From Berlin to Wald

Posted by dkrashb on October 5, 2011

Having had our fill of Berlin, we depart the next morning for Wald. We are meeting Pat’s family and friends there. They were the impetus for this trip, inviting us to meet them for Oktoberfest. We get up early so we can catch a train before 9AM–it’s hard for me to believe that I was complaining about not being able to sleep past 4am a week ago and now I am complaining about having to get up before 6am. Pat wants to leave for the train station by 7:45, but breakfast doesn’t start until 7:30 on Sundays. We check out and leave our bags with the front desk before going up to eat.

We are surprised that two other guests have already arrived at breakfast before us. We fill our plates and pour coffee and tea and try to eat as quickly as possible. Pat surprises me by going back for seconds when we have only a few minutes left before his designated departure time. But, we eat up quickly and I head downstairs to order a cab while Pat stops in the restroom one last time.

The cab arrives quickly and we get to the train station 45 minutes before our train. We find the platform and wait patiently as we watch the platform fill. We hope that most of the passengers are on the train before ours, but only a few depart with that train. When ours comes, everyone dashes to get on board. There are only 2 first class cars and most of the seats are reserved. We keeping getting pushed back until we think we are going to end up in 2nd class. But then, Pat spots two “Schwerbehinderte” seats and we are saved by the lack of handicapped people traveling without a reservation.

I am nervous about our train route. Pat picked the fastest way to the Leuterschach train station, which I found using google maps–it’s only 4 KM from the country hotel we’re meeting his family at in Wald. But because it is out in the country, we have to take four different trains to get there and the time between arrival and departure is only 7 minutes for our first transfer, then only 5 minutes for our second transfer. The third transfer has 30 minutes between trains, so I am not worried about that one. Our first train takes us from Berlin to Augsburg in about 5 hours, but is several minutes late due to the rain. By the time we get close to Augsburg, I am getting anxious and I have Pat get our luggage down early so we can stand at the door and jump off the train as soon as it stops. He laughs at my nervousness and says there will be another train if we miss this one, but without the train schedule in front of me, I am unsure of whether the next train will make a connection to get us to Leuterschach. We arrive at the station just a couple of minutes before our next departure. We hop off the train, cross the platform and hop onto the next, which is still sitting there. We find seats and the train pulls out, leaving a couple minutes late. While I’m relieved that we made this train, if there are any delays, we will miss the next one.

Since we have 45 minutes before we arrive at the next station, Pat tries to call his Mother’s friends on their cell phones to let them know when we are arriving. Calling from his cell doesn’t work. I suggest calling like he’s in the US calling Germany since he is using his US cell phone. He reaches someone, but it’s not the right number. We decide we will have to take a taxi to the hotel.

We arrive a couple minutes late at the next station, but once again, our next train is waiting for us across the platform and we are seated on it before it departs, right on time. I am amazed that it’s possible to make a connection in under two minutes. In a half an hour, we arrive at the Kaufbeuren station, which is a small station with only two tracks. Since we have 30 minutes and it’s cold and raining, we go inside and have a beer while we wait. The pub in the station is dark and stinky. The people sitting in there look worn out–like they work hard every day. Once again, it’s like we’ve changed countries.

The beer tastes good since we are thirsty and purchasing it gives us access to the heated restrooms in the pub instead of having to go to the unheated public restroom outside. We don’t have time for food, however, so Pat purchases Laugenweck at the snack stand inside the station before we go out to get the train. Laugenweck are like pretzels in a roll form, split in a cross on top. We have found them in the US on occasion, but they are always hard and dry. Here, the outside it chewy and the inside fluffy and moist, with the kosher salt adding just the right flavor. German’s prefer them sliced and buttered, but they are deliciously still warm as we share them on the platform and we don’t miss the butter.

Our train comes on time and we find ourselves at the Leuterschach station in about a half an hour. It’s so small that there isn’t even a platform–just a flat spot of grass that is high enough to step off onto from the train. There is no building here, no phones, and certainly no taxis. The parking area is a large bike rack–there isn’t a car at the station. We drag our luggage across the street to a Guest House, the only building in sight. The Proprietors, seeing our luggage, ask if we have a reservation. Pat says, “Yes, but not here.” He explains our predicament and I wait, trying to guess how the rapid German conversation is going. Eventually, we are invited to come sit down and have a beer while they call our hotel for us. She calls the hotel and tells us that our family and friends were just checking in when she called and they will come to pick us up in a few minutes, but we still have time for that beer. Figuring we should at least have a beer since she has been so kind, we sit down and each have a, thankfully, small pilsner. The beer is even better than the one at the train station. As we finish up, our friends arrive and we feel very lucky that all has worked out so perfectly today.

American Tourists in Berlin

Posted by dkrashb on October 4, 2011

We get up on our first full day in Berlin surprised at how well we slept. I am starting to feel like I might be ahead of the cold I’m holding at bay and we realize that the room was so quiet that we slept undisturbed. We go to the hotel breakfast before hitting the streets. An American woman complains loudly to her friends about not having any soap in her room–I wonder if she has failed to realize that there is liquid hand soap in a pump by the sink and a bottle of shower gel for the bath.

A small man sits at the table next to us. There is only 12 inches of space between the tables, so it is almost like he’s joined us. He looks like a troll transported through time and space from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale and stuffed into a too small button-up shirt and khakis. His face is covered with hair that looks just a little too much like fur and the girth of his torso exceeds its length. I keep waiting for one of the buttons on his shirt to give up its tenuous grip and fly across the table to hit me in the forehead. This fear is heightened by his constant coughing and snorting; he apparently is losing his battle against a cold. Each time he coughs, I can almost hear the threads ripping. He continually paws at his dripping nose, using the backs of his short, stubby arms as a tissue even though there is a paper napkin at hand and more on the buffet. I find his presence takes the edge off my appetite.

After breakfast, we head first to Checkpoint Charlie. After all, we have only today to see Berlin and we feel obligated to stick to the beaten path of the millions of tourists who have come before. Checkpoint Charlie is a bit of a let down. There are only small pieces of the wall displayed on the buildings that line the street, none of the wall itself is still standing here. Men dressed in American and German soldiers uniforms offer to pose for tourist pictures for a fee–none of then are actually in the military. We decide to skip the museum and head back towards the Fernsehturn tower again, this time with the intent of going to the top.

When we arrive at the tower, there is a long line to get tickets–another place where planning in advance would have paid off. We wait for nearly an hour and then have to wait 40 more minutes for our turn in the elevator. As we wait for the elevator, a second line forms of people with VIP passes and reservations in the rotating restaurant up in the tower. They get to ditch our line 2x before the Germans in the front put up a protest and get our line moving again.

When at last we get up into the tower, we find that half of the observation deck is closed for a private event, the restaurant is completely booked, and we cannot even go up into the restaurant to see the other half of the view because the bar is closed. I am a little disappointed that we spent 20 euros and, worse, 2 hours of our one day, for half a view, but in the end, decide it was worth it. The view really is spectacular.

After returning to earth, we head for a motorcycle museum Pat spotted from the tower. However, when we get there, it’s all East German bikes, which Pat isn’t interested in, so instead of going in, we stop to eat lunch at a near by restaurant. We sit outside again and order beer and sausages (is there anything else?) and relax while we decide where to go next. We had planned to take a boat tour, but feel like we’re running out of time. We decide to take a tram over to the zoo and check that out.

