Day three into my solo Berlin trip, and I still couldn’t believe it.

Taking the bus easily became routine. I rocked side to side with the bumps on the narrow road as it headed towards Berlin Mitte. I couldn’t wait to walk under the infamous Brandenburg Gate.

The bus squealed to a stop at the university. I gripped the blue strap of my bag tighter as five people boarded. Four women and a man sat across from me, and I tensed unconsciously. I fumbled with the mask on my face. It was safe; everyone in Germany followed the rules, and the new rules announced by the CDC were no different.

I kept my eyes glued to the window, mindlessly watching trees fly by, when I noticed something in my peripheral.

A lady fluttered her hands with lightning speed; her body swayed with motion and drove home her point. Another picked up and continued the song, and the man sang along. I couldn’t pick up the melody, but I understood the downbeats, the pausing, the lifted eyebrow. My palms started sweating.

The youngest caught my stare. My heart raced. I fumbled with a closed fist, rubbing circles on my chest.

“Sorry,” I said. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop; I meant.

Five pairs of eyes met mine.

“Are you deaf?” she asked.

It took me a minute. “Hearing, I’m hearing,” I said. “Not deaf.”

The driver announced something in garbled German; the loudspeaker crackling from misuse. My head tilted up, and my eyes flew to the front. A hand waved, and I turned back.

“What happened?” the man asked me.

Even though I could understand German, the driver was unintelligible. I felt useless. “I don’t know,” I said.

The bus rolled to a stop, and the engine cut. 

“What’s going on?” they all asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Everyone, get off the bus,” the driver ordered, “my line stops here.”

I repeated the order. We stumbled out.

They crowded the bus driver as I pulled out my phone and opened Google Maps. I glanced up. The driver’s voice raised with frustration at the language barrier. He kept pointing down the road behind them, telling them to leave him alone.

Stop that, I wanted to say.

The message got through, and they quit trying to sing. They turned and headed in my direction. They stopped when they got to me.

“Where are you going?” said the young blonde.

“I don’t know the sign,” I said, stuttering. I can’t sing the melody, I meant.

“Speak,” she said, “we’ll help you.”

I peeled off the mask. “Friedrichstraße,” I said aloud, and boy did it shock me. It was loud, raw, a note that clashed with the music; it didn’t belong. I cringed inwardly, my face heated at my own voice even though they couldn’t hear it.

It was quick. The older woman sang a crisp note, and I repeated. Twice. A third time to myself to commit it to memory.

“Down the street,” they told me. “Take a right at the next road.”

I grinned, stepped back, and sang my own melody, It’s nice to meet you.

Photo by Darelle via Pixabay