Deutsche Familie

Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof Germany

Against a backdrop of thunder, our day began with a short walk over to Café Dillenburg, formerly Brot & Freunde, to fetch our daily bread. After breakfast, with no time to dawdle, we were just as quick about catching the subway to Hauptwache and then another to the Hauptbahnhof, where we boarded yet another train to Geisenheim. Along the way, we passed Königin Viktoriaberg (Queen Victoria) Vineyard in Hochheim, named after a mid-19th century visit of the queen, but we are not out for sightseeing today; that begins tomorrow. Today, we are spending more time with family.

At our train stop in Mainz-Kastel, our train was joined by a couple of young Ukrainians carrying a wine bottle and apparently already drunk here at 9:30 in the morning. Their boisterous voices weren’t going to be tempered, regardless of the amount of stinkeye the people sitting around them were sending their way. No matter the difficulty in being away from home due to your country being at war, you are ambassadors of Ukraine, leaving impressions on the people helping fund your efforts and offering you refuge.

John Wise and Hanns Engelhardt in Geisenheim, Germany

Pulling into the station at Geisenheim, we’d chosen precisely the right car to sit in and the right doors to exit because right there before us was Father Hanns, happy to greet us. Caroline’s father is working on closing out his 90th year so he can lay claim to having reached that rarified age that is the decade before one might see 100 years of life. While Hanns offers up a few anecdotal issues about having reached this point in his life, it is not easy to see age overtaking him yet. Sure, he struggles with his eyes, and a cane is part of his outfit. Still, his mind remains deeply curious, though momentarily troubled by his ongoing struggle to part with books that have been constant companions for the majority of his life.

Vevie Engelhardt in Germany

Father Hanns is giving up many of his books because he is moving to Geisenheim full-time after maintaining a small apartment/bungalow in Karlsruhe for decades and commuting between the two locations. Vevie (or Maria, as Hanns affectionately calls her) has been living on her own in Geisenheim for much of that time, but it has become apparent that she needs more care. Remembering how difficult it was to shed a majority of our books when we moved from Germany to the United States in the 1990s, I can hardly imagine how hard it must be for him to have to part with so many beloved books, many of which are family heirlooms.

Caroline Wise, Hanns Engelhardt, and Vevie Engelhardt in Geisenheim, Germany

Over a bottle of sparkling wine, the four of us sat on the terrace to talk while the skies were clearing. For the better part of 90 minutes, I tried pushing the conversation back to German as Vevie’s frustration at not understanding the English we were speaking was bedeviling her. This wasn’t quite so dramatic on previous visits. For Father Hanns, exercising his wit and humor in English allows his inner rascal to make an appearance as he so enjoys jokes and wordplay and, these days, probably does not often have the opportunity for banter.

I’d imagine that for an intellectual with German as their mother tongue, proficiency and control of linguistic complexity in German are taken for granted. In English or Hungarian, Hanns has the opportunity to spin tales with a flare that exemplifies his love of a broad body of knowledge that likely surprises and delights those he enters conversations with.

By noon, it’s lunchtime for Caroline, Hanns, and me, as Vevie prefers to stay in. Leaving the apartment, I spot the collected works of Arthur Schopenhauer, which is one of the authors Hanns cannot part with. At the nearby restaurant with an odd mix of German and Indian food along with a fairly extensive pizza menu, Hanns is able to open the throttle in English. The conversation turns to the social side of politics and after a blindingly fast 2.5 hour spent at our midday meal, it’s nearly time for Caroline and I to catch our train back to Frankfurt. In a parting thought, I offer to return to Germany later this year or early next to spend a couple of weeks talking philosophy, religion, and social responsibility with my father-in-law.

Jutta Engelhardt and Caroline Wise in Frankfurt, Germany

Back in Frankfurt, we visit Jutta once more before taking off to other lands tomorrow. While Caroline and her mom were chatting, I sat out on the balcony catching up on my note-taking when one of the orderlies named Rouven Dorn, whom I’d met a couple of years earlier, came out for a smoke, and we got to talking. Turns out that he, too, is a fan of Schopenhauer, and upon hearing we are heading to Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, he shared that his favorite Swedish metal band is called Sabaton and that I should take a listen to No Bullets Fly and Lifetime of War. There was more to the conversation, as there always is, but those details are lost in the ether as nothing more was shared with my notebook.

Demonstration in Frankfurt, Germany

Another day, another demonstration.

Demonstration in Frankfurt, Germany

I believe this is an anti-Taliban and consequently an anti-Pakistan demonstration as from my reading of their call to free Ali Wazir, they are voicing their displeasure with Pakistan’s support of the Taliban and that Ali Wazir was arrested in retaliation for his anti-Taliban stance. But I didn’t stop and talk with these young men since my German is not good enough to have a discussion about politics and how they relate to Afghanistan and its neighbor to the south. I do, though, respect that this kind of public conversation and display of concern is alive and well in Germany, even if it pales in comparison to the determination of the French to raise their voice.

Döner kebab in Frankfurt, Germany

There will be no burning of the proverbial midnight oil, no sit-down dinner, and no wandering in nostalgia as we have an early flight in the morning and need to be packed and ready to go this evening. With that in mind, dinner for the second night in a row will be Döner and while the place is called Döneria, it’s different enough to not be as amazing as the one in Bornheim. Funny that I can try being picky while I’m here when it’s been two years since my last Döner, but with the limited number I can possibly eat while in Germany, I need to make the best of these opportunities.

Frankfurt, Germany

There’s a strange side to what I find so familiar. I know that within some number of years, I will never gaze upon any of the sights that were so common to my senses at the times I was present. I will have passed away. Those who are but teenagers on that day I die will be traveling in their own routines past the familiar and won’t have considered yet how anything changed over the course of years others were familiarizing themselves with corners of a city. Nor will they be entertaining ideas that their time to be witness of the places they may be taking for granted will pass out of their view as yet another person picks up another new relationship of seeing a place as part of their unique life. This though is the nature of life; we all pass in and out of the places we’d love to fondly remember forever.

