Trail Magic

Trail magic seems much more magical when traveling alone. Since you have only yourself to entertain, serendipitous experiences are that much more delightful. And since you have only yourself to look out for, when things work out against whatever odds, you feel that much more triumphant.

I am speaking from my recent experience solo-journeying around Hungary. While it was not my first solitary trip, it was certainly the longest and my first in a country where I don’t know the language. Granted, Hungary is a developed country, so I wasn’t really “roughing it” on my own. But still.

The trip was an all-around success, and I enjoyed the opportunity to do whatever I wanted and to stick to, or break, my own agenda. However, of course, no trip goes perfectly, and I ran into a few road bumps…until trail magic saved the day.

First, my best meal of the trip magically appeared.

Hungary is not exactly renowned for its cuisine. Although I ate a couple tasty meals of wild boar goulash, Hungary doesn’t rank high on my list of international dining experiences. But one meal really made my day.

I had been wandering around Budapest all morning, and by lunch had walked myself into an intense hunger. I happened to be on one of Pest’s pedestrian streets, which is lined with restaurants. Unfortunately, this street also happened to be a tourist trap. All the restaurants lauded their traditional goulashes, but at tourist prices (i.e., high). While only the third day of my trip, I was already weary of the tourist trap, so after a few blocks and no appealing option in sight, I took a desperate, random turn off the street in hopes of finding something off the beaten path. As I continued a couple blocks more, my hunger and desperation only grew.

Then, as though the universe understood, there it was: The Veggy Corner. Perfect. I was craving a vegetarian meal, and there were no tourists in sight. When I entered the restaurant, my eyes lit up brighter–it was an Indian food buffet run by what seemed to be Budapest’s “crunchy” crowd (my kind of people), and it was cheap! Best of all, the food did not disappoint; it was hands-down my best meal in Hungary. (I later found out the restaurant’s owners are Hare Krishnas, which made me wonder if there really was a spiritual force drawing me to it.)

Second, I magically found some drinking buddies.

I took a day trip to a town called Eger, which is known for its Valley of the Beautiful Women, a cluster of wine cellars on its outskirts that sell wine from the region (Hungary is a wine country). Upon arriving in Eger that morning, I met a trio of young Israeli women who had also come for the day. While we found our way from the train station to the city center together, I decided to part from them to wander around alone before heading to the Valley, with the mutually tentative suggestion we meet up there later.

Fast forward to later, I was sipping my first glass of red wine and the women found me. I thought to myself, “Oh good, now I have drinking buddies and I won’t look suspiciously like an alcoholic drinking my way through the cellars alone.” Personal dilemma averted. Thank you trail magic.

My third magical occasion happened in Sopron, a small town at Hungary’s border with Austria that touts a beautifully preserved (albeit a bit desolate) medieval city center. (Amusingly, most of the town’s visitors are Austrians who come for cheap dental work.) It was my last day of the trip, and not only was I a bit trail-weary, the day was dampened by a cold autumn rain. I had planned to just walk about for the day, but the weather rendered that activity unenjoyable. As I meandered the cobbled streets, slowly getting drenched by the drizzle, I passed a sign for an art exhibition. And from what I could tell (it was in Hungarian), it was free. An excellent excuse to get out of the rain, I thought.

The exhibition was indeed free, and the art, paintings and sculptures by local artists, was exquisite (at least, according to my unrefined taste). If I were richer, I would have seriously considered buying a couple of the paintings. While I am no art nut, the exhibition was one of my more enjoyable gallery experiences…although the weather and serendipity of the find may have sweetened it a bit.

Finally, my most magical experience was my successful attempt to ride a horse in Hungary. My Lonely Planet led me to believe Hungarians are horse-crazy people. While horses didn’t seem to be as salient in the Hungarian psyche as the book made them out to be, as a horse-crazy person myself, I had firmly decided I wanted to ride during my trip. (My AirBnB hostess in Budapest suspected Hungary has the horse crazy reputation because of the crazy horsemanship skills of their Magyar ancestors).

The beginning of my horse-riding adventure proved to be adventurous indeed, and had I not been so determined, I might have abandoned the endeavor.

Upon arriving in Sopron, I immediately made my way to the tourist office for information about where I could ride. At first, the woman working there had no idea (despite Lonely Planet‘s assurance the tourist office would know). But gradually, ideas came to her, and she sent me off with a few brochures…all in Hungarian.

