Always Wear a Helmet!
On Monday the weather was so lovely that Peter and Rosa suggested that I ride the bicycle to Hohentwiel. Hohentwiel is the name of both the great geological horn which can be seen in the distance from the farm, as well as the castle on top, built in 914 AD. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the temperature was upwards of 14 degrees celcius, and really everything was just so beautiful that my head exploded, resulting in 6 stitches and a night in a German hospital.
The story goes like this: Per the suggestion, I waited until the air warmed slightly, and around 11am ventured into the barn to retrieve a bike. The day before, I had used an older one and gone for a lovely ride on the dirt roads through the fields and along the river, and I thought it would be fine to use again. Then I had another thought, that I should use the Fancy, Newer, Red Bike, because this trip probably included going up hill, and the more up-to-date bike may suit better. I found an air pump, and attempted to inflate the slightly-under-pressured tires of the red bike, but instead only managed to replace any and all air that had been in there with nothingness. After fussing with the device for a while, using it like I would have used any other air puimp, I was stumped, and used the older bike, whose tires were already well inflated, as originally planned.
So I ventured through the fields into Singen, then over a bridge and under the railroad tracks, and there I was at the base of the mountain. I had been told that there was a museum and restaurant somewhere, so I thought I’d leave the bike there as I climbed to the top. I found a sign indicating that these were located just a little way up, so I walked my bike up a slippery snowy path, and soon came to a road, up which I also walked the bike, and then came to the said commercial venues. I parked the bike, went into the museum and bought a ticket to go inside the castle up top, as well as some information in English, and started walking. It wasn’t very far, though very steep, but soon enough I was walking through a cobblestone tunnel into the yard of a Tolkienesque castle. While remaining fully present, I couldn’t help but pretend that the castle was in full working order. I imagined riding horses and hearing their hooves on the stones. I looked out over the wall to see factories and modern houses (though not the Alps, because the air was thick with moisture), but imagined it was only countryside, over which I was the ruler. Yeah yeah, I suppose it’s a generic and expected fantasy, but it really was incredible.
I entered the castle, which was all open (some because it was meant to be, and some simply because much had been lost to age, but mostly because when Napoleon invaded some years back, he tore down all the 'expendable' parts, whatever that means). I went up furthur, to the highest point, and looked around, and sloshed in mud, and then I spread out on a stone bench and absorbed the sun like a greenhouse, bringing my little SK seedlings back to life. It’s been gray here, so I couldn’t help but worship the sun while it lasted.
When I was ready to go, I did so (the joys of traveling alone), and walked back down to where my bike was parked. I had decided that I could be home in a flash to help Rosa with the horses if I just rode down that road that I had come to before, all the way to the bottom, so I hopped on, and rounded a corner. I started to go down. I was going fast, faster than I wanted to be going. It wasn’t the hill on the White Road, the one that was always a relief because it was the final and easy stretch before arriving home. I knew immediately that I had had a lapse in judgement. I also realized that I was not wearing a helmet (I didn’t even think of it when I had started!), nor was I carrying any form of identificaiton, two things I am usually sure to have on me on my American bike.
I couldn’t put the breaks on because I knew I would fly over the handle bars, and there wasn’t really a decent side-of-the-road to resort to, so my only choice was to keep going down and hope for the best.
Ahead, I saw a vineyard, and a fork in the road. The right side looked like a dirt road that didn’t go very far or to anyplace promising. The left fork was the main road, and I decided to try for it. In retrospect, the right fork probably would have been the better choice, because it led to the Winestube where I picked up the bike the next day. The ground was soft there, but not where I landed.
I briefly woke up to find myself lying the road, and I saw some blood. The next eyeblink revealed a red-haired woman holding my hand and speaking German. Then there were two men, and a big red truck, which I assume was the ambulance. It turns out that I was only 50 meters from the hospital.
Next I remember laying in the ambulance, and the sun was shining in. There was a man speaking broken English to me, and I told him my name and address immediately, I think, because that was all I could remember. I didn’t know where I was, not the city, and certainly not the country, nor did I know why I was there, or anywhere. He was saying stuff, but I don’t know what, but then I remembered the names Peter and Rosa, so I said them out loud. Then I remembered their last name and that they lived on a street called Im Zinken in Friedingin. I said I was staying with them, and I think I even said it in German, because of course, this is the sort of stuff they teach you in first year German class, how to say your name, where you’re from and where you’re staying, perhaps for just such an occasion.
I lay there trying to remember things. It was the feeling of taking a nap at an irregular time of day, and not remembering that you had even taken a nap, because it simply felt like the next day, and the next life. It lasted a while, then it went away, and I knew exactly what had happened, and I remembered more and more details everytime someone asked, which many people did. They could mostly understand English, but not speak it so well.
There were 2 policemen, and they questioned me, in German I think, and then when they left, one of them was so pleased when he managed to say ‘Good Bye’ that he became giddy and smiled, like a kid proud of himself for remembering all the capitals of all the states. Or, like me when I finally can say something right in German. I guess it really is a phenomenon of language learning to return to a child-like state, of both excitement and vulnerability.
