Chutes and Ladders, Back to Undergrad:

Today was my first day of class at Ruprecht-Karls-Universitaet (a.k.a. University of Heidelberg) at the Max Weber Haus, which is where all the international students are annexed until their German improves. It’s actually really great—nice building, small classes, and a very cool instructor. Monday through Friday I have class beginning at 9am, and it somehow feels impossibly early. We have a short pause (pronounced pow-sah) at 10:30—everyone else smokes a cigarette and I make a break for the nearest doppio macchiato—and finish at 12:30pm. It’s quite intense, but it’s actually nice to have the imposition of rigor and someplace I really must be each day (yesterday I signed a mandatory contract that states I will attend all classes, and if not I have to email to tell the instructor exactly why; if I’m sick more than 3 days I need a doctor’s note…or else…). Admittedly the whole being treated like adjudicated youth thing is a little claustrophobic-making—there are so many places I’d like to travel and I’ve got a passport and a brand new Deutsche Bahn card that I’m dying to use. But considering how much money I would have spent for a similar class in the U.S. that I could easily skip as often as I’d like ($3,600), I think I can tough it out and get good at German on Max Weber’s terms.

I will say, though, taking this class has me feeling like undergrad was a lifetime ago, has me feeling a little old. And today it was actually a little closer to sheer embarrassment by my age, an intense desire to conceal it; I hadn’t experienced this before in my lifetime and it sort of sucked. I expect this is a milestone of some kind. But anyway here’s the anecdote:

During class we were paired up with a partner to interview him/her—ask questions about his/her life, accumulate data, relay to class in broken German. I interviewed a very nice guy from Tunisia who is in Germany to study engineering. We talked for several minutes and covered significant ground—he apparently has a lot of pets (a number of cats, a dog, a bird, a fish) and enjoys fussball spielen and listening to haus musik. Then it occurs to me I have no idea how old this person is…between 22 and 32? Who knows. He tells me he’s 18, then asks how old I am. I sheepishly admit to being an extremely late language bloomer at the age of 24, and uneasily register the confusion and embarrassment on his face.

"You’re 24?? Eine frau! Bist du married??"

"haha, uhh. No. No I’m not."

Exceptionally long awkward silence. Even by my standards.

Can I get another pow-sah, please? I think I'll have one of those cigarettes after all.