These small hours...

Finally, I am online. This dorm didn't come with it's own Ethernet cable, so I went out and bought one today at a Saturn (pronounced SA-torn), the German equivalent of a Best Buy. I'm getting quite adept at figuring my way around the city of Mannheim, even though everyone else seems to be absolutely woebegone when it comes to navigation. I'm extremely behind on my journal due to an inordinate amount of work and sleep-deprivation, but I'm in the midst of working to remedy that swiftly. Here, then, is my narrative for the first hours...

Entry I-Day 1
23:11
Somewhere over the Atlantic

It’s difficult to resist the call of inspiration, even when it’s 11 o’clock at night and you haven’t had more than four hours the night before. Even when you’re at 35,000 feet above the Atlantic amongst one person you’ve known for a few hours and 311 other indifferent strangers. Even when you know you won’t be allowed to go to sleep for another sixteen hours or so without risking the almighty wrath of the infamous jet lag gods.

By this time I had given up any dreams of sleeping anyway. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve already tried every possible sleeping position known to man. At first I attempted to merely lean back against my seat. That failed for the sole reason that they weren’t going to let it be that easy. Then I tried listening to music, but even the rhythmic chords of Jeff Victor banging away in my head like a box of combustible banjos failed to induce the desired coma.

At least I could hear the music in both ears. US Airways maintains a fierce monopoly on what I am terming “dual-pronged headphones.” They have two input ports, one for each ear, so if you try regular, or headphones that everyone else in the world uses, you can only hear it one ear at a time. I would naturally attempt to speculate upon an outlandish cause for this unusual practice, but I can come up with none other than the five-dollar fee they charge for the headphones that are absolutely useless in the sane world. Greedy capitalistic swine.

The only pills my mother gives me are for jet lag. I silently vowed to myself as I tried yet another eventually futile position (laying my head on top of the meal tray, three US Airways magazines, A Tramp Abroad, and the crossword section of USA Today {68 across: “Heroine of Great Expectations.” I wasn’t aware it had one}, which had the cumulative effect of grafting the solution of yesterday’s Sudoku to my face) that next time, I would bring a larger pillow, or at least steal more of the airline version beforehand.

My trip, or “Reise,” to Deutschland has been underway for about eight hours now. Only two hours and 15 minutes until arrival at Frankfurt. I look across from my aisle seat to the window, where my row-mate, one of the few other Americans on board, is sleeping as we pass over the vast ocean at night. Our plane is a strange contrast to the icy stillness of the world outside: the moon shines down on an unending field of clouds, interspersed with puddles, windows to the vast sea far below. Inside I’m not certain which is under greater strain: the engines, the air conditioning, or the stewardesses. My mother thought she was doing me a favor by booking me an aisle seat, yet every five minutes an airhostess barks my shin at ramming speed. I would protest, but I fear that they may attempt to poison me further by force-feeding me airline food.

After colliding with the Frankfurt Flughafen tarmac at 7:15, when I saw my first words in Germany on the side of the terminal (“Frankfurt Airport”), they put us on buses and shuttled us over to customs. I kept quiet now, no longer talking with my new yet temporary liaison to Deutschland, an American Black Hawk Crew Chief named Logan. We were in German territory: I considered any unnecessary Amerkanisch expressions were to be considered unsaid. I am guarded against the stereotype of the loud, brash, ignorant American. I respect the country and the people far too much than to pollute it with idle chatter.

More later when I manage to finish writing it.