After checking into my pension, I recruited the help of the guy at reception. While the task seemed to cause him a little stress (it was possible this was because we could only communicate in German, a second language for us both), he successfully booked me a ride at a farm about six kilometers outside of town. I would have to navigate the bus system to get there. But he meticulously gave me all the details I would need, and with a heart full of hope and trust in the universe, I set out to ride.

Unfortunately I chose to ride the bus at the time when all the high school students were going home from school. It was interesting to observe the behavior of Hungarian teenagers (it’s much like that of American ones), but riding a bus filled to the brim with them was not particularly enjoyable. And as the aisle grew more crowded with subsequent stops, a large and very smelly man was pushed my way and stood right over me. I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into.

Once I arrived at my stop, the bus driver vaguely pointed me in the right direction of the farm, and I warily proceeded onward. I found my way to something that resembled a farm and asked whomever I could find (by pointing to the name of the farm on a piece of scrap paper) if I was in the right place. It turned out the farm was actually part of some sort of resort where people go to get plastic surgery.

Having confirmed I was in the right place, I just needed to figure out who I had to meet. This took me another ten minutes and required asking five different resort employees, until I found one that led me to where I had to go. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked the universe–I made it.

And my perseverance was rewarded. I had exactly the riding experience I was hoping for. While my horse and I had a bit of a rocky start, as I was re-assimilating to being in the saddle, and she was assimilating to my rusty horsemanship, we ended up connecting and had a lovely ride together. She was a very alert and curious horse, turning her head left and right throughout the ride to check out what was going on around us. A curious creature myself, I appreciated this about her. My guide, a short man who spoke no English and very little German, seemed to be the stern, but gentle type. I quietly delighted when he lit and smoked two cigarettes during our two hour ride (not because I like smoking, but because I found it amusing).

And then there was the landscape. We rode through rolling fields, vineyards and autumn forests. It was exactly the natural experience I had been craving since arriving in Hungary (thus far, my trip had been an entirely urban adventure). It was an unforgettable, trail-magical experience.

Slow travel: a state of mind

Last time I was in Europe (ten years ago), my traveling philosophy was quite different than my current one. I was like most college juniors on a study abroad adventure: I wanted to see as much as possible. Just about every city I visited whizzed by me, as my travel mates and I rushed about to make sure we saw every medieval cathedral, art museum, castle, and/or sculpture garden our guide books told us to see.

Probably the most extreme case was my race to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa on a one-hour train layover. I just had to cross the famous architectural blunder off my list. Now, I don’t actually remember the tower all that much. Instead, my hurried trot through the busy streets while schlepping my heavy pack and my anxious worry over missing my train connection stand out more prominently in my memory. (Fortunately, I did successfully see the tower and make it back to the train station in time.)

Interestingly, most of the sightseeing I did while studying abroad are my hazier memories of that experience. Sure, I could flip through the hundreds of pictures I took to refresh my memory; but, in reality, the photo album I had carefully pasted together has taken up a long-term residence in the bottom of a box that I never unpack. Instead, my most vivid and fondest memories were the experiences I had actually living in Freiburg.

These days, the idea of running around a new city (or from city to city) trying to see every sight listed in Lonely Planet seems very unappealing. I much prefer to linger in one place and get to know it in a more genuine way.

Recently, I learned there is actually a term for this kind of travel philosophy: slow travel. Not surprisingly, this concept is part of the whole “slow” movement (e.g., slow food).

In a sense, slow travel is about mindful travel. In “A manifesto for slow travel,” the editor of the the travel magazine hidden europe explains, “Slow travel is about making conscious choices. It is about deceleration rather than speed…And slow travel also reshapes our relationship with places, encouraging and allowing us to engage more intimately with the communities through which we travel.”

The Huffington Post‘s Omer Rosen wrote a consciously generalizing plea to globe-gallivanting college students to settle down and sit still, which I wish I could have read ten years ago (although, I wonder if the appeal of slow comes with age). He essentially places hither-and-thither traveling under the umbrella of consumerism–it’s more like crossing a place off your shopping list than actually experiencing it.

Through the narrative of my recent day trip to Dachau, I’ll offer my take on some of the basics of the slow travel philosophy.

1. Do not travel with a definitive agenda.

I toured Dachau with no real agenda other than to follow my impulse. For example, my impulse told me to buy a delicious-looking piece of raspberry chocolate cake and eat it sitting in the sunshine, even though it was before lunchtime. It also told me to wander along the footpath that ran parallel to the town’s river just to see where it went.

