hopscotch

By Katherine Lyon

The international terminal of the Frankfurt Airport was sun-lit and interminable. Across from my arrival gate, I spotted a Japanese restaurant and wondered whether German sushi tasted any different than the sushi I loved back in the United States.

The author, upon arrival at her host's home in Germany

Barely armed with three years of high school German and the wits of a jet-lagged sixteen-year-old, I tried to listen for recognizable sounds amid the words I heard floating all around me. Finding myself in a foreign country for the first time in my young life, I felt that I had stepped off the plane and into The World. I observed the names of the distant departure cities posted at the gates surrounding mine. A few hours ago, Frankfurt, too, had been one of these faraway places. Now I was actually here.

But where was Ingrid? I had expected her – or someone from her family – to be at the gate, waiting for me. I saw no one, so I waited.

Ingrid was my third cousin, once removed. I had met her before, when she had traveled to the U.S. to visit my family, but my memory of her was dim. It was my grandmother and Ingrid, really, who brought me here to Frankfurt. My grandmother had visited Germany long ago, between the First and Second World Wars, to get to know the branch of her family that had remained there when her grandparents immigrated to upstate New York. During my grandmother’s visit, she and Ingrid began what would become a lifelong friendship. Ingrid now had a granddaughter my age, and part of the purpose in my coming to Germany was to continue that friendship into the next generation.

At that moment however, I saw no friendly face. An hour dragged on, and then some. I was really worrying. In my fear and confusion I could feel tears forming. Finally, I could wait no longer and followed the signs down to the baggage claim. I craved something familiar, and at least my own luggage would be there.

As I stepped through the security gate, I saw a middle-aged woman with straight, sandy hair who must be Beate, I thought – Ingrid’s daughter – along with Beate’s own teenage daughter and son, Meike and Simon, and a bouquet of yellow flowers. Beate’s smooth hair framed a face that was drawn with concern.

Ingrid and her niece

It was then I learned that they couldn’t meet me at my gate. Even before the attacks of September 11, 2001, international flights were subject to heightened security. I had only ever flown alone on domestic flights, where friends or family were there to meet me at my arrival gate. Worrying why I didn’t appear among the other passengers as they streamed into the baggage claim, Beate called Ingrid, who, in turn, had called my mother in the U.S. This only heightened Beate’s and Ingrid’s worry when they heard that I should be on the flight.

I believe Beate was more relieved even than I was, when I finally showed up in the baggage claim. She hugged me and exclaimed in a mixture of German and English, asking why I hadn’t come through sooner. Her daughter Meike handed me the yellow bouquet as we at last, shyly, made our introductions. And thus I entered Germany, late, tired and nearly in tears.

The situation swiftly improved, however. Beate, Meike, and Simon drove me to Karlsruhe, a city in the southwestern state of Baden-Württemburg. The three of them lived in a house in Durlach-Aue, a suburb of Karlsruhe. Ingrid lived nearby in her own apartment. The ride was quiet. I was embarrassed by my mistake in lingering at the terminal. I was relieved, though, to have finally met up with this, my German family, and to be in their care as we navigated the Autobahn. I gazed out the window, fascinated by the unusual road signs and curious as the green countryside swept by.

When we pulled into their house in Durlach, Beate helped me to get settled in what was to be my room. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was late afternoon. I navigated the steep stairs, and there was Ingrid at the bottom. A spry, small woman in her seventies, quick and active, with short silver hair, Ingrid hugged me fiercely and, in perfect, if slightly accented English, exclaimed, “We were so worried about you!”

We went over again the details of the afternoon and my mistake in lingering. “We were so worried!” she repeated.

At last Ingrid laughed out loud, out of pure relief and beginning to see the humor in the situation. We had a light supper together: Ingrid, Beate, Meike, Simon, and me. It was the beginning of many good meals with them during my visit.

Preparing to kayak the Danube River

I settled somewhat into the daily rhythm of Beate’s household, but I also spent much of my time with Ingrid, who was retired and had more time at her disposal. With her, I explored the Black Forest, lent a hand in her glorious garden, poured over photographs of her many travels, visited her sister in Stuttgart, toured Heidelberg, crossed the Bodensee by ferry into Switzerland for a day.

Everywhere I went those few summer weeks was beautiful, lush and green. In our ramblings, Ingrid and I talked of history, culture, politics, our family, mostly in a mixture of German and English, though heavily weighted toward English. Ingrid had long been a student of the United States and had many opinions and observations about my own country’s history and culture. During this time, I began to become a student of Germany.

Now, more than a decade later, I continue to be a student of Germany: to work on the language, to take interest in its culture and politics, its history. And, of course, I want to continue the relationship with my German family. I have gone back several times since my first visit. It is not always easy to pursue this interest in Germany, as well as to live my particular version of the modern American life, with its pressures and demands.

Why do I attempt it? Always the answer seems to be found in the time I spent in Karlsruhe. That morning in the summer of 1997, I walked off the plane and into The World. In the short weeks spent with Ingrid and her family, Germany ceased to be a distant, exotic place. I began to love and regard it as the familiar home of some of my own family, and as an essential piece of my history and identity.

Katherine Lyon

Katherine Lyon
New York, NY
Kate Lyon studied English at Scripps College in Claremont, California before going on to law school to become a practicing Rechtsanwältin (lawyer). She makes her home in New York City.