Wally World at Woodland, PA

The noise is almost deafening. You are in the middle of traffic. Heavy traffic. Its participants: Brown, boxy, blocky, and not aerodynamic at all. Worse: Without drivers and wheels, miraculously moving.

Below the small bridge that you are standing on; conveyor belts with thousands of cardboard boxes, rushing to their bar-code-destined terminus.

You are at the heart of the global number one retailer, its logistics. At a Wal-Mart distribution center, somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania.

This giant windowless hall caters to more than fifty stores within a radius of two-hundred miles. Thirty-five million worth of inventory are amassed here at any given time. One small facility among seventy-plus distribution centers in the States. This dense network has led to the fact that virtually no American is more than sixty miles away from the nearest Wal-Mart store.

The “tour guide” overwhelms you with figures illustrating the infrastructure of the world’s second biggest company. But also his words dazzle you.
He seems to speak in a different tongue. FRID, RTV, DA, No-Con, Pick-at-light, Pick-to-light, Breakpack, etc. The supply chain language.

The towering racks, the flotilla of fork lifters and the millions of packages make it clear what power crushed the backbone of uncountable American small-town shops. What competitive advantage enabled Sam Walton to restructure the US retail market.
Hundreds of trucks are loaded and unloaded every day, feeding the consumer’s unending hunger ranging from enormous plasma TV sets to headache pills. But only a few workers are visible. The continuous flow of goods is controlled by ghost hand, it seems. The associates, many with tattoos and Steelers shirts, are a part of the machine themselves. Each ten-hour shift includes unpacking, packing, loading or labeling thousands of boxes.

No daylight enters the huge steel structure, making daytime and weather irrelevant for the workers inside. Likewise, the calendar is different. Halloween articles rolled in way back in the summer and today Christmas items are passing you on the conveyor belts. On December 1, the Easter season starts, the tour guide explains.

Sacrificing a few hours is the maximum expense the “We sell for less”-company is willing to spend on you. And thus, a hungry group of MBA students invades Woodland’s fast food places after the tour. Satisfied, your stomach is now ready to endure three hours of curvy highways through the forests of Western Pennsylvania.
Fall is approaching unstoppably, as the colored leaves witness.

The bus glides through the scenic, monotonous area, on its way to Pittsburgh as something else gets your attention. A DVD marks the beginning of the weekend. After seeing the pinnacle of modern distribution technologies during this field trip, what would be more befitting than the medieval setting of Monty Python and the Holy Grail?

Short cuts, shortcuts

This is your opportunity. Make that step. Push that door open. Enter that promising future. Overcome your fears. Relax. And pay.
The place: Capristo Total Beauty Salon. Your mission: Get a haircut.

A premiere. You have never been to a hairdresser in the States before. At least not to one that took money from you. And that is long ago, when your hairstyle was as simplistic and short as a shoe brush. But now your hair is quite long. The last time it saw scissors was on some rainy day in July on the other side of the Atlantic.
You couldn’t get a valuable recommendation from your co-students where you should go: They either had not been to a hairdresser in Pittsburgh yet, paid horrific prices or went to ethno-specialized coiffeurs that don’t cater to Caucasian tufts like yours.

But luckily, you spotted a hairdresser from the bus. At least through rain-smeared windows it looked like a regular barber shop. Upon entering you realize that this is a women-dominated island of beauty, chatter and fake fingernails. In addition to offering haircuts, Capristo also encompasses a spa and a nail studio. It is early afternoon which is probably why the room is populated mainly by middle-aged women with perms, artificial sun-tan and golden bracelets.
Bewildered that you are the only male person in the room, you turn to the lady behind the counter. Yes, even you as a member of the beautification-adverse gender can get a hair cut here.

Breanne, the friendly and talkative hairdresser quickly disperses your uneasy feeling. Soon you find yourself in the middle of a conversation about Pittsburgh, Europe and learning foreign languages. Several years ago, Breanne travelled to the old continent, backpacking on her own. Her resolution: Finding a European and staying there, far away from snowy Michigan where she originated. But she returned empty-handed. Instead of settling down in Europe, she settled for someone from her hometown. At least, he dragged her to Pittsburgh, adding some urbanity and excitement.
Unfortunately, you get so lost in your chat that she cuts well beyond the one inch that you were wanting to give up. Professional as she is, she does not show any sign of error, commenting that she “just added some personal touch”.
Fortunately, hair grows back.

