The feeling of meeting someone extraordinary is like few other feelings in the world. This weekend I had the good fortune of meeting several.
Friday. Scott and I get up and chat with Jeff for a while, then we exchange e-mail addresses and say our final goodbyes. Suddenly we are on our own, if not for a little while.
We spend the afternoon packing and getting ready for our trip. I get somewhat jealous as I see Scott pack his bike helmet. On the other hand, I am looking forward to meeting up with my family in Ireland and being at my brother’s side as he marries the girl of his dreams. I only wish the timing had been better.
At three o’clock, we meet in front of the Institute to board the bus for Gars, a small town near Horn. In Gars there are castle ruins in which opera is performed every summer. Tonight we see Don Giovanni under the stars.
The bus ride doesn’t last long, and we get to Horn ahead of schedule. We eat dinner in a restaurant, also contained in the ruins, and I explore and sketch for a bit until the opera begins.
The opera itself is in an older Italian vernacular comparable to Shakespearean English, with German surtitles, which is of no use to the majority of us. Being familiar with the story, I am able to follow along just slightly. As the opera continues, I find that it is not necessary to know what’s going on to enjoy the opera. I lean my head back and gaze at the stars while I listen to the arias, the live orchestra, the birds chirping on occasion. It is magical.
After the opera, we board the bus to go to Horn. We arrive not long after, and check into the hotel. Horn is maybe smaller than Gars with nary a golden arch to taint the old world feel. We meet outside and go for a walk. We walk down a paved road, then on a gravel road, and eventually the darkness envelopes us. We look up at the sky, and the stars have never been more clear or brilliant. Meteors shoot across the void every few moments. Suddenly, Tate tells us to get off the road. We all hide in the darkness and I figure out what’s going on. Two or three of the girls have lagged behind and can’t tell whether or not we’re in front of them anymore. As they pass, it is all we can do to suppress snickers. Finally, I open my nalgene bottle and toss water out of it. It escapes the bottle with a disgusting sucking sound and splashes onto the path behind them. Even in the darkness we can all see them jump three feet in the air, screaming in terror. It is hilarious.
We all go to bed that night in good spirits. Tomorrow we ride—they on bikes, me on a train.
I wake up the next morning before everyone else. Tate meets me in the hotel lobby, and we walk the ten minutes or so to the train station. We wax philosophical and discuss architecture and spirituality. At around eight o’clock, the train arrives. My journey begins, and I wave goodbye. “Bring me back a coaster,” says Tate.
The first train I ride to Krems is a regional train. The ride is just over an hour. I wait in Krems for about half an hour until my connection to St. Pölten comes, another regional train. The ride is just under an hour. In St. Pölten, I transfer to a high-speed ICE train run by the German railway system, Deutsche Bahn, or “Die Bahn,” as it is also known. The way. The train cruises across the Austrian countryside at speeds of up to 300 kilometers per hour as a I play with the tray table and the reclining seat. I arrive in Linz around 12:15.
At the bus terminal, I meet a Brazilian about my age named Pedro. He is friendly, laid back, outgoing. Riding to the airport, I find that we both are flying Ryanair to London. We become travel companions. At the airport in Linz, we talk about music, and he introduces me to MPB (a kind of Brazilian pop music). He teaches me some Portuguese—important survival phrases, like “Qual é seu nome? (What is your name?)” and “Vocè é muito bonita! (You are very beautiful!)” Then he goes over to an acrylic display case. I watch as he picks up a handful of condoms (“preservatives,” as he calls them). They are individually wrapped and packed in little cardboard boxes, almost like matchbooks, and he spends a good five minutes opening each box, taking the condom out, forming two piles: empty boxes and condoms. Families stare. The situation is comical, and I can’t help but laugh out loud. How refreshing!
Boarding the plane is a little strenuous. Ryanair boards in two different sections, and there are no assigned seats. Somehow, we get seats at the very front of the plane and have ample leg room. After the plane takes off, we grab menus, and Pedro points out that they sell spirits in little plastic pouches.
Needless to say, we both get one. After all, how often does one have the opportunity to drink whiskey from a plastic pouch?
We get into London around six o’clock local time. I have another flight to make at 8:00, and I have to get my luggage and check in and go through security again, because of the way my flights are booked. The line to check in is abysmally long. In front of me, a man in a green rugby shirt talks in a thick Irish accent to a friend. A solicitor approaches, hawking some Ryanair credit card. You must be from Ireland in order to be eligible for the card, so the solicitor asks the man if he’s Irish. Clearly, he is. He is dripping with it. Yet he replies firmly, “No.” The solicitor walks away.