We get on a train that takes us two stops towards the zoo and then announces it’s the end of the line and everyone must get off. We get off, but then not quite believing it’s turning around, we get back on. It goes the opposite direction. We get off and catch another train, which returns us to where we got off. We pick up a third train and get two stops further before the same thing happens. We are befuddled. We make it to the zoo in 2 more trains, each going two stops further, but are unable to determine why they are each turning around after 2 stops.

I always have mixed feelings about going to zoos. Besides feeling bad for the animals (although they seem to have a pretty good life and often help preserve endangered species), most zoos are similar enough to one another that you don’t really feel like you’ve visited a unique city by going there. However, entering the Berlin zoo felt like stepping out of the frenetic energy of the city and into a sudden state of relaxation. The zoo is literally called an animal park here, and that’s exactly how it felt–like a park with animals. Although the display style is not so unique from, say, the Columbus zoo, they have an amazing collection of animals that includes a giant panda, African lions, polar bears, bizarre warthogs, birds I’ve never even heard of, and hippos. When we walk into the cat house (resisting making a joke here), we start looking at some of the small cats that look suspiciously like house cats when the African lions at the other side of the building start roaring at each other. I’ve never heard anything like it–the roaring of lions reverberates off every surface of the building, making us feel like we’re surrounded by an entire pride. We move quickly towards the source of the sound, wanting to see what all the commotion is about. As we pass displays of small prey animals, I realize this must be a frequent occurrence because none of the smaller critters appear the least bit perturbed. As we arrive at the lion pens, they fall silent. We can’t tell what exactly happened, but there are two males in side-by-side pens, each with a single female. It looks as if they have recently been fed. I have to wonder if the two males smelling each other are frustrated by not being able to claim adequate territory. We watch these huge beasts pace and pant for several minutes. They are so beautiful. The might of their muscles rippling under their fur is awe inspiring. I imagine them chasing down an antelope and wonder if perhaps their protest was that someone had already killed their food?

We return to browsing the other displays in the building, but we don’t get very far before the roaring starts up again. We move back towards the lions and see that each male roars almost continually, still pacing, while the females appear to be providing harmony with smaller roars panted between the longer, rolling roars of the males. Perhaps they are not upset at all–maybe they are a quartet?

We walk outside for a while, glad of the fresh air after the intense smells of the cat collection. We pass by a collection of birds hanging out by several ponds. A huge hawk flies up from one of the ponds and lands in a tree, her shift apparently over for the day. The number of local birds just enjoying the free lunch vs the birds who are part of the collection is difficult to say. Dozens of herons hang out here, flying in in low circles looking for the best place for a snack. I’m pretty sure not one of them is a resident. The ducks get a little more confusing–there are many more types of ducks than listed on the signs. It reminds me of the Calgary zoo where wild turkeys perched on the fences of their outdoor deer display–whatever grain they were feeding the deer was apparently quite a treat for the local turkeys.

We head towards the hippo display, finally finding it almost by accident. When we do, I am so glad we came. The display is a huge pond with a glass wall that lets us see almost the full depth of the water from the side. There are fake rocks and ledges that lead to a land area for the hippos as well, but right now, the hippos are taking a swim. They circle around the pool, looming through the green water and suddenly appearing clearly up against the glass, floating by with unimaginable grace. Watching these huge, awkward animals fly through the water like ballerinas makes me laugh out loud. I have a vague recollection of a children’s story about hippos in tutus and wonder if this is where the author got the idea. I could have sat there until we were kicked out, I was so fascinated by this hippo dance, but, conscious that it is getting late, we move on.

The wart hogs (or whatever variety of pigs these are) make us laugh with their funny faces and the birds fascinate us with their fancy plumes. We walk by to se the polar bears before departing, but they seem to be frozen in a stand off, one in the water and one on the shore glaring at the one below. We head on out the gate and decide to walk a ways and try to find a taxi. Pat guesses we’ve walked 10 miles; I guess it’s something closer to 5, but we’re tired and both our backs are aching.

We end up stopping at a restaurant recommended by a woman at a small grocery store where we stopped to buy water. I have a really good snitzel. The restaurant owner calls a cab for us and we ride back to the hotel grateful for the ride.

Going to Berlin

Posted by dkrashb on October 3, 2011

We awake to The sound of frogs chirping at 6:00AM. I am momentarily confused and then remember that we’ve set the alarm on Pat’s phone because we are catching an morning train to Berlin today. I get up and find the phone and kill the frogs. Pat has an uncanny ability to remain untroubled by alarms–I’ve accidentally set mine on snooze from time to time and found him sleeping soundly with his head under a pillow for as long as a hour after the alarm started going off. I have an irresistible compulsion to get up when an alarm sounds–I figure it’s a good thing one of us does.

After breakfast, we take our luggage outside to wait for the cab we’ve ordered. When we step outside, a cab pulls up and a man walks up to it and gets in. It’s a few minutes early, but Pat says, I bet that’s our cab and then stands there staring. Visions of us standing there for 10 more minutes waiting for a cab that never shows and then having to wait 10 more for another on to arrive prompt me to suggest he go ask before the cab drives away. Sure enough, it is our cab. But, we are all going to the train station, so we will share.

We make it to the station with 45 minutes to spare. We sit on a bench on the track and wait for our train. I decide to use the restroom while we’re waiting. When I get there, I discover that the train station has pay toilets. They’ve upgraded from change operated door handles to a turnstile entry to the restrooms, but now they charge a euro to get in. Having no cash on me, I return to the platform and decide just to wait since the restrooms on the train are free.

The train pulls into the station 3 minutes before our departure time. We get on and find seats. We sit side-by-side with no seats across from us. We sit back and relax, me taking out my iPad and getting caught up on my blog while Pat stares out the window and points interesting sights out to me.

When we get to the next stop, we are displaced. A man has a reserved seat that I am currently occupying. I am somewhat irritated as there are plenty of open seats and I don’t quite understand why he doesn’t take one of them, but when we are displaced again at the next stop, I begin to understand the problem. Pat asks a woman how to tell if a seat is reserved and she explains that the lighted sign above each seat displays the names of the departure and arrival stations between which a seat is reserved. We quickly discover there aren’t two seats together with no reservation (since we have none). Pat spots two seats labeled “Schwerbehinderte” that face each other with a table in between. He explains that these are “handicapped” seats and that we can sit there unless someone who needs them gets on. We settle back down for the third time.

Pat looks around and notices that there are a half dozen “Schwerbehinderte” seats around us. He says, “wouldn’t it be our luck that an entire handicapped tour gets on the train at the next stop?” I almost laugh, but feel like he has just jinxed us and seriously contemplate the likelihood of that happening instead. But, we are not displaced again and we make it to Berlin around 3PM.
We take a taxi to our hotel where we are informed that they have upgraded our room for us. We don’t know why, but we’re not complaining. It’s an interesting hotel, the Gendarmes Nouveau, with hyper-modern decor and lighting throughout the lobby. When we get to the room, it’s a combination of mauve and gray, only still in the hyper-modern theme. I’ve never seen modern done in mauve and gray before–it feels vaguely middle eastern to us, but I don’t know why. Maybe just because our taxi driver was telling us about his flight from Iran on the way to the hotel and so the region is fresh in our minds. In any case, the room is quite nice, very quiet, and we can live with gray and mauve decor for two nights.

