I was on the train on the way to school when we crossed over a river. I happened to be looking out the window and upon doing a double take I realized that I had indeed seen a man standing, with his hands on his hips, on the top of a buoy in the middle of the river. He was dressed in black pants and a white button down shirt. Of course, it was 8 in the morning, and sunny, so my brain was already hazy, but I knew it probably wouldn't have made much sense to me even if it was mid afternoon and cloudy. Was this a form of German pre-workday meditation, perhaps? Was this his preferred way to get to work? Floating downstream to the office building? Whatever it was, it was too much heavy thinking for the crack of dawn and I promptly returned to snoozing.
Later that day, I went back to the city to my sailing lesson. On the way from the Hauptbahnhof (the main station) I have to pass the Atlantic Hotel, which, judging by its proximity to the lake and external appearance, is quite classy- too classy for a poor exchange student, like myself. Anyways, I was walking up to it when I saw two stretch limos waiting outside, with a photographer. I started calculating my chances of getting into a German tabloid (I'd call that an accomplishment, if done within the first week in the country) if I were to cross the street, lay low until famous person A and B emerged from the hotel, and quickly hop into the background of the pictures. However, thanks to a helpful year in AP Calc, I figured I wouldn't have enough time to complete Operation Tabloid within the five minutes I had to get to the sailing club. Next time. So I continued on my way and proceeded to my lesson.
It was about 7:30 in the evening, close to the point where the lake merged into a second lake, when it happened: THE FLOATING MAN ARRIVED! Yes, there he was! I was in the middle of pulling the front sail taut when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the floating man from 12 hours earlier. I understandably grew extremely excited, promptly dropped the rope, and turned to wave. But something was wrong...there was a pigeon sitting on him. Surely he wasn't that deep in his meditation... even a Buddhist monk would realize that a bird was relieving itself on him in the middle of his meditation, no? And then came a rather depressing moment when, upon closer inspection, I realized that the man was actually...wooden. Booorrringgg. A real let down. I mean, a real man floating on a buoy is much more entertaining than a wooden man floating on a buoy, at least in my book. I'll try to get a pic during my next lesson to show you all.
I digress. Now, I get to the main point of this post, for which it is named. After this disappointing encounter with the wooden man, we continued sailing. Now, to explain the lake on which I sail. In the middle of Hamburg there are two lakes that I know about; there may definitely be more, but with my limited knowledge of public transportation I tend to stick to the same areas in a valiant effort not to get lost. Nevertheless, the lake I sail on is connected by a little waterway, crossed by a bridge, to another lake, where I eat lunch. Both lakes are small, but my lake is extremely crowded, as there are at least three sailing clubs and numerous rowing clubs. Whilst sailing, it is common to hear the boom-boom-boom of the drummer counting time for rowing teams. Also, there are at least 30 sailing boats out at all times. My professor, Moma, informed me that motorboats are illegal on the lake, and it is used only for sailing practice and regattas and rowers.
My sailing prof, Moma.So Moma, Samuel (my fellow Mexican sailing student) and I are sailing on our merry way when the smell of German sausages starts to permeate the lake. Like I said, it's not that big, and with sailing AND rowing clubs on all sides, we were quickly overtaken by the smell of grilling. By this time it's 8:15, we haven't had dinner, and our resolve to sail is quickly diminishing. It's soon completely destroyed when Moma tells Samuel and me that our own club is having a cook out. We run through a few more drills and head back to the Pieper Club, where we find that Moma was not lying. Moma buys Samuel and I a round of Becks and Samuel buys us a round of sausages. So there I sit on a dock in the middle of Hamburg, drinking a girly beer (I prefer Becks Ice, beer mixed with lemonade) and eating a sausage, and I think to myself, this is really a German moment, you know? It doesn't get much more German than beer and sausage.
This post is getting a tad long and I want to sleep, but I'll push through so I can tell you about last night: my first glimpse of the real German culture. And when I say that, I mean the Reeperbahn. What is the Reeperbahn, you ask? Well, well, well. The Reeperbahn is a rather famous road of clubs, bars, strip clubs, and whorehouses. After going out for drinks with some of my friends from my language class, I and my Spanish friends split off to take a look at this oh-so-famous road. We started by taking the metro. I knew we were on the right line when I looked around and saw drunks stumbling around, girls dressed in miniskirts and swinging bottles, and heard raucous laughter. In the train, a girl next to me very kindly offered me a swig of her Jagermeister. I politely refused, don't worry, Mom. In the car behind us, I heard what I can best describe as a frat party, although I couldn't quite see what was going on due to the amount of people in the car. We exited the metro into craziness; on a Saturday night, the Reeperbahn's at its peak.
I got my first glimpse of a.) a grandma pole dancing (see background of picture)
b.) a man dressed in a bunny suit
and c.) a whorehouse
My Spanish friends weren't as impressed as I was at seeing the prostitutes, but for a girl from a town as small as Skaneateles, that was quite the moment.
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