I like the Irish already.
I pass through security and get to the gate with minutes to spare. I arrive in Cork around 9:00, after about 14 hours of traveling. Upon landing, everyone claps wildly. I hail a cab outside the airport. The driver is a native of the area and has a great accent. He reminds me of James Cromwell of L.A. Confidential and Babe fame. He is very convivial and displays a great sense of pride about his hometown, explaining all the great things to do. He expresses disappointment when I say I’m only in town for a few days. I continues to ask him leading questions. I am enchanted by the manner in which he speaks.
I get to the hotel in Cork city. No one is there to greet me. I unload my bags in the room I share with Will, James and Tommy, and go back downstairs to read and wait for everyone to come back. My cousin’s husband Steve finds me and we go for pints at the adjoining pub. My family is there, along with members of my extended family. It is good to see them again.
Tonight, in celebration of Will’s second-to-last night of bachelorhood, we are going on a pub crawl through the streets of Cork. We drink pints of Guinness in the hotel pub, then move on to a pub called Counihan’s, where Tommy, my youngest brother at sixteen years, proceeds to ask girls if they want tickets to the gun show while kissing his biceps, eliciting both humorous and disgusted looks.
The next pub is more of a club. It’s called Qube [sic], and it plays loud dance music. We all do shots until Will is beyond cognitive thought. But then again, we all are. James takes me, Will and Tommy into a huddle, and slurs, “Not everyone has this. We are so lucky. Not everyone has this.” And despite the stink of baby Guinness and buttery nipple shots on his breath, there is a frank and honest truth. Here we are, four brothers, about to stand at the altar together as the first of us begins a family of his own. Things are about to change drastically. But there is this one underlying truth, this common bond that ties us together that will weather whatever storm life cooks up.
That being said, I wake up the next morning to find James in this position:
It’s ok, he can tell you much worse things about what I did the night before.
So it’s Sunday. My mom gathers everyone up, and we take a taxi/van to Blarney Castle, which is about twenty minutes out. I have heard rather unpleasant stories about the things that the locals do to the Blarney stone when the tourists aren’t around to kiss it, so in the interest of my health, I decide not to do so. Instead I get my mom to take a picture of me:
Hooah.
I shoot some photos with my Pentax, then we roll out, back to the hotel in time to get dressed for pre-rehearsal tea with Jill’s grandmother, which consists of some deep-fried delights—fish, curry chips, onion rings, potato fritters. We walk from Nan’s house to the church for the rehearsal. The priest who is conducting the ceremony is Jill’s uncle, a rosy-cheeked man who could pass for the captain of a steamship. He is reserved but knows the value of humour, and the rehearsal goes by quickly. We then go to meet everyone for drinks at the Boothouse, a local traditional pub with a thatched roof and an authenticity carried through right to the people who frequent it.
My cousin Josh and I meet a man named Christopher. He is past his prime; the deep lines in his face frame his cheery demeanour. He loves to talk. He is a coachbuilder, a craft that required seven years of apprenticeship. In addition to being a coachbuilder, he is an accomplished architect and builder, having built four houses, including a conservatory using white ash imported from the States. Christopher raises questions of process, of skill, of craftsmanship, of humanism. He puts great emphasis on hard work.
At the Boothouse, I catch up with many people I haven’t seen in a while—Sue and Meg, my dad’s nieces, and their husbands Steve (whose boss is a Hapsburg) and Mike; my uncle Tom, their father, who has also studied in Vienna at the same Institute at which I am studying and who had some interesting things to say about his experiences there; my dad’s cousin, Chris Plasman, who is president of his own furniture company; and my aforementioned cousin Josh, Tom’s son, who lives in Boston and is always game for a good time.
I also have my first interactions with Jill’s family and friends. Every single one of them is incredibly nice and had an almost overwhelming joie d'vivre. I can’t buy a pint; before I get the chance, one of them walks up and asks what I’m having. Not “Can I buy you a beer?” but rather “What are you having?” It’s just assumed. Guinness. Beamish. Murphy’s. Bulmer’s. The pints keep coming. Everyone is happy.