After freshening up, we head out. Pat wants to walk to Alexander Plaza, which is supposed to be the center of Berlin. We wander down the streets struck by the contrast with Freiburg. We feel like we’re in a different country. Here the streets are wide and asphalt with regular car traffic, although bikes are certainly prevalent as well. So much so that, on the way over, I noticed our taxi driver stopped on right turns to look up the sidewalk for approaching bikes before making turns. While I have been told before that Berlin is surprisingly new for a European capital and I know from history that it’s really more surprising that anything old is left standing than that most of the buildings are new, I’m unprepared for the architecture of the 60’s and 70’s. There are few buildings of interest and most of them are ancient survivors (or perhaps restored). The bleak and boring industrial look takes up the majority of the city skyline.

We walk past a museum that sparkles with gold leaf in the setting sun, a couple of old churches, and several parks with interesting sculptures that make the walk worthwhile. We go past the Fernsehturn tower, deciding to wait to go up it until the next day, and on to Alexander Plaza. We are both disappointed to find that the only thing interesting here is a fountain and the street performers. We are passed by a man dressed as a half-man, half-goat mythological creature, using stilts covered in fur to simulate goat legs. An electric rock band has found power somewhere and set up and started playing. Unfortunately, they are not so good. They compete with another band around the corner, all acoustic. In the middle of the square, a man plays the sax and, I swear, he sounds much like one would expect a new student of the sax to sound after about two weeks of lessons.

As much as we are tempted to hang out for a while and people watch, Pat notices that teenagers keep gawking at my camera and feels like we’re at risk of getting mugged. We decide to head towards the hotel and find a place for dinner. We approach a fine looking restaurant that advertises it’s been there for 100 years, but when we look through the windows, the men are all wearing jackets and no one is wearing jeans. We decide we’ll try it for lunch the next day instead. We find a more casual place a block later, but they have no indoor seats available. We opt to sit outside, although I am shivering before our entrees are served.

The food is good and hot (although not for long in the cold wind). We eat quickly, racing against heat transfer. We finish up and pay quickly when we are done eating–my lips have turned blue and I can’t stop shaking. It’s not really that cold, but I get cold easily and I am fighting a bug, which can’t help. We walk quickly to the hotel, taking the stairs to the fifth (or fourth if, you’re European) floor just to warm up. Inside, I get ready for bed quickly and snuggle under my personal comforter, but have to sneak under Pat’s to press my cold feet up against his legs to get warm. As soon as my feet thaw, I drift off into a deep sleep.

Wandering Freiburg

Posted by dkrashb on October 2, 2011

On the morning of our last full day in Freiburg, I awake feeling much like I’ve been run over by a train a few times. My head aches, my throat is on fire, my body hurts every where. When I stand up, my calves remind me how much up and down walking I’ve been doing by spasming painfully. I look in the mirror to discover a large spot between my upper lip and nose. I get out my reading glasses and determine it’s a giant zit that could only be more noticeable if it were on the end of my nose. There is a certain irony about having to put on reading glasses to determine a foreign body on your face is a zit, but I cannot say I find it amusing.

I splash water on my face and drink some from a glass in the room, breaking my no tap water rule. I am glad that we have spent so many days in this small town–I don’t feel rushed to see all of it in a day and feel the freedom to relax into our trip gradually as my body adjusts to the time change and, hopefully, defeats whatever virus it is that I’ve picked up on the plane. I check the time and it’s nearly 9AM. Pat is up and we make our way towards breakfast with me moving slower than usual.

I take my iPad to breakfast with us today since we haven’t yet figured out what to do today. Pat suggests going hiking again, but every part of my body screams “Nein!” at this suggestion. I suggest we hit a couple of museums and do a casual stroll down to the Dreisam River, now that we know where it is. We plot out a broad rectangle through town, wrap up breakfast, and head back to the room to finish preparing. I make the mistake of sitting down on the bed to read while Pat is in the shower, finding myself nodding off and slow to get moving again. It’s nearly noon by the time we get out the door. I remind myself again that we don’t have to try to do and see everything and this is our 4th day in this town–if we didn’t see anything else here, it would be OK.

We wander down a street we haven’t taken before–when we looked at the map, we were surprised to find that there were a few of those left. We point ourselves at the Anthropological Museum, hoping for dinosaurs and wooly mammoths, I suppose. When we arrive at the museum, we recognize the park in front of it and realize that we’ve been by several times before. The building isn’t big enough to house dinosaurs, but we go in anyway.

We follow the displays of ancient artifacts ranging from tiny remnants of weapons and tools to large pots. The signs are only in German and the English translation booklets are all gone. Pat has trouble translating the signs, not knowing many of the words since they are not commonly used in conversation. I wonder if it is a deep character flaw on my part that when I see these types of displays with their little signs purporting historical significance that I immediately want to lay down and take a nap. We make it through two and a half small floors of displays of similar items. Some displays are models of what life looked like at each represented chapter from history. One has a tiny woolly mammoth in it and I smile. But upon closer inspection, I see that it is a child’s plastic rhino covered in fake fur to look like a mammoth–apparently model mammoths are hard to come by.

Returning to the bright sunlight outside the museum, we walk a little further and find a much more exciting sight–the university library is being torn down. A crane takes bites of concrete from the massive structure, leaving exposed rebar along the edges. We retreat to a safe corner as we watch and a man standing there strikes up a conversation with Pat. He has returned to Freiburg for the first time in 20 years and is amazed that they are tearing down the library. He tells Pat that he watched it being built when he was a college student there in 1977. Other than the building being ugly, I can’t determine why they would be tearing it down by looking. I stand there watching the crane at work as Pat and the man continue their conversation. I catch bits and pieces and realize they’re trading stories about travel, but at last Pat turns to me and says, “He’s doing what we want to do–he has no home.” Later, I learn from Pat that the man graduated from college and started living out of a VW bus, traveling all over Europe. He also spent about a year doing the same in the US. He never settled down and continues to live on the cheap as he moves from place to place. He tells Pat that he gets an occasional job but he eats from the grocery store, buys used clothes, and spends very little money. I find myself wondering who “we” is in Pat’s statement.

We wander on down to the Dreisam “river” and realize why we couldn’t find it the other day–we probably crossed over it without noticing. We walk down to a pedestrian path along the water passing groups of teenagers who pass joints back and forth between them, the smell of pot lingering in the air. Pat tells me to be careful in case we are mugged, but I imagine we would be in more danger if we were carrying a bag of fries than carrying my camera. We walk on by un-accosted.

A beer garden sits on the edge of the river in front of an active group of ducks fluttering around on the water. We stop and think we might have a snack, but the waiter doesn’t come and finally Pat goes inside, returning with two Pilsners and no food. When I ask about a snack, he tells me the kitchen was a cluster, so he just got beer. We had breakfast only two hours ago, so I figure we should survive the deprivation, but I worry about drinking strong German beer without any food. Pat has to answer an email, which takes him a long time on his iPhone. I sit and wait for him to finish, watching a silly dog dive into the knee-deep water and try to chase the ducks, hopelessly thwarted by the resistance of the water.

A man gets up and points out a large heron of some kind sitting on the bank across the stream. It looks related to the Great Blue Heron of home, but I wish for the second time that I had purchased a German bird book before coming over. I also wish I’d brought my telephoto lens with me today instead of leaving it in the hotel, but content myself with shooting with the lens I have.

After finishing our beers, we walk on along the river, passing a pair of lovers on a park bench. They are young. He sits in the bench while she lays with her head in his lap. They see nothing but each other and he reaches out and strokes her face with the tenderness of young love. After we pass, I tell Pat I wish I could shoot that moment without interrupting it, he looks at me oddly and says, “They’re dirty and homeless and they look like they’re high.” I guess we all see things differently–or maybe I really did need to have food with my beer.

