My parents and I had moved from run-of-the mill Fayetteville, North Carolina to Wiesbaden, a beautiful city just askew from the beating heart of Germany. We lived in a narrow, tall duplex tucked safely away in a cul de sac along Rothenbergstraße. I remember dragging my feet in a silent protest for having to walk what couldn’t have been more than 20 feet of pavement. I didn’t care. At our old house, the car was parked in our driveway, not down the street.
It was truly remarkable in nature. A quaint, European style home with granite tile floors, pure white walls, two loft-style bedrooms, minimalist bathrooms, and a cozy kitchen – nestled together among three levels intertwined with a winding staircase. The most incredible thing was the large glass windows that accompanied every room, flooding them with fresh sunlight and a picturesque view of the sky and horizon carved by the smooth hills in the terrain. Looking back on it, even the wind itself seemed renewing when you stepped out with bare feet on the wooden-plank balconies.
At 11 years old, I never took it in. I was instead too worried of the dizzying fear I felt on the staircase. There was no carpeting that encased by feet like back home. Instead, it felt cold against my trembling toes.
Even the Deutsche – German – movers were kind to me. Smiling, one tried to teach me German numbers – Deutsche Zahlen – as he marked inventory of each of our boxes. It was a nice gesture, helping an American child confused by a new place, but the eins, zwei, and drei became jumbled in my head, and I was too shy and soft-spoken to talk to new people. I ended up learning the numbers from a stale book rather than experience from a friendly German native. Weeks went by like this. I struggled to see the opportunities of being immersed in a whole other culture, just the glaring differences from my young all-knowing perspective: Germany didn’t have a Chik fil A.
As the months went on, I slowly started to see the enjoyment of living in an off-post neighborhood. Breckenheim was small, but it contained so many treasures. When I walked around, neighbors would speak to me in German and English to help me learn. If no one was out that day, sights of bold, colorful tulip gardens or fragrant flowering trees kept me company.
The trails right by our house were perfect for walking on brisk days like these. They wove through rustling trees and farmer’s crops. If you were lucky, a hanging apple from the orchard would be just in reach. Off a hidden path, I would go and pick ripe blackberries from the bushes with my family. When I passed German people along they way, armed with my purple coat I gave my best smile and said “Hallo” or even “Guten Morgen” if I was feeling particularly bold that day.
There was something leisurely calm, something comforting and secure, about Wiesbaden that I hadn’t felt in Fayetteville. I was unknowingly being graciously charmed by Wiesbaden, despite my selfish rejection of it at first. This was place where our landlords brought us homemade gifts and fresh grown fruit. This was a place where kids invited me to the park and played ping-pong even when they spoke little English. This was a place where hospitality was constantly offered, not hoped for.
One year in Germany shaped my views today of what a new culture could bring. I was taught to be mindful, to treat outsiders like close friends, and to make the most of any change. Location isn’t what makes a place, it’s the people that reside there. Wiesbaden not only captured my heart and mind, it allured my soul and hasn’t let go in years.
— Jenaya R. Curry
Narrative Nonfiction
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