Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts

Monday, July 13, 2009

Sleeping in a Suitcase


It was curiosity about the former DDR – the German Democratic Republic - as well as a wish for an unusual adventure, that took me cross-country to the other side of Germany. I wanted to see the poverty I had read about, the frustration, the exodus, and I wanted to sleep in the suitcase that was advertised as the smallest hotel in the world. Hindsight tells me that it was crazy to expect a meaningful experience within a twenty-two hour time span, but by a stroke of luck I encountered the most outgoing, ambitious and open-minded person who would guide me with enthusiasm into both, a political discussion and a night in a wooden box by the Zwickauer Mulde at the far end of Saxony. Herr Lehmann, the owner of the suitcase, is an extraordinary man.

I had cut out an article about “Sleeping in a Suitcase” a few years ago, eventually researched it on the Internet and put it on my list of things to do someday. A month before my trip to Dilsberg I emailed Herr Lehmann and we set my date of arrival for September 21. He seemed thrilled, offered to give me a ride in his boat and a tour of his museum, even said he would pick me up from the nearest train station if I told him my arrival time. While I lived in Dilsberg I received a “Welcome to Germany” note from him. All that, I thought, for a ten Euro stay.

Thirteen dollars to spend the night and one hundred and sixty dollars for the roundtrip. Though I left my rented house at five thirty in the morning, I didn’t get to Lunzenau until three in the afternoon. Five transfers – three trains and two buses, increasingly more graffiti and broken glass, less flowerpots, dilapidated communist blockhouses, long red lights and detours because of highway construction – and then I stepped out of the bus into bright sunshine onto a deserted street. Nobody to ask directions, no signs, few houses, fewer cars, not even a cat. A far cry from my fortress Dilsberg where people sat on benches in front of the town gate tower and directed strangers to the castle. I should have taken Herr Lehmann up on his offer to meet me at the train station, but it had seemed like such an imposition to make him drive forty-five minutes to pick up one person.

As soon as I walked a few feet to the right I saw the restaurant “Zum Prellbock,” a white three story stucco with its own parking lot. And then I saw the Suitcase, a few feet back, separated from the street by a fence, surrounded by flowers. It was exactly as it was described and pictured online. A large wooden crate that was painted brown and embellished with the attributes of a suitcase. Not much taller than I; probably not even two feet longer, and definitely very narrow.

“I’m going to sleep in that?”

I’m not sure if I said it out loud or if I thought it. Slowly I walked alongside the restaurant, on one hand excited about having made it so far but also wondering if I would be able to find alternative sleeping arrangements if I became claustrophobic. I reached the locomotive and the restored train station that Herr Lehmann had hauled in and made into a museum. Down the stairs stretched a beer garden with wooden tables and chairs, shaded by large trees, edged by the river. Inside the dark interior of the restaurant I spotted Herr Lehmann in the middle of his kingdom. Station master hats hung everywhere, signs, posters, rail artifacts, souvenirs. We shook hands like long lost friends; his wife welcomed me with a glass of sparkling water and I was urged to sit and relax.

We talked for half an hour before Herr Lehmann suggested I take a walk to the tall rail bridge a mile and a half away. He would get the boat ready and later his wife would prepare dinner. The boat, I realized as we toured the grounds, was the dinghy tied to a tree and it had taken on some water. My host gave me an introduction to the history of the suitcase and his passion for the railroad. He works for the Deutsche Bundesbahn, the German Rail system; he is a collector of rail art and anything else that is connected to trains. His restaurant is a meeting place for cultural events like poetry readings and art exhibits and the display of unusual hobbies. He built the suitcase a few years ago because he constantly had requests from visitors who wanted to spend a night in his train station. Together he and his wife manage the restaurant, the museum, the gift shop, the suitcase and an upstairs vacation home. Tourism has declined since the younger generation migrates west, hardly any requests for the furnished apartment that he rents out for twenty-five dollars a night. He gets up at three in the morning and drives seventy kilometers to his job in Leipzig. But he never quit smiling, and with great enthusiasm he told me about his plans for the future, a suitcase on wheels to take to exhibits and to travel the continent or at least visit the children.

I had brought a present for Herr Lehmann, an American magazine about rail travel and a small figurine of a stationmaster. When he flipped through the pages aimlessly I realized that he did not understand English and suggested that he might like the photography. It was the only time I saw him reticent.

“We learned Russian in school.”

This simply had not occurred to me. Everybody else I knew in Germany had some basic knowledge of English. It was the curtain – the iron curtain - that had left its marks. The division I had read about, the uneasy readjustment of two halves that had for so long gone in their own opposing directions.

Finally Herr Lehmann took me to my “room.” He unlocked the narrow door to the suitcase and the first things I saw were the tiny sink and the toilet. The rest of the interior was filled with the wooden bunks and an old metal locker. The walls of unpainted pressed wood were almost totally covered by black felt pen writing. The ceiling was batted with a dark blue fabric on which somebody had sewn yellow felt stars.

“Make sure you leave a message too,” I was told as I read some of the poems and thank yous on the walls.

Since there was no room to move around inside we stood in front. Soon Herr Lehmann left to get the boat ready for the promised ride on the river. For the first time I noticed the mosquitoes that swarmed around the waterfront and I regretted not having brought repellent. I posed Tyana on the top bunk and took a few pictures before I closed the door to freshen up a bit. If I moved very slowly I avoided banging into the walls. A small window at the top allowed for some light but I also located the switch for a lamp by the bed. On top of the locker I saw the bible, an old book of regulations for rail travel and a Japanese adventure story. Something to read for all occasions.

After my limited cleanup session I took the camera and began the prescribed walk. It was easy to follow the river but too far to the bridge. Germans describe every stretch as being two kilometers but somehow it is always twice as long. The landscape was beautiful though it seemed neglected. Throughout my short stay in Saxony I had the feeling that two forces were at work, the fast pace of reconstruction but also a slow decline based on lethargy. I tried to sort out my impressions on a bench by the Mulde, tried to keep my expectations separate from reality, but I couldn’t. Every time I focused on the natural beauty in front of me, I remembered the face of a station attendant I had asked for directions. He didn’t move, barely opened his thin-lipped mouth, his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. He looked cruel, like the East German policemen who shot at their brothers when they tried to climb the wall or escaped through underground tunnels. Like the villains on a movie set.

Five minutes after six I showed up for dinner and excused myself from the boat ride. I didn’t want to hurt Herr Lehmann’s feelings, but the boat looked small, the mosquitoes threatening, I was hungry, and I began to feel the effects of the seven-hour train trip.

The family sat under a tree with their evening meal. I apologized for being early. No problem, the menu would entertain me for half an hour. It not only detailed the food choices, all associated with the glory days of trains, but was also loaded with old ticket stubs, advertising, and historical facts. A clever way to involve the tourist with the concept of past rail travel and a tribute to the Lehmann’s creativity and commitment.