Returning to the city streets, we find ourselves some ice cream and wander along towards the modern museum of art. We find a large church on the way and stop to peer at it between the bars that keep it closed to the public but open for gawking. Pat says, “They really make it hard to get close to god at this one!”. I laugh, but since I think we’re closer being outside than in, perhaps it’s not as funny to me.

We wander around some more, deciding to stop and eat a flatbread pizza-like thing that Pat says first appeared in Germany about 15 years ago and seems to have grown in popularity since. He doesn’t like Flamkuchen himself, but thinks he should give it another try. We sit outside once more, this time in a small courtyard between what might be office buildings. The Flamkuchen is not any better than Pat remembers it, but the beer is good. We sit in the sun feeling very European–or maybe French or Italian–letting the afternoon cruise by as we relax with no place to go.

Finding the small amount of energy I’d rallied flagging, I suggest we skip the art museum and return to the hotel for a nap instead. Pat agrees and we make our way back to the hotel. We decide to watch an episode of Damages on my iPad and I fall asleep ten minutes in. Pat goes through two more episodes while I doze before he, too, falls asleep.

Waking nearly 3 hours later, I am groggy and confused, but hungry. We decide to do our usual wandering for dinner exercise. I get myself sorted and we decide to try to find the restaurant we ate at our first night in town. We both think we know where it is, although we don’t agree. We wander around for an hour with it being in neither of the places we thought it was. Eventually, we settle for a place we haven’t been before where I try a traditional German version of macaroni and cheese. It’s made with spaetzle noodles and rich cheese and cream sauce and topped with toasted onions.

While I eat, I watch two French men sitting behind Pat. Tonight, they are the “loud Americans,” talking and laughing loudly and ogling each woman that walks by with an openness that I haven’t seen in the states in 20 years. One of them wears a polo shirt and khakis that look almost American. The other wears a black leather biker vest, a long dangling earring in one ear, and his mostly missing hair in a pony tail. If it weren’t for how they held their knife and fork, I would think they were Americans playing a joke by speaking French. Then, the biker guy pauses in his eating to run his tongue down the length of his knife, removing every remnant of whatever he’d been cutting with it. I have never seen anyone do this from any country, although having only been to France a few times, I can’t claim to be an expert on French etiquette. I’m pretty sure this is not standard French dinner behavior, however.

Finishing up dinner and skipping dessert, we drag our still tired selves back to the hotel for the final time. We set the alarm for the first time since we arrived, needing to get up early to catch the train to Berlin in the morning. As I get ready for bed, I carry my iPad around with me trying to catch up in the episodes I slept through. Getting caught up, I suddenly feel wide awake. We end up watching one more episode before falling asleep. I wonder if our German neighbors can hear the iPad through the walls as I drift off to sleep.

Freiburg Cathedral

Posted by dkrashb on October 1, 2011

On the way back from our walk up to the Schlossberg Tower, we decide to stop at the Freiburg Cathedral since it is still early afternoon. Having circled Freiburg Cathedral for two days, it’s time to go inside.

When we approach the entry, a sign over the door announces something about the pope. Underneath, two tour groups gather, preparing to enter the cathedral as well. As we pass around them, there is a sudden swirl of bodies–we have inadvertently split the herd and apparently caused a panic. We step out of the way as quickly as possible and they regroup and settle back down. Pat suggests we could just follow along with one of the tours, but it’s in German and we learned from our last trip to Germany that Pat is not a good translator when it comes to tours–his vocabulary is limited to daily conversation and there are too many words he doesn’t know in tours.

We step through the doors unguided and are instantly thrust from bright sunlight into what seems like darkness. After a few moments, our eyes adjust to the dim light streaming through enormous stained glass windows. My mouth drops open as I gawk at the soaring ceiling so far above our heads that it nearly disappears in the faint light. Looking back down, the pews continue for what seems like a mile through the full length of the sanctuary. I imagine a wedding here and wonder if every resident of this town would be enough to fill the pews. There is something about the size of this space that creates a sense of distance and isolation. In spite of its glorious architecture, its spectacular windows, and its frightening art full of what I assume are supposed to be inspirational pictures of Christian conquests, I have to wonder if anyone actually feels closer to god in a place like this. I think of the generations of men and women who must have spent most of their lives working on this church–it was under construction for over 3 centuries. I wonder how many of them suffered as a result of this monolithic project and how much blood was shed. I find myself awed and horrified simultaneously–perhaps that is the intent.

We wander around the main sanctuary to a series of chambers around the perimeter. They each display relics from the church ranging from elaborate sculptures to simple kneelers before alters. Each is locked in its own prison cell, protected from the masses. Similarly, the pulpit is roped off–an area where only the members of the clergy are welcome. Pat comments that they keep people at arms length from god. I find myself wondering why people would come here to worship at all, but apparently they do. A grandmother sits in front of three statues of saints whispering intently in German to her young grandson and gesturing periodically at the statues. I imagine her telling him the tales of these saints and wonder what he is thinking.

We wander back out to the daylight and return to the hotel to get ready for dinner. Once again, we find ourselves wandering aimlessly by lighted shop windows and busy restaurants looking for tonight’s destination. Still tired from travel, the cold I’m fighting and all the walking, I am less tolerant of having no plan today–the fact that we had little for lunch and my stomach is growling doesn’t help me be patient, either. Finally, we decide to give-up on finding somewhere new and return to the restaurant we had lunch at our first day.

Today, we eat inside. There are loud Americans in this restaurant, too. But they are two couples and the women keep shushing their husbands even though one of the women is the loudest of them all. Pat strikes up a conversation in German with the waitress and learns that she is Croatian, but her mother has lived in Florida for over 30 years. She tells Pat that the pope is coming to Freiburg on the 24th and that they have to close all the plaza restaurants for the day and remove all the umbrellas–apparently umbrellas are a threat to the pope’s security. She compares traveling to the US to visit her mother during the cold war years to the pope’s visit–she laughs about all the security required just for the pope to go by and wave. It does seem a shame that so much security is required even for a man that is supposed to represent peace (isn’t he?). Pat and I are relieved the pope didn’t come while we were there–we imagine the plaza jammed with people and all the hotels full and smile at our fortune.

After dinner, still hungry, we indulge in dessert. By “we,” I mean that I order dessert and Pat agrees to eat a couple of bites. I order the house speciality, which is described as vanilla ice cream mixed with egg whites and Kirsch and served in a soufflé cup. It doesn’t taste as rich as I expected and the Kirsch is just a subtle flavor. Yet, by the time I finish it (minus Pat’s two bites), I feel like I’ve had a shot of schnapps. I wonder how much Kirsch is in that tiny cup?

We walk back to the hotel, me giggling a bit more than usual, but walking no more awkwardly than is normal for me. I am almost ready for bed when Pat asks if I want to go out and check out the night life. I’m sure the look I gave him said it all–the thought of going to bed is the only thing on my mind tonight. I think about going out for just a moment and suddenly feel very old. Tonight, we will stay in.