Allein, Nicht Allein

Frankfurt, Germany

In color or ohne Farbe, the world at the edge of my recollections is simultaneously vibrant, cold, devoid of sympathy, and ready to penetrate dreams. Places out of the past flirt with the wake of interpretation as I skirt time out of sync with the moment, leading me to wander the thoughts and impressions of an age ago. Somewhere in my distant history, I traveled the cascade of depravity I yearned to embrace when the only salve for pain was witnessing decay greater than the suffering of uncertainty. A heart in putrefaction is ripe to take wrong turns as my existence was spinning around a drain too backed up to accept the shit trying to find an escape. To be enchanted with filth as a reflection of where one’s soul slunk off to seemed to be an appropriate cloak of how to be perceived, should one desire to be held in disdain.

Frankfurt, Germany

Finding the transgressive self that is never far away (and yet it is) as distance washes the unclean from our being when we fail to remain ensconced below the surface is to re-encounter an iteration of that version of yourself that might better remain buried with progress. The borders in youth were fluid in generally unhealthy ways, with survival never seeming certain. Existential nihilism fit tightly as though it were a second skin while all that embellished the darkness was clung to, should it try to escape the clutching hand.

Frankfurt, Germany

Cast off what has no utility, burn it, break it, throw it into the void. These scooters likely elicit more curiosity about why they are strewn about than the human detritus that is and has been part of the Bahnhofsviertel for decades. Those wretched former human beings that straggle along the passages and dirty streets of our cities are relegated to be the denizens of the void, barely existing in an abyss of disdain. The first lesson in the Lack-of-Empathy Club is to call it compassion in order to mask the hatred of such eyesores daring to pollute our vision and sense of aesthetic sensibilities.

Frankfurt, Germany

Allein (alone), nicht allein (not alone) should never be the transitional state of emergence as it damages the metamorphosis of the inevitable leaving of innocence.

With Caroline visiting her godmother Helga, I’m alone and then again, not alone, as no matter the distance, Caroline is never far. Normally, I’d be sharing details at some point in a post regarding what my other half has been up to, but Helga has never been a fan of photos. In any case, so as not to create undue stress, the visit with Caroline’s godmother is happening away from the lens. Should there be a story about their shared time, that will be coming from my wife and inserted into this post where she sees fit.

Frankfurt, Germany

From the fentanyl addicted to African nuns, the poor to those of means, old to young, people from all walks of life move through the main train station. Other than beggars and station employees, a certain amount of hurry is in most people’s step. I’m certain that it’s only the pigeons that are the constant here, while everything else has changed since I first visited this station 38 years ago. They and the building never appear different. Just as it was on my first visit, the homeless see something in me that inspires them to ask me for help. I’ve watched who they target: they have methods best known to themselves that inevitably include me. But it’s no longer 1985, and the luxury of lingering for hours on end for serious people-watching is no longer afforded me. I have a date I must honor.

Frankfurt, Germany

If you knew the main station area, a.k.a. the Bahnhofsviertel, you might think my date was with a prostitute. Like I said, it’s no longer 1985. I’m also not looking for a train to travel to any particular destination as I’m already within proximity of where I need to be. I’m here to revisit that distant part of me that, while awkward or alien to what others might consider normal, was a defining age of understanding what love was and wasn’t.

Frankfurt, Germany

Foundations responsible for bearing the weight of everything above them can, over time, appear scuffed, but they are the only reason anything has the opportunity to remain standing well into the future. We do not undermine these less-than-sexy structures; instead, we build bulwarks upon them to offer resilience to the work they must perform. This is also a metaphor for us humans who, far too often, are fragile entities built of paper mache on balsa wood. Resilience among people may arise out of difficulty and struggle but a more humane architecture is one premised on love but how many of us have acquired that as our foundation?

Frankfurt, Germany

Baseler Platz, south of the Hauptbahnhof. I’m heading towards the Main River, but looking north offers you nothing other than coordinates of abstractions that cannot be experientially understood. Most of what education brings seems to me to be similar in its abstraction in that without putting yourself in the middle of a thing; there is nothing tangibly processed or owned. Maybe a good example would be that of learning a language that you memorize for reading, but you’ve never uttered a single word of it, so there is no real fluency. We must find familiarity by immersing ourselves and yet we are asking young minds to shutter imagination by replacing it with rote memorization.

Olaf Finkbeiner and John Wise in Frankfurt, Germany

My lunch date is with Olaf Finkbeiner, whom I’ve known for about 35 years now.

Frankfurt, Germany

Across the street from his flat is a little Persian place where we’ll eat and talk for a couple of hours before he is pulled away by a work-related phone call he must tend to. Prior to that call, we’ll discuss social issues, the global economy, education, technology, and politics, along with change and the lack of it. Between sirens and speeding emergency vehicles, we’ll also touch on creative endeavors and Olaf’s building of a small stage area in his basement, where he’ll be moving some musical equipment with the hopes of it becoming a studio space for making music and videos.

Frankfurt, Germany

Contrary to my thinking I was going to return to my wander, Olaf invited me to take a pause in the rear garden and that we could continue the exchange once he was free again. My first inclination after pulling up to a picnic table was to get in some reading, but after laying down on the bench to look up into the tree towering over me, I started to consider how a tree might see itself.

Leaves attach to twigs and branches via the petiole. The leaves are in a kind of universe to themselves as the trunk and roots are some distant concept that would be unfathomable though the relationship between the parts cannot exist without the symbiotic whole. To the branches, is the trunk a type of God, and the leaves their children? Root hairs only exist by the grace of lateral roots, while the tap root is the kingmaker in this subterranean world. The minerals and water taken up by the roots are like prayers that allow the molecules to ascend the trunk to what must surely be heaven.

Does the leaf surface find its life force from the sun, the CO2, or the water that mysteriously arrives from a deep, hidden place? What about the glucose produced by the leaves that travel out of them and is stored as starch by the tree? Where is the creation story found in this relationship?

To the many creatures and processes on earth that require oxygen, if they knew that their existence was only possible due to the byproduct of photosynthesis, would they pray to plants and cyanobacteria? The symbiosis of these threads could go on and on, and they do, except in the simple minds of people who believe that they are somehow removed from this important relationship; they are above the life that is all around and within them.

