My eyes were barely open and there was a deep ache in the base of my skull, throbbing along with my sluggish heartbeat. Time had ceased to exist as something to organize events but was now only dragged on, an invisible but impenetrable barrier between me and rest and comfort. I swayed in my seat, suddenly grateful that no one was sitting next to me and that I could put my things on a seat instead of on the wet, dirty floor of the bus. I had long since finished my water and didn’t trust myself to keep food down, but my stomach clenched in hunger and my lips were cracked and dry, as were my fingertips from lack of lotion in the past 12 hours. It could’ve been more but I was quickly losing track and too tired to care. It still hasn’t hit me that we’re in Germany, on the soil where so many historical figures lived and walked and breathed and made history; all it seems to be is rain and traffic, no different than home.
I was suddenly aware that we hadn’t moved on the road in the past ten minutes, the glowing red numbers seeming to change in slow motion as the rain roared outside, flashing headlights cutting through the muddled darkness. Cars were jampacked on the road, their squealing and screeching of tires on the road ceaseless against my pounding headache, like tides on the shore. (TENSE CHANGE) My shoes are soaked through; each time I move my toes there’s a sickening squishing sound and my pants, jacket, and shirt are all soaked through from running in the rain to the bus. For some reason, AC is still blasting, chilling me to the bone but I don’t want to move and bring on a fresh wave of cold and wetness.
Eventually, someone is talking and it wakes me up; I untangle my limbs and stand, shivering from the cold, and gingerly hoist my backpack over my shoulder, its wetness pressing into my back and making me cringe. After retrieving my luggage, we doggedly follow Mr. Pugh through the streets of what must be Leipzig. Locals stride through the streets like they own the place, which I suppose they do, their footsteps quick and decisive, sharply contrasting with my dragging feet and slow pace. Advertisements swim in and out of focus, smiling faces and German words glowing from the corners of my vision and I feel the texture of the pavement change several times underfoot from the concrete sidewalk to the crosswalks to cobblestones; I almost slip and fall several times but somehow catch myself each time.
I’m dimly aware of walking into a brightly lit hotel lobby and that suddenly I’m surrounded by people again on all sides and there’s talking, quiet and subdued but still there; movement flurries through the crowd and I feel like a rock caught in a stream. Pair by pair, we approach the front desk, receive our room keys and flock to the elevators. The front desk’s words hit my ears and then drop off into ambient quiet; I nod along until she’s finished and then haul myself into the elevator.
Fumbling with the card, I swipe it through the slot several times before realizing it’s facing the wrong way. I hear my roommate coming up behind me and offering to help but I refrain from talking because my mood is rapidly souring and I don’t want to say anything I’ll regret. With a final agitated swipe, the door clicks open and I stumble through it, my fingers scrambling along the wall for a light switch like a drunk spider. Several switches present themselves to me and I flick them back and forth listlessly before my roommate inserts her card into a slot in the wall that activates the lights and makes the room seem to burst with light. I swear, very loudly, as I cover my eyes and turn off half of the lights. Haggardly, I shove my suitcase and backpack into a corner next to a bed and dig my phone out of my pocket, along with its charger, and plug it into the wall before tearing into my backpack in search of my pajamas. Upon finding them, I announce that I’m going to shower and duck into the bathroom.
The relief of hot water on my skin awakens me from my stupor and I just stand there for a few minutes, letting myself enjoy the luxury of hot, running water before using the body wash and shampoo, the sweet, crisp smell of mint filling my nostrils.
When I’m done, I tug on my pajamas and look at myself in the mirror. Dull skin and drooping eyes and cracked lips greet me and I take a step back, appalled. Germany was not being kind to me so far.
Memory 2: Free time around the hotel
My phone is starting to warm up in my hand because of all the pictures I’m taking. Germany’s graffiti game is strong, and despite most of the words being in German, I still love looking at the artful letters, bursting with color, on a bland concrete wall. The sky is cloudy and rain whispers through the air, forming minuscule dots on my clothing. Apparently, we are in the center of Leipzig, where tons of musicians and priests and scholars once studied and wrote and left their name in history. Now, it’s just a bunch of restaurants and cafes and souvenir shops; kind of depressing, actually.
