| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

I have found myself shedding light on some of my darker memories. Among these recollections is my time in Regensburg, where I had received a full-ride scholarship to study German and Art History.

To say that the transition was challenging would be a gross understatement - I had enrolled as a double major with a full course load in both Art History and German literature, on top of working a job that came with my scholarship, and being a part of an international student theater group. To complicate matters even further, I was also grappling with the aftermath of a painful breakup and a debilitating eating disorder.

In the heart of the Altstadt, Regensburg's historic old town that had earned its spot on the prestigious UNESCO world heritage list for its well-preserved medieval architecture, I found myself residing in a most peculiar studio apartment. While the exterior facade of the large building oozed charm and antiquity, the interior was a stark contrast. The centerpiece of the building was a topsy-turvy central staircase crafted from a mishmash of stucco, brick, and tile. Though it was meant to be intriguing, it bore an eerie resemblance to a less-than-inviting Taco Bell, leaving me to ponder the mystery of its design.

After a mere ten steps, the staircases’ incline abruptly gave way to a downward slope, with four stairs leading into a descent before the upward trajectory resumed. There, students came and went without a sense of community, their movements reflecting the disjointed nature of the staircase.

One early morning just before the sun came up, I returned from a live music event and was greeted by a three-year-old boy wandering up and down the disorienting stairs, crying out for his mother, whom I'll refer to as Lena.

Another student and I entered the boy’s apartment, and what we found was a mess - everything imaginable: food, trash, clothes, toys, and other clutter strewn about. We also found a landline phone, oddly placed in the boy's bed as a makeshift baby monitor.

I picked up the phone and heard the sounds of a party on the other end. Speaking in German, I tried to get through to someone, but there was no response. The other student and I took turns speaking into the phone whilst trying to comfort the little boy, who was clearly scared and just needed his mommy.

After some time, we heard a frantic Lena on the other end of the line, yelling at us and demanding to know who we were and what we were doing there.

As a naive 22-year-old, I didn't think much of it at the time. The child seemed to be fine, and Lena eventually came running into the apartment. Looking back, however, it was a surreal and unsettling experience, that now as a mom myself makes me wonder about the true state of the child's welfare and Lena's questionable parenting choices.

Another time, I had returned to the communal kitchen with dish soap since we had run out. I had done a makeshift job washing up after cooking and had intended on doing a deeper clean when I returned with the soap. As I stepped into the kitchen, my eyes immediately landed on a series of bold handwritten signs adorning every cabinet in the room. To my surprise, each one seemed to be specifically aimed at me, featuring my name emblazoned in all caps and a shame-inducing message that left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I can’t remember all of them but the one that hurt most said something along the lines of, “Get out, you dirty, American swine.”

I felt awful for leaving the kitchen a mess. I felt unredeemably shamed. I felt like whichever anonymous penman made these signs must really hate me, deeply. Then, confusion… I didn’t know people there. Who did this? Did I really do something that awful?

I took the signs down, and cleaned the kitchen. Then I went upstairs to one of the few people I did know in the building, a law student, named Judith. Judith had introduced herself when I moved in, and could probably help me unravel this mystery.

When I told her what happened, she revealed that she and another woman had written them, because I had left the kitchen messy. I explained the misunderstanding that had led me to use up all the soap, but Judith remained resolute in her judgement. Apparently, my cleaning efforts had not been up to par even before the soap incident.

I asked why she didn’t confide in me rather than posting the placards, her terse reply, lacking any hint of contrition, admonished me for failing to maintain a tidy kitchen. Her sanctimonious tone still reverberates in my memory. Her expression perfectly exemplified the German term, Backpfeifengesicht, a face “in need of a punch.” When seeing her in my mind, I deliver that swift blow squarely between her two haughty eyes and banish her memory into the mist, where it belongs.

As I stood in the dimly lit hallway just outside Judith’s door, I couldn't shake the confusion that gripped me. The other woman who had helped Judith with the placard campaign of shame was Lena, the woman with the little boy. Memories of the gratitude she had shown me when I had found and cared for her son flooded my mind. She had seemed flighty, perhaps inattentive, but not cruel.

To add to my bewilderment, Lena had never even stepped foot in the communal kitchen when I was there. Her apartment boasted a kitchen of its own, one that I recalled from that early morning visit with her son as being in a state of complete disarray, with dishes piled 18 inches high and leftovers strewn across the counters and sink. Why would she care if I had made a mess?