2. Move slowly.

In other words, walk (or bike) as much as you can. My day in Dachau was a “spazieren gehen” sort of day. It helped that the town has a fabulous network of walking paths conveniently labeled with signs to help you steer yourself around. I ended the day with a solid set of blisters–it was the seasonal debut of my flip-flops, which tend to always punish me for banishing them to the closet for months.

3. Experience everyday, local life.

A tiny taste of Dachau's charm. Image by Unknown

This can mean many things. Suggestions I’ve seen include taking a cooking class from a local chef, learning some phrases in the local language, and volunteering with a local organization. Since I was only in Dachau for the day, I count my walk around the main city cemetery as my everyday life experience.

While walking around a cemetery might sound like a morbid activity, German cemeteries can actually be beautiful and peaceful places. Some of the ones I’ve seen are more like forests with grave sites as underbrush. This cemetery was one such cemetery. Its graves were incredibly well cared for; nearly all of them were neatly landscaped and adorned with fresh flowers. Burning candles even stood watch at some of them. And I witnessed a couple dozen people carefully tending their loved ones’ resting places. Perhaps it was the sunshine, or the flowers, or my general mood, but I felt very moved by the experience.

4. Do what you really want to do, not what you think you should do (or what the guide book tells you to do).

You might have heard of Dachau because of the darkest part of its history: it hosted a former Nazi concentration camp. While this association taints its name, the town is otherwise very charming.

I actually chose not to go to the concentration camp. Among my reasons, the day was ridiculously gorgeous and I decided I’d rather enjoy the beauty of the world. (Also, for context, I have previously visited another concentration camp, Buchenwald; and as German major in undergrad, I quite-intensely studied the Holocaust and Germany’s coming-to-terms-with-it. So I wasn’t feeling a lack of exposure to that history.)

However, this is not to say you should totally ignore your guide book. If you really want to see a certain sight, do it. But only if you really want to.

I ended up visiting a sight mentioned in Dachau’s tourist brochure that was not what I really wanted to do, but what felt I should do: the city history museum. When I wandered into the small museum to check out how much it cost, the reception area was empty. Upon realizing my presence, a women walked in from outside, where she was gardening, and gave me a very friendly greeting. After asking her the entrance cost, I felt guilty saying “no thanks” and bought a ticket. I think I might have been one of the few, if only, museum visitors that day.

The museum was not a waste of time. I saw some interesting Bavarian artifacts, and the exhibits offered good language practice, since they were in German. It was just not what I really wanted to do, which brings me to…

5. Revisit a place that makes you happy.

What I had really wanted to do was revisit the garden of Dachau’s palace. I had already meandered through it that morning (I had eaten my cake at the palace’s cafe, which overlooks the garden), and I found it so beautiful that, once I had done everything else I felt like doing, I wanted to return to it. So, after I finished with the museum, I did.

The garden was bursting with tulips and other flowers and bordered by pink-blooming trees. Since it sits atop a hill, it offers an amazing view of the Bavarian landscape, which the day’s clear sky made even more spectacular. Munich’s cityscape poked out in the distance, and the Alps loomed in the horizon (I think they might have been under the influence of the Foehn, a warm wind that makes the Alps look larger than usual).

For about an hour, I sat on a bench under one of the blooming trees with my notebook and my thoughts, alternately writing and gazing over the landscape. I was fully content.

A glimpse of Dachau Palace, but not from the same month, so the flowers I saw were a little different. Image by Adele Claire

6. Be a resident of your destination, not just a visitor.

At its core, slow travel is about becoming a temporary resident of your destination, not just a tourist. The slow traveler learns how the locals live, does what the locals do, and savors the time it takes to get acquainted with the place and the culture.

So, as I plod along in building a connection with Munich and the rest of Bavaria, with no departure date in sight, I guess you could call me an extreme slow traveler.

A few resources to read slowly…

“The Art of Slow Travel,” from the Independent Traveler

Slow Travel Europe delves into a deeper explanation of slow travel and provides other relevant links

Another take on slow travel by a grassroots organization dedicated to all things slow

Berlin has its own slow travel website…I wonder if I should start a Munich satellite site?

The World Institute of Slowness offers info on other things to do slowly

Home is where the taste buds are

Home is not just where the heart is; it’s also where the taste buds are. This seems to be especially so when in a foreign land.

