Mississippi mud pies

Mud. Mud. Mud.

And some more mud.

While all of you were singing Amazing Grace and listening to sermons or enjoying a nice Sunday nap and some fried chicken, I was getting suctioned ankle deep in some intense Black Sea German mud.

And I had a blast.

I hiked for three hours in the mud. And that was the extent of it. There were no landmarks. No incredible views except for the most beautiful blue sky that would put any Pixar movie generated sky to shame.

I got blisters. I got muddy. I got slightly bored.

But most importantly I got closer to the people on this trip. I got to have a lot of time to think about myself and what I want to change and do and become this next year.

The fact that it is almost time to grow up encroaches me with each ticking of a second. With each question of "what do you want to do next year?" And with each facebook post of someone else getting engaged.

There is that Weepies or Indigo girls song about the world spins madly on.

As I took each step/slosh in the mud, I realized geeze freakin louise. We are growing up.

Not to get too cheesy, but stepping in the mud you had to do it painfully and cautiously so as not too fall. Each step you had to calculate in some parts.

I got impatient. I wanted to run.

But I had to walk.

I got extremely muddy and messy.

But I never fell.

In life, we want to run through parts. We just want to go with it. We just want life to come easy.

But life sometimes, like thick Black Sea mud, will just suction you down. You get messy. You get bored.

But, if you plan each step right, you will never fall. Or fail.

It is so hard for me to wrap my head around this. Still.

So why my life is still a mystery, I know if I just take it slow and easy, I won't fall.

Hopefully.

Now, that the sermon is over.....

Sunday we woke up at the crack of dawn, rode a bus for three hours, slept alot, braided hair, and got ready to conquest the mudflats. And that we did.

After dominating the little sucka, we relaxed on the beautiful island and the beach where I discovered the European man thong is not a myth. But real.

The tides came back in and we had to ride a ferry to get back home. During this ferry ride, I started up with my narcolepsy and nodded off and fell asleep....on the rando German next me.

She tapped me and looked at me like she had just found a hair in her soup. Sorry I just hiked for 3 hours lady.

But I really don't blame her for being weirded out. I was a muddy, smelly, foreigner, with a feather headband. I was the ultimate tourist and that's probably why I heard her mutter something something something America under her breath.

Upon arrival back in the 'brueck, we went out to our "spot," a local pub called "Bottled." And we sat at our "table."

That was only our second time going there, but we have eaten at the same table twice now. That's entitlement. Right?

Then, we rested our sleepy lil heads. The German mud was nice, but I am pretty sure that if I ever get a hankering for mud, I will just go whip up some Mississippi mud pies.

Or just go to the Neshoba County Fair.

But for now, I will just do as the Germans do.

Wonder what they would do if I introduced them to "muddin?"

Then, my worlds would collide. 4-wheelers. Baguettes. Mud tires. Coca-cola Light.

It could be a great world.

When photos speak more than words.

Osnabrueckin it

July 6, 2011

A Venezuelan, an Afghani, and a man from Uganda walk into a bar.

There's no punch line.

That's kind of my life right now.

I am in class right now during a break and I have Yumi on my left and Anna from Poland on my right. She just asked me how to prounounce "obese."

That's one word I do know due to the culture of home, sweet,home.

The sunshine is out and the mood is lifted! No more red, blue, and grey.

Yesterday, I had my first class of German and Civic Engagement.

Let's just say the German class was just one big game of German charades. Our professor spoke zero English to us. None. Nein. Instead, she just fully submerged us. And I give her an Oscar for her acting talents! Through extravagant motions and lots of pointing, my class was a teeny tiny bit able to follow her. The poor woman has her doctorate and is having to dance around just to get us to understand how to say book and pen in German. Bless her.

I now know how to ask for your name, introduce myself, and give farewells and greetings. Yes, I know. I can now speak for 5 seconds to the locals.