Without the plants, we all die, not by a 2nd coming but by negligence exponentiated by our own stupidity or by our ability to blame our shortsightedness upon our deities.

Without us accepting our roles of acting like trees to connect the earth to the sky and utilizing what’s between, it will be us humans who will prove we were undeserving of such a perfect place. Isn’t that then our flaunting of vulgar stupidity and hatred for the very place essential for our survival as we pretend to be smarter than trees?

Demonstration for Ukraine in Frankfurt, Germany

After leaving Olaf and my thoughts of God found in botany, my path took me upriver to Römer for a quick visit with Jutta before taking a walk to Hauptwache for my dinner date. As I sat on a nearby wall, wondering if my wife would find me in the crowd as I’d not told her exactly where I was, I realized that something out of the ordinary was going on, and I hadn’t realized it because it was part of what is simply normal in Frankfurt. A demonstration in support of Ukraine was taking place. There are over 1,000,000 Ukrainian refugees here in Germany, or ten times the number the United States has accepted. What was happening was not so much a demonstration but community outreach for the Ukrainians to show appreciation for being welcomed by a tiny country about the same size as the state of Montana. It’s strange to consider that the war is only about 1,000 miles away from Frankfurt, which is about the same distance as Phoenix, Arizona, to Portland, Oregon.

Frankfurt, Germany

My date found me and suggested Döner for dinner: a woman after my own heart. Having just visited Nazar Döner & Grill yesterday and finding it acceptable for this kind of encounter, we strolled along Zeil just as we have countless other times, as this is obviously not our first date. Speaking of dating, it took me a moment to learn that this film poster for the movie Doggy Style and its byline “This Summer Comes from Behind” and whatever that implies is an animated film known as Strays in the U.S. The provocative poster with a dog about to mount a deer while another dog has mounted a gnome suggests themes that appeal to my prurient interests, though I’d never have thoughts about doggy style with Caroline and of course, I mean seeing the movie. A date in Frankfurt with Caroline wouldn’t have been complete without a visit to Eis Christina for their legendary Spaghetti Eis, which is as popular as ever.

Stumbling Stones in Frankfurt, Germany

What an awkward transition from innuendo about sex from behind to Jews that took flight to escape Nazi Germany back in 1939, but this is the absurdity of our world. My post has moved through inferences about my time with prostitutes, homeless people, and nihilism to friends, family, war, entertainment, atrocities, nature, love, God, education, and even a nod to a pop song in my title because a life well lived will likely have been a stroll through the surreal and should never be experienced alone.

[So, how was my day? I didn’t want to interrupt John’s flow, so here is a quick summary: Helga picked me up from my sister’s house. Since she had a stroke and major surgery last year, I was a bit surprised that she’s still driving. However, since Helga lives in Kronberg, the ability to drive is extremely important for her need to connect with cultural amenities here in town. I had asked her to suggest a museum or exhibit for our outing, and so we headed to a parking garage near Schauspielhaus, which allowed us to walk over to the Mainufer (Main riverbank), where most of Frankfurt’s museums are located. En route, we passed the (new to me) Jewish museum that definitely warrants a thorough visit in the future, but today’s destination was Liebieghaus, a former villa that now is a sculpture museum and gallery. We crossed the river on the Holbeinsteg bridge, a relatively new pedestrian and bike/scooter river crossing. At this point, it was time for lunch which we enjoyed in the restaurant of the Staedel Museum. Afterward, we walked over to Liebieghaus next door and its current exhibit, “Machine Room of the Gods,” which links sculptures and art with science, shining modern light on ancient artifacts. Since the day was hot and humid, we sat down for coffee and water in the museum’s cool garden cafe. I really enjoy these outings with Helga; she is so culturally minded. Her perspectives are always interesting, and I love our conversations; she challenges and inspires me.  – Caroline]

Déjà Vu in Frankfurt, Germany

Nidda River in Heddernheim, Germany

Life happening between places is one of the first things that struck me here in the early hours of being back in Germany. How easy it is from afar to forget about the relative intimacy that exists in a society otherwise considered cold and distant. The reminder was inspired by a young romantic couple we passed on the street last night on our walk back from dinner. In those two, I could see Caroline and me nearly 35 years ago. All these years later, as it was back then, it’s not uncommon to see romance unfolding in public, whereas in the U.S., dating often happens in cars and behind closed doors at a distance and out of view. For those who don’t know, there’s a generalization that Germans can appear aloof because they are not busy greeting each other with empty good-morning greetings and less than honest questions asking how one’s day is going as we practice in America. Germans simply do away with the vacuous exchange, opting instead to focus on themselves and those who are important to them.

Litfaßsäule in Heddernheim, Germany

Under these beautiful blue skies, our walk over the Nidda River took Caroline and me through the same neighborhood that delivers us to Speisekammer, but this morning, we are looking for an ATM because there are places in Germany where cash is the only way to deal with getting what we want. As for this photo, I’ve never passed a Litfaßsäule (advertising column) that I didn’t love, and this one is as good as any other to share. The utility of these columns cannot be understated because, even in local neighborhoods, they are a quick and easy way to be updated on what cultural events are taking place. Compare this to Arizona, where I have to watch TV, read the local newspaper, or visit specific websites to learn what’s happening around town.

Frankfurt, Germany

My familiarity with this curve in the road is forever engrained as to the left from here on Maybachstraße, where the old nightclub known as Batschkapp used to be. After watching the Pixies perform there, I ran into Caroline Engelhardt for the dozenth time, and we started a longer talk that resulted in her missing her train, me giving her a ride home, and the rest is history, as they say.

Cafe in Frankfurt, Germany

Living in America, it’s a habit to look for a thing that is nearby, and that’s what we did regarding the ATM instead of looking for one near the place we’d be stopping at for breakfast. It turns out that there was another branch of the same bank two doors down from Rockenbäcker at Weißer Stein where we were going. Who ever heard of being able to walk between ATMs outside half a dozen American cities such as New York, San Francisco, or Seattle?

