In several hours this long awaited and long lasting European adventure will be over. From the screen of my laptop computer weeks ago to the experience of actually being here, in the thick of things, now, the continent has become something special to me, more closely tied to things like the Roma Termini train station or other means of connecting the city with the rest of the world.
The rest of the world. It becomes a focus only because I rest reasonably far away from general civilization. When you actively choose to visit a graveyard, you also inactively choose not to visit anywhere else of historical significance during that time.
But in the interest of sharing a series of some of the most fascinating stops while I've traveled through Europe the past week, I'll explain why stopping by the Protestant Cemetery in Roma was worth being alienated briefly from the rest of the world.
Protestant Cemetery, Roma
I don't know whether or not my decision to come to Roma was more based off of a livelong fascination with the city (which I can attest for the existence of these many many years), or a more recent fascination with the life of John Keats.
Would it be fair to say that my reasoning is a bit of both? Going to the burial place of Keats at the Protestant Cemetery near Piramide Metro Station in Roma, I was calmed and pleased by the presence of so many others at the plot where stood "all that was mortal" of the love of my life.
I spent a few hours in the place. And while it may sound silly, it became one of the highlights of my entire journey around Roma and around Europe. There was just something so ideal about being in a quiet, funerary spot.
Prater, Wien
Alternatively, the Prater theme park (of sorts) in Wien, Austria, is not morbid of quiet however it has become quite abandoned in recent years due to a lack of enthusiasm by the general public. The Prater was one of the first amusement parks (if not the first) in the world and includes attractions like a ferris wheel and various rollercoasters, gift shops and food stands.
It wasn't the most fancy or architecturally stunning location in the city, but there was something about the history of it and the casual existence of it just within the city confines that felt special somehow. It's a theme park in a city. It's quiet and slightly abandoned. But it still has a lot of heart. I could feel that heart just walking around.
Dachau, München
Despite the distempered responses I've received since writing about my experience in Dachau - including those which did exactly what I explained was most disheartening about being "half-Jewish," as I call myself (and will continue to do regardless of dissenting opinions) - I would still like to list the experience of traveling to the concentration camp at Dachau among my most valuable experiences in Europe. And actually, as one of my most valuable experiences of all time.
To anyone who questions my authenticity or the connection I have with what occurred on the ground of that place so many years ago, I say that maybe it actually is none of your business. Maybe I shouldn't have shared it. Because, in truth, what I experienced and what anyone experiences when visiting Dachau, is a connection between themselves and whatever higher power strikes them as concerned, regardless of denomination and regardless of personal history.
In response to those who believe I have no right to align myself with my Jewish ancestors because I was brought up with different beliefs, let me just say that I still take issue with this argument. Though I appreciate the input and definitely understand why some might take offense, I still believe that everyone is the harbinger of their own cultural alignments, as aided by their upbringing and personal convictions and no one in the world except oneself has any right to dictate otherwise.
I am half-Jewish in the cultural but not religious sense. And there are plenty of non-practicing Jews who would likely align themselves similarly. Just because I don't follow the religion doesn't mean I deserve to lose the ability to explain the aspects of myself that aren't correctly described by a geographical location. My family were Eastern European nomads, but what characterized them within their culture was their Jewish community. It's not just a word denoting religion, but also the customs that surround that religion and don't necessarily need to be passed on through the religion. Still, I appreciate the alternative viewpoint and hope for peaceful coexistence. But I digress.
Den Lille Havfrue
To take away a bit of the stain of the more dramatic aspects of this post, I'll return to the very first part of my trip which was to the beautiful non-denominational statue of Den Lille Havfrue (The Little Mermaid) in København.
As someone who has long appreciated animated films and the fairy tales that are their source material, seeing this statue in person and remembering the history of the story and the man behind it (Hans Christian Andersen), made it one of the most important moments of my European voyage. It wasn't a personal or familial connection like Dachau, nor was it a quiet contemplative one like the Protestant Cemetery or the Prater. But it was a place to reflect on an object that is of personal significance to me - that has brought value and direction to my life for years. I guess you could say the same of some of the other places I visited, but in a strange way a Little Mermaid statue seems to be a good symbol of what I want out of life. The peace of storytelling and a quiet place to partake in it.
Thank you, Europe
Even while writing this blog I've been through some ups and downs. And Europe itself showed me some of those, depending on the hour and the day and the location. But overall the experience was irreplaceable and invaluable. I could never have wished for a better introduction to Denmark, Germany, Austria and Italy. And I will have quite a bit of trouble leaving tomorrow.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Kind of feeling European
There's a lot of Italia that I'll never get to see. Or, at the very least, there's a lot of Roma that will never reach my eyes save for in photos.
It's hard traveling to a new place. You make an itinerary full of sites to visit, perhaps (like me) you even try and find local eateries and cafés, shopping and market streets or individual boutiques to pop into along the way and back. This kind of meticulousness requires discipline and patience: the discipline of finding potential experiences to partake in, and the patience to avoid getting frustrated if things don't work out exactly as planned.
I tried not to go overboard with touristy plans while on my grand European adventure. I wanted to avoid places that would become elaborate traps to traveling salesmen and purveyors of precious replicas of the leaning tower of Pisa. In the end it was worth the effort.
