Stuttgart and Schwaebisch Gmund and Bonn, Fall 2002

September 27, 2002

Going to Germany today, for a conference - a trip I've been preparing for all week, and which has been scheduled since sometime in the summer, back when I was notified the paper was accepted.

I spent the morning packing and preparing, and had a taxi cab to pick me up at noon for my 1:15 pm flight. Left the house a little after noon, had the cabbie stop at the cash machine, and waltzed into the airport about 12:20.

Hector International Airport, Fargo, ND

There was a line of ten or so to check bags, but finally I made it to the front, noting that the flight was delayed until 1:27 pm.

I hoist my bag on the scale and hand over my ticket and drivers license. The nice lady starts to process my ticket, but slides the license back.

She says, "I need to see your passport."

My passport!

My heart stops.

All this preparation and planning, and never ONCE did it enter my head to get my passport out for the trip.

I've got such a look of horror on my face, she almost starts to laugh. She thinks I'm kidding.

Here's the problem. I've got the fly to Minneapolis and make a connection to Amsterdam. If I don't make the Amsterdam flight it could be hours or a whole day before I can get on another one. I don't even know. By then I will have missed my connection to Stuttgart. Missing this plane out of Fargo could cost me a day and unthinkable, unendurable delay.

I grab my bags (can't leave them, security), trot over to the phone bank, and order a cab, explaining to the nice dispatcher what kind of a jam I'm in, and that I need to run home right away. A cab is dispatched.

I trot out into the sunshine, working on deciding whether to faint with the vapors, collapse with brain fever, or weep with helpless laughter. A cab appears way down the driveway within two minutes.

I look at my watch. I might just be able to pull this off.

I'm standing in the road, and the cabbie stops thirty yards from me. He's dropping off a fare. I haul my stuff up there, and quickly explain my situation, that I'm in a bind. The cabbie looks to be about seventy, slightly like Fred Gwynn (from the "Munsters", and "My Cousin Vinnie"), and his fare is even older. It takes them a LONG while to settle the fare, as I'm dancing from foot to foot on the pavement. But finally the old lady gets deposited.

I toss my bags in, and tell him the story in more detail, hoping to spur him into high speed driving. But the gentle old goof knows only one speed: glacial. He pulls away from the curb doing a good 15 miles an hour, and tools down the driveway like he's driving Miss Daisy.

I'm checking my watch, trying not to jump out of my skin.

He says, consolingly, "It seems like these things only happen when you're in a hurry, don't it?"

I'm reminded, as I am from time to time, of the Hunter Thompson passage about Ibogaine. This being the legendary South American drug that hypes you up to a level you know what people are going to say before they say it. And it drives you to a frenzy, waiting for them to slowly form the words you know they are going to say, to the point you want to strangle them to force the words to come more quickly.

I guide him to our house, and have him drive up the driveway, so I can run into the yard and retrieve the "secret" key from it's hiding place (I leave my keys on the dresser during these long trips - there's no sense bringing five pounds of useless keys through airport security). I bound into the house, find the passport, right where I know it to be. Then charge back out of the house and into the cab.

For some reason, he's now invested in my emergency, and starts to approach the speed limit. We unwisely choose to go along 12th Avenue to get on Dakota Drive, which takes us past campus where a million students are strolling along without a care, enjoying the sunny day at my expense, every one of them apparently intent on making me miss my plane.

Finally we pick through the crowd, and make the airport where, lo and behold, there is NO line at luggage check-in, and the same nice lady sees me and moves me through the system. There is a short moment of drama as a call needs to be placed to "re-open the check in" - and there's a terse phone exchange as my allies at the check-in desk argue the fine points with some faceless bureaucrat on the other end of the line.

The forces of good prevail, and I'm pounding up the steps to get through security, just as they're making the first boarding call. I've got a full head of steam, and so I pull out my shiny new "Silver Elite" card, which allows me to board with the decrepit, the infants, and the fat cats in First Class. This works like a charm, and I'm actually one of the first people on the plane. He shoots, he scores.

The transition in Minneapolis is easy enough. I have time to buy a burger and phone home, leaving an hilarious account on voicemail for Rita's entertainment.

I approach the desk in Minneapolis with my shiny new "Silver Elite" card, asking about an upgrade. But the answer is a flat, "not on international flights."