As for breakfast, we had four different types of rolls that included a slight miscommunication as Caroline only wanted one of the small rye rolls (brötchen), but we got three, two butters, two packets of jam, and two coffees for about $9.50. Because we can’t easily buy brötchen in the States, I’ll substitute the bread choice with a few croissants and two drip coffees, which, without tip, will cost no less than $20. One has to wonder why our prices are so inflated, and please don’t blame it on politics, as Joe Biden doesn’t personally dictate what small businesses charge for baked goods. Caroline noted that seemingly none of the places we visit in Germany are playing music; this will be something we’ll need to pay attention to if we are to verify that as fact. So, how was everything? In a German word, Luxus.

Hauptwache in Frankfurt, Germany

The subway, aside from familiarity and convenience, is an elixir for the senses where we are delivered with little friction to destinations, allowing experiences to form and take shape. We meet others, are brought to events, shopping, sightseeing, or visit friends and family at the other end. A riot of scents is also readily available, from the funky to the obscene and the beautiful and curious. The parade of perfumes can entice our noses or, when laid on too heavily, repulse them. Once a tram enters the underground world, we encounter the damp earth smells mixed with sweat, fruit stands, bakeries, cigarettes, alcohol, trash, and everything else that creates the particular odors that define subways.

Hauptwache in Frankfurt, Germany

From out of Hauptwache we have to head south towards the Main River over Römerberg, the seat of Frankfurt’s city government. We are on our way to one of the most important reasons we came to Germany: visiting my mother-in-law, Caroline’s mom, a.k.a. Jutta.

Caroline Wise with drawing she made as little girl in Frankfurt, Germany

Maybe 47 or even 48 years ago, Caroline painted this horse that her mom has treasured for all of the intervening years, and while she’d like assistance in hanging it on her wall, we happened to forget our picture-hanging tools and equipment back home in Phoenix.

Katharina Engelhardt, Jutta Engelhardt and Caroline Wise in Frankfurt, Germany

After a short while, our niece Katharina shows up and it’s time for the ladies to head out for lunch. My absence is intentional as the conversation becomes fragmented, with everyone making concessions for my poor Deutsche Sprache by speaking English. So, with a photo to note the moment, they’ll go their way, and I mine. While they situate themselves down the river at the Wewe Cafe, I have other plans.

Döner kebab in Frankfurt, Germany

My primary goal, if the jetlag allows it, is to get some writing in, but first, I’m aiming for the tram to Bornheim Mitte to visit Döneria, my present favorite Turkish sandwich. However, with Frankfurt under a construction explosion, the line to get me to the area requires Schienenersatzverkehr (rail replacement travel), which feels too convoluted to my groggy mind, so I’ll fend for something near Zeil. Nazar Döner & Grill has some good reviews, so that’s where I went. The Döner is not as good, but considering this is my first in two years, it’s damn good enough. On the plus side, there’s a nice breeze through the open storefront, helping relieve the heat and humidity I’m suffering from.

Hare Krishna members in Frankfurt, Germany

My brain is wrestling with me as my will and need to adapt to the change in time zones asks that I remain in the moment while typically, at this time over on our side of the earth, it’s 3:00 in the morning, and I’m sound asleep. I’m out of sync with my normal routine. I think I need to relinquish control of the desire to write and accept that I’ll spend the next hours wandering around and taking in the sights, such as this band of Hare Krishna parading by. For a moment, I’m back in Los Angeles circa 1972, and I’m either dreaming or hallucinating in my exhaustion. They’ll set up further south of where I’m planted, and from the distance, their clanging bells will continue to resonate up the street.

Frankfurt, Germany

On and off over the past nearly 40 years, I’ve walked between Hauptwache and Römer countless times, and yet I’ve never stopped here next to St. Paul’s Church on Paulplatz to check out the Einheitsdenkmal (Monument to German Unity) that’s sat here since 1907. And yet, the xylophone player I listened to playing the Titanic Theme Song for the maybe dozenth time has already become a Frankfurt fixture in my memory

Frankfurt, Germany

I’ve finally taken the time to learn about this graffiti motif we always enjoy seeing when in Frankfurt, they are City Ghosts and were created by Frankfurt artist Philipp A. Schäfer.

Frankfurt, Germany

During the time I was reintroducing myself to the streets of the city, I easily passed a thousand people, and not once did I encounter a single person wearing yoga pants, though that would change on subsequent days. The point is, they are not that ubiquitous, by a long shot, compared to how common they are in the U.S. During the same time, I saw four sight-impaired people using white canes to negotiate their way ahead and failed to spot a single article of clothing demonstrating allegiance to a university or school sports team. One Tupac and a Cannibal Corpse t-shirt were the only band loyalty displays, while dozens of women wearing headscarves were noted.

I’d like to consider that American cultural influence is waning, but a couple of hours of observation in a single city do not indicate empirical proof, just bias confirmation.

Caroline Wise in Frankfurt, Germany

Following my fog-of-jetlag observations while wandering, I met up again with Caroline and Katharina to find a coffee, and we ended up at Streuselbar on Fressgasse. If you like cookie dough, this crumbly stuff found on various German baked goods and cobblers in America will be something right up your alley; at least they had coffee. As far as our conversation with our niece, we spoke of those awkward kinds of young adult things that need not be shared on blogs. After our early practice of “Fika,” about which you will learn more in a few days, we were back at Lebenshaus visiting with Jutta to say goodnight before she joined the others for dinner.

Shopping center on Zeil in Frankfurt, Germany

This post’s title references Déjà Vu as so much of this day is nearly a carbon copy of other first days in Frankfurt, though this one included nearly 90 degrees of heat combined with 50% humidity, allowing our clothes to have 90% more body-sticking power.

Frankfurt Skyline, Germany

While I wish for insights and some deeper thinking, the nature of long-distance traveling around the globe means there’s a chance one falls into the intellectual doldrums, and that’s exactly where I landed.

Caroline Wise in Frankfurt, Germany

I’ve been looking into these eyes and at this face nearly every day during the intervening 12485 days since I fell in love with Caroline in the summer of 1989, and even today, when I see her, I still smile at this woman, even when it’s a photograph.