My experience has made it so just turning a corner in Roma is like stepping into a fairytale. Like I explained to my friend Diana, this place makes me think I'm in the middle of EPCOT at Disney World. It's too idyllic, too quaint, providing too many subtle luxuries to explore. And by that I don't mean name brand or odd rip-off prices on handbags. I just mean the luxury of a calm life among the artificially planted trees and the erratic drivers of this, the Eternal City.
Together with Diana - and a bit on my own yesterday - I found myself enjoying the experience not necessarily of exploring the more frequented locales in Roma, but of looking past the most well-known places and exchanging them for new, humbler experiences.
Yesterday, while walking through the town toward the Piazza del Popolo, I found a man creating street art on a curb along the road. I marveled at his little creations. That chance encounter, more than any other experience of a similar magnitude, was something to love about Roma. It was a clear cut example of coming to a city and seeing culture play out casually. This was how a real Roman (granted, an eccentric one) lives. Not catering to English-speaking mouths all the time, but feeling content with potential miscommunication, instead, he tried to make conversation with me and share his art.
It was this experience, along with the rest of my evening which was spent wandering the streets near the Piazza di Spagna, that helped me to figure out what it is I love most about traveling.
And it's not the fascinating sites that I've been noticing on TV and in movies since I was five.
What I enjoy most about traveling is allowing myself to become a part of the place I'm in, inextricable from its residents. I want them to look at me and automatically assume I'm a local, or at least not brush me off as a tourist. It hasn't been easy - but as many moments as there are when you feel completely ill at ease in a new city or country, there will also be moments to remind you that you do have the capacity to belong.
It can be hard to reach this state of integration, especially when you're surrounded by people who've gotten used to the omnipresence of foreigners traveling to their shores and occupying the seats on their metro lines. They're frustrated which makes me frustrated. But we don't have to be frustrated at at all.
It can be extra hard when you decide to go to places like the Vatican. With all the tourists, pan handlers, swindlers and homeless or disabled people begging along the street, you almost lose that sense of being in a real place full of history and culture rather than an imagined one.
The best part of being in Roma, and being all over Europe in fact, has been that moment of realization at every single stop on my journey when I've reminded myself that yes, I am in fact in a foreign country and I can feel comfortable and knowledgeable here. In just a short amount of time I've turned a vague notion of this city into something tangible. I've learned how to use the Metro and how to navigate through the twisty streets.
As someone who goes to the Disney parks a lot at home, I can easily find myself confusing glossy fiction to reality. I mean, when a person in a giant mouse costume is part of your weekly entertainment schedule, you almost become lost in the idea of romanticized realities.
But the truth of Italia, and Europe so far, is that it has the capacity for that romanticism, but without the kitschy reminders that it is fiction. Because it isn't fiction. It's flesh and blood. It's alive and well. It may be a foreign country and feel like a rollercoaster ride, but it's nowhere near that kind of novelty attraction. Because it's unpredictable and simply real.
I truly believe it's the moments away from the expected, wandering the streets of an unknown city at night or simply exploring aimlessly with the hope of finding something or someone worth getting excited over, that make traveling worthwhile. And wherever I've been (at least in the last week), I've taken the initiative to make those aimless wanderings happen.
So I don't really mind if I stand on the periphery of the major tourist attractions. Even if I don't get to say I've been inside [insert landmark here], I can do one better. I've felt what it's like to really be a part of [insert city here (i.e., København, München, Wien and Roma)]. And that's all I really wanted anyway.
It's hard traveling to a new place. You make an itinerary full of sites to visit, perhaps (like me) you even try and find local eateries and cafés, shopping and market streets or individual boutiques to pop into along the way and back. This kind of meticulousness requires discipline and patience: the discipline of finding potential experiences to partake in, and the patience to avoid getting frustrated if things don't work out exactly as planned.
I tried not to go overboard with touristy plans while on my grand European adventure. I wanted to avoid places that would become elaborate traps to traveling salesmen and purveyors of precious replicas of the leaning tower of Pisa. In the end it was worth the effort.
My experience has made it so just turning a corner in Roma is like stepping into a fairytale. Like I explained to my friend Diana, this place makes me think I'm in the middle of EPCOT at Disney World. It's too idyllic, too quaint, providing too many subtle luxuries to explore. And by that I don't mean name brand or odd rip-off prices on handbags. I just mean the luxury of a calm life among the artificially planted trees and the erratic drivers of this, the Eternal City.
Together with Diana - and a bit on my own yesterday - I found myself enjoying the experience not necessarily of exploring the more frequented locales in Roma, but of looking past the most well-known places and exchanging them for new, humbler experiences.
Yesterday, while walking through the town toward the Piazza del Popolo, I found a man creating street art on a curb along the road. I marveled at his little creations. That chance encounter, more than any other experience of a similar magnitude, was something to love about Roma. It was a clear cut example of coming to a city and seeing culture play out casually. This was how a real Roman (granted, an eccentric one) lives. Not catering to English-speaking mouths all the time, but feeling content with potential miscommunication, instead, he tried to make conversation with me and share his art.
It was this experience, along with the rest of my evening which was spent wandering the streets near the Piazza di Spagna, that helped me to figure out what it is I love most about traveling.
And it's not the fascinating sites that I've been noticing on TV and in movies since I was five.
What I enjoy most about traveling is allowing myself to become a part of the place I'm in, inextricable from its residents. I want them to look at me and automatically assume I'm a local, or at least not brush me off as a tourist. It hasn't been easy - but as many moments as there are when you feel completely ill at ease in a new city or country, there will also be moments to remind you that you do have the capacity to belong.