I ordered potato dumplings, red cabbage, and sauerbraten. And of course my daily Cola light. I am not a beer drinker and I don’t remember how many times I had to point that out during my trip. I was one of six guests and the only one who remained until it got dark. We moved inside and after a quick phone conversation Herr Lehmann asked if I minded being interviewed and photographed. He would do the interview and the Free Press would send a photographer the next morning. I had suddenly become a celebrity because I had traveled so far to sleep in the suitcase. Most visitors were young cyclists who used it because it was cheap or because it was an oddity. There were occasional travelers from other German states, quite a few Berliners, some newlyweds, an oldster who hadn’t lost his sense of adventure yet, but nobody from the US had ever slept in the suitcase.

A gentleman named Gert Flessing introduced himself and moved over on the bench so I could sit next to him. I recognized him from the website as the writer who would recite his poems the next evening.

I was surprised when he smiled and explained, “Normally I am a pastor.”
“You are allowed to drink?” I said it without thinking and was reassured that beer consumption was not sinful. We both laughed. I apologized and told him that I was not used to socializing with a pastor. Then we discussed the recent elections and the fact that the right wing, the Neo Nazis had garnered a spot on the ticket. Her Flessing explained the peculiar kind of poverty the eastern states are facing.

“Different from real poverty,” he claimed. “Our poor are demanding; they won’t make do with used things. They expect to be taken care of. We subsidize their children’s education and their heating bills in winter. But it never seems enough.”

After a while I became a bit uneasy with the conversation. The “Wende” (the change or the turning point) as they call the fall of the Berlin Wall seems to have caused many problems. Unemployment (East Germany has 19 percent, twice that of the west), the exodus of the young (more than a million people have moved to the west since 1989), the closing of factories and the decay of the cement block communist houses. My question about Neo Nazi influence on the young provoked Herr Flessing to say that, “the left is just as dangerous.”

Whatever it was that I detected in his voice, I didn’t want to explore further. I gave him my email address and promised to keep in touch. Herr Lehmann finished his interview with me and around ten his wife brought in my comforter, which he carried as he escorted me to the suitcase. It was totally dark outside. Dark, silent and thrillingly refreshing. After the door closed I brushed my teeth, slipped into my sweats and went to sleep.

Why was I surprised the next morning that my sleep was so sound? It really makes no difference how big a place is once you close your eyes. I didn’t wake until my cell phone alarm went off at eight. Extricating myself from the lower bunk, looking into the mirror above the sink, I had the urge to rip open the door and dressed quickly. With the turn of the key I was part of the real world again. I wiped the dew from a chair and sat down to enjoy the morning, realizing that the thrill of this adventure was not in sleeping in a box; it was in the effects of the total package. The cats around my legs, the deep colors of fall flowers, the bright blue sky, the mumbling of the river, Frau Lehmann’s smile as she came with a covered basket and set the breakfast table for me. Cheeses and lunchmeats, yogurt, a boiled egg, fresh rolls, jam, coffee. She sat down with me while we waited for the photographer. And he, a typical German in my eyes, immediately argued about the expectations of the newspaper.

“I am supposed to photograph an arrival.”

Well, Frau Lehmann expected to be photographed having breakfast with me. It’s what Herr Lehmann had suggested, I guess. The photographer won. We were told to stand in the parking lot, by the rail art statue, the suitcase in the background, Frau Lehmann explaining its history, the sun shining brightly into our faces. I insisted on holding Tyana the bear. A young man without a sense of humor I thought when he frowned. But this time I won. I’m German, too, you know.

The rest of the morning was that of a regular traveler. I packed, moved my belongings into the restaurant so Frau Lehmann could get the suitcase ready for the next inhabitant. On Herr Lehmann’s recommendation I took off toward the castle.

“Rochsburg is only two kilometers away. You have to see it.”

Either I got lost or the distance doubled and though I had a wonderful walk up and down mountains in the deep shadow and silence of old trees, I was glad to finally arrive at a plateau and see the castle in the distance. I knew I would miss my one o’clock bus – 13:10 to be precise – if I walked much farther. When I reached the main road, I located the sign that pointed back to Lunzenau and marched nonstop past windmills and smoke stacks – the dichotomy of old and new again – right back to the Prellbock. A quick Cola drink and a hearty handshake later I stood at the bus stop, ready for the long trip back to Dilsberg. As I had promised myself some time ago, I had slept in a suitcase, advertised as the smallest hotel in the world.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

My Travels into the Past

Tyana on the "Old Bridge" in Heidelberg



My Christmas Dinner at the "Ritter"


The Street where I lived


I led a purpose-driven life while I traveled. I explored. I read. I wrote. I took pictures. Now, home again, I wander aimlessly among German verbs, CNN news reports, and the rising waters of the Los Gatos Creek. I sleep only two hours at a stretch; at four in the morning I print glossy eight by tens of foreign affairs; at seven, when a Waste Management employee empties my trashcan, I struggle to express my general sadness in terms other than the German ‘trauern.’ What is the word I try to remember? Mourning. That’s it. I’m mourning my lost options. Matching sock to boot to distance of walking. Weighing the probability of rainfall against wearing hat, scarf, and gloves. Selecting the tastiest meats, cheeses, rolls, and fruits from the hotel breakfast buffet. While I stir my bland prepackaged oatmeal, while I battle to regain the rhythm of my previous life, I yawn. Not enough sleep? Boredom? Lack of oxygen? This is my third morning back from the trip to Nürnberg and Heidelberg, but still, snowflakes sliver through the air in front of my eyes; my feet navigate the cobblestones of twelfth century alleyways; my eyes see gold plated fountains and fortified bell towers.

Soon the mind will reverse its aim again. I know from experience that images fade, that English will replace my mother tongue once more, and that castles will be things I fabricate in my dreams and hide from the sunny California sky. Retrieval of the trashcan will be an automatic part of Wednesday morning; oatmeal will be standard fare; sitting at my computer will neither induce a yawn nor will it make me sad.

This last trip was born from a desire to touch snow. A desire to connect with the feelings that once were part of me on German streets, under gray skies, and in the shivering light of Christmas candles. But were these feelings really induced by an ancient cityscape? I used to think so. But then I walked for hours without being able to reclaim the breathless excitement of my school years. I touched sandstone walls and peeked into dark doorways. I sampled stores, cafés churches, castles. When I gazed into the window of a yarn shop, the same shop I used to enter 50 years ago, I saw my reflection; I did not see the eager seventeen-year old student who spent her allowance on knitting patterns. When I halted in front of a cigar store I was not amused by the life-size Negro statue donning a red Santa hat. He’s been part of the display as long as I can remember. We used to giggle and nod hello to him on our way to school.

Maybe I finally have to admit that one can’t go home again. It seems my memories are most alive when I sit at my computer at home. But wait; this isn’t completely true. There were flickers of recognition. Small excitements. Things that made me hold my breath. In hindsight I realize that it isn’t a rediscovery of emotions but a distinct awareness of specific sensations. On my first full day in Germany, after de-icing had delayed my plane in Toronto for two hours, after the airline left my suitcase behind, after my train was an hour late and filled to capacity, and after I arrived in a gray, damp, yet snow-less Nürnberg, after a few hours of restless sleep, I woke at four in the morning, jumped out of bed and stood in awe in front of the open dormer window until my legs were numb from the icy wind that blew into the room.

