Good Evening Herr Goethe!
I arrived in Weimar yesterday afternoon to a gray sky and more snow than I have experienced in decades – except for my three days in Truckee, California a few years back. But before I report on the present time I want to replay my last moments at home. All obsessive tasks completed. Windows secured. Lights checked. No water running. Computer shut down. Thermostat lowered. Travel gear counted and lined up by the door.
As I brushed my teeth, a few minutes before the shuttle was supposed to arrive, I allowed myself to dwell on disaster, better to let these thoughts out, than to ban them – they do come back, you know. What if a crown broke, right now? What if I were confronted with a gaping hole? What would I do? Don’t laugh, Herr Goethe, we are quite panicked over flaws in appearance nowadays, well, I suppose your contemporaries were too, but you had different standards, and I am certain that a missing front tooth would not have gained disaster status.
I brushed away my negative thoughts; the dentist had, just last week, promised me a few good years. And then it happened. The sensation of a soft, light, fairly large object in my mouth. Not a tooth, I realized immediately. There was a moment of total breakdown of connection between the incident and my comprehension of it. Did the tip of my tongue fall off? When I found out that the head of my toothbrush had broken apart, I laughed. Herr Goethe, I haven’t had time to google brushing of teeth in the eighteen and nineteen hundreds, but even if you brushed ,(which I doubt) you have no idea what the head of a rotating, vibrating electric toothbrush feels like when it flies off the handle in the confined space of your mouth.
The rest of the day did go as anticipated, though in less dramatic fashion than I had geared up for. No personal pat-down. No scanning of my body. The food on the airplane was prepared without much care. Seats seem to have lost even more leg room. Three incidents are worth noting. As you probably know by now, I pay excessive attention to the way things affect me. It is a luxury of self-indulgence I feel entitled to at my age.
The first incident I call “Dyson Lift-Off.” The restrooms at the San Francisco Airport feature electric hand dryers. Dyson Airblades. They are powerful; the way I imagine a wind tunnel at the NASA Space Center would be. Like a wind storm over the desert, they blow the skin into waves. I wondered if my hands would get blown off to fly solo to Germany. I know I’m overstating. It’s the story teller in me. Or, maybe, it is an obsession with severed body parts.
The second incident is a tongue-in-cheek comparison of skills. A family of four sat to my right in the middle row of seats. A girl, maybe five, a mother, a boy around three, a father. At one point the girl took a photograph of her mother with a blackberry. The boy was watching a film on a tablet computer. The father was engrossed in some kind of game on an iphone. (I think it was an iphone). The children and parents took turns occupying themselves and each other with various aspects of their electronic devices. They looked like a happy family; I judge this by the way both parents provided for their children. A variety of food and drink, books, coloring books, crayons from a backpack. Hugs and smiles, reassurances, a shoulder to rest against. Occasional conversations between the adults. Ten hours spent in harmony. I admired them. By the time we left the plane I had knitted four fifth of a sock. Egotistical as I can be, I admired myself too. And though I thought of myself as quite productive, having almost achieved my goal of knitting a cross-Atlantic sock(“ I would have finished it if I hadn’t written in my journal or worked on a crossword puzzle or read Faust,” she defended herself eagerly) I couldn’t help comparing the values of our accomplishments. The family won. You can buy a pair of socks for a dollar. Half a pair is worthless.
The third incident – and this one really made me question myself – had to do with my neighbor, sitting in the window seat. A nice young man. I immediately addressed him when he sat down, told him not to hesitate to get up if he wanted or needed to. I occupied the aisle seat, nobody sat between us. We made small talk, off and on, throughout the ten hour flight. So what is the problem? The problem is that I remember the color and texture of the bottom of his tennis shoes. Dark gray grid with yellow markings. And why is this a problem, you ask? Because it shows my involuntary (I hope) conformity with contemporary anxieties. I noticed the young man’s shoe sole when he rested one foot on his knee, because my brain fed me the expression “shoe bomber.” The young man wore a black turban. I am neither Bill O’Reilly, the Fox News host whom I dislike, nor am I Juan Williams, the journalist, who surprised me with his attitude. Besides, I know that Sikh doesn’t mean Muslim, though that should not make a difference either. I am disappointed in myself, but understand how trends and opinions infiltrate our lives, sometimes without our permission. That’s one reason I travel; I want knowledge. I want to be compassionate. I want to learn more about acceptance. I want balance. No, Mephisto, I don’t want instant wisdom: I am satisfied, for now, with awareness.
Having said all that, I am running out of time to talk about Weimar. Let me get ready to explore a little before I comment. I was “in town” briefly after my arrival yesterday, just to shop for coffee, breakfast pastry, juice, paper towels and paper plates. I might have set back the greening of Germany with my American short cuts to running a temporary household, so, German brothers and sisters, forgive me for the paper products, I promise to recycle, reuse, and reconsider. During my brief encounter with Weimar commerce I tried not to look at Weimar’s soul, tried not to see the statue of you, Herr Goethe and Herr Schiller, tried not to pay attention to anything but food and drink and the icy, slippery, condition of the road beneath my feet. I want a pristine experience when the sun rises today.
Also, Good Evening Herr Goethe might be a misnomer for my communications, considering that they appear in America at a different time of day. This letter was written at three in the morning Weimar time (jet lag made me do it), which makes it an early morning communiqué for here, but puts it in the evening slot at home. Too confusing to change.
Good Evening Herr Goethe,
Ihre Gisela
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