FASCINATING ENCOUNTERS

NEVER, NEVER IGNORE THE VOICE THAT COMES FROM WITHIN.

    

     With everything in order and accommodations in place I booked my flight to Trieste, Italy, ignoring the voice that warned, wait to make your reservations! 

     The very next morning I received an email from my would-be-landlady informing me that she’d found a “longer term tenant.”  The news definitely set me on my heels, leaving me feeling anxious for I had a plane ticket but no place to live. What to do?  Cancel the flight and remain in Germany?  Go to Trieste without a room?  In the midst of my dilemma the same voice that had warned me to wait was now saying, there’s a reason, don’t fight it.  Proceed with your plan.

     What a daunting task it was pouring through the endless listings of properties for rent in Trieste on the internet.  I persevered, though, and after sending numerous inquiries, had a hit two days later from the assistant of the coordinator of the state agency (to whom I had presented my plight) that helps newcomers (primarily students) find accommodations.  “Here’s a list of properties,” the person wrote. “But in addition, a woman just listed her house in the city and with the exception of internet service, has everything you have requested.” The word just struck a cord, so I made haste to contact this person. The woman responded immediately with an offer for an apartment-- rather than a room which is what I had before-- for a lot less money.  It seemed the previous landlady had done me a huge favor.  Several emails later, I had a lovely city apartment within walking distance of the magnificent Piazza Unita d’Italia…the exact location that had lured me to Trieste some months earlier.

     After suggesting to my new landlady that she read my blog so as to satisfy her curiosity about the person behind the emails, the unexpected began to unfold.

      

XXX

     Europe was in the throws of a major winter storm, the temperature plummeting to minus 15 degrees C just two days before my flight was due to leave Germany. Flights were being cancelled, many delayed. I had been thrown another curve ball, perhaps even more challenging than the first.  The only redemption was that Germany had been spared the snow. 

     The alarm was set for 5:45 am that morning of February fifth, but I lay in the bed wide awake from three o’clock on trying to chase away those nervous flutters that persisted in my stomach.  Four o’clock found me up and checking online to see if my 9:55AM flight to Zagreb, Croatia, (one of the hardest hit countries with snow) had been cancelled. On German Wing’s website for pending flights, I read: “Flight 406, scheduled.” I took that as a good sign and proceeded to put the last minute items in my suitcase, never losing sight, however, of the persistent storm that was claiming lives and continuing to slam Eastern Europe with more snow.

      It was dark and freezing cold when Matthias set out for the Cologne/Bonn airport. “Diesel engines take a while to heat up,” he admitted some five minutes out. Even the layers of heavy clothing could not chase away the cold.  I sipped on a steaming cup of coffee and watched my breath move in the air in front of me as we traveled the two-lane road along the River Rhine

      The morning light was beginning to reveal the scenes along the river.  Even seeing them through the hovering mist, I was once again struck by the orderliness of the towns and villages that claimed their place in German history. Matthias, a German history buff, pointed out a town known for the bridge which American forces had captured during WWII—another reminder of a painful time in history.

     As the Rhine began to slip out of sight, I bid it and the beautiful country of Germany that had yielded such memorable experiences those past weeks, a quiet auf wiedersehen.

    At the Cologne-Bonn terminal I waited, expecting any moment for German Wings to announce that the flight was going to be delayed.  In the meantime, I tried to keep my butterflies at bay and my mind occupied with things other than the impending storm, and what better way to do it then to observe the colorful array of passengers that were beginning to congregate in the waiting area. 

     A woman with a baby sat down next to me.  The baby was all bundled up in winter clothing, its angelic face peaking out from a knitted hat, its little eyes fixed on me like a cat staring blankly at a wall. The mother removed a layer of clothing and then began her ongoing vigil of keeping the restless baby entertained with an assortment of squeaking toys, sips from a bottle it quickly tired of and threw aside, and walks along the aisles. I must admit that it was quite a comical sight watching the mother do the duck walk up and down the aisles, two little legs appearing between hers as she and baby shuffled along hand in hand.  A young woman with a small black dog on a lead sat a few seats down leaving the seat next to me open.  Finally, a woman wearing an overpowering, bargain-basement perfume--which preceded her-- stopped to pet the dog, and to my misfortune, took the seat next to me. Cheap perfume?   Barking dog?  Crying baby?  Which of these might share the seat next to me on the plane?   

~

      I took my window seat at the front of the plane watching while the other passengers moved along the aisle in search of their seats, observing, in particular, a woman with an interesting three-tone hair color and red-rimmed glasses who was accompanied by a very distinguished looking man with a neatly manicured white beard—both about to become my seat companions.  Miss eau d’cheap par fume took the seat directly in front of me!  Baby and pooch moved to the back of the plane.