Monday. The big day has finally arrived. Will, James, Tommy and I get dressed in my parents’ room while the photographer takes pictures. Then we are driven off to the church for the ceremony. I see sides of my family I’ve never seen before. My dad is quiet, but not in the sort of reserved and inaccessible way he usually appears to be in, but jovial and full of pride. Will, who has always had an air of stoicism and collectedness, appears nothing but happy and even a bit nervous. James has no criticism for anyone today. “Not everyone has this,” he says, dispelling the notion that it could have just been the alcohol talking two nights before.
The ceremony is beautiful. It is a Catholic ceremony, making this the third Catholic service I’ve been to since arriving in Europe. Of course we are all stunning in our tuxedos, coattails and all. Jill looks positively celestial. Her whole family is extremely talented musically, and they provide the accompaniment for the ceremony. Michael has a tender, moving cello solo.
After the ceremony, it’s pictures, pictures, pictures, then off to the reception in Clonakilty. Along the way we pass these striking crimson flowers, little blossoms that hang from their branches. Our driver explains to us that these are fuschia flowers. “In Irish, they are called déora dé, or ‘tears of God’.” Why is it that everything sounds so much more poetic in other languages? One of the architects at Rataplan spoke of a book of poetry that was translated from English to Slovenian to Italian, and then back again, and the results were absolutely beautiful.
The hotel in Clonakilty is on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Cows and horses graze in a nearby pasture. Down below, boats cruise around while people take holiday on the beaches. I can’t imagine a more beautiful setting for a reception. We are all spellbound. On the way in, I run into Chris, my dad’s cousin. We talk for a bit, and we get into what he does for a living. During the course of the conversation, it is revealed to me that he knows Michael Vanderbyl, one of my design heroes. I ask him about Vanderbyl’s home that he designed and built in Napa Valley. Chris replies that not only has he been there, he was best man at his wedding, and the reception was held there. Chris also mentions that he worked at Herman Miller, and that he knows Bill Stumpf, the man responsible for some of the most recognizable office furniture ever designed, the Ergon and Aeron chairs.
The reception is delightful. I find out at dinner that I like black pudding, which is basically sausage made of pig’s blood. After dinner, speeches are made, each one very well done and culminating in a moving homily by James. Then the band comes in and sets up.
Dancing and revelry ensue. People buy me more beers. I meet Jill’s cousin, David, who works in London for Rockstar Games as a producer, and was in the tube during the bombings on July 7. He is Oxford educated, a brilliant guy. I discuss architecture with him. Jill’s other cousins, Stephen and Robert, teach me some Irish slang, like “What’s the craic?” and “What’s the sceal?” and “jax” and “lege”. Uncle Tom tells me about Estonian church music. A number of us do tequila shots. At this point, I’m feeling saucy. At tea time, I go up to the band leader and explain that I would like to sing a song. He is reluctant at first, but I tell him I want it to be a surprise, and he concedes. I tell him the two songs I want to sing.
After tea, the band leader calls me up on stage. We go right into a stirring rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love With You, followed quickly by Mack the Knife. No one is expecting it, everyone is dancing. It is magnificent, better than any toast I could have proposed.
The evening dwindles down, and guests leave. I miss talking to Chris more about what he does, but I get to spend a good deal of time talking with David, Stephen, Robert, and Will’s friend Simon. I write down as many people’s e-mail addresses as I can in my black book, and retire for the night. Back in the hotel room, James and Tommy are talking. I get in bed and join the conversation. I don’t know when we’ll all be this supremely happy together in our lives, and I am milking every moment of it.
The next morning, I have to travel again. I am working on two hours of sleep, trying to find my 42nd wind. Our wonderful driver has taken a special trip to pick me up in Clonakilty, and brings me to the airport in Cork. The journey back to Vienna is nothing special, except for the last two hours on the train from Linz to Vienna, where I share a compartment with a British expat who is living in Madagascar, teaching English to kids there. She shows me a picture of about ten of her students. They don’t look particularly emaciated, but she tells me that half of them will die before they reach the age of ten. We get into a rather lengthy conversation about the endless problems facing Africa, the problem of obesity in the states, how she doesn’t like Britons, my iPod.
Back at Westbahnhof, we part ways. I take the U-bahn home to an empty apartment, where I collapse on my bed, exhausted from the incredible weekend I’ve just had. I think of the people I’ve met and the connections I’ve made. Sleep comes easily.