It can be hard to reach this state of integration, especially when you're surrounded by people who've gotten used to the omnipresence of foreigners traveling to their shores and occupying the seats on their metro lines. They're frustrated which makes me frustrated. But we don't have to be frustrated at at all.
It can be extra hard when you decide to go to places like the Vatican. With all the tourists, pan handlers, swindlers and homeless or disabled people begging along the street, you almost lose that sense of being in a real place full of history and culture rather than an imagined one.
The best part of being in Roma, and being all over Europe in fact, has been that moment of realization at every single stop on my journey when I've reminded myself that yes, I am in fact in a foreign country and I can feel comfortable and knowledgeable here. In just a short amount of time I've turned a vague notion of this city into something tangible. I've learned how to use the Metro and how to navigate through the twisty streets.
As someone who goes to the Disney parks a lot at home, I can easily find myself confusing glossy fiction to reality. I mean, when a person in a giant mouse costume is part of your weekly entertainment schedule, you almost become lost in the idea of romanticized realities.
But the truth of Italia, and Europe so far, is that it has the capacity for that romanticism, but without the kitschy reminders that it is fiction. Because it isn't fiction. It's flesh and blood. It's alive and well. It may be a foreign country and feel like a rollercoaster ride, but it's nowhere near that kind of novelty attraction. Because it's unpredictable and simply real.
I truly believe it's the moments away from the expected, wandering the streets of an unknown city at night or simply exploring aimlessly with the hope of finding something or someone worth getting excited over, that make traveling worthwhile. And wherever I've been (at least in the last week), I've taken the initiative to make those aimless wanderings happen.
So I don't really mind if I stand on the periphery of the major tourist attractions. Even if I don't get to say I've been inside [insert landmark here], I can do one better. I've felt what it's like to really be a part of [insert city here (i.e., København, München, Wien and Roma)]. And that's all I really wanted anyway.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Ich liebe dich, Wien
Today was all kinds of scuzzy turned to all kinds of beautiful. I woke up at least once an hour on my sleeper train last night. Having a compartment to myself, I was comforted in knowing my belongings and myself would be safe, at least from the terrors of other passengers. But certainly not from the vengeance of a moving train on an uneven track.
When it jolted, I jolted. When it swerved, I swerved. When it stopped at a station, my eyes would open briefly and beg to close again before the five hour nap was through.
It certainly wasn't enough time to feel refreshed, or even moderately less tired. At 3:45 am, I developed a migraine headache. By the time I woke to my alarm which I'd set the night before, it was 4:55. There was no turning back now.
The train stopped in Vienna at 5:45 am. I was forced out quicker than a speeding bullet (Superman, get it?). And being hesitant to hasten toward my hotel at such an early hour, I resolved that I'd walk slowly and experience the city at dawn.
Little did I know that slowly meant turning a 25 minute walk into an hour-long trek. With suitcase, purse and bag of food goodies in hands, I trudged through the open air on Landstraße. As I searched for a street on which to turn on, I made several wrong choices and ended up backtracking every step of the way.
But it was all worth it to see this beautiful city. Vienna is the birthplace of many Classical composers, and even just by walking through museums and looking at souvenir shops, you can tell this city has never given up on its culturally enriched past.
Walking through the city center is as pristine as an Orange County suburb. I make this comparison because when I am home, I rarely see any graffiti or ill-treatment of my city. And if I do, it is rectified moments later.
This is how the entire area of Vienna that I traveled through felt.
The first few hours were spent eating apfelstrudel at the Café Museum with my friend Dominik. While we've been penpals for years, this was our first opportunity meeting since he is from Austria and I am from the United States. It was a great opportunity not only for renewed friendship, but for the chance I had of seeing the city of Vienna with a local.
From then on we traversed the wide spaces of the Viennese town (city) center. We walked through and past Austrian government buildings, saw a palace, went on a ferris wheel, enjoyed traditional foods and went to a museum dedicated to the music of the city.
It was all very ideal.
I can't even begin to express my amazement with this city. I still subscribe to the belief that London is my raison d'être, the only city in the world where it absolutely 100 percent makes sense for me to live the rest of my life. But after just a short time in Vienna, I feel a deep respect for this city as well. For it's wealth of history, for its monuments and grandness, for its cleanliness, for its comfort.
While I don't know that I could live here, I do know I could visit again.
A day was just not enough. It started off so early that I assumed the time would be plentiful. But along each step of the way, I discovered the hours were growing less and less. My time with Vienna was becoming scarcer.
In a day I'll be moving onto Rome. Ordinarily I'd be thrilled at the prospect. Actually, I am quite thrilled. Rome is a city that I've longed to experience for years. Italy is a place I've wondered about for much of my life. And finally, by tomorrow afternoon, I will be right there.
But I am sorry to leave behind Vienna. To say goodbye to my friend Dom who went through all the trouble of showing me around the city today. To wave farewell to all the pretty buildings and the Opera House. I haven't even been here for 24 hours and I feel attached.
That being said, it's time to move on. And I'm excited. But I will be back to this city someday. I can just feel it.
When it jolted, I jolted. When it swerved, I swerved. When it stopped at a station, my eyes would open briefly and beg to close again before the five hour nap was through.
It certainly wasn't enough time to feel refreshed, or even moderately less tired. At 3:45 am, I developed a migraine headache. By the time I woke to my alarm which I'd set the night before, it was 4:55. There was no turning back now.