     

      The small aircraft popped off the runway like a cork rising to a surface, quickly leaving the runway behind.  I commenced to stare out the window as Germany’s neatly laid out green and brown patchwork countryside gave way to a nature-inspired, stenciled landscape,

and to forests that appeared like black furry giants casting their shadows over the snow-covered earth. 

     Fifteen minutes out, my female neighbor asked me in German if I spoke either German or Croatian, to which I replied, “No, English.”  Upon her request, her companion was now addressing me in very refined English. I was immediately captivated by his soft delivery and polished manner as he asked, “My wife ordered a sandwich but would you like to have it?”  There was a kindness behind the woman’s eyes as she looked into mine and nodded her approval while gently touching my arm.  “I don’t want to take your wife’s food,” I replied politely.  But they both insisted.  So I agreed.  Then, they saw fit to complete the snack by asking what I would like to drink.  Soon, I was eating a cheese sandwich and sipping on a hot chocolate, happy when the last bite was gone so that I could continue, unimpeded, with the interesting dialogue that had developed between me and this interesting duo.          

     The man’s face lit up when I shared with him that I was on a “journey,” and when I told him that I was writing about it and had a blog he presented me with his business card.  It was then that he revealed with extreme pride, that he, Branco, and his wife, Darinka, were the parents of the famous German actress and jazz singer, Andreja Schneider. Branko also added that he was a jazz pianist, and Darinka added that he was an “architect.” The conversation continued, consuming nearly an hour and a half of the flight as we shared our mutual interests. Now, to my disappointment, the pilot was announcing that the plane would be landing in fifteen minutes.

     I asked them if I could take their photographs and post them on my blog.  They happily agreed and posed for the camera. We exchanged emails and said we’d communicate.  I asked Branko if it would be possible to listen to him play the piano. To which he also agreed. 

It was my fondest wish that this would come to pass for they would be living only a short drive from Trieste. But even if our paths would never again cross, I was grateful for the interesting encounter and distraction from the weather that had left the Croatian countryside below covered in white.  

     Velibor,  (you remember him and his wife, Iva, from a previous blog) was waiting for me at the airport, and after an embrace said to me with a smile, “You are amazing.” I was thinking, no, Veli, I’m incurably adventurous! Who else would make the journey in such weather!

     But the journey was not yet complete, for I still had to travel by bus into the country of Slovenia, and cross a snow-laden mountain pass to Trieste two days later.

     XXX

    

     Veli was my angel that morning…up at 5AM, standing in the freezing cold cleaning the remnants of ice and snow from the previous night’s snowstorm from his car and windshield, driving in the dark along the unplowed, snow-covered roads, carrying the “hulk” and my computer bag through the snow and ice and across the roadway to the bus station where the bus to Trieste waited.  

     At least I was not the only “crazy’ passenger braving a trip in a snowstorm that morning.  There were two Canadian girls that had been back packing in sub-zero weather, and they were still smiling and cheerful.

     We passengers all stood outside the idling bus waiting in the bone-chilling cold while the driver’s not-too-pleasant assistant loaded the luggage into the compartment, barking at me in Croatian when I presented the “hulk.”  “He wants an extra 12 kunas ($2.40) to load the luggage into the compartment,” Veli said.  And the man wasn’t budging until he got his money!  So, my angel, Veli, reached into his pocket and paid the kunas, and as I turned to him to say goodbye, said from his heart, “Enjoy this next part of your journey.”

     The street lights of Zagreb revealed the morning commuters waiting in the semi-darkness for the city trams. What an awful time of day to be going to work I thought as the bus took control of the left lane of traffic, passing the cars with ease, and leaving their windshields filled with its slushy backwash.

     There was little to be seen that early in the morning, and what could be seen from my window seat was blanketed in white, to include the highway.  At times there’d appear through the gray mist of dawn, the steeple of a church and a small cluster of Alpine houses with smoke rising from their chimneys, or a forest of dark green evergreen trees, their snow-laden branches shuddering in the wind, dusting the air with a powdery fine snow. Perhaps this day, the residents of these mountain hamlets of Slovenia would take out their skis or sleds and enjoy the freshly fallen snow. For sure, they would spend their day shoveling walkways and hauling wood for another fire.

       A little after nine the bus wound its way along the road that affords the beautiful panorama of the Adriatic.  Once the welcome sight of the city of Trieste spilling down the hillsides to the sea came into view I felt a great burden had been lifted.  We were early and soon I would be delivered safely to my destination and home for the next forty days.  It had been an adventure, for sure. Now, I anxiously awaited the encounter with the woman, Lucilla, who had rescued me from my homeless circumstance, and who awaited my arrival at the bus station.