After the haircut, another premiere for you is on the agenda. A speed networking session. In the days of DSL internet and instant coffee why not accelerate the old game of meeting people? Equipped with a bunch of business cards, you switch conversation partners every couple minutes upon the signal of the organizer.
But before you can enjoy the benefits of networking and a free buffet, you have to muddle through the afternoon traffic. Once again, you get to feel the drawbacks of a GPS: Between the tall downtown buildings, receiving signals becomes hard for the little device upon which not your life but your punctuality relies. The inevitable happens: Instead of taking the right exit for the bridge over the Monongahela River, you end up on some congested highway leading you away from your destination. The navigation system tells you to turn around immediately. Very funny, you think, looking at the facts that keep you from doing that; the concrete barrier to your left and the lethargic traffic jam in front of you.

Fifteen minutes late, you and your classmates arrive at the event. The busy exchanging of business cards has already started and so you jump right into it. A weird choreography: Every five minutes a new small talk starts about who you and your counterpart are and what you do. But what did one of the speakers at Katz said during the first week: Like dating, business is about mutual deception. And so you smile and chat a bit tired. Finally, after almost two hours, the rescue. The organizer gives the signal to pillage the buffet. Together with your classmates, you enjoy the view of the downtown skyline and your food mixed with the bliss of having survived the official part of the week.

D.C. Discoveries: Meeting Po'pay

As you get up on this cloudy Saturday morning, the capital city still seems to be asleep. You leave your hostel on 18th Street empty-stomached but energetic and determined. You walk down the lifeless, littered road, one of D.C.’s party districts. Some trash collectors show up, gradually transforming the scene into an ordinary-looking, innocent sidewalk again. You descend into Washington’s grey belly, the metro system. Located far beneath the surface, it reminds you of Moscow, this capital’s historical cold-war antipode. There the subway system was also intended to serve as a bomb shelter.

Your destination: Capitol Hill again. After you circled this fortress of democracy yesterday, you now want to peak inside. Adoration is free. But not unlimited. To cope with the endless stream of tourists, tickets for specific time slots are handed out each morning. Leaving your travel companions behind sleeping, you volunteered to stand in line for the desired pieces of paper. The line is relatively short, luckily. But the people you are squeezed into are somewhat too loud and talkative for this time of the day, you feel. An American standard travel family from Florida is in front of you: The two boys have their fun alternately playing with insects or hitting each other. Behind you is group of senior citizens from North Dakota. They cannot decide what is more astonishing and exhausting; the long bus drive or the overwhelming city. A settlement of two-thousand people is considered big where they come from, they assure you.

You are lucky: You get tickets for an early slot while still having enough time for an improvised breakfast. Afterwards, you link up with Kati and Diana, who come rushing from the metro station, afraid showing up late. But everything works out: You pass the obligatory security checks (the Capitol has seen shootings and other attacks long before 9-11) and after a few stairs you are there. You are in the Rotunda, the center of gravity of American politics, at least architecturally. Above you is a majestic George Washington shining down from the painted interior of the dome. Looking fey he sits on a cloud, seemingly ascending to heaven. Accordingly, the fresco is called the Apotheosis of George Washington. Inspired by illustrious buildings such as the Pantheon and St. Peter’s in Rome, this cupola represents the American democracy in a dignifying manner. The history of the structure is a bit more modest, though. The first designs of the Capitol Building already included a dome. But financial problems, wars, bureaucratic conflicts and architectural changes made Congress wait for more than sixty years for the final version of the edifice’s centerpiece.

After marveling at the paintings, frescoes and other ornaments in the Rotunda, you proceed to the lucid former House of Representatives. Looking a bit like an opulent old European opera house with its scarlet draperies and marble columns, it now no longer contains seats and lecterns. Instead, it hosts a collection of statues, two from each of the fifty states. Dwarfing the time it took to build the Capitol dome in its final shape, the compilation took almost 150 years to complete. Initiated in 1863, the project was finished in 2005. Was someone sleeping in New Mexico or why did it take them 93 years to send two statues to the nation’s parliament? At least they completed the selection by honoring an American Indian, Po’pay. This chief is credited with largely saving local culture and language from destruction by conquering Spaniards.