Sachsenhausen, Germany

Dinner was at Apfelweinwirtschaft Fichtekränzi, a.k.a. Apple Wine Restaurant Spruce Wreath somehow, the English translation doesn’t sound as cool as Fichtekränzi as it’s known here locally. Open since 1849; the place is named after the wreath of braided spruce branches that traditionally signaled visitors that a restaurant featured apple wine, a favorite in the area. The outdoor patio, its location in Sachsenhausen, the traditional German food, and especially the grüne Soße all work to lend this little place the kind of attractive nature that has drawn us back again and again over the years.

Vending machine in Sachsenhausen, Germany

A funny thing happened on the way to the tram stop: we encountered a magic vending machine where sausages were the primary product. While pork and beef steaks, along with eggs, are also available for those middle-of-the-night cravings, it is the nearly two dozen types of bratwurst that reign supreme. This luxury of German carnivory delights is courtesy of The Worscht Designer. Worscht is Frankfurt dialect for Wurst (sausage).

Above The Earth and Outside of Routines

Somewhere near England or Ireland

Soaring gracefully far above the earth, we are outside the concerns that dictate routines. There is no real opportunity to influence our environment or situation in any meaningful way anyway: the machine transporting us into another culture does not care if we are aboard or not. At nearly 900 km/h, we speed through thin frozen air, looking down at clouds and out at a horizon to a point 345 km or 214 miles away, considerably further than when we are earthbound and on a clear day on the right side of the plane, we could see all the way across Iceland.

Between Calais and Dunkirk, France

In the air, we are free of the ground, though gravity still holds sway just as we are held close by our anchoring habits. Many remain tethered to routines, afraid to venture outside the familiar, and what might they do while captive in our craft anyway? Well, anything, if we were so inclined and if the intellectual convention of imagination were alive and well. Alas, the majority of those we traveled with this evening were apparently afraid to travel too far as they remain connected to the terrestrial media of repetition and doing what they do at home. Who thought television screens in seatbacks were a good idea?

Flying over Frankfurt, Germany

True, there will be no playing the piano up here nor a game of badminton, and if we were to join in conversation, we’d quickly be forced to confront the limitations our blinders shield us from by denying us anything more than a few benign subjects revolving around the mundane to discuss anyway. But there is a world outside the window and a universe beyond the smattering of knowledge we think we possess. I’d like to believe that the people surrounding me are on a great adventure beyond their expectations, though experience has shown me that I’m delusional for maintaining hope that cognizance is a domain that the majority of humanity desires to flirt with. Why make efforts to learn when we already know how to swipe?

Frankfurt Airport, Germany

Once we’ve landed, we’ll swap one routine for a mirror version that happens only rarely at a distance of about 10,000km from home while in the German city of Frankfurt.

Katharina Engelhardt and Caroline Wise in Frankfurt, Germany

It is in Frankfurt where we meet with family not seen but about every two years with familiarity and a sense of nostalgia pulling us into places and variations of conversations visited previously. Our brother-in-law Klaus picked us up at the airport, and our niece Katharina came along as a surprise.

Heddernheim, Germany

Staying in Heddernheim with the in-laws, check.

Heddernheim, Germany

Walking to dinner, check. If you are wondering if the clock on the St. Peter and Paul church is reading correctly on our way to dinner just before 9:00 p.m., that would be about right. Nothing like exhaustion to help us sleep through the night when our body clock is telling us it’s midday in Phoenix, Arizona.

Speisekammer Restaurant in Heddernheim, Germany

First meal in Germany at Speisekammer for traditional Frankfurt fare, check.

Klaus Engelhardt and Stephanie Engelhardt in Heddernheim, Germany

While I felt this was all about the same experience as previous visits, I checked my old posts about going to this restaurant and learned that our first visit was back in 2018, with my mother-in-law Jutta and niece Katharina joining us. Tonight, it was a foursome with Klaus, Stephanie, Caroline, and me. At other times of the year, white asparagus was on the menu; tonight, the seasonal specials feature fresh chanterelle mushrooms. While I extoll the virtues of mixing things up, I stick like glue to “Handkäse mit Musik” and “Frankfurter Schnitzel mit grüner Soße.”

Zeilweg tram stop in Heddernheim, Germany

After dinner and dessert, we walked home together. The tram here was not part of our travels; it’s just a reminder of how much I enjoy having access to functional and safe public transportation, along with my familiarity with the stop here at Zeilweg that we frequent a lot while staying in Heddernheim. Tomorrow, we’ll have our first encounter with the smell of the subway; I do not mean this sarcastically, as I truly do love the familiar scent that accompanies the underground rail system.

It’s hot up on the top floor of House Engelhardt as Europe has been going through a heat wave, and with no air conditioning, we rely on a fan and roof windows cracked open for a breeze that will hopefully cool the attic fast enough to allow us to sleep through the night and begin tackling jetlag.

First Ever Digital Group Selfie

Uwe Schmidt, John Wise, Caroline Wise, and Olaf Finkbeiner in Frankfurt, Germany around 1990

Back in December of 2005, the first year I was blogging, I posted a scan of a black and white printout of this photo. I told the story of how the digital file was long gone, lost to the age of the Commodore Amiga and the passage of time. The image was captured in 1990 using a method that the digitizer wasn’t really intended for, by focusing on living things that might move during the capture process. Because there was no way possible to manually turn the color wheel to red, green, and blue (which allowed the digitizer to capture each color channel separately) between capturing shots while we remained frozen in time, we picked one of the filter colors and ended up with a black-and-white image. We printed it with a dot matrix printer and somehow that piece of paper stayed with Caroline and me during our move from Germany and then survived 1o more years in the United States. Now here we are, 30 years after we took our very first digital selfie and today Olaf Finkbeiner (the guy on the right) sent me a copy in color. While Caroline never had purple hair, I think this is simply amazing. On the left is Uwe Schmidt (Atom™), then I in the background, Caroline, and of course Olaf. The skull is named Anton and he still resides with my mother-in-law Jutta who has agreed to take him to her grave when she passes. I cannot forget to give credit to Jo Lincke for putting in the work using Photoshop’s Neural filter to help restore such a beautiful memory. And while I cannot be certain, I can at least confidently claim that this is probably the very first digital group selfie ever taken!