Yesterday, Monday, we went to dinner at a very authentic German restaurant that also was a brewery. The entire group clinked glasses and enjoyed hearty food of the Deutch. Have I mentioned how much the like potatoes?

I am pretty sure somewhere, on some street corner, they sell potato ice cream. Because everything in this sweet little town is potatoes! Potato pasta, soup, entrees, side, etc.. etc….How the Germans stay so fit and skinny, I do not know. Because they have pastries for breakfast and potatoes for every other meal and snack…schooo….clearly Dr. Atkins is not really hero here. Note to future tourist: Don’t mention Hasselhoff. It will be followed by an eye rolling and “Americarins” muttered under the breath. (And yes, I know I misspelled it, but that’s how they prenounce it. I am not losing the American way that fast I promise).

After that, we went to quite possibly the weirdest bar I have ever been to. It had neon, glowing toilets for seats and then they had them for tables with glass over them. Headless barbies were tied to a rotator to act like a ceiling fan. And fur covered the walls. Naked manequins were posted up everywhere too.

Do you feel this vibe I am giving you?

It was freakier than any Friday Lindsay Lohan has ever experienced.

But, one cool thing about it was that they had phones on the tables, like old fashioned ones that have the swirly thing to dial the numbes. You used the phones to dial the bartender and to tell him what you wanted.

We actually had a good time despite the décor.

Next stop was a blues bar that tried to fashion itself after dear old home. I felt very comfortable and clapped to the music. The Germans looked at me as if I had just done a handstand with a monkey on my back. They. Are. So. Stoic.

But they really got into the music…you could tell by their head nodding. Which my experience so far with the locals is that that is a lot of emotion. The band actually sang in English which was a pleasant change. We could sing along and just have a great time. It felt good to do that on the 4^th of July while of all of you were playing Alan Jackson, Reba, and every other country star who had an America song sensation.

But probably the most American thing that we did was to stop for McDonalds on the way home.

And let me just say this---German McDonalds DO NOT play around with McFlurrys.

They can be stoic and eat potatoes all they want to if they can keep putting whatever toppings and sauces they put on my ice cream. It was GUT!

After that, my fourth of July was done. And yours was for the most part just happening. My midnight is your 5:00 p.m.

As you were firing up your grill and gathering your fireworks, this little patriot hit the sack. She missed America, but was loving the world.

Red, White, and Grey.

They always say the third day after surgery is the hardest one during recovery.

Studying in Germany is not surgery, but today has been the hardest.

Imagine a day in November in Mississippi. Everything is gray. Everyone is somber. There is a cold wind that embraces you with such ferocity that you squint your eyes and turn your back to it.

Now imagine, that you are wearing a thin cardigan, jeans, and toms.

That was my life today. Plus, no store being open and no internet and no phone. And you cannot get your internet in your room to work.

To prepare for this trip, I asked the others what every aspect for Osnabruck was like. The weather, the people, the food, etc.. etc…

They were so helpful and I highly appreciate. However, apparently, what they had last year, was a heat wave. Also, the weather is very bipolar in Germany according to the locals.

I can handle bipolar weather. I am from the ‘sippi. What I cannot handle is the fact that I only packed for haawwt weather.

Needless to say, TOURIST and IDIOT is printed on my head when Germans see me. It could be worse though. The boys are wearing shorts. I have not seen shorts since the Memphis airport (there was one dude in Amsterdam with them, but they were more like manpris. Two totally separate things.)

Other than that, today was old-fashioned relaxation. And by old-fashioned I mean, I slept a lot and conversed with people a lot.

I would have to say that is my favorite thing so far. I sit around and shoot the breeze with Yumi from South Africa. His real name is something crazy. It has clucks in it! It sounds like this: Ki-cluck with your tongue from the roof of your mouth to the bottom of your mouth-ah-mo. His nickname is Yums/ Yumi after his ridiculous middle name.

I have done several activities with foreign students through Ole miss and Hoby. I have socialized with a lot of different people.