September 28, 2002

The flight to Amsterdam is absolutely full, and I end up between a nice lady, traveling from Anchorage, Alaska, going to Germany for the birth of a grandchild on my left, and a nice young fellow on my right, employed by Xerox, going to some small town in Holland.

I tell my passport story to the nice lady.

"I live an hour from the airport," she says, "I never would have made it."

I agree. If I lived anywhere but Fargo (and on the North side, ten minutes from the airport), I'd have missed the flight and the connection. I'm one of the few people in America who could forget their passport, run home to get it, and still make the flight. I see this as a good omen. Surely the worst is over, and it's smooth grooving from here. It turns out I'm wrong about this.

The Amsterdam Schiphol Airport from high above.

These planes for international flights are huge, but the personal space is tiny, and it's a cramped seven hour flight.

I'm in the Amsterdam airport on a 2-hour layover. This is a no-smoking airport, except for the coffee bars, of which there are many. I camp out, slurping down coffee, and tapping away on the computer until the battery gives out.

The flight from Amsterdam to Stuttgart takes an hour. This flight is hosted by CityHopper, or some such, and you leave the terminal on bus, which meanders around aimlessly and at very low speed until finding a gaggle of planes on the tarmac. At one point it looks like we are aiming at an old prop-job, but we veer past that to a jet. For some reason, I am relieved. I haven't been on a propeller driven aircraft for a long time, and don't relish the prospect.

Once in Stuttgart I stop for a big cup of coffee. Then I fetch the rental car and get on the road with little problem, although I'm now working on a 24-hour sleepless run. Navigating is mostly an issue of following signs, which are plentiful in Germany (thankfully), and Roxanne has sent me MUCH simpler directions than MapQuest. I don't know the customs here, so I drive with headlights on, to be safe.

I take the first exit into Schwabisch Gmund, which is the wrong one, but I find myself on the map that Roxanne sent, and it doesn't take long. Somewhat suddenly, I look up and there's the Hotel Pelikan.

The view from the front door of the Hotel Pelikan

I'm still settling into the room when Roxanne calls.

She comes to fetch me at the hotel. What a delight to see her again. It's been over 25 years (since January, 1977), half our lives.

She's shorter than I remember, and brown as a nut from being outdoors. Her face is creased with age and wind, and her step is slower, but the body language is the same, and she still has that jaunty tilt to her beret.

We walk through the old part of town on a lovely sunny day. Old churches (a couple with mighty fine pipe organs), old buildings, cobblestone streets, old watch towers (like the Funf Knopf Turn) from when this was a walled city in the Middle Ages. It was used to keep people out during the Plague, but didn't work too well, as a high percentage of the citizens were wiped out by it.

This is one of the towers, built as part of the walled city, called "Funf Knopf Turn" for five ball tower. You can see some of the balls on top, if you look closely

We wander around snapping pictures and taking in the sights. On just about every street we meet someone who greets her, and I am introduced, "Das ist Brian, german, german, german, german, german, North Dakota, german, german, german." It's Saturday afternoon, and nobody is in any particular hurry, so we stop and visit. Many of these folks are English language students of Roxanne's.

It turns out the Schwaebisch Gmund coat of arms features a unicorn. It's on prominent display at the Rat Haus (town hall). This reminds me of the infamous Fargo character, "Rat House" Miller, and I briefly wonder if his moniker is connected to this German root. Rat House was a turn-of-the-century Fargo character, and there are several colorful stories about him: the steam thresher he dropped through the Main Street bridge, and dynamiting the tree stump so it flew over Fargo like a mortar shell.

At one point early in our walk we pass the square near the oldest church (Johannes Kirche), where there is a mini-festival going on. A German natural gas company is trying to drum up business, and there's a tent with an oldies band, singing a cover of a Monkees song, "Daydream Believer" I think, and later doing "The Mighty Quinn", all in English, and all surrounded by beer tables and somebody cooking bratwurst on a grill.

"These Germans," Rox says, "they can't do anything without dragging out the beer tables and roasting brats."

The Johannes Kirche (the oldest church in town), with beer fest in progress
Roxanne, town square, old fountain
The back side of the church (under construction), looking towards a cool old tower
Old chateau looking building

Note the Schwaebisch Gmund coat of arms with unicorn on the fountain.

After a few hours of forced march, we stop in a Gasthaus for beer. We've been talking all day, and continue as we sit there.