Pondering about those kinds of unsolved mysteries, you head to Burrito Boys for a second meal there. While savoring one of those zesty burritos, new questions pop up. Do anti-Hispanic immigration and pro-deportation legislators eat at this Mexican style food place? And what is next on your tourist’s agenda? One of the answers might be found downhill, along the green strip land known as the Mall.

D.C. Discoveries: Burritos on Capitol Hill

A long, winding drive down an interstate again. Cutting through the never-ending forests of Pennsylvania, you are heading to the un-place. A city that neither belongs to any state nor forms one itself. An entity sui generis. Named for a famous person who always humbly referred to it as the “Federal City”. The political epicenter of the globe’s leading power, home to myriads of politicians, journalists, diplomats and spies: Washington, D.C.

As you approach the capital, the soil gets increasingly history-laden. You pass Gettysburg in southern Pennsylvania, place of the battle that marked the turning point of the Civil War. Later, you stop for lunch at Sharpsburg, site of another prominent encounter of that conflict. Also known as the Battle of Antietam, it was the bloodiest day in American military history, with more causalities than all previous US wars together.

As you continue your journey through Maryland, the landscape becomes increasingly urban; traffic and width of the interstate grow. Unnoticed you cross into Washington; no sign tells you have entered the District of Columbia. The busy highways left behind, you traverse the northern part of town, steering towards your hostel. Fortunately, the satellite signal-nourished little display pilots you through the confusing maze of streets.

After checking in at the cramped, run-down hostel that looked so promising on glossy internet pictures, you set out for the lucid, marble buildings manifesting the institutional pillars of the country. But the first destination rejects your curious eagerness of being examined and photographed closely: The White House is cordoned off for security reasons. Short-spoken, bored police officers on Pennsylvania Avenue keep you at bay due to some event taking place on the south lawn.

Thus you move on under the glaring sun. From the Ellipse you catch the iconic view of the President’s mansion through the iron fence, unfortunately a bit far away for your camera lens. Turning eastward, you wander through the Federal Triangle with its massive, late classicist government buildings. You make a shortcut by using the metro, exiting at South Capitol Hill. A similar impression there: Huge, picture-perfect marble edifices, but affiliated with Congress instead of Departments. Everywhere you look concrete and metal barriers for the purpose of shielding those pivotal buildings from bomb-laden vehicles. Combined with the large number of police men and other security personnel, the heartland of the nation’s legislature seems to be fortified. Against threats other than weapon-industry lobbyists and political buccaneers.

You circle the huge Capitol Building, surrounded by architectural beautifications like parks, statues, office buildings and the Supreme Court. An impressive, Corinthian-pillared structure itself, the seat of the highest American court is dwarfed by the shadowing Capitol. Another gem in this corona of historicist architecture is the Library of Congress, the largest collection of books, manuscripts and other media worldwide, started for the purpose of informing parliamentarians thirsty for knowledge.

After circumventing and having eternalized it by innumerable pictures, you leave the evening sun-bathed Capitol, moving on to the culinary part of the night. You stop at a Mexican place just two blocks away from the parliament building. Despite its proximity, prices are reasonable at “Burrito Boys”. Worn out by the lengthy day, you enjoy your well-seasoned quesadilla there. In order to prevent dehydration, you proceed to “Hawks and Doves” for a cold beer. Packed with interns and politician wannabes, the interior evokes the feeling of an old English tavern mixed with US politics memorabilia, while the name makes you think of what ‘bird species’ will prevail regarding the future treatment of Iran.

Bar-hopping, you conclude the evening with an excellent Belgian beer at “Brickskeller”. Serving literally thousands of different brews from all over the world, you relax at this cozy place sipping your cherry-enhanced Lambic. With an international touch, you wrap up this exhilarating day in the capital.

The Art of Toasting

The weekly routine begins with finance class Monday morning. The topic: Bond valuation. Nothing could be more important to you right now than coupon payments, yield-to-maturity, and face values. Speedily the professor goes through the slides. But you got something else on your mind. A speech.

Every Monday, the Toastmasters meet. A student club. Not for preparing delicious breakfast items with bread and butter. But for practicing public speech and listening skills. It seems like a fun thing, improving and being active yourself instead of passively sitting in class. Today is your first speech. The topic is familiar, you have been working on it the past twenty years or so: Yourself. One method to prepare a speech is to write it down completely and then break it down into notes. But as an Improv veteran, you don’t need much preparation. Four bullet points written down will do it. You improvise.

