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.