The German Backpacker.


SION, SWITZERLAND.
Switzerland's supposed vastness frightens a foreigner, but its geography, mountains aside, is simple and the trains which traverse its cantons are strikingly effiecient - in a few hours you can cross the entire country. With an youth pass, approximately 250 dollars for two weeks, you can ride its trains indefinitely, exploring its towns, cities, valleys and countryside.

My program gave me the pass and a free weekend, so I decided to take a quick train to Geneva to catch the auto show. I stayed overnight in a small french town called "Sion." The story follows from my hostel there.
I waited at the counter for 15 minutes, then entered a frenchie dressed in all black, smelling of cigarettes, with an expression of a sad puppy dog, worried I would scold him for being late. He said something in french, then german, then english. Unlike Italian-switzerland, I immediately notice more reception, more friendliness, people are less matter of fact, not so much kind as gentle. I went to the bathroom to wipe all the yogurt I spilled in my backpack. Yogurt is cheap and convienent in Old Europe, but has a saran wrap cover, and as a result, is not the best to stuff in a bag amogst books.

I entered the 4 person hostel room, old orange blankets and bunkbeds. THe hostel was completely empty, save a few backpacker hangers on. Sunday night, in the dead middle of Swiss Winter, in a small town 3 hours southeast of Geneva. Thought to myself, is a sunday night and I don't have school tomorrow. In fact, Im three thousand away from everything I know. I felt free, but too free, the type of space-time feeling that made me miss having priorities and deadlines. I was grown up, and made a conscious decision to be so far away. What am I doing here. In this place. At this time. nostaliga took over. Back to reality, I scanned the room and there was a man scrunched overhimself snooring. Looking around 30 years old, couldn't tell if he was American or not. Appartenly, all the backpacking got the best of him and he fell asleep sitting in his bed, map and pack still on his shoulder.

It turns out his name is Herald, he is from East Berlin, Germany. and for the first time yet, I made a local friend. Story of Ticino, really, emersed in Lugano, and no significant deep convo, but meet a wandering German in the mountains... Harold is a 24 year old college student on "vacations," spending two weeks backpacking down throught Italy and Sardinia. I told him I wanted to see downtown and maybe grab a bite to eat. His stillness meant he wanted to go too.

The french receptionist with crazy black clown hair reccomended a place downtown, I expected ski-bums and swiss blonds and breweries, distilleries, what I got was an abandoned city block with one single french pizzaria. Herald and I acquiesced. Fate would bring us to more than just food.

Harold and I immediately started talking politics. His English was good and I tried to speak slowly so he could understand, often times i felt like i was going overboard, but he never gave indications except for facial expressions, though he did tell me he barely understands American Engligh but understood me quite well. but he often gave me a blank stare, the kind of stare that is ambigiuous between a. you look fucking ridiculous speaking so slowly - I understand what your saying or b. I am smiling because I don't know what you're saying - tis polite to smile.

Harold and I were both well educated young lads on a jouney, adept in political and sociological matters, and engaged with our surroundings, secure with our views, experienced in debate. Biggest difference was he was German and I was American.

He used the word "reunification" alot, often relating to the collapse of the BerlinWall. He struggled to produce vocabulary words, often pulling out one of a dozen pocket dictionaries. He was curious to a point, about the American political structure, but unsurprised at my confessions, again giving me that goofy ambiguous gaze. He understood archaic American concepts like the electoral college system. And he knew a hell of a lot more about America than I knew about Germany.

I have always wanted to tacklet Hitler with a German, but didn't know how to raise the subject. So Harold just went on talking about the division in America, especially related to Bush. It could be the language barrier but I do believe Europeans have an innocense to them about politics. The differences between the East Berlin and the West Berlin, however great, are nowhere as near as huge as the differences between West Kansas and East Harlem. These myopic sociocultural contrasts amaze europeans. And they haven't the slighest clue about how grand they are. Harold was fascinated by the "partisanship" in America. For in germany, ther are the christian democrats and the dems, slight difference really. Then he mentioned an incredible small minority of neo-nazis. There was my chance to bring up Hitler.

"some People in the US call Bush Hitler" I said.
Harold scoffed.
"that makes HItler's actions not as bad."
I asked him more bout the German conception of Hitler.
"We are ashamed of what happened, but we are tired of being labeled as the Hitler-generator country. We don't want to be remembered by this event."
Then it got really interesting...
"But I cannot, help being German. I was born here. I did not choose to be."
Harold began talking about how divided Germany was, how there was a subtle sense of shame about the country, their flag isn't as glorified, their history is debunked, the berlin wall collapsed, but its just a wall. Ideologies still burn in hearts and minds. families "don't fly german flags in their flowergardens." "If you see a guy with a germany flag on his shirt, you think it's wierd." Seeing all the swiss flags in switzerland, I can understand where he is coming from - but I found his observations so somber, so cynical, unfortunate. Could it be because he was from East Berlin. Or maybe his age. Is Germany really that confused, ashamed, lost.

We spoke about euthanasia, and eugenics, both words he had to look up to tell me about. Those were too of the most shameful acts of nazism, according to the Berliners. Harold was adament about a person's right to terminate his own life and I gently challenged that assertion, his moral stubborness, with the rhetorical quip, "what if that person is not able to make a decision." Harold put down his wine glass and gave me that gaze of his through those emo-german glasses, and mentioned the terry schiavo case. he helped me understand how poweful ameican politics were. Could I, could any of you, name one german moral issue today.

Up came Nietzche, and his "god is dead" assertion. Both Harold and I agreed it was missaplied by the German Socialists. Nietzche wan't a nazi, which led to another one of my realaizations. We both shared common conservative grounds. Whereas there was a form of German political correcntess, i.e. not allowed to appreciate romantic era poetry and art and music because it was a precursor to nazism, also in America we can not appreciate certain forms of literature because they are, well, a precursor to racism. To some, Naturally, anything from 1860-1930 in Germany was a cause of nazism. To others, anythign written by a white man in the 1940's does not include the necessary cultural obligation of the supressed black female. Harold was nostaligic for the culture, not the politics. He was a young leftist, simple in his decscription of foreign affairs, on common grounds with me on logic, different in our application of that logic. And he made such moros observations about the current situation in Berlin.

Such morose correlations between two travelers using the equivalent of a third grade vocabulary. Funny how that works.

NJO: Originally posted on the blog Feathers of Steel at liberabit.blogspot.com.