The meetings itself are very formal, with a president and several officers. Some sort of unintentionally funny bureaucracy. The officers’ crucial tasks include things like timing and counting ‘ahs’. The recommendations for the speech suggest dressing up. You honor this advice by wearing your favorite clothes: Worn-out jeans and a Hollister shirt. Nothing can go wrong if you wear that.

The club elders were able to recruit an impressive number of first-year students. A common mistake when starting an MBA program is to sign up for too many activities. Business is about limited resources and business school even more. One of the new recruits obviously miscalculated something. He promised to give the “word of the day”, but does not show up. Thus the president gets a little confused, just like a fellow toastmaster. Too busy with his own tasks, he forgets to observe your speech and give feedback. The warm words from other participants compensate for that.

Today, you do not only deliver a speech, but also a present. A birthday present. One of your Indian co-students did not have to come to this country alone. In order to facilitate her transfer and to check whether she would do her homework, her parents decided to accompany her. And thus Pallavi’s mother celebrates her birthday far away from home. Together with some friends, you try to fill in for missing family members.

Shortly after entering the host’s apartment you learn that some things truly are global phenomena. The birthday child is in the kitchen, fixing a myriad of dishes instead of enjoying the day and let others do the work. Pallavi’s lovely mother even misses most of the actual dinner, urging you to eat without her. Any similarities between her and your grandma and own mother in Germany are purely coincidental. When she finally leaves the kitchen do try the ambrosial results of her work, she hardly eats for five minutes.

The various Indian dishes, all vegetarian, have different degrees of spiciness. A kind of hash browns, e.g., has chunky pieces of green chili pepper in it. The spiciest food offered is made of fried eggplants. But unlike its Italian counterpart, it is piquant. For your unacquainted palate it is just on the lee side of being too hot. Your Indian friends can only frown upon that, for them it is just regularly seasoned.

After the dinner come the presents. The Indian-Nigerian part of the group has organized a chocolate cake for dessert. Very American, very sweet. But the host honors the effort and politely takes a piece. The German part of the group shows its thankfulness for the invitation with a book. Selected poems by Robert Frost, an American writer. His most famous lines are the ones titled “The Road Not Taken”. Is this the right present? In any case, the father seems to embrace it. A poet himself, he shows you his latest publication. Unfortunately, there is not much to marvel about except the cryptic Hindi letters. Luckily he wrote some poems in English, a long time ago, though. He will search for them in his documents, he promises. Another reason for you to look forward to visiting again.

Iftar Dinner at Carnegie Mellon

It is weekend, finally. But as always, important things have to be done. Today, it is an open-heart surgery. Metaphorically speaking. You replace the German operating on your computer by a superior one, an English version. That means spending half of the day installing programs anew, recovering old emails, configuring your laptop. Luckily, the operation is successful, except for a few details. You now have to live without a German spell check in Word and without a standby-function. But that wasn’t good for the climate anyways.

In the early evening, you head to Oakland, where both major universities in town are located at: Of course the University of Pittsburgh, your alma mater. Almost unbelievably old for American standards being founded in 1787. The other institution is Carnegie Mellon University, named for two of the city’s heyday industrial magnates. Probably as a step to foster understanding of Muslim religion and tradition, the university is hosting its fourth annual Iftar dinner. Iftar is the Arabic word for the evening meal for breaking the daily fast during Ramadan. That this event was instituted after Nine-Eleven makes you wonder about the current state of Muslim/non-Muslim dialogue in the Western world. Didn’t a conservative politician in Germany recently demanded a data base for Muslim converts as perceived “security threats”, something that would violate basic human rights as well as the country’s constitution?

Imran and Rizwan, two Muslim co-students, have volunteered for setting up the tables, regardless of the fact that Carnegie Mellon could be considered enemy territory for Katz students. The Muslim Student Association as the host of the evening has put an emphasis on reaching out to the numerous non-Muslims. The origin, purpose and character of Ramadan are explained. While the evening prayer, the Maghrib, takes place in the same room as the non-Muslims watch, the Arabic words are transcribed and translated on Power Point slides. Before the prayer, you had the opportunity to watch and listen to a muezzin, reminding you of the artistically sung calls to prayer in the Old City of Jerusalem.