She tells me about the wacky music festival they have there: Gugga Musik. Apparently the idea is for big groups to get all dressed up in odd costumes, play well-known songs off-key and off-tempo, and drink heavily for days. There are, indeed, a large number of festivals held in the area, seemingly every weekend all year round.

We exchange life stories (from the old days, to the present). She landed in Germany with no prospects but at the invitation of a German man she'd met years before. She arrives, only to find he is in the hospital, delusional. She applies for work at various places, and eventually catches on as a civilian employee of the military, working in an Army recreation center. This entails a little bit of many things, including leading tours for GIs and families, and teaching German. This career lasts for a long while, but eventually the military reduction in force and other factors prompt her to leave. She now works teaching English in connection with a state run community college styled system.

Pils in the Gasthaus
Roxanne in the Gasthaus

After a couple of half-liters Rox wants to do some more walking. She lives up the hill, and has a cake she baked for the occasion. I complain loudly about how tired I am, sniveling at full volume. So she relents and we stay for more beer.

At one point I run out of matches, and Roxanne digs in her bag, producing a handful of disposable lighters, each saying "Ich bin ein Gmunder" on the side. She gives me several.

Later we go to a restaurant. I get a nice meat and potato soup, a local specialty: Gaisburger Marsch. Roxanne has an omelet type thing. We hang around there a long while, as the place empties.

She dumps me at the hotel about 11 PM, and I call home, trying to communicate to Rita what a good time I've had: Pils and revelry. Then I try to get my laptop to connect to the net. This fails, and I go to bed, by this time going about 40 hours without sleep.

September 29, 2002

I sleep right through, and I'm awake and up, but barely moving when Roxanne calls the next morning, sometime around eleven.

I've missed the free hotel breakfast by now, so we go walking instead. This time it's up to San Salvator, which is the religious shrine carved out of a stone hillside. To get there requires a walk across town and then up a steepish hill, on ancient steps, where your passage is marked by the Stations of the Cross in both plaque form, and big-as-life statues displayed in room sized cages.

At the top of the hill are a couple of chapels and a spectacular view of the city. Some say the tunnels in this hill, dating back to who-knows-when, and used by soldiers and thieves over the centuries, go all the way to the next town: Lorch.

Gmund from above, a photo sequence.
Roxanne outside the stone shrine.
A shrine, chiseled out of stone.
The Schwaebisch Gmund skyline, different angle.

On the way down the hill we pass a young boy, pushing his bicycle up. As he passes, he and Rox exchange a greeting, and I realize I've heard this same phrase now about twenty times. It sounds like "ist goot" to my ears, and I ask her about it.

"What is it you say to total strangers in this town?"

"It's a local thing," she tells me, "Gruss Gott" short for "Gruss dich Gott" meaning "God Greet You".

Then we march back through town and stop for lunch. I have some more traditional Schwaebisch stuff, Munster Platte: some meatloaf wrapped in noodle, a bratwurst, a dumpling, some bacon, some roast beef, and sauerkraut. I'm not too hungry, and don't finish.

We find the Schwaebisch Internet cafe, but it doesn't open until 5 PM. We are on the way up to Roxanne's place to sit in her garden and enjoy some sun, but we stop at the Hotel Pelikan to pick up her wish list: two bottles of vanilla extract, a big box of graham crackers, and a carton of Camel straights.

Then we hike up to her place, and it feels like a mile straight up, but it's actually not so bad.

She shows me the inside of her apartment, which is small (bathroom, tiny kitchen, living/dining area is about 12X20, I don't see the bedroom), and really CLEAN. She has always been like that: keeping a clean house, and painting virtually every place she's ever moved into.

The yard is long and sloping, a full-sized American backyard, and leads down to a lovely grass patio with a shed and a fire pit. She grows herbs and flowers down there, and an enormous fern she calls Hercules. This thing has leaves as big as a table top, and she has summertime photos showing it towering over humans.

She carefully assembles her lawn chairs (she crushed her thumb in one a year ago and the nail is only now healing), and we soak up some rays and talk some more. She has a case of cold beer (Pils) in bottles, and after the long climb they taste mighty good.

After a short time the sun goes down, and we retreat to her apartment for more Pils and the delicious creamy raspberry cake she prepared.

