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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).