Friday. Scott and I get up and chat with Jeff for a while, then we exchange e-mail addresses and say our final goodbyes. Suddenly we are on our own, if not for a little while.
We spend the afternoon packing and getting ready for our trip. I get somewhat jealous as I see Scott pack his bike helmet. On the other hand, I am looking forward to meeting up with my family in Ireland and being at my brother’s side as he marries the girl of his dreams. I only wish the timing had been better.
At three o’clock, we meet in front of the Institute to board the bus for Gars, a small town near Horn. In Gars there are castle ruins in which opera is performed every summer. Tonight we see Don Giovanni under the stars.
The bus ride doesn’t last long, and we get to Horn ahead of schedule. We eat dinner in a restaurant, also contained in the ruins, and I explore and sketch for a bit until the opera begins.
 |
| open air opera at gars. |
The opera itself is in an older Italian vernacular comparable to Shakespearean English, with German surtitles, which is of no use to the majority of us. Being familiar with the story, I am able to follow along just slightly. As the opera continues, I find that it is not necessary to know what’s going on to enjoy the opera. I lean my head back and gaze at the stars while I listen to the arias, the live orchestra, the birds chirping on occasion. It is magical.
After the opera, we board the bus to go to Horn. We arrive not long after, and check into the hotel. Horn is maybe smaller than Gars with nary a golden arch to taint the old world feel. We meet outside and go for a walk. We walk down a paved road, then on a gravel road, and eventually the darkness envelopes us. We look up at the sky, and the stars have never been more clear or brilliant. Meteors shoot across the void every few moments. Suddenly, Tate tells us to get off the road. We all hide in the darkness and I figure out what’s going on. Two or three of the girls have lagged behind and can’t tell whether or not we’re in front of them anymore. As they pass, it is all we can do to suppress snickers. Finally, I open my nalgene bottle and toss water out of it. It escapes the bottle with a disgusting sucking sound and splashes onto the path behind them. Even in the darkness we can all see them jump three feet in the air, screaming in terror. It is hilarious.
We all go to bed that night in good spirits. Tomorrow we ride—they on bikes, me on a train.
I wake up the next morning before everyone else. Tate meets me in the hotel lobby, and we walk the ten minutes or so to the train station. We wax philosophical and discuss architecture and spirituality. At around eight o’clock, the train arrives. My journey begins, and I wave goodbye. “Bring me back a coaster,” says Tate.
The first train I ride to Krems is a regional train. The ride is just over an hour. I wait in Krems for about half an hour until my connection to St. Pölten comes, another regional train. The ride is just under an hour. In St. Pölten, I transfer to a high-speed ICE train run by the German railway system, Deutsche Bahn, or “Die Bahn,” as it is also known. The way. The train cruises across the Austrian countryside at speeds of up to 300 kilometers per hour as a I play with the tray table and the reclining seat. I arrive in Linz around 12:15.
At the bus terminal, I meet a Brazilian about my age named Pedro. He is friendly, laid back, outgoing. Riding to the airport, I find that we both are flying Ryanair to London. We become travel companions. At the airport in Linz, we talk about music, and he introduces me to MPB (a kind of Brazilian pop music). He teaches me some Portuguese—important survival phrases, like “Qual é seu nome? (What is your name?)” and “Vocè é muito bonita! (You are very beautiful!)” Then he goes over to an acrylic display case. I watch as he picks up a handful of condoms (“preservatives,” as he calls them). They are individually wrapped and packed in little cardboard boxes, almost like matchbooks, and he spends a good five minutes opening each box, taking the condom out, forming two piles: empty boxes and condoms. Families stare. The situation is comical, and I can’t help but laugh out loud. How refreshing!
Boarding the plane is a little strenuous. Ryanair boards in two different sections, and there are no assigned seats. Somehow, we get seats at the very front of the plane and have ample leg room. After the plane takes off, we grab menus, and Pedro points out that they sell spirits in little plastic pouches.
 |
| Pedro and I in good spirits with good spirits |
Needless to say, we both get one. After all, how often does one have the opportunity to drink whiskey from a plastic pouch?
We get into London around six o’clock local time. I have another flight to make at 8:00, and I have to get my luggage and check in and go through security again, because of the way my flights are booked. The line to check in is abysmally long. In front of me, a man in a green rugby shirt talks in a thick Irish accent to a friend. A solicitor approaches, hawking some Ryanair credit card. You must be from Ireland in order to be eligible for the card, so the solicitor asks the man if he’s Irish. Clearly, he is. He is dripping with it. Yet he replies firmly, “No.” The solicitor walks away.