Rosa showed up eventually and said ‘Oh Kate!’ in an understanding way, because she is a nurse. We waited for a while in the hallway, and were soon (or not so soon) brought to the Xray room, where they took pictures of my head and shoulders. Then I went to another room, where there was a doctor who spoke fairly good English. I appreciated that so many people were trying to speak English to me (even Rosa) because my head was a bit shaken, and even broken English is easier to understand than German, sometimes.
The doctor moved my matted, blood-soaked hair to reveal a wound, which Rosa said was ‘commisch’ because it looked like lightning. The doctor put some mind-numbing cream in my head, and sewed it up. They also had to take some blood, but soon found out about my other identity, Miss Difficult Veins. I told them about her, so they were aware, and eventually managed to find a good candidate, and poked it successfully. The nurses cleaned some of the scrapes on my face and hands. They told me I could go home, since I didn’t feel sick or naseus, and since I had come to my senses. Rosa helped me up. My leg had a big bruise, so I had to sit back down, but within seconds, I felt sick, so my freedom was revoked and I had to stay in the hospital for the night.
They brought me a bed and wheeled me to my room. I had a male nurse, Fabian, because he spoke pretty good English. In Germany, a ‘nurse’ is a ‘Krankenschwester,’ which translates to ‘sick-sister’. So, I asked Fabien if a male nurse was a ‘Krankenbruder,’ which seemed logical to me, but he said no, he was called a ‘Pfleger,’ which means ‘carer.’
Fabien brought me tea and a paper to sign. He said it was about the German Social health care system, and told me all about it in English. It was very interesting, and meant that my bill will not be nearly as high as it would be in America (600 Euro instead of $7483579430547825849036489036478690.50 ) (but still, it’s a good think I took out travel insurance!). Then he left and I heard him repeating, in English, what he had just told me, to his collegues, because he was so pleased that he was able to explain all of it in a foreign language. They, of course, applauded.
I slept the night, and came back to the farm the next day, and have been resting ever since. The diagnosis was nothing severe, just the external wounds, thank God. My leg feels better now, and I don’t have a headache, but my hands are quite scraped, making everyday maneuvering difficult, and my head and face hurt if I move to quickly. So, I won’t work for a few days. But now I am faced with an issue: the deal is that I work in exchange for room and board. The stitches don’t come out for another 10 days, so what is the fair thing to do? I must discuss it with the family. Perhaps I can cook or something, but I can’t really do much until my hands heal. Even typing is taking it’s toll.
But, that’s my story, and I’m fine, lucky enough to have avoided brain damage. But the moral of the story is…
The story goes like this: Per the suggestion, I waited until the air warmed slightly, and around 11am ventured into the barn to retrieve a bike. The day before, I had used an older one and gone for a lovely ride on the dirt roads through the fields and along the river, and I thought it would be fine to use again. Then I had another thought, that I should use the Fancy, Newer, Red Bike, because this trip probably included going up hill, and the more up-to-date bike may suit better. I found an air pump, and attempted to inflate the slightly-under-pressured tires of the red bike, but instead only managed to replace any and all air that had been in there with nothingness. After fussing with the device for a while, using it like I would have used any other air puimp, I was stumped, and used the older bike, whose tires were already well inflated, as originally planned.
So I ventured through the fields into Singen, then over a bridge and under the railroad tracks, and there I was at the base of the mountain. I had been told that there was a museum and restaurant somewhere, so I thought I’d leave the bike there as I climbed to the top. I found a sign indicating that these were located just a little way up, so I walked my bike up a slippery snowy path, and soon came to a road, up which I also walked the bike, and then came to the said commercial venues. I parked the bike, went into the museum and bought a ticket to go inside the castle up top, as well as some information in English, and started walking. It wasn’t very far, though very steep, but soon enough I was walking through a cobblestone tunnel into the yard of a Tolkienesque castle. While remaining fully present, I couldn’t help but pretend that the castle was in full working order. I imagined riding horses and hearing their hooves on the stones. I looked out over the wall to see factories and modern houses (though not the Alps, because the air was thick with moisture), but imagined it was only countryside, over which I was the ruler. Yeah yeah, I suppose it’s a generic and expected fantasy, but it really was incredible.
I entered the castle, which was all open (some because it was meant to be, and some simply because much had been lost to age, but mostly because when Napoleon invaded some years back, he tore down all the 'expendable' parts, whatever that means). I went up furthur, to the highest point, and looked around, and sloshed in mud, and then I spread out on a stone bench and absorbed the sun like a greenhouse, bringing my little SK seedlings back to life. It’s been gray here, so I couldn’t help but worship the sun while it lasted.
When I was ready to go, I did so (the joys of traveling alone), and walked back down to where my bike was parked. I had decided that I could be home in a flash to help Rosa with the horses if I just rode down that road that I had come to before, all the way to the bottom, so I hopped on, and rounded a corner. I started to go down. I was going fast, faster than I wanted to be going. It wasn’t the hill on the White Road, the one that was always a relief because it was the final and easy stretch before arriving home. I knew immediately that I had had a lapse in judgement. I also realized that I was not wearing a helmet (I didn’t even think of it when I had started!), nor was I carrying any form of identificaiton, two things I am usually sure to have on me on my American bike.
