Dynamic Duo: France/Germany
Naomi Spencer
Issue date: 9/25/08 Section: Features
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As a group of 18 college students and two leaders, we continue our flight over islands lit like Christmas trees and endless miles of Atlantic Ocean water. Hours later, I am awakened by “Hey look, I can see the Eiffel Tower!” floating up from one of the seats. I crane my stiff neck to see out the tiny windows on the other side of the plane and can barely make out the faint outline of that immortalized symbol of France. The plane tips its nose and descends toward Paris.
We transfer planes in Paris and fly toward Munich, Germany. The air in Munich is filled with the harsh, guttural sounds of the German language, and the landscape with tiny cars, clean streets, mullet hairstyles, and hoards of bicycles. This is no surprise—gas in Europe is the dollar equivalent of eight bucks a gallon. Once it reaches that in the States, we'll all be riding bikes too. Some already are.
Dr. and Mrs. Hamilton, our fearless leaders, take us to our youth hostel around the corner from the train station. On a rainy day, we go to Dachau concentration camp. While there, we run our hands across wooden bunk beds where emaciated bodies were stacked like cards. We walk through execution chambers where poison gasses streaming from showerheads ended the lives of human beings crowded like animals in cages; we see the nail marks on the walls. We see grass matted down from rivers of blood flowing out from human ovens.
Our train chugs away from the Bavarian region of Germany toward Salzburg, Austria. From my room in the convent turned hostel, I can see rooftops of what is known as The City of Music, the crooked, windy streets, the criss-crossed strings of laundry hung up to dry and the outdoor cafes bustling with people. Music is everywhere. Notes brought to life by violins burst out from behind closed doors, flood through hallways and spill out onto cobblestones. In Munich, new and old blend together. Salzburg, in contrast, is delightfully, romantically, seamlessly old. While there, we go on the Sound of Music Tour, see the home of Mozart, hike to the oldest preserved castle in Europe and take a day trip to Vienna where we browse the Hapsburg palace and visit the King Tut exhibit.
The conductor on the train makes rounds, and he asks to see my ticket. He rips it briskly and heads to the next car. As I look out the windows of the train, I drink in the striking beauty of Switzerland—it softens the sadness of leaving Salzburg. The mountains rising up all around are covered with frothy clouds like foam topped cappuccino. Our short, two night stay in Lucerne, Switzerland is in a hotel overlooking a river of clear, icy water that flowed down from the mountainous Alps. It is filled with swans, covered by a wooden bridge and the closest thing to a fairytale I've ever seen. While in Switzerland, we take a wobbly cable car high into the Alps.
We finally arrive in Paris, the City of Light, for what will be the last ten days of our European extravaganza. We eat hot crepes on the streets and marvel at the inordinately small portions. We see the Paris skyline during sunset from the Eiffel Tower. We observe the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, the Arch de Triumph, the Impressionist paintings in the Musee Dorsey museum. We walk through the glimmering hall of mirrors in the Palace of Versailles, the windy beaches of Normandy, the rows of white crosses marking graves of American soldiers who scaled 100 foot cliffs to free Europe, the dripping architecture of Notre Dame Cathedral and the grandeur of Napoleon's final resting place. We contemplate all the things we could have done if we had more time. It’s a whirlwind of culture, and I’ve concluded that Europe is for lovers of art and history—all others should stay in America.
As I sit on the plane heading back to Detroit, I ponder everything I’ve absorbed in three weeks. I’d like to go back to Europe someday, to Switzerland particularly. The red light of the plane blinks into the sky, sending out hues of possibility. Travel is unpredictable, frustrating, thrilling, and you cannot know where it will take you next. For now, I can only imagine.
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