I like the Irish already.
I pass through security and get to the gate with minutes to spare. I arrive in Cork around 9:00, after about 14 hours of traveling. Upon landing, everyone claps wildly. I hail a cab outside the airport. The driver is a native of the area and has a great accent. He reminds me of James Cromwell of L.A. Confidential and Babe fame. He is very convivial and displays a great sense of pride about his hometown, explaining all the great things to do. He expresses disappointment when I say I’m only in town for a few days. I continues to ask him leading questions. I am enchanted by the manner in which he speaks.
I get to the hotel in Cork city. No one is there to greet me. I unload my bags in the room I share with Will, James and Tommy, and go back downstairs to read and wait for everyone to come back. My cousin’s husband Steve finds me and we go for pints at the adjoining pub. My family is there, along with members of my extended family. It is good to see them again.
Tonight, in celebration of Will’s second-to-last night of bachelorhood, we are going on a pub crawl through the streets of Cork. We drink pints of Guinness in the hotel pub, then move on to a pub called Counihan’s, where Tommy, my youngest brother at sixteen years, proceeds to ask girls if they want tickets to the gun show while kissing his biceps, eliciting both humorous and disgusted looks.
The next pub is more of a club. It’s called Qube [sic], and it plays loud dance music. We all do shots until Will is beyond cognitive thought. But then again, we all are. James takes me, Will and Tommy into a huddle, and slurs, “Not everyone has this. We are so lucky. Not everyone has this.” And despite the stink of baby Guinness and buttery nipple shots on his breath, there is a frank and honest truth. Here we are, four brothers, about to stand at the altar together as the first of us begins a family of his own. Things are about to change drastically. But there is this one underlying truth, this common bond that ties us together that will weather whatever storm life cooks up.
That being said, I wake up the next morning to find James in this position:
It’s ok, he can tell you much worse things about what I did the night before.
So it’s Sunday. My mom gathers everyone up, and we take a taxi/van to Blarney Castle, which is about twenty minutes out. I have heard rather unpleasant stories about the things that the locals do to the Blarney stone when the tourists aren’t around to kiss it, so in the interest of my health, I decide not to do so. Instead I get my mom to take a picture of me:
Hooah.
I shoot some photos with my Pentax, then we roll out, back to the hotel in time to get dressed for pre-rehearsal tea with Jill’s grandmother, which consists of some deep-fried delights—fish, curry chips, onion rings, potato fritters. We walk from Nan’s house to the church for the rehearsal. The priest who is conducting the ceremony is Jill’s uncle, a rosy-cheeked man who could pass for the captain of a steamship. He is reserved but knows the value of humour, and the rehearsal goes by quickly. We then go to meet everyone for drinks at the Boothouse, a local traditional pub with a thatched roof and an authenticity carried through right to the people who frequent it.
My cousin Josh and I meet a man named Christopher. He is past his prime; the deep lines in his face frame his cheery demeanour. He loves to talk. He is a coachbuilder, a craft that required seven years of apprenticeship. In addition to being a coachbuilder, he is an accomplished architect and builder, having built four houses, including a conservatory using white ash imported from the States. Christopher raises questions of process, of skill, of craftsmanship, of humanism. He puts great emphasis on hard work.
At the Boothouse, I catch up with many people I haven’t seen in a while—Sue and Meg, my dad’s nieces, and their husbands Steve (whose boss is a Hapsburg) and Mike; my uncle Tom, their father, who has also studied in Vienna at the same Institute at which I am studying and who had some interesting things to say about his experiences there; my dad’s cousin, Chris Plasman, who is president of his own furniture company; and my aforementioned cousin Josh, Tom’s son, who lives in Boston and is always game for a good time.
I also have my first interactions with Jill’s family and friends. Every single one of them is incredibly nice and had an almost overwhelming joie d'vivre. I can’t buy a pint; before I get the chance, one of them walks up and asks what I’m having. Not “Can I buy you a beer?” but rather “What are you having?” It’s just assumed. Guinness. Beamish. Murphy’s. Bulmer’s. The pints keep coming. Everyone is happy.