But I think, due to the hideous weather, the lack of any distractions, and I do mean any, all we can do is sit around or walk around and talk. And talk. And tell stories.

His life in South Africa is completely unreal yet so familiar to ours at the same time. He is also hilarious and knows so much about America. He is a huge Dwayne Wade and LeBron James fan. He knows all about College Football. And he stayed up til 3:00 just to watch the super bowl.

My South Africa knowledge? World Cup, Nelson Mandela, Charlize Theron, that movie where Morgan Freeman played Mandela, and Oprah’s school for girls. And then just random stuff that the Ole Miss students taught me. He goes to Nelson Mandela University actually and knows all about Ole Miss as well since our schools are partners.

Pretty much I have the American syndrome. Stickin to mah own business.

I feel..ignorant.

Funny how on the eve of my country’s Independence day, I feel so patriotic (due to me being out of the country for the first time and getting to see how the other side lives) and so …thirsty for something else? A broader horizon?

All I know is, I am so eager to learn about other languages and cultures more so now that ever before.

I am giddy to learn German.

I cannot wait to go to school tomorrow.

And that my friends is a first.

Things I did today:

-walked to Uno Pizzeria where they spoke 0% English. I did sign language. Pointed to my cheese pizza. Walked away with ham and pineapple. It happens. BY THE WAY-German Diet Coke is so much better than American. It is called Coca Cola light and tastes like a not so sweet Coke.

-finally figured out the bus system.

-ate one of the only restaurants open. Got some great pasta. The waitress loved us because the boys tipped. They do not know do that in Germany and you should have seen the look on her face.

-lots and lots of talks.

-lots and lots of sleep.

-lots and lots of dreaming about when I can check my email, post on this here lil blogger, and realizing how dependent I am on technology.

.

Amsterdam I am.

As I write this, I am riding on a train looking out on the beautiful Dutch...grafitti. Colorful, at least.

I am sure the countryside will begin soon.

Well, this whole trip started with what I was dreading most. A 14 hour plane ride. The good news: I am terrible at math and the plane ride was only 8 hours.

The bad news: 8 hours was long enough. They didn’t even play movies until hour 4.

But it is so funny how small of a world it is. John Montgomery sat by two girls from Ole Miss on a plane going to Amsterdam with tons of other people. The ladies in front of us—Mississippi. I was very proud of my Mississippi gentleman. They all helped the senior ladies with their luggage on the carts. Apparently, it was some group that takes senior citizens around. What a trip that will be. They all were wearing fanny packs around their necks?

Speaking of fanny packs, Father Breland tried to get me to wear one. He said he could “arrange me a fanny pack”. This only solidifies my beliefs that my father is in a fanny pack mob. Arranges, Allen? Oh parents and their suggestions.

We arrived in the aiport dreading the customs and the passport line. We were expecting to fill out paperwork and being searched. In my imagination, I saw myself being put in an interrogation room and them yelling at me. WHY OSNABRUCK MISSY???

Uh. They only said have a nice trip . Stamped me. And off I went. Customs, I just walked through.

Not nearly as terrible as any of us thought.

Then came the fun part. Understanding Dutch signs. This is what they looked like.

Rykytlkennekt.

Next, was the part I was really worried about. After researching hotel rooms for 3 days, I was responsible for getting the room and the quality of them. The website said 1 double bed and 2 twin beds. With three boys, this was critical. Otherwise, we were about to get real cozy. Real fast.

The Best Western Amsterdam Airport did not disappoint. Were we cramped ? A little. And the twin beds were pushed together. I tried my best to push them apart.

Cooties are a serious illness.

Next we went back to the airport thanks to our free aiport shuttle (5 points for me) and we did the most frustrating thing of our trip yet.

We got lost in the airport train station. Like I said with signs that say this: ekljouetznkn. It is a little hard to know where you are going.