Finally, for your hungry fellows, the dinner starts. Scrumptious food catered by a local Indian restaurant puts a smile on everyone’s face. From Chicken Tikka Masala to Naan bread, a good range of traditional dishes is provided. The buffet is supplemented by a variety of home-made desserts. This assortment shows more of the merging cultural influences in the States with Baklava and unnamed Arabic treats next to chocolate chip cookies. Unfortunately, the offered Arabic coffee is a disappointment being too watery and only lightly cardamom-flavored. But what you are sipping is probably the Saudi version of Gahwa, not the strong, sweet beverage that you drank in an Arabic café in Haifa.

After the dinner, your group walks back to Shadyside, buses are a rare species on the weekends. On your way a gentle but cold wind blows in your face – fall is approaching quicker than you thought. Some Bollywood movies have made it to Nigeria and so Mayowa and your Indian friends sing a cheesy Hindi love song together, for the amusement of the whole group. After meeting up with Polly’s brother, you conclude the day with the beverage of choice in one of the cafés on Walnut Street. Vodka-orange juice for the health-oriented, soda for the traditionalists and wheat-flavored water for the majority of the group.

Coincidence in Squirrel Hill

You are running out of time. Your last chance. At least for a month. You should make use of it. Show solidarity. Compassion.
What it is? Yet another food story. But this time connected to something higher. It is Wednesday, you and a few people from school are planning on having dinner together. But not just a regular one. Tomorrow, with sunrise, the Muslim month of fasting, Ramadan, starts. Self-discipline, concentration. And enormous dinners.

One of the people affected by Ramadan is Imran from Mumbai (Bombay). With a dynamic curl above his forehead and his smart face he looks a bit like the subcontinent’s answer to Tintin. But without a dog. He is a fasting veteran, but now he is slightly anxious about the longer daylight period here in Pittsburgh compared to his hometown.
He has chosen a restaurant in Squirrel Hill. The second most popular part of town after Shadyside. Vivid, with shops, cafés, a movie theater and many food places. Among the culinary diversity, he selected a Lebanese place, recommended by a friend. If Lebanon was listed on the stock market, it should consider suing for copyright infringement. Because the quality of the food offered does not match the reputation of the Lebanese-middle-eastern cuisine. Especially not according to your standards, after tasting original Arabic dishes in Jerusalem and Ramallah just half a year ago.

As an appetizer, the four of you share an Arabic platter. Besides Imran and you, Mayowa – a Nigerian, fond of meat dishes, and Pallavi – a vegetarian Indian girl, are present. Three nationalities, three religions – Islam, Hinduism, Christianity. And one consensus regarding the food:
In Germany, if the food is too salty, one says that the cook is in love. But what emotional situation matches the excessive use of vinegar? Tabooleh, a parsley-tomato salad should be a little sour, ok. But the hummus, a chick pea paste, and Tahin, a sesame paste? And where are the obligatory falafels, deep-fried vegetarian patties? The entrées are a bit reconciling: Moussakka, Shish Kebab, lamb pita wrap. You don’t stay long in the windowless basement-restaurant. The stairs down from the street level where also a culinary regression, caustically speaking. This place will see you again as customers as much as it gets daylight.

So up for a dessert. Right at the corner is Coldstone, an ice-cream place of the unusual kind. The ice-cream is homemade, thick and flavorful. It is sitting in big pots, waiting for customers. The usual machine-made soft ice-cream, bland and watery, is no match for that. What is special about this place is the fact that a huge scoop of ice-cream is put on a cooled marble plate (hence the name), flattened out and a mixed with sweet stuff like chocolate splinters by literally beating and turning the cold chunk. The enormous portions are sufficient to cool down your body temperature permanently. Mayowa and you settle for a milk shake, respectively a frozen yogurt shake. Real shakes, not the ‘air shakes’ that they serve you in Germany. The ice-cream masters behind the counter are all African Americans, what a contrast to Europe, where you are often served by people of Italian origin. Here, the crew wears T-shirts reading “Friends don’t let friends eat grocery ice-cream”.

After leaving the ice (cream) cave, you are amidst an increasing flow of nicely dressed people on the sidewalk. They are leaving the synagogues. Because tomorrow, Thursday, coinciding with the start of Ramadan, is the Jewish New Year’s holiday, Rosh Ha Shanah. According to the tradition, the day starts after sunset and so the religious celebrations start the evening before the actual calendar date. Squirrel Hill is the center of Jewish life in Pittsburgh with dozens of Jewish institutions like synagogues, schools and shops.