The train stopped in Vienna at 5:45 am. I was forced out quicker than a speeding bullet (Superman, get it?). And being hesitant to hasten toward my hotel at such an early hour, I resolved that I'd walk slowly and experience the city at dawn.
Little did I know that slowly meant turning a 25 minute walk into an hour-long trek. With suitcase, purse and bag of food goodies in hands, I trudged through the open air on Landstraße. As I searched for a street on which to turn on, I made several wrong choices and ended up backtracking every step of the way.
But it was all worth it to see this beautiful city. Vienna is the birthplace of many Classical composers, and even just by walking through museums and looking at souvenir shops, you can tell this city has never given up on its culturally enriched past.
Walking through the city center is as pristine as an Orange County suburb. I make this comparison because when I am home, I rarely see any graffiti or ill-treatment of my city. And if I do, it is rectified moments later.
This is how the entire area of Vienna that I traveled through felt.
The first few hours were spent eating apfelstrudel at the Café Museum with my friend Dominik. While we've been penpals for years, this was our first opportunity meeting since he is from Austria and I am from the United States. It was a great opportunity not only for renewed friendship, but for the chance I had of seeing the city of Vienna with a local.
From then on we traversed the wide spaces of the Viennese town (city) center. We walked through and past Austrian government buildings, saw a palace, went on a ferris wheel, enjoyed traditional foods and went to a museum dedicated to the music of the city.
It was all very ideal.
I can't even begin to express my amazement with this city. I still subscribe to the belief that London is my raison d'être, the only city in the world where it absolutely 100 percent makes sense for me to live the rest of my life. But after just a short time in Vienna, I feel a deep respect for this city as well. For it's wealth of history, for its monuments and grandness, for its cleanliness, for its comfort.
While I don't know that I could live here, I do know I could visit again.
A day was just not enough. It started off so early that I assumed the time would be plentiful. But along each step of the way, I discovered the hours were growing less and less. My time with Vienna was becoming scarcer.
In a day I'll be moving onto Rome. Ordinarily I'd be thrilled at the prospect. Actually, I am quite thrilled. Rome is a city that I've longed to experience for years. Italy is a place I've wondered about for much of my life. And finally, by tomorrow afternoon, I will be right there.
But I am sorry to leave behind Vienna. To say goodbye to my friend Dom who went through all the trouble of showing me around the city today. To wave farewell to all the pretty buildings and the Opera House. I haven't even been here for 24 hours and I feel attached.
That being said, it's time to move on. And I'm excited. But I will be back to this city someday. I can just feel it.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Arbeit nicht macht frei
It's past 8:30 pm and I still have a few hours of waiting around before I leave on my train to Wien (Vienna). I'm sitting in my hotel, the same spot I was in yesterday, using the internet instead of buying a coffee at a Starbucks nearby and using theirs. I can tell that the man at reception is unnerved that I've been here for over three hours. He has good reason to be. For all he knows, I'm staying here all night without paying for a room. But alas, that is not true.
In an effort to economize, and to experience something new and strange, I've booked myself into an overnight train from München to Wien. It leaves at 11:40 pm and arrives at a brisk and way-too-early 5:45 am in Austria. I don't know that I'm mentally or physically prepared. But there's a bed on a moving platform that has my name on it, and I'll hopefully be sleeping on it very shortly.
With the prospect of a new city tomorrow, I am having a bit of trouble reflecting on what's already felt like quite a bit of time in Germany. I may only have arrived here just over 24 hours ago, but I feel as if I know the city (as a confused and wandering tourist, anyway).
In less than two days I've bought a dirndl, climbed to the top of the tower of Peterskirche (St. Peter's Church) near Marienplatz. I've gotten lost multiple times in various parts of the city, I've figured out the public transportation in the city, I've had an apfelschorle in a stein at Hofbrauhaus. It's been a touristy, yet personally fulfilling adventure.
Then today I went to Dachau.
And I think that's what I'm going to focus on for the rest of this blog, because not focusing on it wouldn't capture the significance of going to a place like the KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau.
I'm half Jewish. And (too) many times, I've been told that I'm not Jewish at all. I'm not born of a Jewish mother, but rather a Jewish father. And therefore, according to whatever traditional or historical or religious precedent, I'm not Jewish.
That's fine, I wasn't raised Jewish. But regardless of distinction even by the greater community, I identify as a Jew. At six years old when my friends would ask me what my ethnicity was - because, let's face it, you can't tell by looking at me - I would answer "I'm half Jewish and half Japanese."
Back then, I wouldn't get weird looks. No one knew what any ethnicities existed so they didn't protest when I called "Jewish" an ethnicity. But 14 years later, when asked the same question I answer more along these lines:
"I'm half Japanese and half Eastern European Jew."
And now I get the weird looks.
Because, first of all, I don't look like I'm white. Maybe I do look like a halfie (what I call people who are of mixed race - it's a term of endearment coming from me, not like "mudblood" or anything), but that doesn't mean I avoid incredulity from others when I admit to being part European.
Secondly, I don't have any particularly Jewish traits or indications of being of the culture. I don't practice the faith, so I don't appear to be Jewish.
And thirdly, is "Jewish" really an ethnicity anyway? Isn't it a religion? People who are "Jewish" by ethnicity are Israelis? Or something.
