Mostly, we have a lot of good days. But all the days, even the difficult ones, are days where I know he loves me and he knows I love him. We laugh together and we value the time we have together. We are learning how to live with one another and how to be better people because of each other. Regardless of how perfect or imperfect the week has been, at the end of the week Mario always asks "Do you want to stay for one week more?" and I smile and pause like I'm thinking about it, then I say "Okay, yes...one more week."

And, from here, my story continues...