All Quiet Along the Mannheim Front.

Silence reigns in my dorm in Mannheim as the night slips by unnoticed outside. I'm currently ensuring the solitude continues by playing the best of BNL on my trusty Mac as I type, the better to stifle the complaints issuing from the kitchen and to let the mysterious things that go bump in the night to their rightful realm. For some inexplicable reason, my reliable compy, a lovely shade of "hospital white," was not struck with the widespread scourge that maliciously robbed everyone else of their Internet like a pack of rambunctious Vikings on a village looting spree. (We're in the high middle ages at the moment. Hence the archaic analogy)

But tonight has been a good night in general. Met up with our "interaction leaders" (paid friends, basically), who remind me a lot of the Youthworks counselors in San Francisco, only not as many odd skits, and a better wardrobe. We slurped our ice cream as we sat around the Wasserturm, Mannheim's singular landmark, a water tower of years innumerable. One of the great aspects about Germany: not only is ice cream cheap and easy to come by, they also have more flavors and combinations than I would have thought scientifically possible. I chose "Zimt," the German word for cinnamon. It was incredible. It even had bits of real cinnamon ground into the ice cream.

There is a park at the rear of the tower, replete with fountains, flowers, and bushels of ivy galore. I had been once before, but I came prepared this time: I brought my Frisbee. Although there was well-trimmed grass aplenty, I was slightly hesitant about violating the greenery- even I had heard the tales of irate Germans armed with torch and pitchfork chasing off ignorant tourists who defiled their parks. So we stuck to the gravel path, where our erratic aim quite often came close to dispersing our group from where they sat on the steps. A young German boy joined us, and we spread our operations to the previously sacred lawn. He understood more English than I would've expected for a 5-year old, and was a quick study with the Frisbee. I continued throwing with him although the others eventually tired of it, preferring to sit on the steps and take part in the chatter, the squealing of the women as nocturnal rodents scampered past. It's odd, but I felt more at home throwing a Frisbee with a kid I didn't even know than I did talking with the people I was living with. Perhaps it's because he reminded me so much of my cousins, and the days we would play soccer, Frisbee, or go off on an adventure of that sort. Adventure is a curious thing. For what is adventure, other than a random series of events that you never could've predicted before leaving home? Look then, to the western sky, and follow the way towards the setting sun, by the allure of the open road, and travel.

This is the mode and motto for the earnest traveler: do not plan, do not expect, merely let yourself be swept away by circumstances and the unpredictable. My mind is full of thoughts such as these as I plan my return to Berlin. Due to planning complications (me being the only one with Internet), I won't be staying with the others, and might not even see them except for the first day. This doesn't concern me too much though. Traveling with companions is, of course, desirable, when there is proper leadership, some structure for making decisions in a concise manner. Yet in the present situation I am better when left alone.