What I saw might not have excited anybody else, but for me it was an image I had longed for. The roofs across the street were white with snow; only a few red shingles peeked through. The sky loomed in darkness but the air seemed crowded with swirling white dots. When did I last stand at a window, watching snowflakes land on rooftops? Later, in bed again, I let my thoughts visit all the places I had once called home and the only one high up enough and close enough to other buildings of that height, was the hotel my mother, father, and I lived in during the war. It was in Velbert, in the industrial north of Germany. I was four years old at the time. When air raids forced us into nightly evacuations to the basement, I would sometimes stand in the middle of our dark bedroom; I would look at the sky and the silent world of dancing snowflakes as they settled on the roofs across the street. Then a siren would wail and my mother would grab me and we’d run five or six flights of stairs down to the shelter.
There were other occasions in Nürnberg that suddenly aroused one of my senses. The smell of potato pancakes at the Christmas market was so strong that I returned every evening for a late meal. The woman who scooped them from the hot oil barely nodded when I told her that they tasted like the ones my grandmother used to fry.

And one morning, at an open-air market, I was reminded of my grandmother again. I had taken a picture of the colorful display and was drawn to a group of apples. They looked leathery. I let my hand glide over the rough surface of the biggest one and searched for a name, when the owner rushed to the front to be of assistance. I suppose Oma would have scolded me if I had violated a rule; the man just shot me a disapproving glance. I should have remembered, one must only point to the fruit, the vendor will pick it up, weigh it and hand it to the customer.

“We heisst der Apfel?” I asked. What is the name of this apple?

“Boskopf.” He frowned and asked me how many I wanted.

I couldn’t contain the thrill he had incited in me with the word “Boskopf,” and told him that I hadn’t seen one in over forty years, that we used to store them in our basement, and that I knew exactly what they would look like in the spring.

“Wie ein altes Weib,” I said. Like an old woman. “All shriveled up.”

The man stood patiently when I explained that I lived in America and that we didn’t have Boskopf there. Then he handed me the one apple I wanted and counted the change I gave him.

When I came to Heidelberg I realized, again, how easy it is to bring back the sensations foods produce. How the mealy flesh of chestnuts moistens in the mouth. How the pungent smell of herring sandwiches lingers. How peasoup ladles slowly and begs for the companionship of smoked ham.

Ok, so food is a quickstep into the past. What I didn’t expect was the effect of sound. After a lengthy trek through Oldtown, following the steps I would have taken on my way to school or work in the 1950s, I was tired. It rained heavily all day, my left hip ached, I had not connected with any of the sites I had visited. Neither old teachers’ voices nor the taste of a first kiss, nor the pain over a lover’s infidelity came to life. Most of the several-hundred-year old buildings were unchanged and cars and bicycles still clung to the sidewalks of narrow alleys, and I strode like a zombie, driven forward by the need to experience something. Yet my mind stayed uninvolved. Curious and appreciative but uninvolved. I might as well have walked through old Cairo or the back streets of Beijing. Antiquity? Yes. Familiarity? No. Then bells rang. An Advent evening service at the Church of the Holy Spirit. I entered the wooden portal, was handed a sheet of paper with a song, sat, and waited. While I admired hundreds of flickering candles the organist began to pump the pedals of the organ. I watched her body move, watched her solemn face come alive, and slowly the gray city washed away, floated into the candle light, rose into the music that surrounded me. I was transported to the small church of my hometown where, at the age of seven, I was an angel, proclaiming the arrival of the Christ Child. Later I shook hands with the pastor, a woman of about forty, and told her that my son had been baptized in the Church of the Holy Spirit, that I hadn’t been inside for more than forty years.

“Frohe Weihnachten.” Merry Christmas. She nodded and smiled. Then she held her hand out to the person behind me.

As soon as I left the church I lost the magic. Organ music proved to be a fleeting sensation, strong enough to soothe but not strong enough to bring back religious devotion. A haunting experience.

Probably the most intense feelings came to me each evening when I was safely tucked into the comfort of the Hotel Holländer Hof. I was sure they had given me the best room in the building. Two windows. One facing the Old Bridge and the Neckar River, the other facing Obere Neckarstrasse, where I had lived in three different houses from the age of nineteen to twenty-three. I could see all three of them and spent several hours by the window at various times of day and night. However, this was not what brought me closer to remembering the winters of my past. For one thing, it only snowed once while I was there and the snow soon disappeared into the wet cobblestones. What made me remember Christmas the way it used to be was television.

Almost uninterruptedly through the night a Bavarian station put on an impressive array of old-time craftsmen, musicians, storytellers, cooks, and artisans of every kind. Nativity Scene collectors and carvers followed men in traditional costumes who sawed logs, and women with angelic faces who sang familiar songs. Grandmothers baked gingerbread and brewed hot wine and cider. There was Father Time from Russia handing out small presents. A marathon to aid poor children showcased major figures of European politics and entertainment, all of them in storybook settings of alpine splendor and festive décor.

I didn’t want to go to sleep because I didn’t want to miss any of it. Whatever eluded me on the streets came to me in my hotel bed late at night in the form of televised romantic retrospectives. I even saw one of the favorite films of my teen years on Christmas Eve. “Sissi,” a historical romance about Franz Josef, the young emperor of Austria and his love for one of his cousins. The film was released just before Christmas 1955 and now celebrated its fiftieth year. There were write-ups in the newspapers and though I fell asleep halfway through, I was thrilled to watch Romy Schneider who would be my age had she survived her fame. She could never rid herself of the saccharin image of innocence and romance and committed suicide at the age of forty-three. She is said to have died of a broken heart.

I think that I have learned several lessons on this trip. The journey back to one’s youth is a solitary journey, tolerated by others, but not shared. Deep emotions come from interactions with people and are tethered to the time of their occurrence. They can’t be recreated by a walk in the footsteps of the past. As I found out, walls do not speak. And though it would be nice to belong, the spiritual flood of organ music does not bring back religion.

All this is actually a good thing, I believe. How confused would the mind become if it had to produce two experiences simultaneously? A lifetime of impressions has altered my responses; while I can taste, hear, feel, touch, and smell the past occasionally, I no longer react to it. My mind lives in the now. It has enough to deal with when it is suddenly transported from one country to the other, when it can’t quite keep pace with the landscape, the language, the images. As I am writing this, I can feel the immediate past fading. But serendipitous moments – the sound of the organ, swirling snow, an apple – they are like bright stars on the night sky; they can be connected, like dots, to form the life that is uniquely mine across decades and across oceans.





Saturday, July 11, 2009

Getting to Know Nürnberg












Every big city deserves at least three days. One for an introductory bus tour, one for walking, and one for detailed examination of selected treasures. Four days allows me to include nearby attractions. Devoting a full week would be ideal; it would compensate for Saturday afternoon shutdowns, Sundays’ limited options, and Monday museum rest days.