The Climb to Schlossberg Tower

Posted by dkrashb on September 30, 2011

In contrast to yesterday morning, I wake up feeling like whatever bug Pat was fighting has been evicted only to find it’s way over to me. I get up groggily at 6AM, but end up returning to bed until 9AM. When at last I wake up, Pat is already out of bed. We get ourselves ready and head to breakfast, debating what today’s agenda should be. Pat suggests we go hiking again. I suggest we hike up the mountain this time and take the cable car down, as my knees will not take another day of downhill. Pat does not want to work that hard, so I suggest we walk over to Shlossberg and walk up to the tower, which is supposed to be a fantastic view of Freiburg. I’m not sure why I wasn’t tipped off to the fact that if we walk up to a scenic overlook, we will also have to walk down, but I cheerfully propose this alternative, thinking it will give our knees a day to recover.

After breakfast, we wind our way through Freiburg to the restaurant the marks the start of the ascent to the tower. The sign says 1.2 KM to the tower and I smile encouragingly at Pat that it’s such a short walk. As we start up the path, we quickly learn how cramped our poor calves are from walking downhill all day yesterday–each step feels like a massive stretch. But, it feels good and we take it slow. A little too slow, perhaps–a group of octogenarian Germans passes us like we’re standing still. We pick up the pace a bit. After winding our way through several steep switchbacks, we reach a restaurant and realize it’s the same restaurant that we thought we were at below. I am a little perplexed that it seems like we’ve gone at least 500 meters, yet we have only made it from the entry point to the restaurant.

We continue up the incline, much of it as steep as basement stairs. We pass enormous trees covered in graffiti as well as ancient ruins also covered in graffiti–we are surprised by the tagging every where in this relatively small town. At last, the climb gives way to a flat place where a playground with large wood structures provides a place for young children who aren’t exhausted to burn off energy while their parents catch their breath. I notice there aren’t any children here. I recline on a chain link hammock in the middle of the structure long enough for Pat to take a rare photo of me. When I view the photo on my camera, I remember why I prefer to stay on the other side of the lens.

We continue on to the next stretch of the path, winding our way up even steeper climbs. Finally, we come to the ruins of a tower with a serpentine path up to the top. We look over the view and I shoot, enjoying the breeze as much as the scenery. I turn around to shoot the other side and see another mountain behind us. I lean back to take a shot and, there in my lens at the very top of the next mountain is a structure silhouetted against the sky that looks remarkably like the symbol we have seen marking the path to the tower. Yes, I have just discovered that we are not at the tower at all, but only at a stopping place on the way.

I break the news to Pat. The tower looks far off in the distance, but we are determined to make it there. All wisdom about “enjoy the journey as much as the destination” abandons me as I focus on putting one foot in front of the other to finish this climb. I wonder how they measured the 1.2 KM–perhaps it was as the crow flies or, perhaps they meant it was 1.2KM straight up? Whatever the case, we redouble our efforts and leave the octogenarians in the dust (I am not proud to say that I was pleased that they turned around at the first tower because I would have been humiliated if the climb to the top was just an afternoon stroll for them). At last, we come upon the steps leading up to a grassy field where the viewing tower sits. It’s a crazy looking structure–giant logs support a spiral staircase up the middle with viewing platforms at multiple heights.

We enter the spiral stairs and I start counting each step. Then, I realize that perhaps in Germany this is not considered OCD as they have actually numbered the steps for me. 159 steps later, we arrive at the second to last viewing platform, but the steps narrow and continue, unnumbered. I climb up 16 more steps to the next platform and discover that the steps go up even further, past the viewing platform and shooting into the sky like an abandoned step ladder. I climb to the very top, but the stairs sway side to side. I take a step backwards and brace myself against the rail, every fear of heights I’ve ever had suddenly screaming in my ears, “Get down!” But I will not retreat until I have at least a couple of shots from this vantage point–it truly is an incredible view of Freiburg below and, for once, there is no fog. I manage to let go of my death grip on the rail long enough to snap a few careless photos and then I retreat to the platform where Pat waits. A man comes up the stairs below and the entire tower sways as his weight shifts with each step. Although the swaying is less amplified on the platform than it was on the stairs to no where, I am happy when Pat suggests we go down another level and sit on a built in bench for a while. When we sit, we notice a small lock snapped on the fence below the rail. It is engraved with two people’s names and a date. It seems like a nice way to tag something.

We cautiously make our way back down, but my left knee immediately starts with it’s shooting pains after only a few steps. I use the handrails to lift myself down, trying to save my knee for the descent down the hill. My knee really shouldn’t hurt this much–oddly, it’s my right knee that I previously injured, yet my left knee always starts with the pain first, my right knee catching up later. We limp our way down to the restaurant, feeling very old indeed. We decide it’s past time for lunch, so we might as well take a break and eat here. Unfortunately, the nice restaurant is no longer serving lunch, only coffee and dessert, and they send us up to the beer garden above. It’s only one flight of stairs up, so we settle at a table there and Pat goes up to the stand and orders food for us. He returns with what looks like a plate of worms. It turns out, it’s some meat like bologna that’s been sliced into thin strips and tossed with vinaigrette. Pat frowns at it–he says it’s not prepared properly and that it isn’t what he had in mind. We each try it. While it isn’t as bad as a plate of worms, it’s not significantly better. We manage to get down a couple bites each and then shift our focus to our beers. The beer is good. We sit in the sun filtered through heavy trees and drink our beer thinking life is pretty good in spite of the bologna salad. The view was worth the climb and the sore knees and, after all, we’re sitting in a lovely beer garden enjoying German pilsner with nothing else that has to be done today.

In Search of Dinner

Posted by dkrashb on September 29, 2011

Since we have returned late from our afternoon of hiking, we return to the hotel to quickly clean up and then hunt up a place to eat dinner. For some reason, I decide to put a little make up on and try to make myself presentable. I suppose I am thinking of the three men we encountered at dinner the night before when we sat at the bar of a crowded restaurant and Pat said they were making comments like we didn’t belong there. I don’t know what wearing make-up has to do with improving this situation, but I take a couple extra minutes to put it on anyway.

Now that I am wearing the fanciest outfit I brought with me–skinny black pants, a red sweater, and ballet flats–we wander around on the cobblestone streets looking for food. As it turns out, my feet are bruised from our long descent on a rocky trail–one of the two disadvantages of hiking in fivefinger shoes (not counting the odd looks). Each step reminds me how many stones I stepped on with nearly bare feet.

As we wander around on tired legs, we pass large clumps of bicycles. It seems there is a parking shortage for bicycles in Freiburg; some bikes are parked with a lock only through their own wheels, having no stationary object left to lock them to. There are virtually no cars in the old part of town. When one does venture through, they drive slowly, allowing the pedestrians walking down the middle of the road time to clear the way. It seems that car parking is limited to the outskirts of town and hotel garages.

We wander around past crowded restaurants, many full of university students eating mounds of fried food from baskets; it’s a university town. We pass those restaurants up as well as the “Wein” restaurants with their more sophisticated clientele–the wine is tempting, but it feels wrong to drink wine in Germany when the beer is so good. We wander past a restaurant that advertises its daily special as “fresh killed rabbit” and keep on going again. Finally, we end up back in the main plaza around the cathedral and choose a table outdoors at a restaurant across from where we had lunch the day before.