Childhood Rememberances

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1970 in Frankfurt, Germany

Last summer, in late May and early June, I found myself in Germany helping deal with the belongings my mother-in-law Jutta had amassed at home. My job was to sort, make sense of, preserve, recycle, donate, or toss those things that were no longer required by anyone, considering that Jutta had entered assisted living. Among the lifetime belongings of Jutta was a portfolio of close to a hundred drawings from her daughter Caroline Wise née Engelhardt of Frankfurt, Germany. From the time she was two years old, right up until Caroline was 13, Jutta put these drawings into safekeeping. My mother-in-law was pretty meticulous about saving these and dating them as Caroline presented mom with her art. This very first piece was drawn the month before Caroline turned three. I’m finally getting around to posting this now as it sat languishing as a draft for too long, just as they had in a folder for nearly 40 years among Jutta’s things.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1971 in Frankfurt, Germany

Five months later, Caroline was mastering people, realistic hands, castles, and blue skies. This is from April 1971, and Caroline is 40 months old.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1972 in Frankfurt, Germany

At four years old, Caroline was drawing patterns, while over in America, I was probably still eating dirt at nine years old.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1973 in Frankfurt, Germany

By the time Caroline Wise was five, she took a liking to American Indians with horses starting to show up in her imagination.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1974 in Frankfurt, Germany

It’s 1974 when if I had to guess, Caroline drew this image of her mom.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1976 in Frankfurt, Germany

I don’t know what happened in 1975, but there wasn’t a single image from that year, and so here we are jumping right into 1976 and a nine-year-old little girl in love with ponies and Native Americans.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1976 in Frankfurt, Germany

1976 must have been the year Caroline was introduced to watercolors at school, or maybe mom bought her a set?

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1976 in Frankfurt, Germany

Caroline wrote down this story in 4th grade (at 9 or 10 years old). Back then, a typical exercise in German class would be that the teacher (Mrs. Hirsch) read a short story to the class, and the children had to “re-narrate” it in their own words. The story titled The Careful Dreamer is about a traveler of the old days who shares a room in an inn with someone else. He took off his clothes and got ready for bed, but before he lay down, he strapped his slippers to his feet. The traveler’s roommate asked him why and got the answer, “I once dreamed that I stepped on broken glass, and it was so painful that I never want to sleep barefoot again!” According to Mrs. Hirsch’s comment, Caroline did a great job.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from date unknown in Frankfurt, Germany

This was one of a few images without a date, but I was finding her fascination with horses interesting as although I knew she’d read Misty of Chincoteague and Black Beauty, I can’t say she ever shared with me just how deep her love of horses was.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1977 in Frankfurt, Germany

It’s 1977, and the year Caroline will turn ten years old in mid-December; I think her sense for the abstract was something that should have been developed.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1977 in Frankfurt, Germany

More horses, this time from 5th grade.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1978 in Frankfurt, Germany

Maybe this was foreshadowing that Caroline would one day see ponies in the mountains.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1979 in Frankfurt, Germany

During the summer of 1979, the horse and Native American theme continued.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from date unknown in Frankfurt, Germany

Another image without a date.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from 1981 in Frankfurt, Germany

Crayons were one of the first things Caroline asked me to get for her from the American PX, a big box of 96 colors. It was probably around this time in 1981 when Caroline had to give up drawing and art to take her studies seriously.

Drawing by Caroline Wise née Engelhardt from date unknown in Frankfurt, Germany

A rich woman throws a coin at a beggar woman with a child. This was the last image in the portfolio and a fitting one as the woman I would meet in 1989 was very aware of injustice, violence, and the social ills that fail so many people.

First Teddy Bear from Caroline Wise née Engelhardt of Frankfurt, Germany

All of these things, including the teddy bear above that belonged to Caroline at one time, are headed to the scrap heap where maybe pieces will be recycled while some of it burned. They were never destined to find their way into a museum, and while it might feel tragic at first glance that they should just be put in the trash, it’s ultimately where everything we own and create ends up. Maybe here on the internet, they’ll last longer than they might have otherwise.

Is This Home?

Airport in Frankfurt, Germany

I didn’t have an iota of interest in photographing one other thing in Frankfurt on our way out of the city. Our focus was on getting to the airport and dealing with the circus of hoops. Regarding those missed photo opportunities, there was nothing, not a thing, I could have captured that would have wrapped up the three weeks of our vacation that is now finished, fertig, and finito. Back to the circus, I anticipate the worst going through airports; they’re as bad as going into department stores where I know that there’s little likelihood of me finding the experience pleasing. There’s too much anxiety here as I wait for something to fall out of order, forcing us into the oblivion of chaos as we try to right the listing ship we hoped to take home without incident.

Taking the train to the airport is one of the saving graces as there’s no tension of jumping out of cars in the turmoil unfolding in the front of the terminal. Casually, we depart the train and start the long walk to the place in the terminal where we need to go, wherever that may be. We don’t care where it is as signs will direct us should we find ourselves walking aimlessly; plus, there always seems to be a staff member who helps point the confused in the right direction. Our first line has us collecting our boarding passes, checking in and paying for a bag we didn’t really anticipate having, and inquiring about the availability of upgrades. Passports, COVID-19 test results, attestation, and vaccine cards are handed over before we can pay the 59 Euros to check our heavier bag. As for upgrades, while Lufthansa’s business class was reduced to nearly a third of what it was a week ago, it was still a bit too pricey, but Premium Economy sounded sweet, and so here I am with my legs stretched out, my computer comfortably on a table in front of me, and my stomach full from our lunch that was served about an hour into our flight.

But I’m getting ahead of things: after checking in and purchasing our upgrades, we still had to maneuver the security gauntlet. Whoa, was that really it? It’s certainly a cliché, but that was butter. We slid through with belts and shoes on, and nothing was flagged for extra security checks. Done and sitting down for a bite to eat just moments later.

Flying over Germany

Back to our flight already in progress, with only 6 hours and 45 minutes remaining before reaching Washington, D.C. That’s the next pressure point as we’ll only have 70 minutes to collect our bag, make it through U.S. Immigration and Customs, and board our United flight to Arizona. I’m skeptical we can make it but I’ll pretend some optimism so as to not torture myself with negativity. Oh, what is that? Turbulence? Flatulence? Nope, it’s Mr. Sandman asking me to join him for a nap; I just might oblige.

