EuroLife: Day 20

We first arrived in Jena under a clear blue sky, the sun wreaking a welcome havoc on our confused serotonin cycles. Dazed and sweating we ordered cappuccinos in the Jena train station. Most cafes here don't have drip -- i.e. American -- coffee. I sweated a lot that day, dragging three suitcases and wearing my winter coat. (I wore the coat to make a little extra room in the suitcases, an extreme measure I quickly regretted.) Together my suitcases weighed more than a hundred pounds. They stacked and they rolled, so they were manageable on flat surfaces. Loading the suitcases onto crowded trains full of Germans, each of them no doubt assuming that we, being Americans, people of a consumerist culture, had simply over-packed for a vacation; or carrying the suitcases up and down stairs as we rushed to change trains; or loading them on and off elevators; or moving them down the narrow aisle of a train car while other passengers tried to move in the opposite direction; or lifting them over our heads to place them on a flimsy luggage rack, a precarious position from which they were sure to fall on some poor German's head -- well, all these tasks proved somewhat more difficult than simply maneuvering the suitcases along the polished floor of an airport terminal. So I sweated a lot, and not just from the exertion and the heat. I -- or rather we -- felt like a spectacle. We spoke only in whispers, half-consciously fearing the English language would only draw more attention to us. (It does, by the way. People often stare at us when we speak English on the streets.)

But it was sunny that first day. The nineteen days since then have all fallen somewhere along the spectrum between cloudy and partly cloudy, a spectrum that, as we are coming to learn, contains many degrees. It is said that the Eskimos had twenty-one words for snow. It is also said that this wonderfully illustrative factoid about the relation between language and human experience is false, a kind of urban legend of pseudo-anthropology. In either case, I think the German meteorologists should come up with at least twenty different terms to describe the different kinds of cloudy days here. First, there are the cloudy days when the sun breaks through on a rare occasion. Then there are the days when the sun does not apear, but brighter clouds mark its place in the sky. There are also those unfortunate days when twilight lingers from morning to night, and the path of the sun remains a mystery. These aren't the only kind of cloudy days, however. Some days the clouds lay thick and heavy until around five-thirty, when the sun appears for a short time before dropping below the hills. This seems to be a common weather pattern here. Mornings are always cloudy. Sometimes the sun comes out in the evening. There are also days when a low lying fog or haze only partially blocks the sun.

All of this weather would be somewhat unmanageable if weren't for the admirable love of windows so common here in Jena. The University Library, pictured in the first photo, presents an example of this affinity. The library is on our street just a few blocks from our apartment. In the background you can see the clouds. This morning, when the picture was taken, the weather was bright-cloudy. As you can see, the walls of the library are all windows! From dawn till dusk we can study by natural light. In the next picture you can see Dolores studying. The building in the background, which looks like a church, is the main building of the university.

Though it sort of ruins my dour story about the weather in Jena, honesty compels me to mention the splendid weather we had this afternoon. The sun came out, and it stayed out. Only the occasional cloud floated across the sky. Dolores and I seized the opportunity and set out for mount Jenzig. After about a two hour hike, we reached the top where beer, an excellent view, and an even more excellent apple strudel awaited us.

For the sake of full disclosure, Michael, and not Dolores, wrote this entry. I signed in as her.