It amazes me how two buildings, completely different from each other in every way, shape, and form other than location, can coexist on the same street- there’s a face of a concrete and metal and glass apartment complex directly across the road from an archaic stone and gold gilded wall with arched windows and calligraphic German words inscribed in the stone. Statues are everywhere, their descriptions and explanations in German; rain glistens and drips off them, forming a thin, reflective sheen over everything, giving the world a glossy coat that makes it seem slightly surreal. We learn about a famous playwright who crafted a story about a philosopher who sought the meaning of life, was lead on by Satan into a bar, and got into a huge fight before Satan froze time and whisked them both away; there are two statues to remember this scene, one of Satan reaching out to freeze time, another hand on the philosopher’s arm, and the other a trio of drunkards lunging at the other pair.
We visit a statue of Bach, where we take a group picture before filtering into the nearby church where he’s buried. The church is beautiful, with a tall ceiling supported by graceful wooden beams. Stained glass windows form the walls on the left and right, depicting scenes from the Bible as well as portraits of famous composers, including Bach. Despite the lack of sunshine outside, colors are still thrown across the walls and floor and pews from the windows, giving the whole place a kaleidoscopic feel. The pews are smooth, polished wood in perfect rows, leading to the front, where there’s a huge slab of metal in the ground engraved with Bach’s full name in the regal font, decorated with fresh flowers of gold and scarlet. I can scarcely believe that Johann Sebastian Bach, a musical legend who had written countless pieces that had been performed countless times, in countless different ways, who had shaped the history of music and composing and ideas across the globe, was lying a mere five feet away, in his third burial place. A massive organ looms on the back wall, its metal pipes so tall they almost touch the ceiling; perhaps Bach himself had touched those keys, pressed those pedals, hundreds of years ago.
Sunlight burns my eyes for a few minutes when we exit the placid dimness of the church into the present day. It’s raining harder now and the cobblestones are slick, begging to topple someone. A cacophony of sounds attack me: a car honking, conversation in German and English all around, rain hissing through the air, street musicians trying to outdo each other, and hurried footsteps, all in stark contrast from the tranquility of the church. But still, the buildings, the language, and the culture are the same, inside and out, past and present.
Memory 3: concert in Leipzig
The German conductor finishes his final song with his wind ensemble and turns to face the audience; he’s greeted with thunderous applause that echoes in the ancient church. He speaks for a few minutes in German that reverberates off the walls, making the language sound like nothing but noise as we shuffle to the sides of the stage, anxious to get started and over with.
Noisily, the German orchestra leaves their seats and we fill them up again to more applause. The sound and bright lights double up and make me feel rather lightheaded as I sit down. Murals and stained glass depictions of Jesus staring down at us, cold and judgemental in my eyes. As I sweep the sea of Germans in the seats in front of us, watching our every move, ready to listen to every note, I can’t help but allow some nerves to creep in. Once we’re settled, the German conductor starts speaking again and I guess he’s introducing us since he keeps flailing a hand back in our direction. Our orchestra is getting restless, slightly put off by the fact that we can’t understand a single word of what he’s saying, and it’s a relief when he’s done and our conductor steps up and we finally begin.
From the first note, I can tell that everything we play, every single note, whether in tune or not, long or short, sharp or flat, will be amplified. The pitches start to build on each other, becoming slightly muddled and I can tell everyone else feels it too because we begin to play each note shorter than written, making everything staccato or even half as short as written. We had felt this during rehearsal, but of course, none of us had bothered to change until now, when the scrutinizing eyes and ears of strangers were focused on us.
