January 2016 It’s 20 degrees Fahrenheit. White engulfs the streets as snowflakes dance across the sky. The ambiance of the city square is stagnant, like a picture captured in a postcard. The poignant and rustic town hall building adds a backdrop to the square, covered in snow, looking like a scene out of a fairy tale.
I walk along the cobbled paths of the winding streets, so different from the standard paved sidewalks I’m used to walking on. My destination is the Speicherstadt, an old area composed of purely 19th century industrial buildings. Many of these buildings have been turned into museums, shops, and cafes. I walk into the one of the old buildings, and walk to a spice museum. The stairs are austere and sloping. Small bulbs hang along the staircase, providing the only source of light as I briskly walk up the stairs. I reach the third floor and walk into the entrance of the museum. The cold from outside is more intense inside, as these industrial buildings don’t provide much heat. My feet are throbbing as the cold stabs at my shoes.
“Hallo! Wie geht’s?” the affable lady at the counter says.
“Sehr gut, vielen Dank.” I reply with a smile on my face.
I hand her my ticket and she in turn gives me a booklet about the museum, one in English and the other in German.
“For you to practice your German with,” she says with a wink and leaves me to explore.
I stride into the museum, wandering and looking at different spices for sale and their corresponding information. This didn’t seem like a regular museum, but I’m open to new different experiences. Besides myself, a man in his mid-forties is pacing and taking inventory with a brown clipboard in one hand and pen tucked behind his ear.
There are so many spices, all different colors, all displayed differently. Some are in jars, some are in small packs, some are out in the open with a little warning sign “Bitte nicht anfassen!” (Please don’t touch!). I survey the spices, contemplating what to buy for my family and friends back home. I wander towards where the man is taking inventory, and there’s a display of salts from around the world. I see salt from the Himalayas, black Pakistani salt, rose salt, “fire” salt, and typical sea salt. Staring deeply at the salts, I hear an “excuse me,” as the man looks at me and says hi. I respond, and he asks me where I’m from. I give him my spiel: “I’m an American who came to Germany to find a school and maybe herself.” His interest is piqued and he curiously asks me where my family is from. I tell him Pakistan and his eyes light up. He tells me he used to live in Pakistan years and years ago, and we start speaking in Urdu.
People are beautiful. People are random. People are unpredictable. They come up to you in unfathomable circumstances and talk to you. They engage. They share stories. This man was from Afghanistan. He lived in Pakistan for a couple of years before his family moved to Germany more than twenty years ago. He speaks Urdu with an accent, but so do I. We converse in a mix of Urdu, English, and German. He tells me about his dreams to show the world what he has to offer. I tell him of my dreams to help the world. We reminisce over our countries. I have mittens on and he asks why I still have them on. I tell him it’s beyond cold in Germany. He smiles and says he’ll be right back. He brings back a tray with two steaming cups of green tea, sugar cubes, and small biscuits. We both smile and sit down at the cash register counter. The conversation continues as the tea’s steam floats over our heads and materializes into the air. I’m instantly warmed up. Is it the tea? Is it genuine conversation? Is it the feeling of not being alone when you thought you were? It doesn’t matter.
He has a brother who lives in Germany as well. His son wants to go to Afghanistan to visit his motherland. We talk about Afghan-Pakistani politics. He tells me it’s stupid to disagree with someone just because they’re from a different place than you are. I agree wholeheartedly, and we then have a passionate conversation of nationalism and culture. We talk about hospitality; I point to his gesture of bringing tea for me without even any hesitation, and he responds that this is our culture.
“Our culture,” he says, “our cultures emphasize hospitality because we realize the worth of people.”
He asks about my family, about my fears, about my goals. I tell him. I tell him of my wish to see as much of the world as I can, to see people, to experience them. I tell him I’m experiencing him right now. He laughs. We sip our tea, staring out at the window, watching the snowflakes dance by, elegantly, gracefully, sometimes sporadically. It’s been two hours. It’s 20 degrees Fahrenheit. The city is stagnant but we are effervescent, resilient, full of expression.
It was only when I arrived home and researched the Speicherstadt more did I realize that I did not even enter the museum, but just entered the museum’s gift shop.
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Good luck with your studies abroad!
There are so many elements and moments of intrigue and revelation in your writing. Keep us updated on your journeys!
I like this a lot. The words you use and how you arranged things kept me interested. I’d love to read more about your adventures of discovery.