Thirty minutes later I return to awareness of being in flight. Just made my first bathroom break, and normally, that wouldn’t rank as important enough to find its way onto these pages, but I saw that there might be a dozen people in the economy section while premium economy has significantly more passengers. As I came back, Caroline was watching The Black Klansman, and by mistake, I started reading the subtitles on her screen. Damn it, I was dragged into this cringe-worthy film, but as I tried listening in on the headphone Caroline wasn’t using, the dialogue was too dreadful, so I continued to read and squirmed while not being able to turn away. The really horrible thing is I’m learning nothing about racial history I didn’t already know, but I’m giving up time when I should have been trying to drag something out of my mind and into a document.

Watching the movie, I find my brain wiped clean of wanting to write. Obviously, I’m well aware I’ll likely have only regurgitated some lament, tripe, or iteration of something or other I’ve already spewed before, but that doesn’t mean I should so easily turn away from trying to find the hidden words not yet sequenced in my head I’ve been trying to discover. And then the movie is over, and we are down to less than 4 hours before we land.

I said I was learning nothing about racial tensions I didn’t already know, but I have to take into account that for much of my life, those around me have told me again and again that I see a hateful world they cannot see. From the perspective of Spike Lee, who made The Black Klansman, I can understand his need to inform people that the point from 40 years ago to today is a short one wherein some respects, little has changed or maybe even gotten worse. I do have the knowledge of living in a mostly-white bubble, but that doesn’t blind me to the innuendo and structural bias that’s nearly always on display.

Just as I didn’t have it in me to photograph our leaving Frankfurt, I’m not feeling this writing thing on the way home. Well, I do have another 5-hour leg that takes us from D.C. to Phoenix, and maybe as I grow exhausted, my body clock tells me it’s well past midnight with hours to go before we open the door to home at nearly 5:00 a.m. Frankfurt time, I’ll see a story right before me, but I have my doubts.

Oh, I nearly forgot; as we were on the tram into Frankfurt, I was thinking about how peculiar it is that for three weeks, we were regular fixtures in a number of people’s lives, and with that ride towards the airport, we were on our way to disappearing. Death is a lot like that, too, as every day in every city, people are born, and others die; they simply disappear. Sure, some will miss them, but the city as a kind of organism will continue to crawl about doing what it’s been doing every day, supporting those who go about surviving while oblivious to their own brief time where they are. We were in this city, living a lifetime of experiences in regard to our existence in the area for these 21 days, and now we must leave. In some strange way, we are being reincarnated back into a previous existence where we’ll resume the rituals and behaviors we left behind. On one hand, I look forward to returning to my bed, favorite coffee shop, my cooking, and some of our conveniences, but all of that could be had should we be willing to hit reset and set up a new set of routines just as we did in Frankfurt.

How nice might it be to throw a few of life’s belongings into a small container and board a ship with your reduced footprint as you are whisked away to some random place to establish a life that exists for six months before you pack up again and adapt to new circumstances yet again? Why does humanity look to plant such deep roots on a treadmill where little changes and everything remains familiar? By what kind of insanity must we be possessed that believes constant conformity and repetition is a path to any kind of happiness? The only answer can be that we are too stupid to understand that the wealthy are given just that option and that real freedom can only be found by exploring a restlessness that burns deep in the human spirit.

Caroline Wise and John Wise flying from Germany to Arizona

Well, this is a first, two movies on a flight. The second one was Dunkirk by Christopher Nolan. Great soundtrack, aside from the predictable strings orchestration contrived to drive emotions at the predictable moment of a small win, which seriously diminished the impact of the film, and the ticking stopwatch grew tedious when it was pushed too far out front, but there was something in the bleakness of futility that gave the movie power. Now, with a mere hour-thirty minutes before our arrival, the flight felt as though it was shorter than it had been. Over 90% of those on this flight have been asleep for hours now, with most window shades closed before I started watching the first movie. These people land at 3:20 in the afternoon and will need to sleep this evening; what do they know that I don’t?

Okay, I see blank spaces where letters should appear. John, you need to change your pixels from white to black as letters become words and words become sentences representing thoughts that dribble through fingers. This act of reaching into muscle memory to find key presses that allow something I vaguely know before the word starts to appear is nothing more than typing for sure, but when I think too hard about what might come next, I find myself focusing on what could be in my head and not what will appear on the screen.

I look out the window, trying to find inspiration from the Atlantic Ocean we are flying over, but only see a blue haze. A few moments before, I could see Nova Scotia and the last remnants of its island mass before leaving it behind on our trajectory toward Boston and New York City. With these quick thoughts shared, the crew emerges from the darkness armed with snacks and drinks, pushing me to press pause on this return to my external surrogate brain reflected on screen.

Tamp down the anxiety, John, as freaking out about customs when you are still this far away from dealing with that clusterfuck serves you not one bit. Instead, try to find that sense of celebration that you are once again in America, and things will show themselves not to be all that bad. In the coming days, Europe can take a few blows about things I don’t like about it or not. Hmm, this has me wondering if I really have a cohesive idea of what America is; the old clichés don’t really do it for me, and Tocqueville’s observations over 190 years ago no longer hold a lot of water for me. I have to think, who are we people from the alleged United States these days? Can we be drawn into a cultural identity that adequately offers a valid impression of the vast breadth of people that make up this land?

God damn, I have the worst reaction to landing in this country as what I see writ large across the faces of those in our airports, and these are the people that can afford air travel, is a bucket load of stupid. How, just how the hell, has our population dropped so deeply into imbecility? Go ahead and dismiss my casual observational claim here to be able to read faces, body language, clothing, and other characteristics to qualify the intellect of those around me with such aspersions, but we are displaying the depths of stupidity in the most vulgar showing of our behaviors. Now, contrast this with my own bullshit where I lament the conformity of Europeans and their desire for a bland uniform society along with China’s recent pronouncement that effeminate males will be forced out of the eye of society as they are considered to be a danger to civil society. So we have a conflict here: in America, we are free to be as stupid as we choose to be because, fuck you, I have the right to do and say what I want. In Europe, you will be ignored, shunned, and invisible if you choose to follow your own path. While in China, there’s probably some likelihood that, like the Uighur population, you’ll end up in prison for reeducation should you show signs of individuality.