On your way to the car you pass another gathering, a non-religious one. Some skater youth have found two outlets in the exterior wall of a building. Two plugged in laptops play music and let the kids surf the internet, creating a spontaneous party. Of course without alcohol. Left alone the legal drinking age of twenty-one, public consumption of alcoholic beverages is prohibited in Pennsylvania. What a comparison to Cologne, where it is more than normal for young people to have their drink of choice with them when enjoying summer nights in parks and public squares.
But the local liquor laws do not matter to Imran. As a Muslim, he is fasting alcohol twelve months a year.

A mighty fortress

Everyone needs some time off on the weekends – also the sun, it seems. Another rainy, tropical Sunday awaits you as you get up. The sky covered with unhealthy looking yellowish clouds. The first activity of the day: Going to church. Finally, you get to see one of those impressive neo-gothic churches in Shadyside. St. Andrew, a Lutheran church, resembles the fortress mentioned in Luther’s most well-known song with its massive travertine walls and belfry-like tower. The inside is not air-conditioned; the humidity and temperature seem to be even worse than outside. Thus the congregation sits there sweating and fanning, putting the Genesis-verse “in toil you shall…” into undesired practice.

The interior is illuminated by huge stained-glass windows, all bearing the names of their sponsors and the name of a commemorated person. Not surprisingly, the honored church members all had German-sounding names. The second half of the 19^th century saw a massive influx of German and Scandinavian immigrants to the Pittsburgh area, working in the steel mills, glass factories and other crafts. A good portion of those new citizens brought their Evangelical-Lutheran religion with them. Over time, the congregation has embraced people of other origins. Next to you in the pew are some people of Hispanic and African American background.

The pastor is probably suffering most from the difficult climatic conditions, wearing a simple alb and a sumptuous green stole. The ceiling fans do not provide enough cooling and by the time of the sermon, the poor priest has streams flowing down his face. Most songs are not familiar to you, but there is at least one tune that you remember. Today, the old magnificent organ can rest while the piano takes over its part with its light sound. After the worship is over, you shake hands and exchange a few words with the pastor. Unfortunately, you miss the cookies and cake that have been prepared for the worn-out participants. You are supposed to pick Nini up, a Taiwanese co-student.

For the second time, you accompany her to the Chinese supermarket. In contrast to the last visit, the Strip District is deserted on this rainy Sunday. Curious strollers and sunshine shoppers are staying home today. But luckily, the Lotus Food Company can rely on a never-ceasing stream of Asian customers that do not mind getting wet for fresh Tofu and rare fruits. Swiftly, Nini picks up the items on her illegible Taiwanese shopping list.

On the way back, you stop at the Polish church of the neighborhood. The historicist brick building is named for St. Stanislaus Kostka, a Polish Jesuit. With its blend of Baroque and Romanesque influences, it gives a stark contrast to the predominantly neo-gothic churches in Shadyside. Built at a time when the vast majority of the quarter’s population was foreign-born, it now actually houses the remainder of three previously separate Catholic congregations.

The Strip District has seen many changes and hardships. Being settled in the second half of the 19^th century, the flat stretch of flood-prone land next to the Allegheny River attracted mills and factories. The formidable connection via the waterways and railroads transformed the area into a market- and warehouse district. But those developments were flanked by terrible housing conditions, disastrous floods, explosions and fires. With the downfall of the railroads and the advent of the truck, many wholesalers moved out, not to mention the collapse of the steel industry in more recent decades.

But the church is alive and kicking, hosting its annual congregation festival soon, as the poster on its door proclaims.

Between Star of India and Southside

Reoccurring themes. Boring, entertaining, creating continuity? Anyway, this Saturday is full of them. A Saturday that feels more like a Friday. The classes that did not take place the past Monday, due to Labor Day, a public holiday, were simply transferred to Friday. A little chain reaction: On that day of the week, recitations usually take place. The assistants of your professors go through past homework assignments. That has been transferred to Saturday now. Your conscience tells you to go there, trying to get hold of some accounting details.

After surviving that, you have lunch with Pallavi and Yash, two Indian co-students. What place could be more appropriate than an Indian restaurant? The second Indian lunch in a row. Yesterday, you went to Indian Garden, today Star of India. But the creativity does stop there; Prince of India, Indian Palace and Bombay Palace have yet to be tested. Luckily, the service is better than the day before, but the variety of the lunch buffet is unfortunately smaller. Regardless of that, the Indian food is delicious and filling. You are really getting hooked.