This past week, I went to dinner with four other expats and one German (but who is part British and part Indian), and we got into a long conversation about where in Munich one can find the best Indian food. One of my dinner-mates was Indian, and he was praising a hole-in-the-wall Indian joint, claiming it sells the best [insert name of said Indian food that I’ve now forgotten] he’s ever had outside of India. Specifically, he described this food as tasting “just like home.”

Another dinner-mate, who is British by birth but Pakistani by heritage, was lamenting the lack of good Pakistani food, saying she just can’t find food like her family makes.

As I walked home from this dinner, I pondered the connection between food, taste, and homeland. People do seem to end up missing certain foods when they have left their home country, which sometimes induces an endless hunt for home-like fare. For example, one of my American friends here, with her German husband in tow, has been on an ongoing search for the best, most American-like hamburger in Munich.

Sure, ethnic restaurants can help satiate one’s desire for that home-like cooked meal (although, if McDonalds and Starbucks are considered “ethnic American,” I can’t say they do anything for me). Some may call these restaurants the globalization of food, but I wonder if they are just expats’ own remedy for their craving for “home-food.”

A brief Google search for attachments to food revealed one article stating that people associate certain grub with specific childhood memories, and another claiming people find comfort foods, well, comforting when feeling stressed or lonely (both emotions that accompany moving to a new place). So there seems to be some science behind the food-home connection.

But whether scientific fact or experiential assumption, seeking out familiar foods does seem to be a fact of life abroad. For example, I asked my flatmate, who lived in Vancouver, BC for a while, if there were any German foods she missed while she was there, and she immediately exclaimed, “Brezen” (pretzels, of the soft variety–a very Bavarian snack).

Brezen! Image by Jonathan M

In my own experience, when I was living in St. Lucia (in the Eastern Caribbean), I recall having strange cravings for vittles like for flour tortillas and cheese that was not yellow, because these were hard, if not impossible, to come by on the island. What was strange about these cravings was that, aside from the cheese, many of them weren’t things I eat on a regular basis in America. My flatmate agreed that you end up longing for food you don’t normally crave at home.

Here in Germany, I tend to cook meals that are close to home (i.e., what I cook in the States). Granted, the food available here is not drastically different than what is available in the homeland. In fact, in some cases, I think the food here is much better. Even so, I haven’t yet ventured into trying any German recipes, even though my flatmate has a healthy collection of German recipe books.

Perhaps if I were living in a small Bavarian village, rather than a big city, with less access to home-like foods and a higher consumption of traditional Bavarian fare–e.g., Bratwurst, Brezen, and Kaesespaetzle (what I consider the German version of mac and cheese)–then I would start pining for quinoa, kale, and the rest of my usual hippie-vegetarian provisions.

Though, I will admit that I do miss my favorite comfort food: Annie’s mac & cheese (note to friends and family: if you send me a care package, please throw in a few boxes of that…especially the organic shells and white cheddar). Kaesespaetzle just isn’t the same.

How about you, dear readers: if you’ve lived in a different country before, what home-food(s) did you miss?

Kaesespaetzle. Image by Wiki der Wikinger

Same place, different times

Imagining present-day places in past-tense times can be fascinating. One way to do so is by “reading the landscape,” as my former environmental history professor, Bill Cronon, puts it. And “landscape” refers not only to picturesque countrysides and wildlands, but also to urban spaces and other human settlements.

Reading the landscape entails asking questions like what does today’s landscape tell us about past land uses; what social forces were behind those past land uses; and why was this street named after a king who rarely set foot there and not the blacksmith whose shop was on the corner.

Perhaps because my senses are generally more open in a new place, I’ve become an avid reader of landscapes here in Munich (granted, doing proper landscape readings requires in-depth historical research, so my readings have been more like skims). One “landscape” I have recently become smitten with is Odeonsplatz, a public square in the city’s Altstadt, or the old city center.

Historically, Odeonsplatz has been a place for pomp and circumstance. It is situated at the end of the traditional parade route that stretches the length of Ludwigstrasse (named for King Ludwig I of Bavaria, who also commissioned the construction of the square), down which ceremonies of all sorts still march today. When parades arrive at the square, they are greeted by three grandiose structures: on the left is the former royal residence; on the right is the ornate Theatinerkirche (a catholic church), and straight ahead is Feldherrnhalle (loosely meaning “commanders’ hall”).