Yeah, this was never clarified for me as a child or as a grown-up.
Therefore, I am Jewish. And I will forever call myself Jewish. When my future children ask me what their ethnicities are, I will say "you are a quarter Japanese and a quarter Jewish and [insert whatever my male counterpart is here]."
Now that I've explained the issue of my classification of ethnic backgrounds, I will go on to explain Dachau. The experience, the ramifications, et al.
I had resolved to go to the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau practically the moment after I decided I was going to visiting München. You may find this strange. Dachau isn't a tourist attraction by any ordinary standards. You might find it in the tour books, but you won't see it among the top attractions. Maybe they wouldn't even call it an attraction.
And it's not. It's a memorial site to a horrific place. The kind of thing you want to forget, not be reminded of when you purchase The Idiot's Guide to Munich.
I got there around 12 pm. By then, there were already several groups of German secondary school students walking around with their teachers and making the silent grounds into a school playground. I avoided them as best I could.
The memorial site itself is tasteful. Things are kept in their original condition or restored to recreate the environment that might have been present at the Dachau of the 1930s and '40s.
And while it doesn't exactly make you feel like you're there, experiencing the terror of the Nazis upon the Jewish people, it does make you recognize the magnitude of what happened at this sort of place.
The site consists of various chapels and memorial sites, a recreation of prisoner barracks, a museum within the mechanical building, a hallway filled with prison and torture cells and two crematoriums.
Crematoriums.
I don't think the gravity of this experience really occurred to me until I read the word "Crematorium" on the map guide.
It was cold today. I walked around on the unpaved roads, my heels digging into the gravel. My boots made loud sounds. I felt as though I sounded like a prison guard. More than once, I scared myself with the sound. It made the place seem more real.
I read an information plaque that explained the roll call that took place at Dachau. Prisoners would be taken out of their barracks regularly and counted one-by-one to make sure that none had escaped. If one did, they would be left out in extreme weather wearing only their work uniforms until someone might confess to the disappearance of whomever they had lost track of.
The biting cold dug through my coat and I tried to place myself even more in the shoes of these prisoners. How could I, in two layers, not handle the November chill, but they, wearing only thin cotton, face the same temperatures with strength despite lost pride and lost comfort?
Walking through the rest of the camp, I learned bits of information that I'd never considered about the Holocaust. One item which stunned me the most was the concept of standing cells. As a form of torture, prisoners might be kept in prison cells split into four 2 1/2 ft x 2 1/2 ft squares. It wasn't enough space to sit or lie down, just stand.
It seems a small bit of the worst the Nazis did during the war, but in the same way I read Eating Animals a couple of years ago and saw the page in the book that depicted the amount of space a chicken in a factory farm had to move around (it was literally less than an A4 or 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper), the idea of confined space gave me just enough of a realization to be disgusted and absolutely defeated.
You'd think the whole experience would have defeated me. Certainly the crematorium. And the gas chamber. And the area where the medical buildings were - which were also murder grounds for those who were slowly dying.
But it wasn't.
Many times while walking through Dachau, I thought about myself. And before you deem me selfish, let me clarify.
My great-grandmother on my paternal grandfather's side came to Ellis Island from Austria-Hungary in the early 1900s. None of her immediate family members came with her. She made a life in New York City, but left many behind. A similar situation happened with my great-grandfather on my paternal grandfather's side, though he came from Poland.
These two people, my great-grandparents, came from large families. But after the war, nothing was heard of them ever again.
And to think, just a spur of the moment decision to not get on those boats heading westward, and my grandfather, my father and I would no longer be here.
But that wasn't that struck me the most. The real punch in the gut when visiting Holocaust memorials or seeing movies about what happened to the Jewish people in the 1940s is the thought of what my life would have been like had the year 1941 actually been the year 2002 or 2005 or any year I've been alive.
My mom once told me a story about going to see Schindler's List in theaters with my grandmother. Since the movie came out in 1993, I must've been just under or over a year old at the time of its release.
According to my mother, my grandma was overcome with tears at several points during the film. She reportedly called out my name ("Rachel") during scenes where families were being separated, children from their parents, etc.
I certainly don't see myself in those films. Being a few generations detached from the horrific experiences of the Jews in World War II, I somehow feel I'm exempt.
But then I look at the men in these movies and I immediately think of my dad. And thinking of my dad in that context does make me think of myself. And my sister. And my paternal grandparents. And my cousins and aunt and uncles. And my niece.
Because we all have Jewish blood. And by the determination of the Nazis, we'd all have gone to concentration camps just like our distant relatives before us.
It's these thoughts, and these alone, that made Dachau too much to bear.
As the tears welled up, I made it a point to keep them away. I didn't want to feel vulnerable or destroyed by this place. While my relatives, the ones I never met, deserve the respect of my admiration and love for them, the memory of this place warrants a more powerful reaction. Not breaking down and weeping, but going on and proving the Nazis wrong. The Jewish people are not what they might call vermin or worthless scum. We are people. And we are strong.
I say "we" because I feel so strongly that it is a "we." In the same way that the Nazis considered all people of Jewish descent to be Jewish (and therefore unworthy of life), I believe anyone of Jewish descent is Jewish and therefore worthy of some degree of respect. Respect, at the very least, to the extent of calling us Jewish if we so choose.
And I so choose. I may look more Asian than white. But I am most definitely Jewish.