Yesterday’s lunch took place under less conditions: You had ten minutes for getting your food before the waiters put the buffet items away. Therefore, everyone in your group rushed and piled up stuff on two or three plates at the same time. Not in accordance with official business etiquette, but pragmatic. The zesty food goes along with vivid table conversations. One of the topics: Pakistani politics. What a picture: Rizwan, from Pakistan, Imran and Pallavi, from India, talking about ill-fated attempts of the country’s ruler to stay in power. Marcelo, from Chile, watches helplessly and puzzled. Everyday internationality at Katz.

Later the afternoon, it is college football time again. Not as intense as the stadium experience, but Amir’ giant flat screen gets pretty close for a TV set. If there was ranking for the ratio of screen size in square feet to apartment size in square feet, Amir would be a top candidate in Pittsburgh. But even the biggest TV does not prevent your favorite team from losing again. This time, the opponent of North Carolina State is Boston College. A tough one. After a fair start, NCSU’s quarter back makes too many costly mistakes, mercilessly exploited by adversary. Amir sees his team’s star slowly but constantly sinking, making him mad. Some cusswords and pillow throws relieve the anger. Despite the unpleasant development of the game, your knowledge and understanding of that complex sport increases steadily. A very strategic but yet dynamic game.

Less dynamically, you join the usual suspects in the evening for a few drinks in Pittsburgh’s Southside district. Across the Monongahela River, shopping and party quarter popular among students has developed in recent years. The nightly atmosphere, a mix of exuberance and superficial entertainment in generic bars, reminds you of similar areas in Cologne. Regardless of that, your crew and you have fun talking and dancing at one of the places. The drawback of Southside is it remoteness. You can walk to the bars and cafés and Walnut Street in Shadyside. But for the trans-river enjoyment you need either a taxi cab or a sober person on your team doing the driving.

This part of the city, like several others, used to be dominated by a steel mill. The brick buildings that house the bars used to accommodate the steel workers. Despite the economic change, the area still has some blue-collar ambiance. The actual site of the steel mill has been cleared of its industrial, contaminated heritage, giving way to modern office building and shopping facilities.
On your way back, you cross the Hot Metal Bridge that was in fact used for transferring molten steel. The name persists, reminding the conscious passerby of Pittsburgh’s history.

Labor Day Triptychon - Southern Hospitality

Benson is only half an hour away from Raleigh, but to Amir it must seem like a time travel. Until a few months ago, he lived and went to college in Raleigh, most of his friends live there. His parents live in Benson, where he has left them after high school in their country house, between tobacco fields, goats and grandmother. Now he is back for a visit, more out of obligation than own motivation. An old friend, your roommates and you accompany him. Maybe to reduce the risk of boredom. Maybe because you are some kind of community, after a long drive, a dramatic football game and uncountable beers. A community, that has to stick together now.

The five of you leave the monotonous new neighborhood behind where Amir’s old roommates and your hosts for the weekend live. The sky cloudless, the roads empty. Everyone who was able to left for North Carolina’s fine and now crowded beaches already on Friday. Your stay is too short for going to the beach, maybe that’s what makes visiting his parents so unattractive for your fellow student. But for you it is the opportunity to gain another insight into this country.

His parents have teamed up to prepare an overflowing lunch table for us. The father prepared a roast beef that would make some Ikea-tables collapse. The mother has covered the table with a legion of plates and bowls. Most notably are the freshly baked biscuits, a specialty of the Southern cuisine. The soft, small bread is eaten together with gravy or butter as a side dish. You cannot get those in Pittsburgh, only ludicrous versions in the frozen food section and at fast food places. The biscuits, together with the freshly brewed sweet tea puts a smile on Amir’s face. At least his culinary taste is still anchored here, despite the fact that he considers Raleigh to be his home due to his friends and college time there.