       

IN A LAND WHERE FAIRYTALES ARE BORN

ESTABLISHED in the year 8 BC, the city of Koblenz began as a military post under the command of Nero Claudius Drusus Germanimus.

~

     The forecast called for sunshine--something I’d seen very little of during my German stay--and a less-than-desirable 39 degrees.  In spite of the cold I was not about to pass up an opportunity to see a beautiful city that promised to be brightly dressed instead of wearing its normal suit of gray.

     I waited on the two-lane country road for the bright red bus marked 357 (easy number to remember) and paced back and forth on the sidewalk trying to keep “Jack Frost” from “nipping at my nose.”  It seemed the only creatures adequately dressed that cold dewy morning were the dogs with their thick winter coats taking their owners for a morning walk…not that I wasn't wrapped in enough layers to qualify as a mummy!

     The bus was late and crowded with passengers so I took the first available seat next to a woman with her head turned and staring blankly out the window. Inasmuch as this was my first bus trip to the city and I was a little unsure of where to get off I dared to interrupt her moment and tapped her on the shoulder, “Excuse me, do you know if this bus stops at the base of the Mosel River Bridge?”  She turned her head and paused for thought, finally answering in German.  I admit to being a little put off initially as she smelled a little more like alcohol than one should at ten-thirty in the morning, and it looked as if she’d applied her jet black eye liner with an unsteady hand and a wide paint brush.  But she was smiling and I was committed so I waited while she struggled to recall her "twenty-five-year-old, unused English," and I quickly realized that beyond the alcohol and paint, there was a kindness behind her eyes and that she was very gentle of manner. She then began to instruct me through nervous giggles and in a kind of Germanglish on where to get off and  where to catch the bus later on.  She was now my protector, hanging on to me when I started to rise and exit the bus prematurely.  “Nine, nicht here,” she said taking a firm hold of my arm.

      

       Safely delivered on the streets of Koblenz I left the noise and the pavement of the busy street behind and entered the cobblestoned street of the quiet Alt Stadt (old town) overseen at its entrance by the centuries old Altburg Castle. 

I came to a flight of stairs and stopped to look across at the colorful houses complimenting the Mosel River’s bank on the other side then descended to the wide promenade that followed along the river.  In the winter gardens, the heads of the cold-resistant pansies were drooped over from the frost and the grass was covered with ice and glistened in the morning sun.  I was virtually alone except for a panel truck (motor running) parked along the river, with two workmen leaning on their clenched fists catching a few moments of sleep on the city’s nickel!  I guess I was the only one crazy enough to go sightseeing in thirty-five degree weather along the windy Mosel.  Gloved hands tucked in my pockets and a scarf hugging my chin and neck, I walked with the wind in my face, claiming the moment.

I walked for perhaps a kilometer beside the mud-stained waters of the Mosel watching it race towards its partner the Rhine, where, at the Deutsches Eck (German Corner) the two mighty rivers converged and the land was shaped like the bow of a ship.  There,  I stood beneath the centerpiece of the Eck, an ostentatious monument of the first German Emperor, Kaiser Wilhelm I, on his horse, having been told earlier that the original monument was completely destroyed under the command of General Patton during WWII.  I had stood on the ground in the hills above the city where that act was initiated so I understood the turbulent history that had taken place on that very spot. 
       Much of the city of Koblenz was destroyed during the war, but  like the monument you’d never know it for it was rebuilt to replicate all of its original gradeur.The rivers’ Rhine and Mosel are burial grounds to many relics from the war.  Imagine if you can walking along the Rhine and seeing, to your amazement, two WWII bombs protruding from a shrinking river.  It happened last year after a drought. The smaller of the two bombs was later identified as one that had been dropped by American forces between 1943-45 and was determined the more dangerous of the two necessitating the evacuation of forty-five thousand people.  To many of those evacuees it must have been a painful reminder of that terrible time in history when the sky was filled with British and American bombers, sirens screaming out warnings, the sound of exploding bombs hitting their target and reducing a once  beautiful city to  rubble and an inferno.  This was a vision I simply could not get out of my head  as I stood alone in that peaceful surround.

        I removed my gloves to take a picture blowing my warm breath onto my hands for they were nearly frozen and I could hardly press the button to open the lens of the camera.  So I ducked out of the wind struggling to compose a shot of Wilhelm seated atop his horse and overseeing the Eck. 

As I looked across the landscape, the morning mist was beginning to dissipate, revealing the varied scenes along the Rhine. 