She starts to drag out photo albums at my insistence, and we spend much of the time reminiscing about people we know. I hear many new stories about her family, including travail with children and the current status of everyone (Mom in Florida, Sandy in Oregon, and Heidi in Illinois). There are many photos of hiking and skiing trips over the years with Hans. He's avid. They've been together about twenty years.

She told me the story, from her days as a University of Michigan sophomore, traversing campus on roller skates, and taking a poetry seminar from Ted Berrigan who invited Alan Ginsburg to speak. Alan was downhearted about something, and didn't want to read, but Rox had brought her copy of a privately published book named "Wales/a Visitation" (Cape Galliard Press, London, not for sale), and rolled up to the front on her skates to hand it to him. Ginsburg cast her a suspicious glance - where did she get this? And she told that it was a gift from Ed Saunders, late of the Fugs. Alan read it, and perked up, and signed her copy.

After a few hours we talk about heading back down to town. I'm willing to march the march myself, confident I can find my way. She insists on walking with me, or better yet, calling Hans to give us a ride. She makes the call about 11 PM, he agrees, and it's decided he'll appear at 11:30, which he does, with Germanic punctuality.

I have rehearsed my lines, and greet him.

"Gruss Gott," I say, "Ich bin ein Gmunder."

He laughs kindly.

This is the first meeting, as he has had his own company in town for the weekend, an old school chum, and they have been hiking around in the glorious sunshine.

Hans is well over fifty, and white haired, but with an easy smile and a charming sense of humor. Roxanne brings him cake, and he pronounces it, "edible" in heavily accented English.

We talk for another two hours, eating cake and covering various topics. He goes through the ruined, water-damaged Muxter book that I brought, a page at a time, slowly (he's a photographer and graphic artist with a professional interest). At one point we have a map of the US in front of us, noting various geographical elements.

Finally, after 1 AM, it is decided we must go. Hans drives me and Rox down the hill, and Rox walks me up to the door to say goodbye. We've been instructed on how to open the door after the staff has left. So we hug, and then I jump through the sliding doors as they open and close. The last I see of Rox, she is heading around the corner, back to where Hans is waiting with the car.

Roxanne at home with stuff
Roxanne at home with me
Roxanne at home with me

Roxanne at home with Hans
Roxanne at home with Hans Photos above by Hans
Photos at left by me

September 30, 2002

It has been agreed that Rox will be my alarm clock, calling around 9:00 and then walking down to meet me at 9:30 for the free breakfast which ends at 10:00. I've been at the Hotel Pelikan for one night already, and never got a breakfast. This is my last chance.

I spend a sweaty restless night. The German bedding is a heavy down comforter in a gigantic pillow case, with a sheet on the bed. You either have 20 pounds of mass on you, or you have nothing, there is no middle ground. I had a late-night cup of coffee while waiting for Hans to appear, and another while he was there, and maybe that explains it. At any rate, I'm asleep for an hour or two and wake up ringing with sweat. I take my t-shirt off, as it is uncomfortably soaked, and try to get back to sleep, but without much luck. I might have dozed and dreamed I was awake, but for the most part I just laid there in discomfort. This is not like me, and I'm not used to tossing and turning, which I discover I do not enjoy.

I mostly pack and head down for breakfast. It is an unappetizing prospect: cold meats, hard bread, stinky cheese, one remaining hard boiled egg. But there is some cereal out, a trail mix sort of thing, and a pitcher of creamy milk, so I opt for that, and don't finish it. The nice lady brings me a cup of coffee, and Rox arrives shortly thereafter, and we sit and talk some more.

Finally it is after 10:30 so I go to pack up my stuff, and haul it down to the lobby where Roxanne is waiting for me to check out. There is a big german fellow behind the desk with an odd haircut (mostly long, but with white sidewalls), and the fingernail of one pinky finger a half an inch long (the rest cut short), an old 80s sign of cocaine, but probably just a fashion in this century.

He is very nice, and checks me out, as Roxanne fetches Eva, the owner of the place, for a meet and greet. Eva is in her forties, I would guess: tall, thin, dark, and pretty. We shake hands and I start marching out to the Autoplatz to get this show on the road. Roxanne walks with me, and gives me another hug goodbye, and starts to walk away as I start the car.

There is no response to the key, and I instantly realize, with a flood of horror, that I parked with the headlights on, two days ago, and the switch still says they are on, but they're not. They are dead, Tot, as is the battery, without a spark of life.