Nürnberg was a three-day city, December 17, 18, 19. I had it all worked out: historic information, city plans, fun places, shopping. But I missed a few sites. Now that I’m home again, well rested and critical, I wonder why I didn’t visit the Dürer Haus as planned? Why did I neglect the underground bunker that held important artwork during WWII?

I think it had to do with exhaustion. I had spent 36 hours awake on planes and trains, in shuttles and taxis. I am sure the uphill location of the hotel could be blamed; the quarter mile to the market place was quite steep. Maybe it was my fear of slipping on icy cobblestones. Early darkness was certainly a factor. But whatever kept me from exploring more ground, now seems unwarranted. I could have done it all.

What I did do was worth the delays and setbacks I experienced; my journal is proof of that. The very first entry after my complaint about the lack of snow on the evening of my arrival shows definite approval. It says, “But all this was forgotten when I ate three potato pancakes with applesauce. The Church of our Lady, the Beautiful Fountain, the market, the stalls, the decorations, the gold-winged angels for sale, everything is splendid.”

And then of course it snowed early in the morning and all was well with the world. For a little while at least, until I looked into the mirror and saw that my right eye was bright red with blood. I whined. I thought that it took a lot of stamina to travel alone, to have to handle each incident with the same focus as the one before. I am always just a bit flustered when my schedule is offset by something unexpected.

I began my three-day stay with a trip to the nearest drugstore and was told where to find an emergency doctor. Kesslerplatz 5. In the suburbs. Definitely not on my list of things to see. After I walked three miles into the cold wind, I sat for an hour in the midst of coughing, sneezing, bewildered paupers. That’s what they looked like to me at that point, though the room probably resembled a Kaiser hospital emergency room rather closely. An ambulance took away the visiting father of the young man who sat next to me. I was convinced that my blood pumped into my heart at record speeds; that I would be whisked to an overcrowded gray building and spend the remainder of my holiday in a narrow bed with rows upon rows of dying people in tattered clothes. I think this idea took shape because I remembered an old movie with nuns and medieval poverty. It might have been about the plague.

The young doctor was quick. He rose behind his desk, bent forward, shook my hand, examined my eye, and pronounced me well.

“Harmless,” he said.
“Just a bruise,” he said.
“Did you hurt yourself?”

I didn’t. He prescribed eye drops. I concluded that he was either a real good doctor or a total quack. Should I be alarmed? At home a nurse would at least have taken my blood pressure. But I decided to trust him. It was easier this way. The world suddenly looked wonderful. Snow collected on my shoulders as I walked back to the walled Old town. I strolled through the Christkindlmarket, stopping in front of every stand, counting varieties of gingerbread, inhaling bratwurst smells, inspecting some of the famous little Zwetschgemännle, tiny dolls made from prunes, with nuts as heads, each dressed differently in a medieval costume. I bought a knit hat, one of those gray beanies with earflaps that we wore as children. This one had black tassels that hit my cheeks every time I turned around. I looked ridiculous. I asked somebody to take my picture so I could proof my point. I was very happy.

My first day in Nürnberg, though not the way I had planned it, was a very full day. After a three-hour nap in the late afternoon I made a list of all the things I had possibly lost along with the suitcase. I wanted to be prepared for an insurance claim. When I called the airline at 20:23, which is shortly before 8:30pm, I was told that the suitcase was on its way from Toronto and would be sent to Nuernberg by plane and to my hotel by taxi. I simply had to go out and celebrate, eat potato pancakes again, walk the streets in the dark, drink hot punch, buy something cute.

My second day in Nürnberg began with a long photo shoot in the snow. After breakfast of course. At seven I was the only one in the room, surrounded by swords and Rembrandt and Dürer portraits. The lamps were made of helmets. I had to remind myself that I sat in the Burghotel, just a few steps away from the castle, though the platters of hams, cheeses, jams, and fruits were definitely not medieval. Snow had gathered on the topiary in the courtyard; I was excited. Camera, Tyana the bear, hat and scarf. One more cup of coffee and I was on my way. Only briefly did I acknowledge the fact that I wore the same clothes for the fourth day in a row.

Before I left home I had printed out a map. The medieval inner city, enclosed by a wall, was 90 percent destroyed during WWII but rebuilt according to old plans. I had asked the taxi driver on my way to the hotel where I would find the Historical Mile.

“Alles hier ist historisch,” was his flippant answer. Everything here is historical. And given Nuremberg’s 950-year history, its reputation as most significant city of the Middle Ages, he is right.

I reasoned later that the one-sentence cold shoulder might have had to do with the reluctance of locals to invite even more foreigners into their crowded living arrangements. While their existence depends on tourism, the older ones often wish for “the way it was.”

The Historical Mile involves 35 places of interest; only now do I realize that I saw at least twenty of them on my unscheduled, unorganized, and unscientific strolls through the heart of the city. I probably passed the rest without paying attention. It was the snow that intrigued me. And Hans Sachs, the poet, and Albrecht Dürer, the painter, both native sons, both famous. I posed Tyana in front of their statues. I had the time of my life.
When I came back to the hotel in the evening my luggage had arrived. I had thought that I would be happy, but to my surprise seeing the suitcase proved to be a letdown. It had been kind of nice not to have choices. There must be a lesson for future travels in here somewhere