Monday. The big day has finally arrived. Will, James, Tommy and I get dressed in my parents’ room while the photographer takes pictures. Then we are driven off to the church for the ceremony. I see sides of my family I’ve never seen before. My dad is quiet, but not in the sort of reserved and inaccessible way he usually appears to be in, but jovial and full of pride. Will, who has always had an air of stoicism and collectedness, appears nothing but happy and even a bit nervous. James has no criticism for anyone today. “Not everyone has this,” he says, dispelling the notion that it could have just been the alcohol talking two nights before.
The ceremony is beautiful. It is a Catholic ceremony, making this the third Catholic service I’ve been to since arriving in Europe. Of course we are all stunning in our tuxedos, coattails and all. Jill looks positively celestial. Her whole family is extremely talented musically, and they provide the accompaniment for the ceremony. Michael has a tender, moving cello solo.
After the ceremony, it’s pictures, pictures, pictures, then off to the reception in Clonakilty. Along the way we pass these striking crimson flowers, little blossoms that hang from their branches. Our driver explains to us that these are fuschia flowers. “In Irish, they are called déora dé, or ‘tears of God’.” Why is it that everything sounds so much more poetic in other languages? One of the architects at Rataplan spoke of a book of poetry that was translated from English to Slovenian to Italian, and then back again, and the results were absolutely beautiful.
The hotel in Clonakilty is on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Cows and horses graze in a nearby pasture. Down below, boats cruise around while people take holiday on the beaches. I can’t imagine a more beautiful setting for a reception. We are all spellbound. On the way in, I run into Chris, my dad’s cousin. We talk for a bit, and we get into what he does for a living. During the course of the conversation, it is revealed to me that he knows Michael Vanderbyl, one of my design heroes. I ask him about Vanderbyl’s home that he designed and built in Napa Valley. Chris replies that not only has he been there, he was best man at his wedding, and the reception was held there. Chris also mentions that he worked at Herman Miller, and that he knows Bill Stumpf, the man responsible for some of the most recognizable office furniture ever designed, the Ergon and Aeron chairs.
The reception is delightful. I find out at dinner that I like black pudding, which is basically sausage made of pig’s blood. After dinner, speeches are made, each one very well done and culminating in a moving homily by James. Then the band comes in and sets up.
Dancing and revelry ensue. People buy me more beers. I meet Jill’s cousin, David, who works in London for Rockstar Games as a producer, and was in the tube during the bombings on July 7. He is Oxford educated, a brilliant guy. I discuss architecture with him. Jill’s other cousins, Stephen and Robert, teach me some Irish slang, like “What’s the craic?” and “What’s the sceal?” and “jax” and “lege”. Uncle Tom tells me about Estonian church music. A number of us do tequila shots. At this point, I’m feeling saucy. At tea time, I go up to the band leader and explain that I would like to sing a song. He is reluctant at first, but I tell him I want it to be a surprise, and he concedes. I tell him the two songs I want to sing.
After tea, the band leader calls me up on stage. We go right into a stirring rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love With You, followed quickly by Mack the Knife. No one is expecting it, everyone is dancing. It is magnificent, better than any toast I could have proposed.
The evening dwindles down, and guests leave. I miss talking to Chris more about what he does, but I get to spend a good deal of time talking with David, Stephen, Robert, and Will’s friend Simon. I write down as many people’s e-mail addresses as I can in my black book, and retire for the night. Back in the hotel room, James and Tommy are talking. I get in bed and join the conversation. I don’t know when we’ll all be this supremely happy together in our lives, and I am milking every moment of it.
The next morning, I have to travel again. I am working on two hours of sleep, trying to find my 42nd wind. Our wonderful driver has taken a special trip to pick me up in Clonakilty, and brings me to the airport in Cork. The journey back to Vienna is nothing special, except for the last two hours on the train from Linz to Vienna, where I share a compartment with a British expat who is living in Madagascar, teaching English to kids there. She shows me a picture of about ten of her students. They don’t look particularly emaciated, but she tells me that half of them will die before they reach the age of ten. We get into a rather lengthy conversation about the endless problems facing Africa, the problem of obesity in the states, how she doesn’t like Britons, my iPod.
Back at Westbahnhof, we part ways. I take the U-bahn home to an empty apartment, where I collapse on my bed, exhausted from the incredible weekend I’ve just had. I think of the people I’ve met and the connections I’ve made. Sleep comes easily.
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