There are three restaurants here, their outdoor tables distinguished by the furniture style and the color of the umbrellas. We sit at the third, close to the restaurant entrance, hoping to be noticed since it is late to be sitting down for dinner in this small town. As we sit, we overhear an inebriated American one restaurant over and several tables down. He speaks so loudly, he might as well be shouting. Every person in the area can hear every word he says. He complains about the tables having numbers on them. I find it interesting what annoys people. There have been many times when I have been highly annoyed by something that seems petty and not worth the energy to others. But usually it comes down to something that ultimately makes me feel stupid. Like door handles that look like they should be pulled when they really must be pushed. It doesn’t take too many times smashing your face into a glass door that didn’t open when you’re not paying attention before you get annoyed by misleading door handles. Although, I have to admit that even now, imagining my face pressed against the glass from the view of a person on the other side makes me laugh out loud. But that is beside the point. Most of the time, what I find annoying depends on whether it makes me look foolish in some way and how cranky I am at the time. I try to remind myself of this when I want to dismiss someone as a nasty person–I have been that nasty person more times than I care to admit. But in this case, I am at a loss to explain why the noisy American is so perturbed by table numbers or why he feels compelled to shout his irritation to the world. I find myself wishing he would shut up, feeling like he reflects badly in all Americans. After all, those of us who are quiet go unnoticed while the rambunctious make a lasting impression.

The food comes. Pat has ordered cordon bleu for me. The German version is made with pork instead of chicken and I actually like it better than the French version. The pork is tender and juicy and the salty ham and creamy cheese set it off just right. It’s a huge amount of food, but this doesn’t prevent me from snagging a few spaetzle noodles from Pat’s plate when he’s not looking. I have a weakness for spaetzle. We enjoy our dinner, cleaning our plates, but we are too full for dessert.

We return to the hotel slowly, bikes with headlights passing us on the walkways as we go. The night is cool and the moon is rising, about half full. I try to remember if it’s waxing or waning–the top portion is lit, so the old trick of a “D” for “dying” won’t work tonight. I decide it must be waning and I realize that I did not buy a new tripod before the full moon, as I had promised a photographer friend I would after shooting horribly blurred shots of the full moon in August. I make a metal mote as we continue our stroll. The cathedral bells start ringing and are then echoed by another church’s bells in the distance–it’s 10PM and I have stayed awake all day. By the time we return to the hotel and get ready for bed, I fall quickly into a deep sleep.

Hiking the Black Forest

Posted by dkrashb on September 28, 2011

I wake up at 6AM, surprisingly on schedule for having gotten so little sleep the night before. Pat, however, sleeps until I wake him at quarter to nine in spite of the fact that he fell asleep two hours before I did the night before. He jumps out of bed and throws on some clothes–we have purchased breakfast with our room and he doesn’t want to miss it.

The breakfast is a large buffet that offers foods that range from the same kind of fare at American hotels to a very German assortment of meats and cheeses. I opt for a small plate of fruit, a croissant, smoked salmon, and a small piece of cheese. I go back to make a waffle, but someone else is using both irons, so I eat corn flakes instead. After filling up, we return to the room with me thinking we’ll get ready to go to the Black Forest immediately.

Pat, however, has other plans. He lays back down “only for a minute” and falls sound asleep. I get out my iPad and read. This has happened every time we’ve gone to Europe together. Pat can’t get started before noon and I can’t stop until I collapse around 1PM. I resign myself to trying to stay awake all afternoon and let Pat sleep, slipping out to the terrace to read since it’s more pleasant than our room and I think the sunlight will help reset my biological clock.

I return to our room around noon and wake Pat up. We are not going to spend an entire day in bed. Pat says he feels like he’s fighting something and I feel bad for waking him, but he gets up anyway. We pack a single day-hike pack, filling the water bladder and stuffing it with an extra lens for my camera, his rain jacket, two pairs of reading glasses, and an assortment of maps–our loot from the tourist center yesterday.

We walk to the street car and purchase two tickets. The ticket machine is in German and I am grateful that he is the one figuring out how to buy the tickets. When we get on the street car, we stamp our tickets in a timestamp machine, i ask Pat what happens if we don’t stamp them and he tells me that there is a big fine for not having a ticket. As we come to the next stop, a blonde woman gets on wearing a T-shirt and cropped jeans and carrying a black messenger bag. She could be a college student, but she looks closer to our ages than to a 20-something. Continuing our conversation, I suggest to Pat that if he sticks to speaking English, we might get away with not stamping the ticket, but he seems quite nervous about this suggestion–apparently, Germans follow the rules. A minute later, the blonde woman approaches us, holding out an ID that shows she is “control” and asks to see our tickets. Pat gives me the “I told you so look” as she examines our properly stamped tickets.

The street car takes us to the end of the line where we transfer to a bus on the same tickets. The bus takes us to the cable car, which will take us to the top of the mountain. I suggest that we hike up instead, but it’s over a 1200 meter rise in elevation and Pat isn’t feeling up to that kind of climb. A woman with two small daughters rides up with us. She tells us they were there the day before and have returned to retrieve a forgotten teddy bear. She was forced to pay for the cable car a second time, which hasn’t made her happy, but her ire is directed at the cable car operate, not her daughter. They talk softly and laugh often. Upon discovering that I speak only English, the girls practice their English a little on me–they start learning English and French in the first grade. One girl asks me, “What is your name?” in perfectly clear English. I reply with, “My name is Dianne” and we both giggle as if we’ve told a joke. I giggle because I think we sound like every language book I’ve ever used and not at all like a real conversation. I’m not sure why she giggles, but maybe I am the first person she’s talked to who can only communicate in English (as far as she knows) and she’s delighted that her English worked.

As we rise towards the top of the mountain, we go from lovely views of the valley up into a massive cloud of fog and rain. I’m not sure which gods I’ve offended, but it seems a continual theme that whenever I get to a great view point, there is fog. When Pat and I were here last, several years ago now, we spent a day hiking to the Feldsberg (the highest point in the Black Forest) after reading that the morning fog clears in the afternoon. The fog didn’t clear and we could barely see each other if we got more than a few feet apart. We also went to the Zutgsptiz, the highest point in Germany, on a cable car and had a similar experience. You’d think I would learn.

When we arrive at the top, we’re hungry. Realizing we have only a leftover bag of peanuts for a snack, we decide to get lunch at the restaurant. We gorge on lentils with a wiener and snitzel. Of course we each have a pilsner to wash it down. Pat orders a piece of cheese cake to top it off. I have a few bites, but it’s not as good as his Mother’s cheese cake–it took me a few times to get used to the less sweet version of cheese cake German’s make, but now it’s a favorite.

After filling our stomachs, we head for the trail. We have only 2 1/2 hours left until the last cable car goes back down the mountain, and Pat wants to do an out-and-back. I tend to think we might as well just walk all the way down, but I keep this to myself since Pat does better making these kinds of decisions on the fly than in advance. We set the alarm on his iPhone for about ten minutes before half our time will be up, so we can decide then.

The forest is different than Pat remembers it from his many childhood trips here. There are many deciduous trees and he remembers only pines. When we get lower, there are more pines, but they are younger and less dense than he remembers. It’s beautiful none-the-less and we see few people on this Tuesday afternoon. We hike slowly down a broad path, trying to preserve our knees. The forest is quiet, and so are we. Just as Pat comments that there are no critters, a huge woodpecker appears from behind a tree. I get out my telephoto lens, but as typical, it disappears again before I can get a shot. If we were in the states, I would say it was a Pileated Woodpecker, but it looks different and I don’t know the birds here.

We walk on, the trees clear briefly and we look down into a pasture full of reddish brown creatures that I am sure are cows. Pat thinks they are deer, but the long lens on my camera proves my eyes are better than his. We wonder if there are deer here–we have seen no signs of them.