After going to three different platforms, we got on the right train. However, no one checked our tickets and there was nothing when we got off. We basically could have just jumped on one without going through the hassle of paying for tickets and then going on a train. But oh well. We can die knowing we did the right thing.

From the train station, we arrived in the heart of Amsterdam at Centraal Station. I nominated that we do a canal bus tour. This is a taxi/gondola that rides through the canals and has tourist destinations. Since we did not arrive in the ‘dam until 2:00, I thought it would be smart to buy a 24 hour pass. So that we could ride at night.

That was my thought process. Turns out the boat has nighttime excursions and you cannot ride it at night. So, we paid for a trip for Saturday. The boys were not happy and I got demoted to the role of “voice or reason.”

Regardless, we bought that one, the most expensive one of course, and we hopped on and enjoyed the most beautiful way to see Amsterdam.

I am now a photography freak. However, I was rivaled by an aggressive Asian threesome who literally would shove me out of the way to get their shots. Then, they would stand in the way of my shots.

At first, I just smiled and got out of the way. And then, as the ride continued, I got frustrated. So I started to not move out of the way. I am now in 2083508 of their shots. I know I will either be on their mantle or in their holiday greeting cards. I consider it a victory. And they just kept holding up peace signs.

From the bus/gondola, we moved on the Van Gogh museum. We were really starting to feel the jet lag. In hindsight, a museum is not really a rousing time to get your energy going. At the museum, we looked like we had just run a marathon or gone to a funeral. We were not pleasant.

Also, I am going to help spearhead a letter for Amsterdam that will go something like this.

Dear New York,

We would like to have Starry Night by Van Gogh back. You see, tourists come and pay a lot of money expecting to see Starry Night. It angers Americans to tell them, they could have stayed in their homeland to see their favorite Van Gogh painting. First class is acceptable to send it back. We knew you would understand.

Sincerely,

Amsterdam.

From above, you can see we were all dumbfounded to know that Starry Night was not there. Emphasis on dumb. Probably should have done our research.

We had our first “bier” on this side of the Atlantic. I heard it was cheaper than water but didn’t believe it until I saw it.

It’s true.

A water is 3 euros. My bier? 2.40 euros. And when they serve you, they served you water in a cup no bigger than a cup from the dentist’s office. Life is constantly an adjustment but I love it!

After that, we accidentally happened upon the red light district. That was an experience. I tried not to react so as not to me look super-American and because clasping hands over eyes and squinting through them may seem a tad elementary.

In Amsterdam, it does not get dark until 11:00 at night which we were not expecting. Although we arrived in the city at 2:00, it felt like a whole day due to the fact that we ate up the sunshine and explored for miles. My legs have not been this sore since cheer camp back in high school.

The gentleman got angry with me because I made them miss our bus because I was too busy taking pictures. The magic was all around me and I could not stop snapping pics. I am not the favorite tripmate. But I am not apologetic. I tried to comfort them with the fact that hey, we are only here once.

It somehow didn’t work. Cursewords and hand ruffling through hair ensued.

We ended the night grabbing dinner at a quaint little pub and trying a new bier that I have never heard before. I cannot even spell it but the waitress said it was Heineken’s mortal enemy.

We came home to our suite and passed out. This morning we did the most European thing possible for breakfast. We ate a croissant and got a coffee at this lovely little café a la golden arches.

We ate at McDonalds.

But it was lovely. It is 400x better than the American McDonalds.

After that we went back to the black hole aka the train station and now here we are. On a cozy little car on the way to Osnabruck.

Since writing this, we experienced excitement. The German police came on and kicked these two men in our car off because they did not have their passports. When asked what country they were from, they replied Afghanistan. Actually, we don’t speak German, so we don’t know the question. Just understood Afghanistan.

Just a day in the life.

The Story before the story.