I couldn’t put the breaks on because I knew I would fly over the handle bars, and there wasn’t really a decent side-of-the-road to resort to, so my only choice was to keep going down and hope for the best.
Ahead, I saw a vineyard, and a fork in the road. The right side looked like a dirt road that didn’t go very far or to anyplace promising. The left fork was the main road, and I decided to try for it. In retrospect, the right fork probably would have been the better choice, because it led to the Winestube where I picked up the bike the next day. The ground was soft there, but not where I landed.
I briefly woke up to find myself lying the road, and I saw some blood. The next eyeblink revealed a red-haired woman holding my hand and speaking German. Then there were two men, and a big red truck, which I assume was the ambulance. It turns out that I was only 50 meters from the hospital.
Next I remember laying in the ambulance, and the sun was shining in. There was a man speaking broken English to me, and I told him my name and address immediately, I think, because that was all I could remember. I didn’t know where I was, not the city, and certainly not the country, nor did I know why I was there, or anywhere. He was saying stuff, but I don’t know what, but then I remembered the names Peter and Rosa, so I said them out loud. Then I remembered their last name and that they lived on a street called Im Zinken in Friedingin. I said I was staying with them, and I think I even said it in German, because of course, this is the sort of stuff they teach you in first year German class, how to say your name, where you’re from and where you’re staying, perhaps for just such an occasion.
I lay there trying to remember things. It was the feeling of taking a nap at an irregular time of day, and not remembering that you had even taken a nap, because it simply felt like the next day, and the next life. It lasted a while, then it went away, and I knew exactly what had happened, and I remembered more and more details everytime someone asked, which many people did. They could mostly understand English, but not speak it so well.
There were 2 policemen, and they questioned me, in German I think, and then when they left, one of them was so pleased when he managed to say ‘Good Bye’ that he became giddy and smiled, like a kid proud of himself for remembering all the capitals of all the states. Or, like me when I finally can say something right in German. I guess it really is a phenomenon of language learning to return to a child-like state, of both excitement and vulnerability.
Rosa showed up eventually and said ‘Oh Kate!’ in an understanding way, because she is a nurse. We waited for a while in the hallway, and were soon (or not so soon) brought to the Xray room, where they took pictures of my head and shoulders. Then I went to another room, where there was a doctor who spoke fairly good English. I appreciated that so many people were trying to speak English to me (even Rosa) because my head was a bit shaken, and even broken English is easier to understand than German, sometimes.
The doctor moved my matted, blood-soaked hair to reveal a wound, which Rosa said was ‘commisch’ because it looked like lightning. The doctor put some mind-numbing cream in my head, and sewed it up. They also had to take some blood, but soon found out about my other identity, Miss Difficult Veins. I told them about her, so they were aware, and eventually managed to find a good candidate, and poked it successfully. The nurses cleaned some of the scrapes on my face and hands. They told me I could go home, since I didn’t feel sick or naseus, and since I had come to my senses. Rosa helped me up. My leg had a big bruise, so I had to sit back down, but within seconds, I felt sick, so my freedom was revoked and I had to stay in the hospital for the night.
They brought me a bed and wheeled me to my room. I had a male nurse, Fabian, because he spoke pretty good English. In Germany, a ‘nurse’ is a ‘Krankenschwester,’ which translates to ‘sick-sister’. So, I asked Fabien if a male nurse was a ‘Krankenbruder,’ which seemed logical to me, but he said no, he was called a ‘Pfleger,’ which means ‘carer.’
Fabien brought me tea and a paper to sign. He said it was about the German Social health care system, and told me all about it in English. It was very interesting, and meant that my bill will not be nearly as high as it would be in America (600 Euro instead of $7483579430547825849036489036478690.50 ) (but still, it’s a good think I took out travel insurance!). Then he left and I heard him repeating, in English, what he had just told me, to his collegues, because he was so pleased that he was able to explain all of it in a foreign language. They, of course, applauded.
I slept the night, and came back to the farm the next day, and have been resting ever since. The diagnosis was nothing severe, just the external wounds, thank God. My leg feels better now, and I don’t have a headache, but my hands are quite scraped, making everyday maneuvering difficult, and my head and face hurt if I move to quickly. So, I won’t work for a few days. But now I am faced with an issue: the deal is that I work in exchange for room and board. The stitches don’t come out for another 10 days, so what is the fair thing to do? I must discuss it with the family. Perhaps I can cook or something, but I can’t really do much until my hands heal. Even typing is taking it’s toll.
But, that’s my story, and I’m fine, lucky enough to have avoided brain damage. But the moral of the story is…
posted by SK at 6:55 AM
1 Comments:
You can always tell if it is a good tale if there is a clear and definite 'moral of the story'... Glad to hear you're on the mend, though I can only imagine how un-nerving it must be to find yourself in such a situation... Take it easy and get yourself back in good shape :)
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