So there I was; standing on the wrong side of a locked door. My
first solo trip abroad and, after having barely arrived in the country, my misfortunes
had already begun. I had two options; to sit on the outside step for a few
hours till my host returned at midnight or to seek help from an unknown
passer-by. Both of which would cause a certain amount of cringing and painful
embarrassment.
Little did I
realise that this was just the start of my misadventures on foreign land. If it
hadn’t been for the fact that I had to spend time in France and Germany for my
languages degree I would have given up long before I did.
British stick-in-the-mud
There are those kind of
people that love travelling. Off they gaily set alone for months on end,
revelling in living life from a backpack, experiencing different foods and
customs and exploring pastures new.
And then there is
me. Now give me some credit at least. It’s not as if I can’t be away from home.
After all, I eagerly flew the nest to start life at University. And it’s not as
if I haven’t tried travelling. It’s just that the travel bug never caught me.
It seems that I can only be at my happiest when rooted firmly in English soil.
“England?!” I hear you cry. ”What’s
so great about that?” Well, I quite agree. I am no big lover of rain or
overcrowded roads or a high cost of living. I am, however, apparently only
content when immersed in what I know. Where I don’t walk around feeling
apologetic for being a foreigner. Where my family and friends are not separated
by water. And where, as clichéd as it sounds, I can drink a proper cup of
English tea (milk, one sugar please). As my husband once aptly put it; I like
what I know and I know what I like.
Maybe I am not
the only unadventurous adventurer out there. Perhaps there are others who need to
know they are on home ground to be content. And there is, of course, the
possibility that people’s travels are not as exotic or perfect as they would
have you believe. Returning to University from my year abroad, my fellow
course-mates regaled me with stories of the fantastic times they had had.
Stories, which, as I later discovered, glossed over the less than happy
moments.
University travels
Still there is no
getting away from the fact that travelling and I just do not mix. It’s ironic really, considering I have such a
love for languages. Although, as I embarked upon my University degree, I was
unaware of my aversion to living abroad. The idea of spending a whole year in
foreign parts certainly sounded daunting but I assumed that by the time I
entered the third year I would be ready for such an experience. As it turned
out, my foreign travel began even earlier than expected. With the advice of the
University lecturers, that it was best to spend as much time as possible in the
countries of our chosen languages, echoing in my ears, I found myself on my way
to Germany at the end of my first year.
Aachen (Germany) - July
I was due to stay with a
teacher, a friend of a friend of my father’s, and help out at her school for
the duration of my trip, a mere two weeks. I was easing myself in gently to
living abroad and after all, what could go wrong in two weeks?
On my first evening in Aachen, Silke
invited me to join her at her weekly choir practice. Since I am pretty much
tone deaf (my childhood violin teacher called me cloth ears on a regular
basis), I decided I better decline. However, as it was a lovely July evening, I
accompanied Silke on her walk there. Arriving back at her block of flats, I let
myself in the main communal door. I then inserted the second key into her flat
door. Nothing happened. No matter which way I turned the key, however much I yanked
the handle up and down and round, the door showed not even the slightest intent
of opening. And it was thus that I could be found staring at a locked door
wondering what on earth to do.
The wrong side of a locked door
I sat down on the bottom step of the communal
stairs and took in a few deep breaths whilst considering my options. I could
seek help from another resident or I could wait until Silke arrived home at
eleven pm. I didn’t really fancy waiting on this concrete step for two hours.
Plus, if I embarrassed myself in front a neighbour, it was quite likely I would
never see them again whereas I had to spend the next two weeks with Silke.
Decision made.
Silke’s flat was on the
ground floor of a small block with four storeys and only one flat on each. I
tentatively crept up the stairs to the first floor and knocked on the door.
"I'm in the bath!” came the voice of a middle-aged woman. “If it’s…, can you…
If it’s…, can you…”
I had an urge to giggle. Obviously there
was only a limited number of people who could be knocking on her door since you
needed a key to gain access through the main door. Saying nothing, I continued
up the stairs to the second floor and knocked once again.
“Hallo?” came a timid
voice.
“I need help!” I replied
sounding much more dramatic then I had intended. The door flew open to reveal a Turkish lady.
“I’m really sorry to disturb you,” I said.
“I’m staying with the lady downstairs. I can’t open her door. I have the key (I
waved it at her) but I can’t get in.”
The woman gave me a strange look but took the key and trotted downstairs with me following meekly. She inserted
the key in to Silke’s door, opened it without difficulty and then, without saying a word, shot back
upstairs.
Oh the embarrassment! I told myself there must clearly be a knack to
opening the door to which I was not privy. I hastened inside and shut the door
firmly behind me, trying to leave the humiliation outside. At any rate, I was
very pleased to now be on the much more comfortable side of the door. I
snuggled on the sofa for an hour in front of the television before getting an
early night in preparation for the early school start the following morning.
To my great relief, I didn't meet the Turkish lady again during my stay. I
never mentioned the incident to Silke and it became apparent that
she was not on close speaking terms with her neighbours. My secret (and dignity) were safe.