The way the baker wrapped our danish this morning reminded me of having tea in Germany, our breads and pastries folded into the same sort of waxy, printed paper bags. M and I sat in the garden of his extended host family, sampling two kinds of strawberry jams and raving appropriately for each approving grandmother. It was our fourth day with the family, and I'd reached the limit of my understanding of the language within the first half hour of the beginning of our stay. The conversation was like the droning of bees in the heat, but the trees created shade that I was used to, filtered in familiar patterns through hickory and maple and oak leaves. I dozed under their knowing smiles, shifted into alertness now and then by M's chattering sentiments, strange language passing over a tongue I considered myself intimately familiar with.
I'd had enough of my ignorance by then, craved conversation, started fights with M before bed just to animate him in English. When we left I was relieved, but I missed them more each train we boarded going further and further south. I miss them now, the hospitality of strangers.
I would like to tell Gehret someday the words she taught me. I would like to be so kind.
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