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| Kloster Andechs |
Yesterday an acquaintance asked if I planned to cancel my planned trip to London for this coming February. Puzzled, I asked why.
"Well, because of what happened in Paris last night...that's why. Nobody with any sense with leave home with all the terrorists out there."
Believe me, I do understand why people are fearful. I've been fearful when overseas myself. I remember, for instance, the aftermath of 2001, when many were afraid to get on an airplane. My recollection of those harrowing days is recorded below. My late husband, Ken Wilson, and I were among the few who traveled shortly after the terrorist attack. I can't foresee the future, but figure I'll likely be seeing a West End musical and basking in the sunlight on the Isle of Wight, come February.
Suds and Solace
By Terri Elders
“The future is an opaque mirror. Anyone who tries to look
into it sees nothing but the dim outlines of an old and worried face.” --Jim Bishop
The morning of September 11, 2001, I’d just opened an HIV/AIDS seminar in a shabby hotel two hours north of Port-au-Prince, when I was pulled aside by the Peace Corps/Haiti health program manager. I'd been excited to travel to the Caribbean to facilitate this training, the first on the issue conducted in Haiti by the United State's grassroots development agency.
“The World
Trade Center
and the Pentagon have been attacked by planes,” she whispered. “It’s not a
joke.”
She shared what little she’d heard with the Volunteers.
Horrified, everybody crowded into the adjacent bar
which had a
generator-powered television set.
After a while we decided to join hands and recite The Lord’s
Prayer. Our Haitian partners would arrive the next day, most hiking miles
across rugged rural terrain to reach bus stops. I prayed for strength to get
through the week.
I worried, too, about my husband’s safety. A late riser,
he’d still be sleeping soundly in our townhouse in Silver Spring, MD.
Married a little over a year, Ken and I looked forward to finally taking a
belated honeymoon. We’d planned to go to Munich
for Oktoberfest. The future now looked murky.
Incredibly, the HIV/AIDS training went forward without
mishap. The following Sunday the US Embassy somehow maneuvered me aboard a
return flight to Miami.
Even more improbably, American Airlines rerouted one extra flight to Dulles,
since Reagan National, my original destination, had closed down. I got its last
remaining seat.
When I reached home Ken welcomed me with a hug and a glass
of Chardonnay. He settled on the sofa beside me.
“What do you think?” he asked. “The news commentators are
speculating about more possible hijackings. Should we cancel the trip?”
In our sixties, we’d married the previous summer. Right
after the wedding I’d started to work at Peace Corps Headquarters in Washington DC,
so we’d postponed our honeymoon until I’d accrued some vacation time. Ken pined
to revisit the towns he’d lived in during his Air Force service in the 1950s,
so we’d chosen Germany.
“I want to see one more Oktoberfest,” he’d said. “This’ll be
my fourth, and the best, since you’ll be along. You’ll learn to love German
beer, I promise.”
I preferred a glass of chilled white wine to a mug of tepid
beer, but agreed. I knew Germany
was famous for its Liebfraumilch and Riesling, as well as all that celebrated
beer.
But now I fretted. We were scheduled to fly out in just a
few days. Would we be safe? Would it be foolhardy to travel at such an uncertain
time? New travel regulations had gone into effect, so navigating airport
security lines would be arduous. On the plus side, we’d already arranged for a
rental car at Franz Joseph airport in Munich,
and Ken claimed to remember enough German to ask for directions as we headed
for the Black Forest, Landsberg, Garmisch and
all those other magical-sounding places he’d described.
“Let’s do it,” Ken finally said. “We’ll probably be safer in
Germany
now than here in the outskirts of the capital. You’ve been working hard. You
deserve a vacation.”
.
So we went, with me praying for our safety every leg of the
journey. On the first day of October we settled in at Oktoberfest’s Hofbrau
Haus, surrounded by crowds of young people, nearly all from New Zealand and Australia.
“We were able to find lodgings here after so many Americans
cancelled their travel plans,” one young couple told us. “Let’s toast America!”
We all raised our litre mugs and sang along with a brass
band that pounded out “Stop in the Name of Love” and “Roll Out the Barrel.” We
ate salted radishes and pretzels as big as our heads, and toasted every
English-speaking nation on Earth, including Belize,
Guyana and Seychelles,
countries that may have gone unmentioned if I hadn’t a personal Peace Corps
knowledge of them. Then the Kiwis and Aussies even joined us in a chorus of
“Blame Canada” when a trio
from Ottawa
asked to join us.
Ken and I listened appreciatively as our new friends poured
out their sympathy for the States, and gratefully accepted their gracious good
wishes for a safe return home. We left Oktoberfest carefree, flushed with lager
and love.
Then the United States
initiated a bombing mission over Afghanistan. We heard that American
citizens abroad should register at American embassies, and that tourists in
other European countries had been threatened by terrorists.
“Should we try to return home early?” I asked, nearly
overwhelmed with fear.
“I don’t want to leave Germany until you’ve seen Andechs,”
Ken replied, shaking his head. “We’ll be all right. We’ll be safe here.”
Ken described Andechs Abbey, an hour south of Munich, as a Benedictine
monastery housed in a castle that dates from the twelfth century. Its brewery
produces lagers with an alcohol percentage nearly as strong as fortified
sherries.
“We’ll sit in the beer garden, share a basket of rye bread
and monastery cheese, and sip a beer and contemplate the frescoes and stuccoes.
We’ll really relax at Andechs,” he insisted.
Ken drove along the eastern shore of Lake Ammersee,
eventually pointing out a castle looming on a hill.
“There’s Andechs!” He
patted my hand.
I’d read that Andechs had been a cherished destination for
pilgrims for over five hundred years. Now, as we headed up the hill that frosty
morning, I felt as if we, too, were on a pilgrimage.
The beer proved just as delicious and heady as Ken had
promised. Then after lunch, we toured the ground floor of the church. I sat for
a while in the Chapel of Sorrow, praying for the United
States, for Washington
DC, for peace, and for our marriage.
I especially prayed for a sense of serenity. As soon as I asked the Lord to
instill peace in my heart, I felt an enormous sense of relief. The fear seeped
away, leaving me calmer than I’d been since the morning of September 11.
The medieval Chapel of Sorrow houses the grave of Carl Orff,
the 20th century composer of “Carmina Burana,” hypnotic music that for me
always makes everything seem epic.
When we crossed to the St. Anthony Chapel, with frescoes by
17th century artists, I reflected on how so
many pieces of the past seem to
come together at Andechs. As we left, I picked up a brochure that quoted the
Andechs’ Abbot, Dr. Johannes Eckert, on the purpose of the monastery. One
phrase hit a chord, and I read it aloud to Ken. Eckert hoped pilgrims would “relish
the present and the moments which go by so quickly, yet indeed not forget that
which went on before.”
I recalled that September day in Haiti, when we all decided to move
forward, to not become paralyzed with fear. As we strolled to our rental car I
turned to Ken.
“In the chapel I prayed for help in giving up fear,” I said.
“There’s no room for it on our honeymoon. I think it worked. I feel more
peaceful now.”
“Good decision. Just don’t ask Him to make us give up German
beer.”
I laughed. Suds and solace seemed perfect mates, just like
us. I squeezed my wise spouse’s hand. And thanked the Lord for restoring peace
in my heart.