Within half a minute, the adjustment is made and each note stands alone, representing its own addition to the harmony and chords to create a clean melody that carries itself up to the ceiling and between the walls, filling their air with pure music, sound. And it sounds grand, it sounds powerful, majestic, impressive. Our conductor is experimenting, trying to mimic the German conductor’s grand gestures; he looks comical to us, his face red with effort. We half ignore him and play the piece the way we know we should, without the superfluous movements.
We blow through the rest of the pieces, the resonance of the piece and the splendor of the last note and applause greeting us at the end of each one. There are a few moments that are extra special, like the end of the fermata in the finale of the Reformation Symphony, where our conductor waits for the echo of the entire orchestra’s sound to fade away for ten whole seconds, where everyone in the church is holding their breath, as well as when the sudden drops in dynamic that our conductor throws into West Side Story, forcing everyone in the audience to lean forward to hear the quiet notes that come after our conductor’s hand drops.
At last, the German wind ensemble takes their seats on stage as well, joining us and forming a semicircle around us. The German conductor turns to the audience and makes more grand gestures, his voice bouncing off the walls for a few more minutes while we sit, restless to play and finish.
He finishes and then turns to us amid applause, catching the eye of every single player within a few seconds. We can feel the energy radiating off of him, the gusto, the desire to create music and when he raises his hands, all our instruments rise in unison. The first note punches clear through the air and its phrase, carried by the winds and brass, is met with the strings’ response that slices through the air just as well. With fifty more wind players, our sound fills up the entire church, spilling out into the street too, transcending the walls and roof. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that the Germans are enthralled, their eyes all watching and wide. I can barely hear my own sound above everyone else’s, but I know that even if I’m not playing in tune, I’m adding to the sound, the melody, the effect that hopefully, everyone here would take a piece of with home.
下面的照片是同行的家长拍的照片，在facebook上组了一个group，让大家把拍的照片放上去：
Memory 4: Walking around Berlin
Our tour guide is wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt and jeans and a beat-up backpack over his shoulder. He has a short brown and gray beard, despite having a face that looks like it can’t be more than thirty-five. His English has the slightest traces of an accent that turns the “w” into a ‘v” and “the” into a “z.”
He first leads us to a Holocaust memorial, one of the many the post-war Germans built. This one is rather small but it is the location of the first concentration camp, with hundreds of tiles, each inscribed with the name of a location of another camp or names of those who died there. There’s a pond with a triangle in its center, the shape of the badges that the Jews had to sew onto their uniforms. The water is placid and there’s a fresh bunch of flowers lying on top of the triangle, its vibrant colors jarring against the dismal gray of the rest of the area.
Our guide explains that the charioteer is the goddess of victory, Nike and that during the first world war, the Portuguese stole the entire structure and hid it in a building; later in the war, the Germans stole it back. He also describes where the Berlin Wall once stood, cutting through the city of Berlin only a few hundred meters from where we are currently standing. Surrounding us are also the international embassies, their colorful flags waving in the strong breeze. As we’re walking past, a few limos pull in and we slow down, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous, but security surrounds the area and blocks off the view with a wall of black.
We follow him through the city as he points out something every few minutes; almost everything seems to be historically significant in some way or another. The buildings are diverse, their architecture and design spanning the ideas of hundreds of years, separated by wide roads with bustling traffic and sidewalks thriving with pedestrians. On street level, the majority of the windows are either filled with mannequins donned in colorful, somewhat strange clothing or giving us a look into a restaurant.
The guide points out a memorial of Checkpoint Charlie, where there’s a small box office in the middle of the road, splitting it in two. There’s a sign stating that one is crossing into Soviet territory in several languages, as well as an American soldier standing at its base. A portrait of an American soldier stands there too, the size of half a tennis court; he’s young and smiling very, very faintly. Further down the road, there’s a portrait of a Russian/Soviet soldier with the same expression and dimension as the American one.