I drove across from Stuttgart, headlights on like a good citizen. But the car has not been looked at since, two days ago, as we walked everywhere like Europeans.

"Rox," I call to her back, "I'm going to need a little help."

Then a period of extended problem solving ensued.

First there's a call for cables, but none are available. Herr Christian Sevilla, the hulking desk clerk comes out from behind the desk, and we try to push start it, to no effect. We try a few times, even down the steep driveway, but no luck, so we push the car out of the way.

Eva Ruhle, the owner, and Christian Sevilla, are recruited to assist. Calls are made around the hotel, looking for jumper cables, but none are found. I request a tow truck be called for a jump. Rox worries they were too expensive, but I produce a fan of credit cards, intending to indicate the money is not a problem.

But no. There are suggestions from the floor about going to buy cables, calling someone to bring cables, calling Hans (which we do, he has no cables), calling the city garage, getting a new car from Budget Rental (but they don't have an office in town, Christian Sevilla informs us).

The trouble is, Eva takes the BP credit card, and she begins making a series of phone calls. And my questions about what's being done are not being answered. So I think a call might have been placed to BP, and I know a call was placed to Budget Car Rental. I'm on the phone with this guy, at one point, and he suggests I call someone to give me a jump.

I reiterate this idea, with some triumph, thinking the issue is now closed and a truck will be called. But the Budget guy now wants to talk to Eva again.

I ask Rox what is going on and insist we call a tow truck, and this goes on for quite a while. At one point I say to Rox, "please call a tow truck." She smiles and nods towards the office, where Eva is on the phone, effectively ignoring me. I say, with some fervor, "Please, look in my eyes. CALL A TOW TRUCK."

This elicits no response, and I go out to have a smoke and work on achieving Zen calm.

After much negotiation, Eva gets Budget to agree that I can make a swap for an Avis rental car - Is this what I want to do?

I repeat, speaking to Christian Sevilla in this case, for the tenth time, that I want a tow truck to give me a jump.

Christian finally jumps into action.

"I know what he wants," he says gruffly, and takes the phone book, calling the automobile association.

After a short conversation, he looks at me and says, "Twenty minutes."

I point at him, nodding, and say, "my hero."

He nods and says "wunderbar" into the phone.

I nod, and repeat, "wunderbar."

"When the women are working," Christian Sevilla says aloud, "the men wait. Then the men get to work and say �Let's Go'. But first the men must wait."

"Especially," he says to me apologetically, "if one woman is your boss, the men must wait."

This bald summary is both funny and accurate. I try not to laugh out loud, and fail.

Soon, a little yellow station wagon arrives, and a man dressed in yellow gets a yellow battery pack out, with which he gives me a jump. The car starts immediately, and Rox and I say goodbye again as I let it warm up. Then, sixty-two Euros later, I'm on the road again.

Here we go. The legendary German Autobahn, where there is NO speed limit, and only REAL MEN dare to venture. My route takes me back the way I came, looking for a sign for Karlsruhe, then signs for Franfurt, then Bonn. Everyone is confident I can find my way once I get onto the Autobahn.

And I do, more or less. It's lucky Rox re-iterated Karlsruhe, as one critical high speed decision depended on knowing that. It's a good thing the Autobahn is mostly three lanes in each direction. Because here's what it's like.

The right lane is occupied by large trucks mostly going 60 miles/hour (that's 100 Km/hour) or less. The LEFT lane is a flying circus of madmen, some of them driving unimaginable speeds. In the middle lane is the rest of us, going 120-140 Km/hour (72-84 mph). We normal people need to keep an eye out for truck pulling out to pass one of their slower bretheren, and we need to keep an eye on the rear view mirror. For if we are to venture into the far left lane, we first take a LONG look behind. What can seem like a pellet sized blur of black, can turn into a fast-closing Porsche at an amazing rate. And when you're going 140, and a Porsche goes by at what seems like greater than double your speed. It is an awesome, fear-inspiring moment.

The Autobahn, at 140 KmH, me driving one-handed, with my disposable camera out the window. Me holding on very tight, to both my camera, and the steering wheel. White knuckles on both hands

I only got up to 150 Km/hour a few times (an exhilarating 90 mph), and that was fast enough. I only saw one serious accident on the autobahn. Traffic was down to a crawl for a stretch, and there were two somewhat crushed cars on my side of the road, and what looked like a skidmark showing the path of a car that had rolled and jumped the divider into the oncoming lanes. I don't know how many that guy took with him. There was nothing about it on the little bit of television news that I saw.

