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Victoriana, my cousin, lives on the second floor—she’s converted the four bedrooms there into a complete two-bedroom apartment. Her mother—the middle sister—married a minor nobleman from Denmark, and they spend most of their time in Copenhagen. Victoriana begged me to use one of the rooms here so she’d have company. Since I’ve been in the States for most of the past year, we haven’t spent much time together, but it was nice not to have to find a place when I got back a few weeks ago.
Of course, I could have moved in with my parents, but no twenty-four-year-old wants to do that.
When I’ve changed into jeans and a button-down shirt, I head for the garage. My grandfather’s 1968 Mercedes 600 lurks behind Victoriana’s sleek roadster. It’s a beast of a car, and it needs a new coat of paint, but it runs like a champ. The huge thing sucks down gas like a ten-year-old with a milkshake, but it’s convenient for times like this. Who knows how much luggage Hans brought, and it drives like a dream on the autobahn.
I groan when I notice the tank is leaning toward empty—it also costs a fortune to fill. Gas is slightly less expensive in Germany, so I’m going to try to make it over the border before I stop. I ease down the hill and off the palace grounds, waving to the guards at the gate. They wave back.
After I cross the border into Germany, I wind my way down B12 to Windorf where I can get on the A3. It’s fifty kilometers from Freiberg, and I end up stopping for gas well before I reach the autobahn. With the tank filled, I while away the rest of the drive with a sci-fi audiobook called The Vacuum of Space. As the Grand Duchess predicted, I should arrive at Munich International just as Hans clears customs.
Chapter Three
EVA
I wrestle my roller bag—the cheaper kind with two wheels, not four—off the plane and stagger to the far side of the jetway so I’m out of traffic. Thankfully, my backpack has one of those sleeves across the back so I can slide it over the retractable handle instead of lugging it. I rub my eyes and yawn—should I wait for Hans to catch up? He must have bought his seat much more recently than I did—he was in the very back of the plane.
A small, cranky child stumbles against me, tipping my bag. His mother glares and spirits him away, but I don’t miss the father’s grimace. Even plastered against the wall, I’m impeding traffic. I slip back into the flow, dragging my luggage up the jetway and into the Munich airport.
We straggle onto a sliding walkway that rises through a windowed bridge and into the building. Early afternoon sunlight streams in, and I take a minute to pull off my green Oregon Ducks hoodie and tie it around my waist. At the top, I follow the bulk of the crowd under a sign that reads Ausgang, but thankfully, for my jet-lagged brain, it also says Baggage Claim.
We weave through a long and surprisingly empty zigzag of stanchions with retractable belts to the immigration control stations. An intimidating-looking man wearing a severe uniform takes my passport and asks in English, “Why are you in Germany?”
“Transiting to Freiberg for a semester abroad.” My dad and I rehearsed likely questions and answers several times. It’s my first time traveling outside the country, and I think he’s afraid I’ll cause an international incident.
The man grunts. “Do you have a return ticket?”
I nod.
“Where will you stay?”
“I have a host family.” I pull my phone from my back pocket. Does he want their address? “In Freiberg.”
His gaze tracks across his computer screen, then snaps to my face. “First time in Europe?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. We didn’t practice this one. “Uh. Yes?”
“You don’t seem too sure.” He stamps the passport and smiles, transforming from terrifying gatekeeper to welcoming ambassador. “Welcome to Germany.”
I take the little blue folder and jam it into my pocket with the phone. “Thanks. You, too.” I close my eyes for a second—what kind of idiot welcomes the passport guy to his own country?
He chuckles, then raises his voice. “Nächster, bitte!”
Taking that as my dismissal, I grab the handle of my carry-on to drag it beyond the barriers. I stumble away along the only available route, which drops me into baggage claim. Across the way, the little family from the plane has commandeered a luggage cart with some kind of tablet attached to the handle. It lights up with a map as they load the child on top of their small, hard-sided suitcases. I wait another beat, but Hans still hasn’t appeared, so I follow my new guides across the concourse toward the baggage carousels.
Hans catches up to me near the empty baggage belt. “How was your flight?”
“Long. I watched two movies. Slept a bit. You?” I cringe a little, realizing I should have taken a moment to put on some lip gloss and mascara before the plane landed. But Hans saw me make-up free in the Seattle airport, so I guess it’s too late to worry about that. At least I brushed my hair.
He pulls out his phone with a negligent shrug. “I drank lots of bad coffee and watched three Marvel movies. I do better if I don’t sleep on the flight.”
Right. He has family in Germany. “You’ve done this before.”
“We usually fly into Amsterdam, then take the train to Geilenkirchen. That’s where Dad’s family lives.” A klaxon drowns out the rest of his comment, and the belt rumbles to life.
We watch a series of bags that aren’t ours trundle by. Eventually, my big, hard-sided case comes into view, the neon green scarf with purple dinosaurs tied to the handle making it unmistakable. I shift my roll-on closer to Hans. “Can you?—”
He doesn’t look up from his phone. “Sure.”
I skirt a couple speaking French to wrestle Barney—my father’s name for the large, purple clamshell—off the belt. When I return, Hans taps the handle of his carry-on. “There’s mine.” He doesn’t wait for my acknowledgement but darts away, then returns with a boring black bag identified by a blue tag with the Rotheberg High Fighting Edelweiss.