I bought a mezuzah today. It was simple and of course its religious significance is partially lost on the agnostic in me. But as I walked away with my German mezuzah, I felt solidarity with my people. My people.
Tonight, I leave München. I walk away from the place where I've seen and experienced Bavarian culture. I enter a new place with a slightly different frame of mind.
But I will never leave behind my thoughts of Dachau. What sustains me is my belief that I was brought into this world not by sheer dumb luck, but because I was blessed to be here in some way.
I was blessed to be born Jewish and Japanese. I was blessed to find my own religious path. I am blessed to be in München. And I am blessed to be moving on, but always looking back.
In an effort to economize, and to experience something new and strange, I've booked myself into an overnight train from München to Wien. It leaves at 11:40 pm and arrives at a brisk and way-too-early 5:45 am in Austria. I don't know that I'm mentally or physically prepared. But there's a bed on a moving platform that has my name on it, and I'll hopefully be sleeping on it very shortly.
With the prospect of a new city tomorrow, I am having a bit of trouble reflecting on what's already felt like quite a bit of time in Germany. I may only have arrived here just over 24 hours ago, but I feel as if I know the city (as a confused and wandering tourist, anyway).
In less than two days I've bought a dirndl, climbed to the top of the tower of Peterskirche (St. Peter's Church) near Marienplatz. I've gotten lost multiple times in various parts of the city, I've figured out the public transportation in the city, I've had an apfelschorle in a stein at Hofbrauhaus. It's been a touristy, yet personally fulfilling adventure.
Then today I went to Dachau.
And I think that's what I'm going to focus on for the rest of this blog, because not focusing on it wouldn't capture the significance of going to a place like the KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau.
I'm half Jewish. And (too) many times, I've been told that I'm not Jewish at all. I'm not born of a Jewish mother, but rather a Jewish father. And therefore, according to whatever traditional or historical or religious precedent, I'm not Jewish.
That's fine, I wasn't raised Jewish. But regardless of distinction even by the greater community, I identify as a Jew. At six years old when my friends would ask me what my ethnicity was - because, let's face it, you can't tell by looking at me - I would answer "I'm half Jewish and half Japanese."
Back then, I wouldn't get weird looks. No one knew what any ethnicities existed so they didn't protest when I called "Jewish" an ethnicity. But 14 years later, when asked the same question I answer more along these lines:
"I'm half Japanese and half Eastern European Jew."
And now I get the weird looks.
Because, first of all, I don't look like I'm white. Maybe I do look like a halfie (what I call people who are of mixed race - it's a term of endearment coming from me, not like "mudblood" or anything), but that doesn't mean I avoid incredulity from others when I admit to being part European.
Secondly, I don't have any particularly Jewish traits or indications of being of the culture. I don't practice the faith, so I don't appear to be Jewish.
And thirdly, is "Jewish" really an ethnicity anyway? Isn't it a religion? People who are "Jewish" by ethnicity are Israelis? Or something.
Yeah, this was never clarified for me as a child or as a grown-up.
Therefore, I am Jewish. And I will forever call myself Jewish. When my future children ask me what their ethnicities are, I will say "you are a quarter Japanese and a quarter Jewish and [insert whatever my male counterpart is here]."
Now that I've explained the issue of my classification of ethnic backgrounds, I will go on to explain Dachau. The experience, the ramifications, et al.
I had resolved to go to the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau practically the moment after I decided I was going to visiting München. You may find this strange. Dachau isn't a tourist attraction by any ordinary standards. You might find it in the tour books, but you won't see it among the top attractions. Maybe they wouldn't even call it an attraction.
And it's not. It's a memorial site to a horrific place. The kind of thing you want to forget, not be reminded of when you purchase The Idiot's Guide to Munich.
I got there around 12 pm. By then, there were already several groups of German secondary school students walking around with their teachers and making the silent grounds into a school playground. I avoided them as best I could.
The memorial site itself is tasteful. Things are kept in their original condition or restored to recreate the environment that might have been present at the Dachau of the 1930s and '40s.
And while it doesn't exactly make you feel like you're there, experiencing the terror of the Nazis upon the Jewish people, it does make you recognize the magnitude of what happened at this sort of place.
The site consists of various chapels and memorial sites, a recreation of prisoner barracks, a museum within the mechanical building, a hallway filled with prison and torture cells and two crematoriums.
Crematoriums.
I don't think the gravity of this experience really occurred to me until I read the word "Crematorium" on the map guide.
It was cold today. I walked around on the unpaved roads, my heels digging into the gravel. My boots made loud sounds. I felt as though I sounded like a prison guard. More than once, I scared myself with the sound. It made the place seem more real.
I read an information plaque that explained the roll call that took place at Dachau. Prisoners would be taken out of their barracks regularly and counted one-by-one to make sure that none had escaped. If one did, they would be left out in extreme weather wearing only their work uniforms until someone might confess to the disappearance of whomever they had lost track of.
The biting cold dug through my coat and I tried to place myself even more in the shoes of these prisoners. How could I, in two layers, not handle the November chill, but they, wearing only thin cotton, face the same temperatures with strength despite lost pride and lost comfort?
Walking through the rest of the camp, I learned bits of information that I'd never considered about the Holocaust. One item which stunned me the most was the concept of standing cells. As a form of torture, prisoners might be kept in prison cells split into four 2 1/2 ft x 2 1/2 ft squares. It wasn't enough space to sit or lie down, just stand.
