I realized as soon as I got off the plane in Frankfurt that I was woefully underprepared. Shuffling into line to go through my third security check of the day, I realized I couldn’t even count above seven (sieben) in German. This odd limit is all blamed on my elementary school music class, in which we learned a song that involved the numbers in German—but only from ein to sieben.
This little fact became a problem when I stood, backpack in tow, facing a row of numbered aisles — all numbers higher than seven. The German woman that was delegating which line it was we were to join looked at me and said something that I heard as being cinq. At first this made sense in my mixed up mind: I was supposed to go to aisle five. But as I approached the aisles I realized five was not an option and this woman was probably not speaking to me in French.
So, moment of truth: all I can do is step forward; I can’t look behind me. If she’s watching me ponder this, I can’t bear to see her reaction. After a faltering step (OK, I tripped), I decide the best choice is eight.
This is not correct, of course, but there are no consequences. Only my own shame follows me through the scanning machine and helps me collect my backpack, eviscerated on the conveyor belt.
It is 6 a.m. in Frankfurt. The sun is still blinking through the blinds that sag in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bleary-eyed, I stare out the window at planes taking off and landing, all in some sort of strangely perfect, choreographed motion. A television, boasting the latest headlines blares, in a baffling mixture of English and German. Colored light from the screen reflects off the table, blasting my tired eyes with broken images of cell phones I should want to buy.
I sit, thinking back to the countless hours sitting in my dorm, listening to people practicing their Russian. I have friends studying Russian, Japanese and French, and I myself am taking Spanish, but no one I know is taking German. It would have been useful. Walking up and down the second floor halls of Kresge seeing indecipherable signs in German has not prepared me for this moment. Spanish may be a practical language to take, but in all the places I’ve traveled, none have required any Spanish, nor has my Spanish proved useful outside of dimly-lit, early morning classes.
My training comes close to being useful when a woman frantically asks in Spanish whether anyone speaks her language. The people who work the counters speak German, of course, as well as English, but hadn’t seemed to need Spanish. Trepidation causes me to pause, leaving the task to a woman looking surprisingly like Frida Kahlo. She is obviously much more skilled in the language.
Frankfurt was to be my jumping point. I have one more quick flight until reaching my final destination. My first time in a foreign country completely alone is spent with a free mini cup of coffee, spurted out from a rather suspect Technicolor machine. Traveling with carry-ons and winter gear makes for a rather graceless existence, increasing my clumsiness and girth at least tenfold. Awkwardly (which seems to be the theme of the morning), I wedge myself between the chair and table facing a window, where I balance my tiny cup of caffeine and watch as planes depart.
The flight is delayed, and I remain, sitting alone. Probably the most alone I have ever been. I listen as the woman sitting at the desk behind me bellows, in a domineering yet pleasant voice, flight numbers over the intercom. Again, numbers I know are interspersed with those I don’t. I wait rather impatiently for a translation as others waiting shuffle from one location to another, as if in a hand of cards.
Later in my trip, I learn that the word for ten, zehn, sounds suspiciously like ten, but also, if in right the tone, could possibly sound a bit like cinq.