Parade's-eye-view of Odeonsplatz. Image by Florian Adler

Historical accounts highlight Odeonsplatz’ tainted past. It was here that Hitler staged his first, but failed coup in 1923. When Hitler had finally succeeded in taking over Germany, the square became a favored Nazi ceremonial and procession grounds.

But this tainted past is juxtaposed with its more cheerful present. Odeonsplatz now hosts happier, more inclusive festivities, such as the annual St. Patty’s Day street party, which I recently attended. (Factoid: Munich has one of the largest populations of Irish people outside of Ireland). A mix of Germans, Irish, and at least two Americans (me and a friend) celebrated with an assortment of traditions from both Germany and Ireland: Guinness, Bratwurst, Irish song and dance, and, of course, a parade down Ludwigstrasse.

Another juxtaposition of Odeonsplatz is its stateliness and its more pedestrian side. It was commissioned by royalty, designed by a prominent neoclassicist architect, but built by commoners (although none of their names made it into the history books). Its namesake was Odeon, a nearby building that was formerly a concert hall for “commoners” and now houses the Bavarian Ministry of the Interior, a conversion that took place when the building was rebuilt after WWII. (This link has before and after pictures of the building; beware, the text is in German).

But even though the original music hall is gone, Odeonsplatz is still a musical venue for the common folk. The square is regularly host to musical acts ranging from street performers, such as the pianist I saw the other day (don’t ask me how he got a grand piano there), to Munich’s annual open-air classical music festival.

Odeonsplatz’ pedestrian significance can also be read in its present-day orientation: it is one entrance to the Altstadt’s pedestrian zone. On a typical stroll through the square, you’ll encounter a myriad of folk: from tourists to bike commuters, and from people drinking coffee at the square’s historic cafe to protestors demonstrating against [insert social/political cause]. A new, favored ritual of mine has been walking home from work, just so I can pass through the square to see what is happening there that day.

And, if I could go back in time, back to Odeonplatz’ early years, I wonder what a normal day on the square would have been like…

Odeonsplatz facing Ludwigstrasse circa 1900.

p.s. Check out this 360 degree panorama of Odeonsplatz (although it is usually not as empty as this picture shows it to be).

Adventures in making friends

The hardest part about moving to a new place is making friends. For me, friends are the glue that connects me to a place. It’s only when I have established a social network that I feel settled.

So, moving from Madison, where I had a fabulous collection of friends (miss you all), to Munich, where I knew no one, has been a challenge, to say the least. And, as an expat, an extra layer of difficulty is added, since you also have to assimilate to a different language and culture. Making friends is not very easy when you can’t express yourself properly in a conversation.

In other words, the flip side to the glamor and adventure of living abroad is the (initial) loneliness.

The Internet abounds with articles from expat blogs and websites stating the importance of making friends in your new country. There are even e-How instructions on how to do so. The collective thesis of these articles can be boiled down to: 1) you are not alone in your loneliness–it happens to nearly all expats; 2) making friends is essential to an expat’s happiness, but it can be hard to do; and so 3) you just have to put yourself out there.

Thus, as I have done before when I’ve landed in a new place, I’ve swallowed my natural shyness and put myself out there. So far, it has reaped some interesting, sometimes comical results.

Scoping the English-speaking crowd

Each major city in Germany has an online community for its English-speaking crowd called Toytown. One of its key functions is a digital bulletin board for “meetups,” which members organize. There is a meetup for practically any activity one might be interested in: from knitting to cross country skiing, home brewing to the general beer drinking.

Although I don’t want to build a social network entirely of English speakers, I will admit, they are the low-hanging fruit. So, I have been experimenting with the meetups in hopes of finding at least a couple people with whom I make a meaningful connection.

The first one I tried out was the weekly German Stammtisch, an informal gathering for non-native German speakers to practice the language, while also drinking alcoholic beverages. I thought speaking German with other non-native speakers would, at least, be a safe way to polish my rusty German. However, at the time I had not yet been in Munich a week, so I was still scraping off the thickest layer of rust. Needless to say, I had a hard time carrying a conversation with anyone. My confidence was further dashed by two young Russian women who kept telling me they couldn’t understand me with my American accent.

