On Reading "Mrs. Dalloway" in the Stadtpark

I am reading Virginia Woolf in Germany, and in the absence of Big Ben and the Hydes and Regencies of Westminster, I’ll supply the Mainz Stadtpark — where I am writing, presently — and the routine passage of the red and white Deutsche Bahn trains. The travel between this pretty stretch of green and the Rhine River, south I think, or over to Wiesbaden. It’s Sunday here.

(The nice thing about writing from the park, I’ve decided, is that I have only as long as the battery in my laptop holds out; right now, that looks to be an hour and a half. I’ve put off writing in any serious way about my March travels or my arrival in Mainz in part because it is too daunting a task. With six and a half weeks — and about eight countries, by my count — behind me since I left the United States, I just don’t know where to begin. But I’ll get something down, and throw it online, because that one bit from February is beginning to look a little lonesome. Not a day in the life of Clarissa Dalloway, perhaps; an hour in the Stadtpark will have to do.)

I carried both Mrs. Dalloway and To the Lighthouse for four weeks across Europe, but didn’t open either until alighting, at last, in Germany. There was a book about the Balkans that caught my fancy at one point, but most often, I spent what little time I could scrape together frantically writing in my daily journal. I can only sum it up by saying that the business of recording took on monumental importance. In our thirty passage across Europe, I collected the names of favorite bakeries, and town squares, and the contents of breakfast. My fanaticism in recording petered slightly when we were joined by traveling companions or visited friends in Austria and then later Italy, England and Ireland.

(There go the bells. Quite a fuss, in fact, for a quarter to six.)

During my first two weeks in Mainz, I’ve been making slow but thoughtful progress through Mrs. Dalloway. I was amused, at first, by the immediacy of London — a city I had seen, just briefly, a week before. And when the amusement of familiar names and shared sights passed, I settled in for what I imagined would be the obligatory read. I felt a pang of guilt at indulging in something so very English. But much to my surprise — and only in further support of a language I already miss very much — I’ve fallen quiet in love with the book. While it is a taxing read at times, it lives up to the claims that, with this novel, Woolf has mapped the shape and trajectory of consciousness.

I like it very much.

My fondness for Woolf’s text, and for Clarissa Dalloway and her set, springs in part, I imagine, from the peculiarity of my days here — they are not too terribly unlike Mrs. Dalloway’s. (“And people would say, ‘Clarissa Dalloway is spoilt.’” How apt!) Classes start tomorrow, which should be something of a shock to my system; without such routine, my days now are measured by trips to the supermarket, and outings to the city center, and long afternoons in the sun. And like Clarissa, gone to buy flowers herself, I often feel as though these concrete moments — the exchange with my baker, perhaps, or a cheerful encounter with old women on the (omni)bus — are startling punctuations of reality. Otherwise, I am a bit without anchor.

This is all to say: the simplest of outings here take on extraordinary meeting; it is a thoughtful way of living, and curiously, but pleasantly, lonely; and I like Virginia Woolf.

I want, like Woolf, to make sense of my days here in a transcript-like record, to illustrate the movement of my mind, yes, but also the topography of the “alltäglich,” the daily. It’s a daunting task, though. I feel here as though I look more than I think. And when we speak — the Americans to one another in a strange mix of English and German, and to the Germans in sentences that leap and stretch between apologetic and enthusiastic — I am only reminded that I can only say so much.

We’ve had an astonishingly sunny stretch of weather here. There are reports of snow from Middlebury — snow in April! — but here, it feels like summer is setting in. Here in the Stadtpark, I’ve been tossed back into the sunshine again. No sleeping Peter Walshes to report on, or quarelling lovers, or sad and solitary Septimuses. The novelty of life here gives me the same kinetic appreciation for daily life that I think Woolf expresses. I like the park, in part because I feel some kinship here with my neighbors. That the children speak such high and lovely German amazes me. That the old women ride their rickety city bikes with such confidence amazes me.

And at some of the simplest things — phrases sung out across the park: “Zug kommt! Schnell! Schau mal!” or, “Kucht Mama, ein Hund!” — I am tickled pink! Perhaps I romanticize this place and these people. (“David!” called out, just now, over the park. I’ve watched him, David, make his adventurous way across the footpath and up into the pansies. “Komm zurück!” And he toddles back to his mother and sisters, father trailing. How proud at his outing!) The sunshine brings it out in me, this fondness for strangers. Not June in Regency Park, but a lovely April in Mainz. It sparks the same goodwill.

Enough, I think, of Virginia Woolf. I promise that not all of my carrying-ons here are so ponderous! I am settled now in my dormitory, which is located adjacent the university here in a tidy little residential neighborhood. There is a kindergarten across the street, and a grocery store within five minutes walking distance. I’ve taken up swimming, too; I am a terribly unpretty and ill-coordinated swimmer, particularly when compared to the sleek and methodical Germans, but I’ve found it very relaxing. The old man who I assume works at the pool calls me “Amerikanerin” — it’s quite endearing, actually.

Classes begin tomorrow — what a jolt to my system that should be! I’ve played at speaking German here, and on the whole, I’ve enjoyed it a great deal. A few run-ins with dorm neighbors, a few conversations over dinner, the occasional exchange, marked by smiles all around, with shopkeepers or cashiers. But it’s down to business tomorrow! The school abroad in Germany is the only of Middlebury’s programs, as far as I know, that requires students to be fully immersed in the university system. That means I’ll be approaching each of my professors this week, singling myself out as an American exchange student, and asking permission to take their courses. Press the thumb for luck, as we say in Germany.

That’s it from the Stadtpark, I think. Back to my Woolf. When my Internet access is a bit better, I’ll make sure my photographs from the March trek go up — some of them, at least. And, if all goes as plans, I’ll be updating more frequently now that I’m settled in Mainz.

(An addendum: I wrote this earlier this week. In the four days since, I’ve registered with the network here and finally established an Internet connection at home. I’ve also finished Mrs. Dalloway — with a start in my bed late at night, no less. I’ve also made it through my first week of classes. And since Monday, we young Americans are making strange sense of news from home. Shootings and rulings; from Mainz it all feels disconcertingly distant.)