I did on the third day what I normally do on the first - I took a bus tour. Complete with old German lady as guide. Knowledgeable and rigid.
“Watch your step.”
“Pay attention.”
In typical tour guide fashion her occasional humor was measured to produce maximum effects. Her historical information was well rehearsed. She was clearly in total command of her flock of fourteen ignorant tourists. When I took my scarf off during the steep walk to the castle terrace she looked at me with disapproval. “Are you not cold madam?’
The tour touched on rather difficult subjects. Hitler. Nazis. The Nürnberg trials. At times I could feel her discomfort. I noticed slight changes in her voice when she translated for the two English couples. Was it my imagination or was her explanation a bit apologetic?
We passed the Reichstag building, the one that should have become larger than the coliseum in Rome, but was not finished. A Leni Riefenstahl exhibit was in progress. Frau Walther, our guide, commented on what she called “Grössenwahn,” Hitler’s obsession with everything bigger, better, more extreme. When we reached the Stadium where he gave speeches, she told us that a Rabbi held a service there for seven Jewish soldiers on April 4th 1945. He stood exactly where Hitler used to stand.
It is hard to explain what all these sites looked like. Abandoned and yet still mighty in their spaciousness. If they are meant to intimidate, to warn, to remind us of human arrogance, they did a good job on me. Passing the building where the Nazi trials were held was in contrast, almost uplifting. Apparently the four windows are always unshuttered; the light in the rooms is always on. I vowed to someday take a closer look at the national disgrace. That flaw of human nature that allowed the holocaust.
When we got off the bus at the castle I saw the kernels of answers in front of me. Centuries of power enveloped me. Barons, emperors, princes, kings, knights. This is where the thirst for power began. I had entered a most impressive fortress and to its feet I pictured the hovels of medieval peasants. My mind turned to scenes from epic movies to visualize battles in which brightly armored horsemen with bows and arrows dragged pick-fork wielding ragged peons through the mud and slush of the countryside. Then the robber barons rode through the gates of the city and turned their greedy faces toward the maidens who fed them grapes and showered them with ale.
To break the depressing bond with historical injustice I turned to the pale yellow rays of sunshine breaking through a thick layer of clouds. Imagine – for nearly a thousand winters this gray landscape has gone unchanged. A Japanese woman held her cell phone into the air and clicked. Minutes later, a continent away, somebody would look at the same snow-covered walls and lemon colored trails of light. My mind was fascinated. I had strayed from the group and was admonished by the stern words of our guide.
“Are you ready to leave madam?”
We walked, downhill, downhill, downhill, to the Christmas Market to attend the noon spectacle of the clock tower. Separation of church and state is a recent addition to our cultural sensitivities; on the richly ornamented gothic front of the fourteenth century Church of our Lady seven princes circle the enthroned emperor Karl the Fourth, bowing to the sounds of lunchtime bells. Never mind that this took place on the same spot where in 1349 a Synagogue had been torn down to disperse Jewish worshippers.
We said our goodbyes and everybody quickly disappeared into the golden paradise of Christmas shopping. I rushed to the Starbucks across the street; it was the closest coffee shop, the only place that did not sell hot wine and cold beer.
In the afternoon I took a long rest and now I remember why I forfeited a tour through Albrecht Dürer’s house and why I ignored the bunker on the way back to the hotel. Too many thoughts, too many German words tumbled through my head – something that always happens after a day or two – I needed to rein them in and put them on paper. It seemed that my brain had collected enough impressions to work on for some time. During the tour the words “Fascination and Terror” had come up in connection with Hitler’s architectural plans. Much like “Shock and Awe,” I thought and made a note to look up Albert Spears later. Then I noted that Schmidt is the biggest gingerbread baker in Nürnberg, producing three million pieces a day during the season. That too had to be fact-checked later.
When the streetlights came on I took one more trip to the market to buy marzipan sausages and potatoes to take home as presents. I ate my last potato pancakes and discovered something that made me giggle all the way back to the hotel.
While I stood at a tall table, watching snow flakes melt into my applesauce, I discovered just how dedicated the city of Nürnberg is to recycling. I was done and just about ready to toss the piece of cardboard that held the pancakes into the trash bin when I observed a woman eating her cardboard. I couldn’t stop myself from staring at her. Then I took a second look at mine, cautiously bit into it and realized that it was a bland wafer, the kind I seem to remember from long ago church services. Now all that was left for the trash was a tiny one-layer napkin.
Before I boarded the train the next morning I battled one more German word pair. It had attacked me at two in the morning while I watched the biography of an entertainer turned author. The famous Didi had left his homeland for the silence of an island in France. When asked about the worst noises he answered: “Heckenscheren und Handyclingeln.” Hedge trimmers and cell phone ring tones. Luckily somewhere during my three hour speed tour of snow-covered flatland I lost the jarring images of those words and began to shift into anticipation of a rain-soaked, lovely Heidelberg afternoon.




Defying Tradition


I want my own Christmas this year. It hadn’t occurred to me until now how hard it can be to break with tradition. My daughter, my very busy two job, always on the go, forty-one year old child is concerned about dwindling family togetherness. But this story isn’t about her. It’s about her mother. ME. The one who dares to take off on an airplane to fly to her fields of dreams during the holidays. The only one who will not be at Pat’s on Christmas Eve. Be it my own feelings of guilt or the perceived resistance to my plan, I must say it again, out loud this time.

“I want my own Christmas this year.”

But before I go on, I have to report that Pat and Mother and Peter, the main traditionalists in this family, have given me a thumbs up.

“How brave of you,” Pat said on the phone the other day.

Mother told me to have a wonderful time; we decided on January 3rd for a lunch date during which I would tell her all about my trip.

Peter’s blessing showed in his silent acceptance of the travel brochure I printed for him. Not a single snappy – or snapping – remark about missing the reading of his memoirs. Of course I have read all the stories he included in his calendar – his gift to everybody – three times already; I’m his sometime editor and consultant, probably because I started on the road back a few years before him.

The road back. That’s what it’s all about. Memories. Recapturing the images of my teen years. Taking photographs of places that were battlegrounds or love nests or maybe just steps into the future. Leaning against old walls that witnessed my dreams and disappointments. Walking in the footsteps of playmates. Listening to the echoes of familiar songs.

When I narrow it down I realize that I am driven by one main desire this season: I want snow. Lots of snow. Snow as far as I can see. I want to taste snowflakes, throw snowballs, listen to the crunching of my boots on a tight snow pack, smell a freshly cut snow-dusted fir tree, sit on a bench in the silence of a gray, snow-heavy winter morning. In a way, I think I want to snow over all my California Christmases. Sunshine, palm trees, artificial wreaths, snow from a spray can, Silent Night over loudspeakers, multi-colored lights that chase each other around store fronts to be swallowed by cavernous interiors of Westfield Malls.

Yes, I desire snow. And it looks like only German snow will do. That’s why my first stop is Nünberg, the city of toys, the biggest Christmas Market in Europe. Nürnberg guarantees snow, and the city makes an effort to keep its holiday village of 200 vendors traditional. Plastic garlands and canned music are not allowed, neither are amusement park rides or war toys or Styrofoam cups. The first evidence of this “little town of Christmas” is preserved in the Germanic National Museum on an oval wooden box, bought at the Christmas Market and inscribed with the year 1628. Today the wooden stalls with red and white striped canvass roofs are filled with toys, tree decorations, candles, foods and souvenirs. While the promise of roasted chestnuts, sugared almonds, fresh gingerbread, hot cider, and mulled wine linger in the air, the “Christ Child” appears on the balcony of the 600-year old Church of our Lady. And from the white roofs in the brochure I understand that snow is ever-present during the holidays.

A three-hour train ride whisks me away from Bavaria to Heidelberg. I’m told that I might have to be content with old snow and slush, so I’ll have fun slipping and sliding through Old Town. I used to do that 50 years ago when I went to school there.

Heidelberg, too, has a Christmas Market; 140 stalls are distributed over five different locations along the mile long Main Street. No cars allowed, only scarf-wrapped, steam-breathing shoppers, slush-defying window gazers and frozen-toed chestnut poppers.

Heidelberg is the city in which I first saw James Dean in “East of Eden.” It is the city where I watched Dizzie Gillespie blow out his cheeks and where I kissed the trumpeter Don Ellis by the river on a frozen December night. I fell in love in Heidelberg and I gave birth to my son there.
My first Christmas Eve away from home was a crazy beer and pizza frenzy in the Sole D’Oro across the street from the Church of the Holy Spirit. I was a wild child then and I suspect that I miss that part of me now, too, along with my youth. Along with snow-capped old walls.

I remember one of my most embarrassing winter moments. Shivering in a short, bright red, fake fur coat I walked home from Cave 54, a jazz cellar, in the early morning hours. I stalked through icy streets on high heels, shaking my head now and then to rid my long blond hair of melting snowflakes. Realizing that I had forgotten my house key I threw stones against my landlady’s bedroom window until she woke up. She climbed down three dimly lit flights of stairs in her nightgown to open the door for me. In her anger she mumbled that I was dressed like a hooker. Looking back I cringe; Frau Gehrig was right.

