The most beautiful English I have ever heard was not spoken by a tenured professor or a wise poet. Not even by Barack Obama, believe it or not. Her name was Rebekka and she began our conversation with, "I'm sorry my English does not good."
"No no, I think it's perfect. Can you tell me if I'm on the right train?"
After studying my ticket for a moment, Rebekka looks up with eyes of sympathy. "No, you isn't."
Damn.
Last semester I studied abroad in Vienna, but for two weeks prior I traipsed around Germany with my foreign exchange friend, Sven. Sven was in the process of beginning Mannheim University and during his three-day orientation, he suggested I travel to some nearby cities. This day, I visited Strasburg, a European capitol on the border of France and Germany. After touring the city, I headed home, but in a moment of confusion, boarded the wrong train, heading God knows where.
After watching me frantically stare out the window and check my ticket several times, an attractive, curly-haired girl about my age had come and sat next to me.
"My name is Rebekka."
"Hi, I'm JD."
She explains that the next stop is this train's final destination, and more likely than not, there won't be any more trains tonight. She extends the plight of my situation by telling me there are no hotels or hostels in town. At this point, I have resigned myself to finding the least uncomfortable bench I can and sleeping beneath it for the night.
"So, you can stay with me and my family tonight."
As trustworthy as Rebekka seems, I've only known her for seven minutes, but before I have any time to respond, the train comes to a halt and the doors slide open. The conductor bids everyone a good night and that's the end of that.
As Rebekka and I step outside, a car honks.
"There is my father. Wait right here for a minute."
As if I'm going to leave her sight.
A few minutes later, she's back. "Ready?"
"Yeah. OK."
After a brief car trip, I'm sitting at her kitchen table with a glass of warm milk while her mom makes up the guest room in the attic. After living with Sven for a week, I'd grown accustomed to city apartments and cramped quarters, but Rebekka and her family live in a log cabin mansion, and I have the entire third story to myself tonight.
The idea crosses my mind that as honest and hospitable as Rebekka and her family seem, maybe I'm the latest in an unending supply of lost American tourists who will not leave this cabin.
"Do you want a candy bar?" Or maybe they're just really nice.
"Oh, wow, yeah, that would be great." I say it like I haven't had anything to eat all day, which isn't really untrue since I'd forgotten my wallet in Mannheim and had only enough money for a lunch/dinner of peanuts and beer.
The stairs creak as Rebekka's mom returns to the kitchen and Rebekka acts as translator.
"Would you like to brush your teeth or take a shower?"
"Oh, wow, yeah, that would be great."
"Do you need to call someone?"
Of course, I'd thought about calling Sven the moment I realized I was on the wrong train, but I didn't have his number, or a cell phone for that matter.
"Oh, no, I think it will be okay."
An hour and a half after introducing myself to Rebekka, I'm laying in bed, unable to sleep, wondering if I'm really where I think I am, except I really have no idea where that could be.
The next morning Rebekka's mom prepared an enormous breakfast of breads, homemade jams, fruits and sweets. As I found out in the morning, Rebekka's family lives on an enormous vineyard and her mom stays home picking grapes and making wine all day. To prove their vineyard's worth, she offers me a glass of "morning wine." Before driving me back to the train station, her mom packs me a lunch that would be sufficient for three very hungry people.
"In case you get hungry on the train," Rebekka translates.
And 13 and a half hours after meeting Rebekka, I'm back on the train, heading home to Mannheim, with a single thought tattooed on my brain: "What the hell?"
In "A Streetcar Named Desire," Tennessee Williams writes, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." I think we sometimes forget how much help we can offer another person, and how surprisingly little effort it takes to do so. In this era, where we're coming and going at a constant rate, it's easy to forget about our fellow man, easy to overlook the problems of another, but the people we remember the most are those who took the time to not forget about us.
JD Mitchell is a sophomore majoring in creative writing and writes 'Boozerz and Losers' for the Daily News. His views do not necessarily agree with those of the newspaper.
Write to JD at jdmitchell@bsu.edu/a>
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