It seems a small bit of the worst the Nazis did during the war, but in the same way I read Eating Animals a couple of years ago and saw the page in the book that depicted the amount of space a chicken in a factory farm had to move around (it was literally less than an A4 or 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper), the idea of confined space gave me just enough of a realization to be disgusted and absolutely defeated.
You'd think the whole experience would have defeated me. Certainly the crematorium. And the gas chamber. And the area where the medical buildings were - which were also murder grounds for those who were slowly dying.
But it wasn't.
Many times while walking through Dachau, I thought about myself. And before you deem me selfish, let me clarify.
My great-grandmother on my paternal grandfather's side came to Ellis Island from Austria-Hungary in the early 1900s. None of her immediate family members came with her. She made a life in New York City, but left many behind. A similar situation happened with my great-grandfather on my paternal grandfather's side, though he came from Poland.
These two people, my great-grandparents, came from large families. But after the war, nothing was heard of them ever again.
And to think, just a spur of the moment decision to not get on those boats heading westward, and my grandfather, my father and I would no longer be here.
But that wasn't that struck me the most. The real punch in the gut when visiting Holocaust memorials or seeing movies about what happened to the Jewish people in the 1940s is the thought of what my life would have been like had the year 1941 actually been the year 2002 or 2005 or any year I've been alive.
My mom once told me a story about going to see Schindler's List in theaters with my grandmother. Since the movie came out in 1993, I must've been just under or over a year old at the time of its release.
According to my mother, my grandma was overcome with tears at several points during the film. She reportedly called out my name ("Rachel") during scenes where families were being separated, children from their parents, etc.
I certainly don't see myself in those films. Being a few generations detached from the horrific experiences of the Jews in World War II, I somehow feel I'm exempt.
But then I look at the men in these movies and I immediately think of my dad. And thinking of my dad in that context does make me think of myself. And my sister. And my paternal grandparents. And my cousins and aunt and uncles. And my niece.
Because we all have Jewish blood. And by the determination of the Nazis, we'd all have gone to concentration camps just like our distant relatives before us.
It's these thoughts, and these alone, that made Dachau too much to bear.
As the tears welled up, I made it a point to keep them away. I didn't want to feel vulnerable or destroyed by this place. While my relatives, the ones I never met, deserve the respect of my admiration and love for them, the memory of this place warrants a more powerful reaction. Not breaking down and weeping, but going on and proving the Nazis wrong. The Jewish people are not what they might call vermin or worthless scum. We are people. And we are strong.
I say "we" because I feel so strongly that it is a "we." In the same way that the Nazis considered all people of Jewish descent to be Jewish (and therefore unworthy of life), I believe anyone of Jewish descent is Jewish and therefore worthy of some degree of respect. Respect, at the very least, to the extent of calling us Jewish if we so choose.
And I so choose. I may look more Asian than white. But I am most definitely Jewish.
I bought a mezuzah today. It was simple and of course its religious significance is partially lost on the agnostic in me. But as I walked away with my German mezuzah, I felt solidarity with my people. My people.
Tonight, I leave München. I walk away from the place where I've seen and experienced Bavarian culture. I enter a new place with a slightly different frame of mind.
But I will never leave behind my thoughts of Dachau. What sustains me is my belief that I was brought into this world not by sheer dumb luck, but because I was blessed to be here in some way.
I was blessed to be born Jewish and Japanese. I was blessed to find my own religious path. I am blessed to be in München. And I am blessed to be moving on, but always looking back.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Contradictions and stress, happiness nonetheless
Let me set the scene for you. I'm in an ethnic neighborhood near the central station of München (Munich), Deutschland (Germany). It's past 10:30 in the evening and while it is a very seldom occurrence, I occasionally see people and cars pass the two gaping windows facing the street that make up the walls of my hotel.
There is no wi-fi in my room, which means I'm essentially confined to the public breakfast room on the bottom floor at the front of the accommodation, near the reception desk. They've just changed shifts, which means there's a new man and a new musical mix filling the room. Before it was some compilation of uninteresting avant-garde European songs. Avant-garde may be more a description of art, but it's the only thing I can think of to describe this stuff. New age, maybe? Anyway, I digress.
Now the music echoing through reception has a calmer American standard vibe. We may be in Germany, but there is no hint of nationalistic or continental pride. There is, however, pride in a good tune. A good tune like "The Way You Look Tonight."
The warm yellow light of the ceiling lamps illuminates the room, drawing in attention from the few passersby. I am sitting on my laptop and I can feel the gaze of those who avert their gaze from the streets into the lovely and quiet looking hotel.
It feels a bit counterintuitive to be in this place in this space in this city. The place being a neighborhood filled mainly with Middle Eastern immigrants. The space being the casual and cozy hotel where I've settled for the night. The city being Munich, one of cultural tradition and metropolitan success.
I spent a lot of today just wandering around and getting a feel for the city. The air was brisk, but it invited me in as I walked through the Englischer Garten from the closed Biergartens on the northern end to the Christkindlmarkt that is under construction in the Chinesischer Turm toward the south.
I hadn't planned to spend an hour in the place, but walking through the garden was like walking through a wood. Temporal space seemed to grow a bit fuzzy. It was just maze-like pathways through and past trees and ponds, lakes and rough rivers. The floor was muddy at points, cement at others, completely incomprehensible and impossible to predict.
