Alpine highs

Culture shock seems to be a series of ups and downs. Or maybe the ups and downs correspond to how much sunshine we're getting. I'm not sure. But I'm definitely on a high right now.

There are days where you rush to and from work, guzzle coffee to stay awake, work late on projects, try to cram in dinner, slave 30 minutes over handwashing the pile of dishes, try to squeeze in a workout on the elliptical machine, and crash into bed, stressed out as you try to stop thinking about all you have to do tomorrow so you can finally fall asleep. Just like back home.

Then there are days when you notice the sunshine as you walk to work, remember to look at the half-timbered old buildings on either side of the street, and manage to get up early enough to buy a freshly baked loaf of bread from the bakery across the street, and you say to yourself, "I can't believe I live here."

Last night, A and I took a walk around sunset through the fields surrounding the village. For someone who grew up in the American suburbs, this is still a novelty. The crops are full, high and thick now. There are fields and fields of this kind of tuber that I don't yet recognize, but judging from the heads peering up from the soil, it's quite large. I think it's sort of like a turnip. There are also sections of corn that have now grown higher than a tall man, and the tassels on the ears are already spilling out of the leaves. Some kind of oat or grain has gone past golden to plain old brown and the tractors last night were using their headlights to cut it evenly into rows, ready to be bound into bales.

In fact, we dodged a number of tractors as we briskly traversed the paved or gravel tractor trails between the sweet-smelling fields. In the distance we could hear cowbells from a little family (about six) of cows on a small dairy by the road. The streaks of cloud on the horizon caught fire after the sun dropped below the horizon of rolling fields and trees, and a hot air balloon drifted overhead before it began to lower toward the valley on the other side of the Rhein. We could hear the roar of the fire as it pumped hot air into the balloon, safely slowing its descent.

It was almost dark as we returned home, passing a pick-up truck parked by a small area that was thick with clover. An old man in dirty, work-worn jeans, a faded flannel shirt and baseball cap was scooping some just-cut clover into crates and loading them into his truck. He greeted us with "Gruetzi" and we greeted him as well. I noticed him watching us, and I thought he might be amenable to a chat if we stopped, so I turned back to watch him at work.

An old-fashioned scythe lay in the cut clover, and I pointed it out to A. The man came right over and began talking to us in German. We acknowledged that we didn't speak German, but that didn't deter him. He said a few sentences, and then said, "Bibel Schule," asking us if we were from the school. We nodded, saying, "Ja, ja." People usually assume if you can't speak German that you're from the school, but they don't mind, as it has a very good reputation in the community.

He said he was cutting the clover for his horses - he explained this by miming a person riding a horse and holding reins. He tried to tell us where his horses were, and we got the part at least about the kindergarten, which is actually right behind our apartment. He told us some other things, but we didn't really understand. We didn't mind, though. It's always a good feeling when someone from the village actually wants to talk to you, and isn't put off by the language barrier.

After a few minutes, he indicated that we should wait right there. We agreed, and he hurried to his truck, rummaged around in the cab and came back with a jar. He pointed to the symbol of a honeybee on the lid, and pointed in a certain direction, talking, we think, about where the honey comes from. Either he makes the honey, or he got it from someone local who has a honey farm. Afterward, he gave us the jar. Surprised, we profusely thanked him with the one word we do know: Danke!

We introduced ourselves and got his name. We really hope that we can see him again.

It's moments like these, and walks like that, which give a city girl like me a couple days of an Alpine high. Walking to work this morning in the cool sunshine with a freshly baked loaf of bread from the bakery tucked under my arm, I thought to myself, "I can't believe I live here."