The third city I am going to visit is Saarbrücken. I’m not familiar with it, the way I am familiar with Heidelberg; I don’t look forward to it, the way I look forward to Nürnberg. I’m just going to pay a debt. My parents are buried in Saarbrücken; I wasn’t there; my stepfather’s granddaughter made all the arrangements. I don’t know her and don’t know where she lives. I have only seen her as small child when she came to visit us with her mother. I imagine that I will study the map of the cemetery, find grave number 021 and lay a small bouquet of hothouse flowers into the snow in front of the gravestone. I’ll say goodbye and ride the train back to Heidelberg to celebrate Christmas Eve with a five-course dinner at the Hotel Ritter, the most romantic and one of the oldest hotels in the city. Afterwards I’ll walk across the street to the Church of the Holy Spirit. I’m hoping for new snow and an organ concert.

On Sunday I’ll fly home. My head will be filled with antiquity and my suitcase will be overflowing with trinkets and books and yarn and chocolate. When I land I’ll step into that no-man’s land where the mind struggles with the concept of past and present. A giddy disorientation that follows long flights. German words might crowd my lips, but I’ll smile at the traffic on 101 and say, “It’s great to be home.”

I’ve already asked my daughter to pick me up. A compromise of sorts. Ten o’clock at night. A late Christmas gift exchange while I pull my feet out of the heavy boots and give a condensed account of my trip. I’ll promise to be at Pat’s next year for the traditional Christmas Eve family get-together. I’ll be forgiven. Or maybe there is nothing to forgive.

Sluggish Memory

My goals for our twelve-day stay in Schönau are simple. Climb three mountains. Visit my grandmother’s house. Search the cemetery for family names. Get a glimpse of my teen idol. Take tons of pictures. Eat pastries.

The love interest glimpse is scratched immediately. He is out of town. With his wife. We pass my grandmother’s house three times and each time I bore Stephanie with a few historical facts. My granddaughter accompanies me in my quest to retrace 50- year old childhood footprints. We make good travel companions; I initiate day tours and speak to strangers. She remembers how to get back to the hotel, what time the stores close, and where I hide the extra money.

In the cemetery she is the name-calling forerunner. In front of each grave she practices her German pronunciation and I tell her what I know about the person buried there. But we cannot find my great-grandparents or my grandparents.

“What are their names again?”

“Hölzer and Heer. They must have been moved. I think there is a time limit on cemetery stays.”
Stephanie suddenly jumps on a bench and pulls her sweatshirt over her face. Bugs. Mosquitoes. Spiders. Etc. etc. etc. We have to end the search for the dead relatives and reward ourselves with some Kirscheplotza (cherry bread pudding.)


Today we are climbing mountain number one. The walkway is now terraced, complete with guardrails and paved steps. Halfway up I rest against the metal rail while Stephanie poses for her first picture of the day. Suddenly she shudders a subdued shriek of disbelief.

“Grandma, come here. This is the biggest banana slug I have ever seen in my whole life.”

“Yeah, and he has lots of friends. Look! There are more of them.”

I aim the camera at him. “We need something to compare him to.”

I pull out a two pfennig piece and lay it on the ground. While I dial the menu on my digital camera to macro I find myself smiling at the slug. I know him. His kind was around when I hunted for snails with beautiful houses. We ignored him then, because the value of snails was in the spiral design and variety of color on their piggyback homes. He was the homeless one. Naked. Unwanted. I feel pity for him now.

We watch him cross the paved walk and disappear into the underbrush. Then we continue our climb. Higher and higher, until we reach a kind of platform, a flat area protruding to the right side of the walkway. Though it is totally overgrown, I remember it very well.

“This is where we used to play and climb trees. We’d stay up here all day eating green apples, laying in the sun, telling stories.”

Before we continue our walk I select a rock for my collection.

When we reach the top of the mountain we are amazed at the houses all around. I know my friend Hans was the first one to build one for his mother years ago, but this looks like a mountain retreat village. On the other side though, there is nothing but forest. The valley far below is a narrow band of road zigzagging towards the next town, where my family used to picnic after a long Sunday walk.

Stephanie and I rest on a bench with a perfect view, pull out some candy, drink bottled water, take pictures, and make plans for later. I think we both need a nap.


My past and I are at odds with each other. Mountain number two disappoints me. Oh, it is beautiful. Its trees are majestic, the vegetation lush and varied. I hear a woodpecker knock beetles lose from behind crusty bark and bees hum as they flit from flower to flower.

I am told that memory is selective and colored by sentiment, but how can a sunny primeval forest be anything but a sunny primeval forest? Why don’t I smell the heat? The blueberries must be right over there where pine trees tower over the slope, and where stinging nettles band together in tight formation against the intruding hand of a thirteen-year-old child.

“Ah, but you are no longer thirteen!”

That was the voice of Dr. Steinfeld, my shrink. My imaginary shrink.

I climb past the nettles, taking care not to let them touch me. Away from the compacted dirt road the soil is soft. Ferns break through a thick layer of pine needles and unfurl their tendrils into the warmth of the summer sun. I look down to Stephanie. I wave. I giggle and point uphill. But my granddaughter, who has not moved from the path, signals a concerned frown in my direction.

“Be careful, Grandma.”

She isn’t used to the noises of the woods or to its silences. She hates bugs, and there are plenty of them in Schönau. I linger, look around for a minute or so, and then I climb back down to the road. Stephanie takes a picture of me; I take one of her. We have documented the excursion into the past. But why don’t I feel it? Why doesn’t this forest connect me to the long hours spent playing, roaming, hiding?

When I sit at my desk at home, I see myself run up and down the mountain, skip behind bushes, dig into thick moss, rest between broken tree limbs and weathered stones. When I sit at my desk at home, I am close to the mountain, breathing in its humid decomposing odors.

“The past is a movie in your memory bank. But this is now.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Doctor. When I returned to the Black Forest after 45 years, I was immediately drawn into the past. It was like coming home, even though nobody knew me.”

“Serendipity.”

“What?”

“Serendipity. It was an unexpected find. Remember how you suddenly recognized what happiness felt like, how it washed over you? You said in your journal, ‘I floated in a sea of undulating yellow.’ You set out to find lavender bushes and poppy pods and wheat, but when you were surrounded by rape fields you reentered your own innocence.”

“So? I was happy in these woods, too.”

“Then I’m sure you will find something to take home with you.”

I am not really satisfied with his answer. While I pick a small rock to add to my collection, I tell Stephanie about the games we used to play up and down the mountain.

When we exit the forest I leave Dr. Steinfeld behind. Let him sort out my sentiments. I vow to spend more time making new memories rather than chasing old ones. At least for the rest of the day.

We take a few pictures of Schönau from the Bergstrasse. I pose Samy, my frog, on one of the stones that line the street. I used to stand on them and pretend to take off in flight when I was a child. Oops. Don’t look back.