Identity and heritage. Oh, how I have pined for those two. Growing up, I envied anyone with the last name that sounded one bit ethnic. I envied those who said, “Oh my Dad is half Italian. My grandparents migrated here from their orange groves.” Or, “Oh, tales from the motherland.” Or worse, those girls with beautiful olive skin that made me the dairy non-fat creamer to their coffee. Or people who can say, “My drinking problem? That’s the Irish in me.” And then precedes to tell a story about his great uncle that once wrestled in a pub after a fellow lad looked at his lassie the wrong way.

Granted, I made those particular situations up. BUT THEY DO HAPPEN. Just not those particular stories. But you all know the type of people I am talking about.

This desire for heritage has blown up into a desire to visit Italy, Greece, Ireland, Spain or any European country and for me to go into a town and be greeted by men with hats and pipes and women with aprons and smile lines. I imagined myself lean and dressed in black in France. Eating a baguette and wondering if my relatives ate at this very same bistro!

Or perhaps in Spain, dancing, with a rose in my hair, moving unnaturally good to the music for an American, and the locals smiling and saying, Aye Aye! Her ancestors were the famous flamenco dancers.

Or in Greece, baking side by side with a long lost cousin making a family recipe for food that is too local and too delicious for any American-Greek restaurant to replicate.

Thus, I always knew my first trip to Europe would be meaningful and the stuff that books and movies are made of. I knew it would be a trip of self-discovery , culture, and a new habit that would allow me to say, “Sorry, I picked that up in Europe.”

I wanted my first to Europe to special. I wanted to hold off until I knew where my roots where so that I can go visit the mother-land/home-land. So, I applied to go to South Africa for the summer. And that was that. Two weeks later I applied for my passport to go to South Africa. Everything seemed settled.

On possibly one of the worst days of my spring semester, I opened an email that read CONGRATS! YOU’VE BEEN SELECTED TO GO TO---GERMANY!!

Uh…pretty sure I did not make that my first choice…and pretty sure that is in Europe.

Germany-land of the beer (gross), bad history , and a wall. Those were the three conversation points that immediately popped into my head about that land whose flag was gold, red, and black.

Then, I saw the list of students I would be going with . Three boys. Awesome. Three sets of raging hormones, mischief, and no “asking of directions” for 25 days.

But that was me still bitter about not going to South Africa and losing my Euro-trip virginity.

Me, Now? Well, that’ s a different story.

Until about 24 hours ago, I was heritage-less. I had lots of dreams and theories. But ultimately, I had no clue what I was.

My grandfather comes to see me off in Forest and send me well-wishes to Europe. Greg Breland is man full of caution. From bungee jumping to boiling water, he has some tidbit of caution to provide you at all times. He gave my father the biggest spanking that my dad can remember for not looking two ways before crossing the street.

Grandaddy in the midst of hugs and kisses said, Oh I have something for you. Now, I am the only granddaughter and my nickname is Sweet Baby. So I am used to this exchange.

He handed me a manila folder and just said this may interest you since you’re going to Germany.

I was prepared for a frightening book about all the things that could go wrong in Germany without the proper precautionary actions.

Instead, I found my family history.

I’m German.

From Northern Germany to be exact.

So, in one fell swoop, at the ripe old age of 21, I found my roots. And got my dream all at once.

Grandadddy, unbeknownst to him, rocked my world.

God, my ultimate Daddy, just smiled (probably) and reminded me how He could do so much with my failures and disappointments.

And now, I sit on Delta flight something something something, going to see the land of my ancestors, get some college credit, and learn what it would be like to grow up with three brothers.

It is fitting for my life really. Having some fantasy and then living it out, accidentally. And without my timing or my plans at all.

Here I go. Maybe I will run into some Briechlyns. (that’s my German family and where my name originates) And maybe they can teach me how to make the best bratwurst. Or maybe I will find out I inherited a brewery. Or maybe, my rich cousin will loan me his beemer.

Or maybe, I will just enjoy myself. And learn some German along the way.

But I can eat at a pub, and still dream about my uncle helping fight against the Gestapo, and meeting a spy at this very same pub.

Roots cannot stop this imagination.