A letter Home

[Mikkelus]

In his room, at his desk, he stared at a blank piece of paper. In his mind, he’d started the letter several times. As far as the page was concerned, he had yet to begin. It wasn’t so much that he’d found nothing to write home; indeed, there was so much that was different he had a hard time sorting it out. Travel by train, transcontinental flight and the in-flight meals, his ordeal at Logan International Airport, and the taxi adventure paled in comparison to all that he’d discovered on the campus. Where to start, where to start?

He opened his pen-case and selected a medium nib. He affixed it to his pen, filled the reservoir, gathered his thoughts, and took a deep breath. Where once such a writing implement had proven unwieldy in his hand, prone to smudges and streaks, he had over the years come to prefer writing with a nib: it required time and focus, providing ample opportunity for the words to find their way from his head to his hand.

My dear family: Papa. Mama, Anja, and Alain ,
I have arrived safely at the school in America. Several days after I got to the school, I’ve heard from the airline that the last of my luggage has arrived as well. When I arrived without all my bags, the service agent told me that my bag had flown to Barcelona. Since then, it’s been making its way here by circuitous route: Botswana, Utah, and Papua New Guinea before arriving in Boston at Logan International Airport. If I had been ticketed on those flights, I would have accumulated sufficient frequent flier miles for free “standby” travel home over Christmas; unfortunately, I did not, so only the bag gets to fly for free. They did promise me a voucher for a free in-flight meal of sardines and crackers or cheese and crackers for my return flight.

Now I have to figure out the public transit system to get back to the airport before my bags take off on another world expedition without me. While at home I might have considered hiring a cab to take me somewhere too far to walk, in America the cabs are astoundingly expensive; it cost me a 150 American dollars for the 20 kilometer ride to the school, including tip. Papa, at those prices, I don’t think I’ll be hiring a cab any time soon, or even very often!

In many ways, the rooms in the dormitory remind me of a youth hostel. My room has all of those things that I take for granted at home: heating and cooling, lights, a schrank to store my belongings, and a study desk. The showers and toiletten are just down the hall, so I imagine I’ll have plenty of opportunity to meet others on my floor. They tell me I've even got something they call WiFi located somewhere in my room, though I must admit haven’t found where they left it yet; it doesn’t seem to be in any of the drawers or shelves in the room. Then again, I’m not sure what the WiFi is supposed to do, how it relates to my classes, or even what it’s supposed to look like. Some days, it feels like I’ve walked into a whole different world!

I’ve found a curious place called the recreation center, but it has nothing to do with hiking, camping, skiing, or anything we normally associate with recreation. I don’t need to tell you that I'm no expert on the latest and greatest fads in anything, fitness equipment included, but it looks like there's a great variety of machines that help expend a great deal of energy and effort to simulate tasks and activities associated with an active lifestyle, all without having to leave the room.

Anja, they’ve got bicycles that don't move, no matter how far or fast you pedal. There are sidewalks on which you can begin the journey of a thousand miles, walk all day, and remain exactly where you started the entire time. Alain, they have amazing machines that let you climb the equivalent of all the stairs in the Eiffel tower, or even the Zugspitz, and still remain no more than about two feet off the floor – it’s a great invention for those who are afraid of heights. There are even various handles connected to levers and pulleys, carefully engineered to provide sufficient mechanical disadvantage that a two pound metal handle can require over two hundred pounds of force to move. There are yoga classes (or are they sessions?), "circuits training" that has nothing to do with electricity, volleyball courts, frisbees, the occasional campus mini-marathon, table tennis or tennis on a court, football pitches, and other fields devoted to athletic endeavors.

I wish I could tell you about the hospital here, papa. From what I understand it’s supposed to be very advanced, perhaps even more advanced than the universität Ulm, but I must confess that I have not been able to bring myself to step foot inside. I suppose part of my reluctance stem from the sheer size of the place; I think the entire clinic at home could fit into the entry foyer. With so many people inside the edifice, I can easily envision people getting lost.

As for the main reason? Papa, you know how just our small village clinic affected me. What I felt there is nothing compared to the way this hospital affects me. It’s like a physical blow that leaves my insides knotted before I even reach the door. This is worse, on an order of magnitude; I pray that I never have opportunity to spend time in that place until such time as I learn to shield myself from the onslaught. I would gladly choose a hundred broken hands, a thousand airport lobbies, over a night in the hospital. If I am to have any hope of becoming a doctor, I must learn how to block out these emanations of pain.

I’ve made a few acquaintances since my arrival. Students, mostly, though I did meet the ethics professor as well. The people here seem pretty friendly, even the security officer who offered to feed me to the wolves; I think she may have been joking, since in all my nights here I have yet to see or hear any such creatures. I haven’t heard any of the people on campus mention any problems with wolves, though I have met one person who’d had a bit of a run-in with a flock of seagulls. And no, mama, I mean birds, not that band from the 80’s.

I have yet to meet my roommate. I’m not sure whether or not he even exists. Well, no, that’s not right; I’m pretty certain he must exist, somewhere, I cannot say where that somewhere might be, since I haven’t seen him in the room.

I have to admit I haven’t entirely gotten used to being away from home yet; I keep expecting to hear Mama calling us all down for supper, or Anja and Alain to come in begging for a story at bedtime. I miss schnitzel and spaetzle, playing with the cats in the barn, and walking through the woods in the evening. I miss the quiet of the village; I didn’t know quiet until I came to America, where noise is everywhere around me.

Know that you are in my heart and in my prayers, as I know that I am always in yours. I check the mailbox here every day, and I look forward to hearing from you.

With all love and respect,

Mikkelus



With that, he wrote a painfully familiar address in Liechtenstein on an overseas envelope. He carefully emptied the reservoir of his pen, then cleaned it while waiting for the ink on the letter to dry. Once satisfied that the writing wouldn’t smudge, he folded the pages of his letter. He placed them into the addressed envelope, sealed it, and placed sufficient postage to get the letter home.

Gather the letter and his ID, he then left for the mailroom, a young man with a mission.