As we continue down the mountain, the path gets narrower, steeper, and rockier. My left knee reminds me that I am 44 and I’ve asked a lot of my knees over the decades. We take smaller steps, careful of the rocks, trying to step lightly on now painful knees. I don’t like hiking as much when my knees are shooting sharp pains up my legs with every step, but it still beats laying around. I think again that we would have been better off hiking up than down, but I don’t say anything.

We find ourselves at a junction that doesn’t match anything on our map and has no signs. We debate which way to go. A man on a mountain bike appears from the path above us and Pat asks him for directions. We follow his advice and walk on. A few minutes later, our alarm goes off. Pat looks up the hill we have been working our way down, the grade seems daunting, and suggests we continue down instead of going back up. I agree, since that was my plan anyway, but I’m glad he thinks it’s his idea. We walk on as the trees grow thicker and the forest darker. Pat wonders if we will make it back before dark. I realize that we didn’t take anything out of my pack and put it in his when we left mine behind–the first aid kit, the emergency blankets, the flashlight are all back in our hotel room. If we were confident that we are on the right path, we wouldn’t have these worries, but we are not.

We continue down the trail, reaching another confusing junction. The problem with tourist trail maps is that they don’t have all the trails on them. I don’t know why people think you don’t need that information–it’s hard to locate yourself on a map if you can’t recognize the drawing compared to the situation. I suppose this is life, however, you never really know exactly where you are, but you keep moving forward in the hope that it’s the right direction. Another cyclist appears as we ponder the signs at this junction. He comes up behind us, pondering as well. I say, “Do you know where you are?” to him. Pat laughs because I have spoken to the man in English without warning. But the man answers, he thinks he does. Pat consults with him and we head down one of the trails.

The sound of hammering reaches us from the valley below and we think we must be getting close to civilization. We reach a dirt road that runs along a stream, with banks covered in purple flowers. They are so fragrant, the air drips with their sweetness. We pause to check the time; it’s nearly 6PM. We wonder what time the last bus stops at the cable car station. The trail cuts to the left from the road and winds through a pasture surrounded by electric fences containing goats. We pass by, watching the goats, especially a baby. They are preoccupied with eating and barely notice us except one, who follows us along the fence as if he thinks we might be good for a hand out.

The trail goes back into the woods, down another steep incline, and then comes out to a paved road. It is a country highway and we cross it at a blind curve, hurrying so as to avoid surprising any drivers. Then, it returns to woods. We are going slowly again, now. In spite of feeling time pressure, our knees will not tolerate a fast pace as long as we are headed downhill. When the path looks clear, we take turns turning around and walking backwards, stretching our calves and resting our knees. Walking backwards, however, is not easy, so we give up when the trail becomes rocky again. Eventually, we can see the cable car. We wind our way through an open field and one more wooded area to the parking lot, relieved that we made it, but still not sure of the bus.

We walk to the bus stop and read the signs. There is no where to buy a ticket and the signs are somewhat confusing, besides being in German. I decide that the sign indicates a bus will come in 7 minutes. Pat has to be convinced that the numbers are times–apparently the words only make the sign more confusing. We sit and wait, the cable car station is completely shut down, looking as if it’s been boarded up for the season, although I know the wooden shutters will open again tomorrow. The bus arrives in just 2 minutes, ending our worry, but it’s going the opposite direction. The driver tells Pat we can get on now and she will turn around in a few stops. So we board and ride. I’m glad we did because the views from the mountain road of the setting sun are fantastic.

When we stop at the turn around point, the driver turns off the bus and we sit for a few minutes. I notice a ticket machine on the bus and Pat goes to purchase tickets for us. He’s unable to decipher which tickets to buy and another man, having just gotten on the bus, comes over and helps him. Germans do not understand why my husband speaks German with no accent but doesn’t know how to do things like buy bus tickets. This man is patient, however. Now that we are legal again, we sit back down and enjoy the views once more as the bus takes us back towards town. We are tired and ready for our next meal.

Getting to Germany

Posted by dkrashb on September 27, 2011

Having driven to the Atlanta airport, checked our luggage and picked up our boarding passes, we head for the MARTA station. We pause to do a time check and debate whether we’re better off spending the 3 hours until our plane starts boarding in the airport or going downtown for lunch. We want to allow plenty of time, figuring security will be tighter since it is the tenth anniversary of 9-11. I say, “Let’s go downtown–it will be more of an adventure than sitting in the airport.” Pat agrees.

Once we settle onto the MARTA train, we start calculating how long we will need to get back, get our carry-on bags out of our car and get in the security line. We have allowed ourselves 30 minutes of travel time in each direction and still have an hour and a half to get lunch. We get off at the Peachtree station since it’s an area I’m familiar with. I forgot that it’s a Sunday and the Atlanta downtown is not exactly hopping. We head towards the Olympic park once we find ourselves back above ground. It’s a beautiful day and the walk more welcome since we are about to take a 9+ hour flight.

We find a Googie’s hamburger place in the middle of the park. I order a coke float with my burger and we sit outside. There are plenty of people in the park. Some are playing a sport I can’t identify because they are downhill and all we can see is the top halves of people moving around a field. I assume it’s soccer. After relaxing in the shade of a giant old tree while we finished our meal, we head back towards the MARTA station. The walk is now uphill, the sun is higher, and the temperature is rapidly rising. Pat starts sweating through his shirt and then worrying about being all sweaty getting on the plane which probably makes him sweat even more. The platform is surprisingly warm considering how far underground we are. I think back to how long the escalator was and wonder if we are now so close to the center of the earth that the temperature is higher. 🙂 Pat, in the meantime, moves us to the center of the platform between two giant fans that circulate the air. He stands with his arms spread, trying to get his shirt to dry.

Back at the Atlanta airport, we are surprised that security does not seem any worse than usual. We get through the line in 15 minutes and neither of us is randomly scanned in the new “naked” scanners. When we amble up to the gate 45 minutes before our flight, they are all ready boarding all passengers. The boarding process for long flights is different than the short domestic hops–people take their time and settle in gradually. Yet, the entire airbus is full and everyone is ready to go well before our take off time.

The man sitting next to me (I took the middle seat) starts up a conversation. He tells me he’s on a business trip and I ask who he works for. It turns out he and I work for the same company! I wonder aloud how many people on this flight are our colleagues and what the odds are that we would end up sitting next to each other. He also was part of a smaller company acquired by our now mutual corporation. We swap stories of integration and he tells me that everything will settle down and seem normal in three more years. I was really hoping it would only be one more year.

As the plane reaches altitude and the movies become available, he reaches for his ear buds and I reach for my iPad. We do not talk again in the 9 hours that we sit next to each other until we are arriving in Frankfurt and he points out the location of the office he’s going to on the flight map. That’s OK. We’re unlikely to ever see each other again anyway.

The flight goes smoothly, although my knees start twitching when I get tired and it is impossible to get comfortable. I long for the days when I used to fly business class, but it’s hard to justify paying 4x the price for an already expensive ticket when the trip is only 9 hours. I nod off in fits and starts and wake again every 10 minutes. I think I managed to collectively get a couple hours of sleep, but I feel like I was up all night when the flight crew turns the lights back on and starts serving breakfast. Having lost 6 hours between dinner and breakfast, I’m not really sure I’m hungry, but I eat anyway.

When we deplane, there are no restrooms between the plane and immigration. The line is endless and moving slowly. We wait for over half an hour crossing our legs and trying not to think of water. A man is escorted away just before we are called to a desk. This often happens to Pat–he apparently has the same name as someone on the no-fly list. Having been detained 4 times now, we cross our fingers that this won’t be the fifth. Luck smiles on us and the agent stamps our passports. We find a restroom and our luggage and look for the train.

