California Or Bust

The following is a condensation of chapter 1.  It was published under the title A Cheese Sandwich in the magazine Reminisce in March 2004 and describes the bus trip from New York to Los Angeles in March 1950.

THE CHEESE SANDWICH.

"Hot dog" the menu read, and "Chili dog." I wondered what a "heated" or a "chilled" dog could be, translating the phrases erroneously. I had taken English in high school in Berlin and prided myself in speaking the language reasonably well, but the menu in this bus stop had me baffled. There were so many choices, none sounding familiar. Finally my eyes came across one simple entry: "Cheese Sandwich." I envisioned dark crusty bread with any one of my favorite cheeses, from Edam to Swiss. When the pretty waitress, in her starched uniform, her dark hair topped with a matching cap, asked for my order, I requested: "May I have a cheese sandwich, please?" "Do you want ....." she asked in some unintelligible language. Hoping to be correct I answered "yes" to each of her inquiries, nodding my head vigorously. Soon thereafter the waitress brought my order: American Cheese on white bread with mayonnaise and lettuce. Not bad, I thought after a few bites. In fact, it was downright delicious. It was not what I had anticipated, but in this new country new taste sensations were something to be expected. The potato chips that came with the sandwich were wonderful too, a strange new treat that I hoped to have again soon.

It was a blustery March day in 1950. I had arrived in New York earlier that day, after a stormy Atlantic crossing. The Traveler's Aid Society had met the ship, offering assistance to the new immigrants. With their help I had found the Greyhound Bus Depot. My final destination was Los Angeles, a continent away, a trip of about 4 days and 3 nights. Here we were at our first stop at suppertime. The cheese sandwich finished, I returned to my seat in the bus and settled down for the long night's ride. Next morning we stopped at another cafe. The breakfast menu was simple enough, an order of scrambled eggs and toast, accompanied by orange juice and coffee, was soon placed in front of me and devoured. This was going to be easy, I thought as I paid my bill and left a small tip. Food was so inexpensive in America, my fifty dollars, advanced to me by my sponsor, would be more than sufficient to see me across the country.

The bus ride took us through a beautiful part of Pennsylvania; much of which reminded me of the home I left behind. The hills, woods and streams were so similar, only towns were different from German towns, yet interesting in their own way. Soon enough it was time to stop for lunch at another Greyhound Bus Stop. Again the menu proved impossible to understand, and as the waitress, another attractive young woman in a starched outfit with the prettiest apron, asked for my order "May I have a cheese sandwich, please" was all I could mutter. As she asked me numerous questions, none of which I fully understood, she became rather upset with me. Impatiently, for she had many other customers to serve during the short span allowed by the bus schedule, she asked the same questions over again. "Yes" I nodded each time; my palate all set for American cheese on white bread with mayonnaise and lettuce, potato chips on the side. When the sandwich arrived, I saw with disappointment that I had ordered: Swiss cheese on rye with caraway seeds. I thanked her nevertheless and proceeded to bite into my lunch. My disappointment soon turned to delight, for the sandwich was quite good, and, of course, I was pretty hungry by then.

Dinner brought the same dilemma. Without consulting the menu I requested: "May I have a cheese sandwich, please." "Would you like....." asked the waitress. Here we go again, I murmured in my native German, but aloud I said "yes" and "yes" to a puzzled-looking waitress. To my great surprise she brought: Grilled cheese with potato salad. What a delightful meal. I could not get over my good fortune to have such nice waitresses, treating me to all these new taste sensations. Satisfied once more I looked forward to the night. Before falling asleep, using a sweater as a pillow, my coat as a blanket, I silently practiced speaking English, not realizing that it was not my speaking ability, but the fact that my ears had not yet attuned themselves to the many different inflections of Americanized English, nor the often slurred speech of busy people. Tomorrow will be better, I promised myself. Confident that time would take care of this problem I fell asleep

Just to be on the safe side I ordered eggs for breakfast. An elderly lady, whom I recognized as a fellow passenger, sat down next to me and smiled. "How do you do?" I said in my precise school English, smiling back at the kind woman. "Good morning" she replied "I have been watching you," and added "are you new to this country? Are you a war bride?"

"No, just a poor immigrant"

Between bites our conversation continued. I tried to explain the hopelessness of life in post-war Berlin. When the opportunity to immigrate to the U.S. presented itself I grabbed it with both hands and applied for a visa. That was in 1948, while the airlift was in full swing. Now, almost two years later the trip had become a reality. I was enthralled by my first real English conversation, patiently furthered by my newfound friend, who spoke slowly and distinctly to help me understand almost everything she said.

"How old are you, my dear?" she continued.

"Nineteen."

"My, oh my! How you must miss your family"

"Oh, no" was all I could utter, thinking about the many journeys I had made on my own. Tales of trips to and from Berlin, when I was only 12, dodging bombs during air raids, excursions into the country, riding on top of freight trains, foraging for food for myself and my starving younger sisters when I was 15, were stories beyond my capability to relate. I lamely added: "I have spent much time away from home, during the war."

"My, my" she said again, adding "How far are you going?"

"To Los Angeles"

"My, my. Well, have a safe trip. I hope you will find all you are looking for and more," my kind companion said, as she picked up my ticket to pay for it. I thanked her with tears in my eyes. What a wonderful country that I will soon be able to call home.

Having gained some confidence from this experience, I was sure I could talk to the next waitress more intelligently. I had not counted on her Texas drawl, which sounded all together different from anything I had heard before. When I asked: "May I have a cheese sandwich, please?" she just nodded, not questioning me in any way. I felt a great relief and waited for my sandwich with great anticipation. The cafe had a specialty sandwich, which was soon brought to me: Grilled cheeses, topped with coleslaw on whole wheat bread. Fascinated by this soggy concoction, I tried to eat it with fork and kn