A similar description aligns with my experience in München thus far. I got here this afternoon around 12:30. But getting off the plane was confusing in itself when there was no customs officer to question me and stamp my passport. I went to an Information booth and said my first words of German (my go-to phrase, the well-known "Sprechen sie Englisch?"). Apparently if you're traveling within the EU you don't get a stamp. I don't think I hid the disappointment on my face as well as I thought I had.
The confusion did not end however, as when I got to the S-Bahn train which I'd planned to take to the city center, I could not figure out how to use the machines to buy a 24 hour pass. This was followed by my resulting daze when I tried to figure out which train to board.
Getting to the city, however, was the most tumultuous path in the figurative Englischer Garten of my premiere day in München. The train station itself was a confusing compilation of twists and turns and random trains to random locations that weren't even listed on my train map. The exits led to streets I hadn't heard of, and even street names were elusive and hard to pin down.
It took me at least 20 minutes to find my hotel. After making at least two or three wrong turns, I finally arrived. My next goal was to make it out of my room before nightfall.
This is where the Englischer Garten comes in. Despite the great amount of confusing pathways in the wooded land, I had little trouble finding my way around. The walk was long, but it made sense.
What doesn't make sense to me yet is München itself. I only have one more day here and I wish I had more time to get to know it. That being said, when I went to dinner at the Hofbräuhaus tonight and sat at a table by myself eating käsespätzle, I realized that I just can't do this lone traveler thing for very long. A day or two will be fine, but if I were planning a week-long trip (or more) on my own, I'd go stir crazy.
Everything today has been all a jumble. But I've loved every minute of it. And I guess that's the irony of the experience. Like being alone and loving it but hating it at the same time, and like walking through a garden that is both a maze and a clear path to a definitive destination, this experience is all kinds of confusing. It's all kinds of contradiction.
But it's great.
I can't stress that enough. I am incredibly happy. And I only intend on being happy for the remainder of my time on the European mainland.
There is no wi-fi in my room, which means I'm essentially confined to the public breakfast room on the bottom floor at the front of the accommodation, near the reception desk. They've just changed shifts, which means there's a new man and a new musical mix filling the room. Before it was some compilation of uninteresting avant-garde European songs. Avant-garde may be more a description of art, but it's the only thing I can think of to describe this stuff. New age, maybe? Anyway, I digress.
Now the music echoing through reception has a calmer American standard vibe. We may be in Germany, but there is no hint of nationalistic or continental pride. There is, however, pride in a good tune. A good tune like "The Way You Look Tonight."
The warm yellow light of the ceiling lamps illuminates the room, drawing in attention from the few passersby. I am sitting on my laptop and I can feel the gaze of those who avert their gaze from the streets into the lovely and quiet looking hotel.
It feels a bit counterintuitive to be in this place in this space in this city. The place being a neighborhood filled mainly with Middle Eastern immigrants. The space being the casual and cozy hotel where I've settled for the night. The city being Munich, one of cultural tradition and metropolitan success.
I spent a lot of today just wandering around and getting a feel for the city. The air was brisk, but it invited me in as I walked through the Englischer Garten from the closed Biergartens on the northern end to the Christkindlmarkt that is under construction in the Chinesischer Turm toward the south.
I hadn't planned to spend an hour in the place, but walking through the garden was like walking through a wood. Temporal space seemed to grow a bit fuzzy. It was just maze-like pathways through and past trees and ponds, lakes and rough rivers. The floor was muddy at points, cement at others, completely incomprehensible and impossible to predict.
A similar description aligns with my experience in München thus far. I got here this afternoon around 12:30. But getting off the plane was confusing in itself when there was no customs officer to question me and stamp my passport. I went to an Information booth and said my first words of German (my go-to phrase, the well-known "Sprechen sie Englisch?"). Apparently if you're traveling within the EU you don't get a stamp. I don't think I hid the disappointment on my face as well as I thought I had.
The confusion did not end however, as when I got to the S-Bahn train which I'd planned to take to the city center, I could not figure out how to use the machines to buy a 24 hour pass. This was followed by my resulting daze when I tried to figure out which train to board.
Getting to the city, however, was the most tumultuous path in the figurative Englischer Garten of my premiere day in München. The train station itself was a confusing compilation of twists and turns and random trains to random locations that weren't even listed on my train map. The exits led to streets I hadn't heard of, and even street names were elusive and hard to pin down.
It took me at least 20 minutes to find my hotel. After making at least two or three wrong turns, I finally arrived. My next goal was to make it out of my room before nightfall.
This is where the Englischer Garten comes in. Despite the great amount of confusing pathways in the wooded land, I had little trouble finding my way around. The walk was long, but it made sense.
What doesn't make sense to me yet is München itself. I only have one more day here and I wish I had more time to get to know it. That being said, when I went to dinner at the Hofbräuhaus tonight and sat at a table by myself eating käsespätzle, I realized that I just can't do this lone traveler thing for very long. A day or two will be fine, but if I were planning a week-long trip (or more) on my own, I'd go stir crazy.
Everything today has been all a jumble. But I've loved every minute of it. And I guess that's the irony of the experience. Like being alone and loving it but hating it at the same time, and like walking through a garden that is both a maze and a clear path to a definitive destination, this experience is all kinds of confusing. It's all kinds of contradiction.
But it's great.
I can't stress that enough. I am incredibly happy. And I only intend on being happy for the remainder of my time on the European mainland.
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