My friend and I meet several dogs along the way to our final destination, the Holocaust Memorial, which is comprised of dozens, perhaps one or two hundred gray rectangles standing on the hills, each of a different height so that when we stand at a higher elevation, it looks level. Our guide explains the designer of the memorial used a graveyard as inspiration and purposely built it on hills and used different heights so that it would create the impression of being level and simple at first, but once we entered, the walls would turn out to be much taller than us and become a labyrinth, casting long shadows everywhere. This was similar to war: at first, it seems simple and far off, but once one’s involved, it becomes confusing and scary. We then set off into the labyrinth and find that he’s right: the walls soon loom over us and we need to be mindful of which turns we make, which steps we take and in which direction.
When I decide I’ve had enough depression for the day I retrace my steps and leave, meeting up with others in front of the buses. Later on the bus, there are tales of how some people were robbed or scammed or both, usually met with horror from the parents and sympathy from other students. Me, on the other hand, felt that it was the victim’s fault: they had been traveling alone, hadn’t asked for help, hadn’t resisted. Did that make me apathetic, emotionless?
下面的是她眼中的柏林：
曾经的皇宫：
犹太人大屠杀纪念：
在柏林的酒店。她喜欢临窗的床
在柏林机场给我们买的巨大的巧克力bar。
柏林去苏黎士的飞机上。她说，美极了。
Memory 5: Concert in Berlin
This time, we have a much larger audience including a representative from the American embassy, who makes a speech about combining German musical culture and American musical students to create a brilliant experience (or something). There’s also a German high school choir with their own conductor as well, although he isn’t quite as overly flamboyant as the first.
As soon as the choir starts singing everything shuts up. Their voices cascade over each other, former layers and layers of harmony that transcend music and are purely a euphoric audio experience. There aren’t individual notes or words, it’s just pure, beautiful sound. Their faces are tranquil, their bodies are swaying; they’ve become one with the sound pouring out of their mouths.
When the song is over, the applause sounds raucous, harsh, compared to the sound that had just filled their air; the white and pale green and gold color scheme of the concert hall adds to the impression that this building is meant only for the music of prime musicians.
Finally, we play, and we feel the pressure of dozens, perhaps a few hundred pairs of eyes, anxious to hear something as beautiful as what the voices of the choir just gave them. Our conductors feel the pressure too, I can see a certain desperate fierceness in their eyes: don’t make us look bad. And we get it. Completely. Because as soon as he raises his arms for us to get us ready, all eyes are trained upwards at him. When his hand drops for the first note, it rings out, proud and clear, and we slay the rest of the concert.
But it isn’t until the very end when we start playing Berlin’s anthem, written by its own musical prodigy, that it really hits home that we’ve done a good job. As soon as the first phase begins, the first few notes, the first few chords, the audience recognizes the song and starts clapping and singing along. Even the choir joins in too, their voices rising above ours as if they’d practice just for this. You can hear the pride, the joy in their voices, of carrying such a heritage, born in a land with so much history. In the final refrain, everyone in the audience stands and the energy level in the building surge to a new peak, spiraling into raw patriotism, joy.
And I feel it surge in my chest, too.
回来以后，她说想在大学之后搬去柏林。
我说，how about you finish college first
后来我又补充了一句，how about you finish high school first
她说她非常喜欢柏林，因为那个城市是历史和现代的绝妙的结合。干净，狗狗不用牵狗绳，在德国看到了德国牧羊犬，用德文问主人是否可以摸一下她的狗，在柏林购物中心让她的头发卷了，坐在柏林酒店房间的窗前，就看着窗外，在曾经是皇室外面看到了美丽的天鹅，令人悲伤的犹太大屠杀纪念，特地安排在山下，从山上看，都是一样的高低，但是一旦走入其中，那么就深深地埋在战争之中，没有办法出来，身体上走不出来，心里上更是走不出来。我督促她写下她的记忆，因为很多时候，那充满心中的情绪，你以为你会一直记住，实际上都会随着时间的消逝而慢慢地腐蚀而去。文字让我们互相记住。而回忆是一笔太珍贵的财富。
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