His mother comes from the Raleigh area, giving us a great example of the famous Southern Hospitality. Warm hearted, she is very fond of Amir’s new friends, especially Kati. The same is valid for Amir’s uncle, who is also present. As a genuine southerner, he gives your ears and listening abilities a hard time with his accent. Tobacco, for example, is slurred to ‘bacco’. The father complements the cultural diversity. Born and grown up in Tehran, he came to the States age nineteen. As a Shiite he went to Methodist and Presbyterian colleges before working for the State of North Carolina. He has not been to his home country for over thirty years, he has not seen the Iran of the mullahs. As silent reminders, a Farsi calligraphy and a samovar can be found in the house.

Back in Raleigh, you get to hear another story from the orient. A different one. Chase, on old friend of Amir, has been to Iraq as a medic. The reserved young guy knew that he would be sent to Iraq when he enlisted. He knew that this war was a political mistake. But he wanted to help. And studying medicine, becoming an assistant doctor, serving as a medic was a good preparation. And the Army pays for college. Financial independence from his parents was more important to Chase than the risk that he took. He was stationed in Bakuba, a small town not far from Baghdad. He has seen it all: The attacks, the corruption, the standstill of the reconstruction, friendship and despise of the Iraqis towards the Americans. Safely back, he is with his old friends again in Raleigh, being awkwardly silent.

Labor Day Triptychon - Carter Finley Stadium

You are in the middle of a sea. A sea of red color, noise and craziness. Sixty-thousand people that scream, clap their hands, stomp with their feet. You are in the middle of them. All of them – literally – wear red: T-shirts, jerseys, caps, face- and some body paint. This sounds like a prehistoric appearance for battle. In fact, reality is not that far away. Because all that is about nothing else than college football.

Some people might say that American sport leagues have a boring, professional routine, their fans showing unagitated, consumer-like behavior. Without big emotions.

But this is certainly not true for the football that is played by college teams, you think. You are standing between thousands of enthusiastic students, the hardcore fans of North Carolina State University. Not some regular college. No, but the biggest school in the state and Alma Mater of Amir, your co-student. Founded in the 1880s originally for teaching agricultural and engineering sciences. But tonight, it is all about the science of the egg-shaped ball.
The last minutes of the game are ticking away and the home team is shortly behind the guests from Florida. Both teams do not look very academic with their helmets and shoulder pats. But in a way, the ancient principle of “mens sana in corpora sana”, shaping both your body and your mind, lives on. Surely unnoticed by the people involved.

A football match officially takes four times 15 minutes. Due to uncountable interruptions, during which the clock is stopped, that easily translates to several hours of watching. You have been in the stadium for a long time, but luckily not bored by the game. Whoever sides with the home team has embarked on a rollercoaster trip. After a disastrous start, the University of Central Florida looks like the winner for a long time. But in the third and fourth quarter, NCSU catches up tremendously.
More than one might expect upon seeing all that tacking and blocking, the game is about technique and strategy. A player willing to receive the ball is worth nothing if the thrower messes up the pass. Likewise, a mile-long pass will lead to grey hair among the spectators when there is no one to catch due to strategic errors.

But this football day did not start upon entering the stadium. During the whole afternoon American event culture has been celebrated. In the parking lot in front of the stadium. Ten-thousands of fans bring tons of beer, hotdogs, chips, even whole pigs along with their cars and trucks. Pregaming in America.
Is that the product of a hedonistic, present-day mentality? No, according to Amir’s father, who said that this was practiced already back in the sixties.
People stand and sit in front of their open tailgates – thus the name tailgating – talking, eating, drinking. And playing games. Why not becoming athletic yourself before a sports event? Why not combining that with beer consumption? You are not a fan of drinking games, but for the sake of transatlantic cultural exchange, you introduce Flunkyball. The Americans like the new game.

The goal is to hit a water bottle and tip it over with a tennis ball. The bottle stands in the middle between two lines, on which the two competing teams are lined up. They take turns trying to hit the bottle. In case of success, the team is allowed to drink from the beer bottles placed in front of them, as long as the other team is not done putting the water bottle back into place. The team with the better throwers, more agile sprinters and faster chuggers wins. Who said that Europe always equals culture?
Due to the fact that beer bottles are not available, the game is played with cans. The water bottle is rarely hit, but the more people laugh and have fun. Even the sun above Raleigh cannot assist those few cans of weak American beer in getting you drunk. Or was it rather the fact that you withdraw from the game early, polite European style?

Anyway, the fun afternoon reduces the disappointment about NCSU losing its first game of the season. Maybe fans of German soccer club Schalke 04, notorious for giving away the championship at the end of the season, should start tailgating before the final match?