There was a fortress dominating the hill on the east bank.  Below, long barges moved steadily along the Rhine, kicking up water in their path as they traveled against the strong current.  Trains traveled the tracks along the river’s edge looking more like toy trains from my vantage point on the other side. 

       People strolled along the tree-lined promenade taking their dogs for their morning constitution, their faces peeking out of fur-lined hoods.  And lo and behold, I spotted two other crazy tourists looking at their city map and stopping to take photographs.

Once I left the rivers behind and disappeared into the Alt Stadt I lost myself to the narrow streets, at times finding that I had them virtually to myself, a privilege only winter sightseeing can afford.  The camera remained strapped to my wrist as I looked for those special places where the lens would tell the real story. 

      I finally gave in to the overwhelming cold and found one of many of the city's warm cafe/restaurants where I went inside to thaw out! I peeled off the layers of clothing laying them in a pile next to me, frantically rubbing my hands together and again blowing my warm breath into them while the waiter stood over me waiting to take my order. “Cappuccino, bitte,” I said throught a shiver. The coffee was steaming hot, rich and dark, covered in a mound of cinnamon-dusted foam and I held the cup tightly with both hands to absorb the warmth. I settled back in the padded booth, feeling the warmth return to my body with each sip, amused by the chubby teenage girl across from me leaning over the table giggling and chattering non-stop to the attentive male who gave an occasional nod but could not have gotten a word in even if he’d tried.

    

Twenty-five minutes and a sufficient thawing and I head back to the streets, wandering between the rows of buildings knowing not where I was,

discovering along the way beautiful squares,

stunning architecture,

colorful buildings with painted facades,  playful statues,

beautiful churches with clock towers,

and Turkish restaurants decorated with middle-Eastern furnishings and hookas (water pipes) adorning each table.  I stood with my face pressed against the glass of one of them, debating whether or not to go inside while a dark-eyed, dark-skinned man inside viewed me with curiosity.  I continued on.

        I had spent five hours exploring and discovering the city and the day was beginning to close in on me. I had walked miles, at times repeating what I’d already seen, only seeing it cast in a different light.  One-hundred and fifty-five pictures later, I felt that it had been a day well spent. It was time to go back to the bustling city street and wait in the glass bus shelter for  “Dirty Harry’s” number 357.

These are just a few of the additional scenes I witnessed along the way.

XXX

        Each and every day of my stay in Germany has brought with it some very special gifts.  I have loved traveling by car along the Mosel, the window filled with beautiful castle-dominated towns where fairytales are born,

and where the narrow country lanes that wind their way through hills covered in a carpet of lush green, lead to castles hidden deep within the valleys.

       I  have tromped many a cobblestoned street discovering gingerbread-like houses, feeling like a character from a Grimm fairytale leaving imaginary pebbles behind so as not to loose my way.

I have walked to the neighboring village of Karlich

managing more than a chuckle at the signs advertising a sale or a service. 

I have stared over the neighboring rooftops--beyond beauty--at the nucleur beast claiming the foreground. 

        I have explored Mulheim-Karlich's streets and its charming squares, catching a  glimpse of its history along the way, then, stopping for a cappuccino in the warmth of its modern day café where the locals stop for a fresh pastry and pass a little time.  There, I stare out the window at the old, two-story brown stone house with the forest green shutters, a standing symbol of another time, and I am reminded that we are only caretakers in this life….we own nothing.

      


         I love traveling to my destination via a bus or train, brimming with excitement in  anticipation of the days adventure. 










One such day found me in the old walled city of Andernach

where I shared the promenade with the swans and ducks competing for the grassy spot along the Rhine,

                                          and traversed the streets where the new

and the old came together in harmony,

and the town's people went  about their daily lives.

      
       Last, but certainly not least, I am grateful for the angels who have helped me along the way.  Yesterday, it was a young man named, Phillip, whom I hailed down in the middle of the empty tunnel beneath the train tracks asking him in a near panic where the ticket machine was.  He did an abrupt about face and said to this total stranger, “I’ll help you get your ticket.”  Later, he asked my permission to sit next to me on the train, saying, “I will make sure that you get off at the Andernach stop.”  I told him he was my “angel” for that day.  This young man who exuded kindness did not view that as strange, but instead looked deep into my eyes and smiled his approval.

       I will say farewell to Germany on Sunday, February the fifth. It has been a rich experience, not only because of the places that I have seen, but because of the people with whom I’ve shared those special and unforgettable moments.  I will miss those evenings with friends so dear, of great meals and lively "discussions."

AUF WIEDERSEHEN

    

~

     Fellow travelers repack your bags for we are moving on to Trieste, Italy.  Giovanna would not have it any other way!  I can tell you that shades of destiny are already beginning to unfold... and I’m not even there yet.