The third mountain does not bring back many pleasant memories. A German shepherd bit me when I delivered passport photos to one of the houses at the beginning of the steep street. My stepfather carried my little brother up the hill when his asthma made breathing difficult in the humidity of the valley. It was up here that I told my mother I hated my life and would move to the city.

Stephanie and I are now almost at the top. A dog suddenly barks from the front garden of a beautifully landscaped home. We freeze in our tracks. Nobody ties down dogs around here and he looks ferocious. But soon somebody calls him and he disappears into the house. I realize that Stephanie is frightened and without her sweatshirt she is being “bugged” by zillions of flying things. We will make this a short trip.

“Grandma, what do I do if you had a heart attack or something? How do I say help in German?”

“Well,” I hedge, catching my breath and trying to sound even-winded. It is humid today and my walks along the creek in Campbell have not really prepared me for our daily mountain climbing activities in Schönau. I hope I sound unconcerned and very healthy when I suggest, “How about ‘Hilfe, meine Oma ist kaputt.’ That would work.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, ‘help, my grandmother is broken.”

We both laugh. The spell of dog-induced fear seems to be broken. I think of a good memory to talk about, “When I was ten I used to come up here to collect May bugs in glass jars. They are big and brown and I think they make buzzing sounds when they fly away.”

Stephanie, who now wears her sunglasses to keep flying insects out of her eyes, is not amused. I see her arms flailing around in defense. But then we both automatically pull our cameras out. A beautiful meadow, horses, evening sunshine. Country peace and tranquility. Picture number 555. I aim the lens at a large snail wedged between two rocks in a low fence. The stone fence trails the road like an old relative who remembers everything but keeps his distance, nodding occasionally in approval, or shaking his head when ancient sins are revealed. I have the feeling that I would remember much more about my childhood if I sat on the stonewall for a few hours and meditated.

As long as Stephanie is happy with the horses I wallow in sinister thoughts of the past, “Doctor, I don’t like this mountain.”

“Well, you have to admit that you are connecting.”

“Connecting to what? Slimy snail trails?”

“Connecting to undercurrents. This is a beautiful valley, but you see the undercurrents. Isolation. Inbreeding. Gossip. Resistance to change. Don’t you see? You left all this behind when you moved away. Now, do you still want to look into buying property here?”

“Oh, no, Doctor. I understand what you are telling me. I was a slug here. Unprotected. Not even the new friends I have made on this trip can make up for old pain. And guess what? I am looking forward to slipping back into my little piggyback house in California in a few days.”

“Good. Now make sure that the child eats a spectacular dessert tonight. One more thing to add to her new foods list. And get a good night’s sleep. You are off to Berlin tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Shanta Bär, Hostess Extraordinaire

We wait between stacked plastic chairs and our luggage for somebody to let us in. A hotel guest explains that the owners do not live here and she offers to contact them on her cell phone. A handy, (cell phone) I think, is really handy in this town with its noon to three naptime. But before I can dwell on my irritation, a station wagon stops a few inches from the steps to the hotel. The driver introduces herself as Shanta Bär, owner of the Pfälzer Hof, and while she quickly arranges chairs and tables on the deck, she engages us in a fast paced conversation. A cup of coffee for me and a Fanta for Stephanie, on the house, before we are escorted to our room.

That evening I get to know Shanta as the cook of exotic dishes for hotel guests who come from all over Europe. Hotel guests who, so I am told, on occasion include the Indian National Soccer Team. Shanta’s brother is their manager.

Our hostess was born in India; she grew up in England, and eventually met and married my grade school principal’s son, Theo Bär.

She was a singer once, and a dancer. Now she teaches ballet to the granddaughters of my former classmates. A flyer at the front desk says that she is also a belly dance and yoga instructor. Two days a week, upstairs, (in the old ballroom.)

One morning Theo introduces Stephanie and me as his girlfriend and her daughter from America to two Pakistani businessmen.

“Imagine!” I whisper to Stephanie after the gentlemen have left, “India and Pakistan are always at odds with each other. I like the Bärs.”

As is the custom in small restaurants, Shanta welcomes her guests personally at dinnertime. She sits with us too, for a while, gently extracting our story and building up her knowledge of our preferences.

“Stephanie, was the ‘Chicken Tandoori’ too spicy? Maybe tomorrow you will eat lamb with basmati rice?”

After a few days she prides herself in having gauged exactly the amount of curry my granddaughter can handle. For dessert she delights Stephanie with plain vanilla ice cream.

“Ohne Mango Soße und ohne Sahne,” she smiles at me. “Ohne Alles.”
Patting Stephanie on her back she repeats in English, “Without mango sauce and without whip cream. Without everything.”

One evening, almost ten o’clock, she puts her feet up on an empty chair. Would I mind, she asks, it’s been a long day. Though she employs a neighbor to help with the rooms and another neighbor to cook some of the meals, she spends most of her waking hours here. Her children are of great assistance, of course, and Theo too, when he is in town.

Several times during our stay we find different napkins with our breakfast. Shanta has observed how Stephanie selects and marks each new one with the name of the hotel and the date she has added it to her collection.

On Monday, the day the restaurant is closed, she sends her daughter Anna to put together a platter of leftovers for us. Cold meats, cheese, sliced cucumber, shredded carrot salad, and olives. Her son Pascal entertains us by telling stories and trying his hand at mixing a tequila sunrise. We are the only guests tonight.

Even Theo is enlisted to take care of us sometimes. Though he is clumsy in the restaurant, spilling soda when he tries to draw it from the tap, he loves to joke and entertain. Stephanie giggles when she spots him with his crooked, old-fashioned bowtie. He tells her that he remembers me from long ago.

“Your grandma didn’t talk to me because I was just a little kid. Her brother’s age.”

Halfway through our stay Shanta brings together ten of my old classmates for an evening of loud stories and old songs. She and Theo add their voices to our sing-along, and when she sees that Stephanie is getting bored with our “remember when” stories, she introduces her to a Russian gentleman who speaks English. Later she takes her into another room to play the piano.

On Sunday Theo walks us back from a town festival. He has bought Stephanie a wind-up Santa Claus and a furry stuffed animal and has filled a small basket with other flea-market finds for his wife. It is their twenty-sixth wedding anniversary. When we reach the bridge, just before we cross the street to the hotel, Stephanie picks a few blossoms off the shrubbery and slips them into the basket.

“It looked kind of plain,” she tells me later. “It’s their anniversary.”

I wonder how an extremely talented woman survives in this town. Maybe the answer is in the way she smiles at her husband. Another answer comes a day later, when the couple returns from a shopping trip to Frankfurt. The city has a large Indian population and Shanta who looked tired last night, seems rejuvenated. She tells me about the Indian movies she has bought and the beautiful sari material she has seen. While she rushes into the kitchen, Theo and I discuss culture shock, his frequent travels as computer consultant, and the Internet café the children promote as a sideline to the hotel. I don’t mention to him that Anna and Pascal are the only ones I see on the computers in the lobby. I don’t tell him what I think about the ambitions of this town, which time seems to have left behind. When I was a child we had several hotels. The Pfälzer Hof, then owned by my mother’s best friend, is now the only hotel in town.