We take a bus to terminal 1 to get to the train. But, having done very little planning for this trip, we have to wait in another long, slow line to get our train passes. On most our trips, I take care of these arrangements, usually in advance. But here, Pat takes the lead since this is his birth country and German is his first language. I am reminded of a man who recently told me I need to learn how to follow; it doesn’t come naturally to me. I would like to think I am a natural leader, but I suspect I’m really just a control freak. While the ticket agent speaks fluent English, Pat’s command of German gets us 4 days of train travel in first class at a reduced rate, saving us about $550 Euros. Not bad for just letting him do the talking.

I have ridden the train in Germany before, but it’s more impressive to me this trip having taken the train from Portland to Glacier National Park back in the states since then. First, German trains are on time. Second, they run as efficiently as subways, often having only 3 minutes between arrival and departure. Finally, they are so quiet and smooth that you have to remind yourself you’re on a train. The first class car is an extra bonus–after being so cramped on the plane, it’s nice to lay back and stretch our of legs fully. I am always amazed at how tired sitting on a plane makes me feel.

In spite of being re-routed once on the way to Freidberg due to weather, we arrive only 10 minutes late. We find a cab and get to our hotel only to learn that our room won’t be ready for 2 1/2 more hours–it’s only 12:30PM. We check our bags and drag our tired selves around this ancient black forest town for an hour. Then we sit outside in a square by the farmer’s market and eat. Oh do we eat! I allowed Pat to order for me and he has chosen two dishes that we share. One is a “fine” bratwurst with fries and the other is some kind of dumpling stuffed with vegetables neatly ground and mixed with cheese. Both are good, but the brat particularly hits the spot today–maybe because it goes so well with the pilsner we drink?

We sit in the shadow of an enormous church that was razed to the ground during World War II and has since been reconstructed, stone by stone. They are still working on it or working on it again; scaffolding shrouds the main steeple. The courtyard below is full of vendor’s tents–it’s an open farmer’s market that apparently opens every morning and shuts down every afternoon. By the time we are done with our entrees, the tents are disappearing.

We sit a while longer, ordering meringues for dessert. They are served with ice cream, whipped cream, and carmel sauce. I resign myself to gaining weight this trip and relish the dessert. We are surrounded by locals and tourists alike. One table over, a group of Americans discuss their plans while failing at keeping their young children entertained, resulting in crying and whining. I wonder if German children expect to be entertained all the time, but none are around to watch.

We wander around the town some more, struck by the stone streets and the old architecture laden with flowers. Nearly every building has flower boxes at every window. We attempt to walk to the river, but get ourselves mixed up. At 3PM, we stop in a coffee shop to use the restroom, get directions, and buy a bottle of water. We head back to the hotel more than ready for a nap.

Traveling on the Tenth Anniversary of 9-11

Posted by dkrashb on September 26, 2011

It’s just after 10AM and we are packed and ready to leave for our two week vacation in Germany. We are flying out of Atlanta because the flight schedule to leave from Chattanooga will not get us home in one day. We have a plan for today: we will drive to the Atlanta airport, check two of our bags, leave our carry ons in the trunk, and take the MARTA downtown for a few hours before our flight. We divide our bags between us and head out the door looking somewhat like pack mules.

The weather has cleared and warmed up again. It’s cool this morning, but promising to get into the upper eighties. We are preoccupied with our plans and have not given much more than a passing thought to the significance of this day. But as we cruise down the highway around Chattanooga, we pass under a high overpass with a group of people on it unfurling a huge American flag and waving. I wave back as we pass under the enormous flag, and am instantly returned to ten years ago.

I was at my desk on 9-11, thankfully on a reprieve from the constant travel that I did at that time of my career. My phone rang and a colleague in NJ excitedly informed me that a plane had just crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. At first, I waited for the punchline, assuming it was a joke. He didn’t yet know that it was an attack; it was just a crazy event for the next half hour until he called me back and told me that a second plane had crashed into the other tower.

I went down the hall to talk to my boss. He was getting updates and it was clear now that this was, in fact, the first attack on American soil since Pearl Harbor. In that moment, the sense of security I’d never known I had was shattered. Many of us gathered in the halls, talking quietly of people we knew who worked in the area. More news came in and we heard of the two other planes, one still in the air. Most of us decided to go work from home the rest of the day–it felt safer not to be in a building that once (decades ago) employed over 18,000 people.

When I got home, I turned on the TV and watched the news. I was on the phone with more friends and colleagues in the NY area, each of us recounting the stories we had learned of missing loved ones. For me, it seemed close to home even though it was a distant event. I was happy that all travel was suspended for two weeks–no one seemed to want to have a meeting in light of the tragedy. I had no desire to go get on a plane.

When I flew into Newark two weeks later, the airport seemed like a ghost town. I met with customers that day who had regular meetings in the trade center prior to 9-11. Two of them recounted their 9-11 stories. One missed being on the 11th floor of the first building when it was hit only because he’d stopped to get a cup of coffee. The other was in the street when the first tower collapsed, diving behind a dumpster with a woman he’d never met before and running for shelter in an abandoned building, barely escaping unharmed. They still didn’t know if the people they were on their way to meet had survived. I never learned the outcome.

I add these stories to my collection from people who had relatives in the city that day–one of my colleague’s daughters had a terrifying day just trying to leave the city to get to the safety of her parents’ home. Photos of one of our customer sites across the street from the destruction were forwarded around. An entire wall is missing from a data center that houses the equipment we make. Those of us who know the people that work there are stunned by these photos. These stories make what might just seem like something in the news feel next door. I am reminded of a person I once met who was sent to Grenada (or was it Panama?) in the military. He described walking through a suburban neighborhood while under attack. I imagine war in a whole new way when I hear his descriptions. I try to imagine where I would hide while soldiers go through my quiet suburban neighborhood shooting at one another.

These are the images that come to mind as we cruise along the highway. I think about what it would be like to live somewhere where personal safety is a foremost concern on a daily basis. In the ten years since 9-11, we have collectively forgotten the fear that the attack created and been more annoyed by ridiculous security rules in the airports that are hard to connect to increased security than worried about repeat attacks. I suppose that’s a good thing. After all, what would being afraid accomplish? At the same time, prior to 9-11, no one would have thought that a terrorist would crash a hijacked plane. Since that day, I’ve swapped many stories of “what we would do” with fellow travelers, each of us feeling personal responsibility for the safety of each flight in a way we never considered before.

I received a news alert from the Wall Street Journal that plans for car bombings on 9-11 were discovered and foiled. I feel oddly reassured by this news, I suppose the fact that they were found out and prevented is reassuring, but it always makes me wonder what else is going on that they haven’t found out about yet? I think the majority of the relief is purely selfish–the attacks were about car bombs and not planes and, after all, it’s a plane I’m getting on.

I feel like I should pause for a moment and honor the dead, the injured, and the chronically ill that resulted from 9-11. Yet, in some respects, do I honor them by flying on this day? Does the fact that I feel confident enough to get on a long, international flight say that we recovered well? It is impossible to know what the people most horribly affected by the attack would say, but since I am going to Germany today regardless, I choose to think they would be pleased. I say a silent thank you to the men and women who responded to the attack and an apology to those who did not survive. Then, I tuck away my fears and focus on the road ahead.

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