In an attempt to confront my shame and confusion, I mustered the courage to knock on Lena's door. I explained how deeply the anonymous placards had hurt me and requested that, if she had an issue, she would tell me to my face instead of posting anonymous messages for the entire building to see. Lena seemed to understand the distress I was experiencing. However, as she closed the door, a look of confusion crossed her face, leaving me puzzled once again.

Several weeks later, I found myself in the dining hall on campus, dutifully carrying out my assigned tasks as part of my job at the university. I was responsible for distributing brochures for my department on the lunch tables before the diners arrived, and promptly cleaning them up afterwards, a level of tidiness and systemization that, upon reflection, strikes me as quintessentially German.

It was during one such day of chores that Lena called me over to her table. She apologized, explaining that her anger had caused her to create those shameful posters "because of that other thing."

"That other thing?" I asked in German, feeling as though we were speaking yet another foreign language, since I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Yes, with my son."

"What do you mean with your son?"

"You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Child services took my boy away."

I cannot say that I was particularly surprised, given that she had previously left her young son alone in her apartment while she went out partying. However, the realization that she was angry with me for reporting her to child services caught me off guard. To be fair, I didn’t know until that moment the German term "Jugendamt” (child services), and would not have known how to contact them even if I had.

I expressed my ignorance to Lena, who went on to explain that her son was now safely back at home with her. She then tried to pry into the identity of the German student who had stumbled upon her son and me, and offered his support that early morning on the vacillating staircase. I did not know his name, and wouldn’t have disclosed it to her if I had. His actions seemed honorable and justified, and as I had already experienced a taste of her vengeance myself, I didn’t want to unleash it on an innocent.

To this day, I remain unsure whether Lena's apology was genuine, or whether she had called me over in an attempt to suss out who had reported her to the Jugendamt.

I see Lena, though reckless, somewhat sympathetically; she was mother all on her own, in over her head and with very little life experience to guide her. (Don’t all moms feel that way a some point each day anyway)?

With Judith, I bore witness to a profound insecurity. Though she had never set foot in America, her contempt for Americans was palpable. She regaled me with tales of our ignorance and pontificated about the superiority of Germany, without seeing the irony in any of it.

Though I will never truly know, I can't help but suspect that I represented an opportunity for her to put a bad American in their place. As I reflect on our interactions, I fear what a person with her disposition - a person who devoted themselves to the study of law, no less - might do in the legal system. One can only hope that she didn't pursue a career in criminal justice after graduating.

The memory of being publicly shamed for leaving the kitchen in a state that fell short of Judith's exacting standards still haunts me. Am I at my core a loathsome and unclean person? Is this trait evident to those around me? Despite my efforts, I am not a tidy person by nature, but I now take great pains to ensure that at least our kitchen is always spotless. I know that my husband would never subject me to such ridicule, and for that, I am grateful.

In reflection, I sometimes wonder if I could have fared better in that situation. Although not directly linked to my swift departure from Germany, Judith’s and Lena’s shame campaign certainly contributed to my feeling of homesickness and isolation.

After confiding in my sister about my struggles with my eating disorder, I was on the next plane to San Francisco, leaving my apartment and belongings behind. A month or so later, my mom flew to Germany to collect my things. She probably didn’t realize when she went up and down those topsy-turvy Taco Bell steps for the last time, that she closed an unwritten chapter for me. Without a community around me in Regensburg, I had plunged deeper into my disorder, and with that precipitous and acutely painful fall, I was finally ready to find community at home, to reconnect with my family, my friends and myself. I was finally ready to heal.

As luck would have it, I met my husband not long after my recovery, and during a time that I should have still been in Regensburg. Blessed from the universe’s never-ending cleverness, my husband is the most fastidious person I have ever met, and he also allows space for all of me, even the messy parts.

First photo: Me with my good friend, Frieda, who visited me in Regensburg just before I decided to leave Germany. Second Photo: With my husband Rob on his sailboat the summer we met in Lake Tahoe. I visited Germany again for the first time on our honeymoon nine years after my hasty departure. Third photo: Tanja and Topher Renner, my two best friends from Regensburg -- my time there wasn't all bad! They met Rob and me for a day of festivities at Oktoberfest on the last day of our honeymoon and wore their festive trachten to boot. Final photo: Rob and I on our honeymoon at Oktoberfest.

A French Bulldog

To a week of embracing your inner Sturm,

Kay