When we leave Schönau, after almost two weeks, Shanta takes us to the train in Heidelberg. She speeds her ancient station wagon artfully through the narrow streets of several towns. Stephanie sits in back on a pillow between tutus, boxes, and canned goods. At the station, while we get our luggage together, Shanta ties ribbons around two small gifts for us. We hug. She is in a hurry. New guests arrive in an hour, she says. The neighbor woman who makes up the beds is sick. Anna is off with friends. It’s Pascal’s day to sleep in and Theo left for a computer conference this morning.

“See you later,” she smiles. “Tschüss.”

Before we enter the building I turn around to wave, but the spot by the curb is already occupied by another car and Shanta Bär has disappeared into the traffic.

German Cuisine

Germans don’t give you simple answers, nor do they give you simple desserts. Directions to historical sites are adorned with detailed buts; ice cream makes a fashion statement, strutting an umbrella, a coat of whip cream, or a veil of chocolate dust. For my plain-food-loving granddaughter this is quite an experience. The first word I teach her before leaving for our trip is “ohne” (without.)

When we arrive at our first stop in Urbar, a tiny town above the Rhine River, we start our “Foods we tasted” list. Partly this is an excuse to educate her taste buds and give our journals a sense of accomplishment. And partly, I have to admit, it has to do with my desire to pass on some of my childhood food memories.

Take gooseberries for instance. I eat almost the whole pound of my favorite fruit, while Stephanie only sucks the sweet flesh from the tart skin of three berries. Or consider my mother’s old standby späzle (hand made noodles.) Since they don’t come ohne cheese at our hotel, Stephanie sticks her fork into the last survivor on my plate with obvious apprehension. But at least both of these delicacies are tried and listed.

We eat our way through whipped, flaked, fruit jelled, chocolate creamed, and cherry liqueur infused layers of variations on Black Forest cake on two Rhine River cruises. Delicious. Our lunches in Boppard and Rüdesheim bring potato pancakes with applesauce and German sausage for Stephanie. She even dips her spoon into my goulash soup. During dinner at the farmhouse inn in Urbar, she stays with familiar rice and chicken but stabs at a slice of my sauerbraten (marinated beef roast.) A crumb size piece of potato dumpling and a shred of pickled red cabbage crown the taste test for the day. I am proud to be the grandmother of such an adventurous traveler.

All through our trip I say “Hurray for Nutella™.” It is a hazelnut/chocolate spread, which I have banned from my life in California. But during our travels we carry a jar of this high calorie delight from place to place, along with crackers, because German store hours are capricious, especially in small towns. “Closed between twelve and two” or “we will be right back” or even “Ruhetag,” (day of rest) are common signs plaguing our “open 24 hours” mentality.

In Schönau, when we lay out our assortment of fresh fruit in front of the cashier, she gives us a nasty look, takes in a short distasteful breath, and marches over to a scale. Then she informs us that next time we have to weigh the fruit and attach the price tag. We remember. Number four – apples. Number sixteen – peaches. Another customer explains the numbers on the fruit bins and the correlated buttons on the scale. Next time I expect a smile from the clerk because I have placed the properly marked bag in front of her. But after she drops the money in her cash register, she impatiently pushes our groceries out of the way to help the next customer. While we fill our shopping bag – yes, we remember to bring our own shopping bag – I decide that older German women don’t like their jobs. By forgetting to speak German, I learn that explanations are given freely and with a smile to foreigners. I understand that using my mother tongue results in reprimands.
“Das müssten Sie doch wissen.” (This is something you should know.)

Sometimes I want to scream, “Hey, loosen up. Get a grip. Gimme a break.” But the only time I respond is when they criticize Stephanie for a harmless culture gap mistake. In my own typically German stance with both fists dug into my side, elbows in chicken wing position and chest pumped up with an indignant deep breath, I counter, “Lassen Sie die Kleine bitte in Ruhe. Sie ist doch ein Kind.” (Leave the little one alone, please. She is a child.)

After such small town displeasures the city brings relief. Heidelberg with its international flavor is just right for touching bases with the familiar. Stephanie buys our lunch and we stuff ourselves with pizza Margherita at the Ristorante Milano on Main Street. Bills now come in German marks and Euros. Our two individual pizzas, a black currant juice and a Sprite cost DM28.50 or €14.57, roughly $14.00. We leave a tip, though none is expected beyond the rounding up to the next full mark. The waiter is charming and remembers us with a smiling hello when we pass by again.

Our next big, and I mean big, purchase is a bratwurst with pommes, a giant smoked sausage with fries. The name of the place is simply “Pommes.” (Potatoes) but means “French Fries.” You ask for your condiments, anything from ketchup to cheese, to peppers, to mustard. The sausage way exceeds the measurements of the bun. We are in heaven. Actually though, we sit on the steps of the next-door store, because the food stand has no seating. We watch what we both call “ugly shoes” walk by. Lots of ugly health shoes, sandals on men, platforms on women, bright reds and deep purples.

During our two days in Heidelberg we take many snack breaks. “Zwetchgenkuchen,” (plum cake) calls us from every bakery until we finally sit down at an outdoor café and taste it. Stephanie thinks that her mother’s is better. I know why. Her mother uses baking soda and sweetens the dough. The base of this one is yeast and the plums are tart. I recognize the flavor of this childhood Sunday morning luxury. Absolutely delicious.

To Stephanie’s slight embarrassment, I pull my frog Samy out of the bag and take a picture of him surrounded by cake. Samy is a good conversation starter. The girl at the table next to us tells us her life story. Listening to her I look up to the world famous Castle and remember my high school years spent in other outdoor cafés nearby. I remember the ice cream place behind Holy Ghost Church. We must go there later.

For now we take another walk up Main Street and spend some time and money at the Galeria shopping complex. Everybody back home loves Ritter chocolate and though we can buy it at Cost Plus, it seems so much better coming directly from Germany. I buy a loaf of marzipan for myself. We find small gifts like pens, glassware, books, notepaper.

One more stop, a juice bar. My Jamba Juice™ imagination is terribly disappointed with the taste of my mango yogurt drink. I think this is what lukewarm spoiled yak butter tea with lemon juice must be like. When I look into Stephanie’s wide eyes I toss my full container into the trash bin right outside the store. She follows suite, but more discreetly than I, not wanting to hurt the shopkeepers feelings. She says hers is disgusting too. My sweet granddaughter feels bad about wasting my money. I tell her I feel nothing but relief and we walk quickly to the nearest pretzel stand.

Of course there are places we don’t get around to visit. The “North Sea” for instance where I used to buy herring sandwiches after school. Sole D’Oro, where I spent Christmas Eve one year, with plates full of spaghetti and lonely students who had no place else to go for the holiday. We have no time to check out the ice-cream parlor around the corner from “Cave 54” and I don’t tell Stephanie about the political discussions my friends and I had there over tomato salad and Italian Zitroneneis. But I am comforted by the fact that these old hangouts have survived. Maybe next time. And maybe next time Stephanie will try blood sausage, her only absolute, predetermined reject on our food list.