I ended up falling into a decent conversation (in “Denglish”) with a young German man who, oddly, had come to the Stammtisch to learn to speak in his native language more slowly (apparently his grandmother kept complaining he talks too fast). While he indeed spoke in slow pace for me, my brain and confidence eventually hit a wall and I had to leave…quickly.

Next up was girly cocktail night. “Yes! Potential female bonding,” was what I excitedly thought to myself when I discovered this meetup. But, based on my first foray, I fear my bonding needs might be different from what girly cocktail night can offer. The night was, well, very girly.

Don’t get me wrong; the girls were very warm and friendly. But as a not-very-girly girl, at times I sipped my cocktail uncomfortably (I was the only one who ordered a whiskey cocktail; everyone else ordered a Mai Thai or other sugary concoction). I feigned interest when the conversation turned to shopping, and my mouth hurt after a couple hours from the constant smile I had plastered on my face. I left feeling both judgmental and socially exhausted.

The most recent meetup I attended was a Democrats Abroad event. At least there I would find like-minded folks, I figured. And I did. But the event was sparsely attended, and I found myself pondering whether it would be healthy for me to become heavily involved in a group bound together by the same opinions, especially at a time when I am seeking to expand my perspective.

Despite my hesitations about each of these meetups, I intend to give each another shot. One shouldn’t make judgements based on first impressions, after all.

Friends in workplaces

My organization (a research center) is a hub for smart, interesting people from around the world, who like to have deep, intellectual conversations. They provide a refreshing alternative to the boring-but-necessary getting-to-know-you chitchat about where you’re from, how long you’ve been in Munich, what you’re doing here, etc.

Every Friday brings a work happy hour, each week at a different establishment. Not only has attending these been a great way to become familiar with the city’s menu of restaurants, but it is a guaranteed evening of thoughtful conversation. For example, so far, I have learned about disability literature, the decline of funding for the humanities in the UK, the environmental efforts of the British army, and what it’s like to be a professor at a college on the US-Mexico border. Most exciting, for me, was the lengthy conversation I had with an American academic who is big in the field of religion and nature. He lent me an interested ear as I talked about my Masters research (it has a life after grad school!).

The only unfortunate thing about this social outlet is that the people are transient. Many of the happy hour attendees are the center’s visiting fellows, who are here for three to nine months. So friendships I may form here will likely be fleeting. But I guess one’s social network is never really static, anyway.

Making friends with the locals

Several of the “How to make friends as an expat” articles I found emphasize that, to create a happy life in a foreign land, it is crucial to also make meaningful connections with “the locals.” Speaking from previous experience, I concur.

Interestingly, according to one survey, Germany is one of the least friendliest countries for expats. Thankfully, my experience has been the opposite (one survey does not a sound generalization make, after all). For example, my German flatmate and I became quick friends, and she’s been very proactive about introducing me to her friends, who have all been equally welcoming and friendly. To them, I say, “Danke fuer eure Offenheit und Freundlichkeit!”

Outside of my flatmate and her friends, I have not yet been terribly daring about immersing myself in a German-only crowd. But I did find one group that piqued my curiosity: Munich Bluegrass Friends.

That’s right, Munich has a community of American folk music enthusiasts, who are not themselves American. Perfect.

Last week my fiddle and I attended their monthly Bluegrass Stammtisch (similar concept to the German one, only substitute conversing in German for strumming the banjo, but keep the alcoholic beverages). The jammers convene at a bar called Oklahoma Saloon, which touts itself as the “oldest honky tonk in Europe.” The saloon is covered in stereotypically western kitsch: from the swinging door to the mounted bull horns. It’s pretty awesome.

The Stammtisch strummers were incredibly welcoming. The group consisted of about a dozen older men (i.e., in their 50s and 60s), one younger man (and the only other American), and one other woman. I had the feeling this group might be representative of Munich’s bluegrass crowd in general. Pretty much every bluegrass instrument was present: guitars, banjos, mandolins, a stand-up bass, two other fiddles (in addition to me), and even a steel guitar. And the repertoire was authentic: traditional old time, bluegrass, and Irish tunes. Were it not for the German-speaking between songs, one could have easily mistaken the scene for one you’d find in your average American folk music bar. I was tickled by the whole experience. I think I’ll definitely become a regular.

So, as my hunt for friends continues, I expect more slightly awkward moments and more of the same getting-to-know-you conversations, but I am hopeful that I will eventually forge a few ties that branch into a social network, thereby emotionally binding me to this place and enabling me to feel fully at home. Onward.