This is a conundrum as when I grew up, I loved the freedom to express myself in every belligerent way I chose with no regard to who I was offending, but as I’ve grown old, my desire is to express things passionately and hopefully smartly. I love the idea of an advanced society, but not one where half of those walking around are effectively primates of a lower order. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about what personal tragedy has brought these cultural nothings to their low point; they have at least some responsibility to lend gravitas to the American character and demonstrate grace and an ability to communicate somewhat elegantly.

Like writing angry letters after midnight, I should lay off the spleen-venting after traveling in airplanes and through airports for more than half a day. My Tourette’s is in full effect after moving among the hoi polloi, not that I’m any better than anyone, but to those around me, who think their display of consumptive behavior and brand mimicry of the doltish who’ve influenced them lend them credibility, you’re wrong, as your face belies the truth hidden behind your vacuous eyes. Fuck you and your fashion; it doesn’t hide the screaming, empty idiot inside your thick skull cackling in a half-hearted attempt to demonstrate humanity. You’ve lost the game of being an advanced representative member of our species. I’m galled that I have to return to this and accept that over the coming days, I’ll need to dull myself to this reality or crack under the pressure of integrating myself with this subspecies of Neanderthals.

Maybe the sandwich Caroline and I just shared can pull me off this cliff-side of lament, but what does it really matter as rarely – if ever – do I push out for publication these vitriolic missives that paint me into the corner of arrogance my inner-seething self can be all too familiar with, especially after encountering an abundance of smart people. So, yes, it does happen that I find myself in the company of legitimate, earnest, amazing Americans, but the cramped quarters of a domestic carrier moving us cattle around is not the place.

Enough of this, as I’m tiring of myself, but should I stop writing, I’ll begin to fall asleep here somewhere west of Pennsylvania and still far east of Arizona. It’s moving towards 1:00 in the morning inside my head, though as I look outside at the white clouds streaming by underneath us, my eyes are insisting it’s still late in the day. I need to stick with this late-day mode as sleep at this time will begin to interfere with a proper night of sleep at home. But who am I fooling? When 3:00 in the morning comes around in Arizona, my brain will be begging me to explain why I’m in bed at noon when I should have already eaten breakfast and begun the process of foraging for lunch.

Yawns are not conducive to being mindfully energetic; on the contrary, they momentarily have you questioning yourself as to why you don’t give into closing your eyes a moment to deal with the tiredness. And to think, we are only about an hour and a half into this flight. I’m afraid this battle of sleepy mind versus desire could be lost as tension in the form of a headache is knocking at the back of my skull. This could also be a bit of dehydration from the avoidance of drinking anything on this flight so we can sidestep maneuvering through the tight quarters in order to use a bathroom. Jeez, I’m feeling weak.

I had to ask a flight attendant how much time was left before we landed as I just couldn’t figure it out between my computer, which says 2:00 am, my Fitbit, which says 8:00 pm, and our flight time, which became a mathematical dilemma to my wretchedly tired brain. When we finally do reach home, there is nothing in that kitchen or refrigerator that would be easily heated and eaten and those things we bought in the airport in Frankfurt to carry us through are long gone. Going back out and driving the car to fetch something sounds like a bad idea, as does walking somewhere nearby, as we’ve already heard that the temperature will be right around 100 degrees when we land. I explained my issue to Caroline, and she reminded me that maybe we can get something in the terminal after we land, but I don’t think we’d be able to sit down as we have a checked bag, and who wants to leave that going around a carousel in an airport where anyone can walk into the baggage claim area and snatch a forlorn bag? Hmm, I think I’m delirious.

Landed, and everything was already closed at the airport by 7:30 on a Tuesday night. Got our bag and headed out to grab a taxi, and luck would have it that our Bangladeshi driver felt like exploring a tangent of how anti-tax he was and how he’d be voting Republican in the future. What the fuck America, nothing to eat, it’s hot, and our driver is a South Asian extremist? I tried engaging him that America has one of the earth’s lowest tax rates among advanced countries but he countered that they got something for their taxes. So, I scratched my head and considered how Suriname, Zimbabwe, Uganda, the Republic of Congo, Papua New Guinea, India, Slovenia, and the Ivory Coast all have higher tax rates and see that money comes back to them in the form of quality of life (not that I’ve lived in those places)? Or maybe he was talking about Finland, Japan, Denmark, Austria, Sweden, or Belgium, who all pay between 13% – 20% more than we do, but that’s only in regards to America’s wealthiest earners, as 61% of Americans paid NO federal income taxes in 2020 and yet the cry from low-income earners is just below the intensity of someone screaming murder.

But why argue using statistics and logic? Just look at how Americans can no longer travel their roads as they are all dirt, and our hotels have gone bankrupt, and what does that matter anyway because our restaurants were taxed out of business, so how would one even survive on the road. With our air traffic control system destroyed, we couldn’t fly, our hospitals were regulated to the point they all moved to Belarus or Bolivia, where the personal tax rate is a low 13%, and bribing warlords to waive medical regulations proved cheaper than doing business in miserable America where nobody is happy, can’t afford gasoline, beer, milk, or bread that now costs $40 a loaf due to fake science from the Food & Drug Administration who wants to kill American children for Hillary Clinton’s death cult.

We are fucking beyond stupid, and no one is checking anyone else regarding the nonsense that spews out of idiots’ mouths. Oh yeah, we have the freedom to be as dumb as others will indulge us as we risk being shot if we challenge the abhorrent belligerence of their debased, broken minds.

A right-wing media willingly and knowingly distorts the truth with no reliable corporate or government entity calling them to task; it’s all just part of the noise of capitalism. If the speed of dissemination is rapid enough in a constant cycle, the damage done with a few hours of pedaling lies is enough to cement the disinformation into the vulnerable as effectively as COVID is robbing people of quality of life or even life itself. Jesus Christ, is this really what I returned to America for?

[On a more positive note – we had no problem moving through Immigration in DC, and nobody was interested in opening our checked bag. We arrived at the gate of our connecting flight with lots of time to spare – Caroline]