Volksmarching

Stein After Stein

When in Rome, as they say, one tends to follow the customs of the locals.  Turns out, when in the Rheinland, the same general principle applies.  At least we drank the beer and sipped the glüwein, even if I never really embraced the sausage and sauerkraut.  We spent our Saturdays strolling through the countryside, forking over a few marks for ten kilometers and a commemorative beer stein.  Or two.  Dozen.  We scoured the newspaper each week for the outings that included our desired prizes.  We mapped each location and determined which towns were the shortest distance from our burg to the next decanter in our collection.  We only participated in those walks that included a ceramic trophy or a glass for keeping our beer warm.  After all, when in Katzweiler...

Most volksmarches, these mini pilgrimages around our expat fatherland, even kept Son Number One with his three-year-old little legs moving briskly towards the goal.  We’d start in a little town, walk two blocks this way and three that way and we’d find ourselves parallelling farmlands, passing through forests, and seeing the backside, the inside, the hidden side of Germany up close.  We wandered down dirt paths, over rocky roads, and dodged mud puddles, or at least I avoided the mud, until we returned to the local rathaus for refreshments, nourishment, and, “Prost!”  With each metal flip cover or a symmetric pilsner pillars, the collection grew.  When in Kaiserslautern...

Solo Hike

My last volksmarch in late spring takes me to a town outside my comfort zone, not just this new town forces me to drive new roads in a new direction, but because I am hiking this one alone with minimal command of the language, and only the occasional, “‘Tag,” or “Tschüß,” to make my way through town.  It’s raining.  I’m straying from the American cores and wandering through grassy fields which might double for landing trips.  I run, and I never run.  I wear a yellow rain poncho cloaking myself like a tent, and I’ve spent the bulk of my life avoiding rain gear.  I keep a mental list of the places I pass and then repeat it aloud so as to keep a repeating list of what I have seen.  I am stepping briskly and stepping into a fuzzy new experience for myself.  But as they say, when in the Saarland…

I am nearing the end of my first solo hike.  In the years to come, I will become a seasoned pro at passing through nature and letting it penetrate me.  Sometimes winded, sometimes wiped out, sometimes wet from the rain, but always refreshed and replenished and renewed, I accept its offerings.  New experiences change us and traveling and living abroad obviously implies such alterations, but more than a change of language, or a change of environment, a subtle, lasting change affects what matters most, and as nature surrounds me, touching me permanently, I am transformed.  I reach the end of my walk, and the end of my duration in Germany, and as I accept my reward for my ten kilometer stroll, I clasp the prize in my hand, a terra cotta bird bath, marking a baptism of sorts into the next phase of my life.  When inspired...

From A Distance

The Matterhorn

As a child, I recall driving across the Sonoran desert through the booming town of Blythe, California, for what seemed to be an eternity to arrive at the Happiest Place on Earth.  And the best indicator of when our drive neared its completion appeared in the shape of a fake snow-covered mountain on the edge of Fantasyland.  To this day, I adore the site of a tall structure off in the distance looming ahead for who knows how many miles, whether a bridge, or a monument, a geological formation, or a recreation of the Matterhorn.  It’s the excitement of what’s coming that always tantalizes me.

Arched over the St. Louis skyline, the Jefferson Expansion Memorial served in this harkening capacity.  Descending towards the Straits of Mackinac, Bic Mac straddles the Upper Peninsula and the bottom oven mitt of the Wolverine State, encouraging me to leave the frozen tundra behind me (see “The UP” from July 2012).  Perhaps it’s the excitement of anticipation, but seeing a goal in the distance inspires me to drive onward towards my destination.  And with each passing minute, the towering object grows taller and more defined along the path I am headed.

Spires and Prairies

I recall our drive through the south German state of Baden-Württemberg towards the majestic, misnamed Ulm cathedral with its massive spire. Pausing for lunch seemed almost insulting to the gothic points reaching skyward, beckoning me to climb upward, to glance down over the Danube River.  When we finally began our ascent up the seven hundred sixty-eight steps to the peak, rather than railings we steady ourselves against the stone walls that took over five hundred years from foundation to finish.  And in comparison, the two hundred and twenty stairs to the top of the New Jersey Veteran’s Memorial may have paled in age and height, but yet, as I drove through the New Jersey hills, I found it difficult to take my eyes off the obelisk I approached.

Across a flowing road of the eastern Wyoming prairie, Devil’s Tower looms ominously over the myriad of green rolling hills.  From more than a dozen miles away, it catches my eye.  From a half dozen miles away, it appears to dwarf its surroundings.  From its foothills and border of fallen boulders, only the prairie dogs seem impervious to its might.  Nearly circumnavigating the structure, the road creates a near circle of distance to peer out the moon roof and be blown away by its stature.  For as massive as these structures appear from a distance, beckoning me forward, their height reminds me of my smallness in all the most humble ways.

The Chicken Coupe

Glühwein und Volksmarching

 

Living “on the economy” meant surrounding myself with the lifestyle of the German people, quietly rising and sleeping, shopping and strolling in their 800-year-old towns.  Routines never changed: daily walking to the local market, sweeping the sidewalks and stoops, and shrugging at the silly Americans.  Their self-contained towns, which resembled islands surrounded by farmland, some less than a klick from “Willkommen” to “Auf Wiedersehen,” may not have exuded hospitality, but they offered quaintness in abundance.  From tulips on the street corners in the springtime to the giant sunflowers reaching skyward at the edge of town in the summer, these little villages offered a simple glimpse at German life.

 

A common winter tradition, many of these little towns open their central squares to its residents, and a few nearby country folk, and celebrate the Christmas season with nighttime street fairs for the children and warm glühwein in souvenir brown clay mugs for the parents.  The hot, spiced wine sufficiently numbs the adults while the children squeal in delight at the December carnivals.  In warmer weather, when the volkmarchers come to town, the beer flows as ten- and twenty-kilometer hikers return from their countryside strolls to join in the merriment in the center of the cozy villages.  While the traditions may be different, the close clusters of brick and modern homes unite as communities celebrating their culture, living their lives nearly identically to Americans.  Nearly.

 

The BMW

 

During my stint in the Rhineland, I delivered subscriptions of the Stars and Stripes to my fellow expats starting at o’dark thirty and continuing until the predawn light began to filter through the sky.  But as summer’s longer days began to sneak into my early morning delivery window, I witnessed far more in the quiet mornings throughout the small-town German life.  Hexennacht involves innocent pranks being played upon neighbors in celebration of the longer days pushing out the evil winter spirits.  This would explain the bicycle I saw one morning dangling from the sign post.  In other neighborhoods, farms abutted homes and the yard in front of one house included a chicken coop, whose presence eluded me until as the light appeared earlier and earlier, I could hear the chickens coo-cooing with each other waiting for the lone male of the roost to announce his morning doodle-doo.

 

And then one morning, the sun’s light illuminated the tiny hamlet and the coop displayed itself for its true identity.  The cozy home of the domesticated fowl included four tires, a steering wheel and partially lowered side windows.  Yes, this family of German hühner lived out their daily routine of clucking and scratching in the interior of a BMW.  Imagine the engineer who designed, the laborer who built, and the salesman who watched the rollout of this vehicle from its initial drawing board, to its European assembly line and then across the showroom floor.  Their work culminated in this final resting place for their modern marvel, now serving out its illustrious life as a bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom for a band of German poultry.  I love life on the economy.  Cluck.