Other observations? Germany is really a nice looking country, even when viewed from the Autobahn. It reminds you a lot of southern and western Wisconsin - except with the addition of a lot of quaint German villages and old timey castles thrown in.

Also, as in Spain, there is no concept of coffee to go. Even in those Autohauses on the Autobahn, where you buy gas and snacks and such (the Illinois tollway "oasis" concept), there is coffee to sell, and it comes in plastic cups, but with NO lids.

I make my way across Germany, into Bonn, and after a little bit of bafflement on the surface streets, get to the conference site. This is the Gustav-Stresemann Institute, which appears to combine classrooms, with conference facilities, with a "three star" hotel (although I get reports it's on the seedy end of the three-star range).

I finally find a place to park, making very sure my headlights are off. It's only about 5:30, so I've made good time. I get out of the car and there is a pair of giant palm prints on the back window. Evidence, I realize, of Herr Sevilla pushing to start me. To the side I see a much smaller pair of palm prints. I didn't realize it at the time, but Roxanne was back there pushing too.

The car with which I tested The Autobahn, at 140-150 KmH
Look closely, and you can just make out the palm prints of stalwart pushers

I stroll into the Institute, not a care in the world, and announce myself at the reception desk.

They do not have a reservation for me. My heart continues to beat at a steady pace. I check with the lady at the conference table. She is very cross with me.

"We've never received your registration until now," she says, in a posh English accent.

"You were not here on time," she says, showing me my original registration form, where I was booking a room at the Institute for 5 days (this was plan A, long abandoned).

"And your money never arrived until now," she repeats, "so we let the room go, and now they are full."

"Until now?" I ask, "so you just got it?"

"No," she is getting MORE irritated, "I just told you, it was never received."

"Until now?" I clarify.

"Yes," she appears ready to slap me, "never until now."

"Hmm," I muse, "that's strange. I'm pretty sure we received confirmation."

"Anyway," I say, moving on, "where's the nearest hotel?"

"It's the Maratim," she points, "just there. But it's more expensive."

I shrug.

In the scheme of things, this is a non-crisis. I'm on day four of this trip, and I've already had two emergencies of greater scope than this one. As it happens, the Bonn Maritim is also full, but the Konigswinter Maratim, just across the Rhine and 10-15 minutes away, has plenty of room. This is where I find myself. In a lovely room overlooking the Rhine River.

Rhine River Ferry Action Sequence

A Rhine River ferry, bringing cars across.
The ferry steams upriver and then skillfully drifts to the landing
Mission accomplished, cars unload, a tourist blocks the view

The television is mostly all German, but I find a re-broadcast of Monday Night Football, in German, that I can follow okay.

October 1, 2002

The next morning there is the usual hysteria on german roads, trying to find the conference in time for the 8:45 welcome. After wandering lost and getting turned completely around, I walk into a gas station where the guy takes one look at my map and says "8 stoplights, take a u-turn, and the first right." It reminded me of that scene in Sherlock Holmes (can't remember the story title). "The smartest man in London" is the line I remember.

I eventually sail into the conference center at 9:45. Missed most of the keynote, but got the coffee break, and gave my talk (first up, over and out).

Then I'm sitting in the front of the room, tapping away pretending to take notes during the talks that follow mine.

The conference runs all day. There's an evening event at a castle, but I never like to sign up for such things, which usually cost extra. It turns out this one features a speaker, which I might have liked to listen to, but it's a ship in the night, and I miss it.

That evening, back in Konigswinter I am short of money. They don't have cash machines in hotels here, just in bank lobbies. So I get directions, which entail finding the "pedestrian area" and set out. I don't find it, but come across a funky little German tavern, empty, except for an old German bartender and one old German customer. The two of them jabber away while I have a glass of Pils. Then I am able to communicate my search for a cash machine, and they manage to give me directions I can follow.

Konigswinter on the Rhine River across from Bonn

The Rhine at sunset, photo taken through the glass of my hotel window.
A sidewalk/riverside cafe, just downriver from my hotel. Strange gnarled trees.
The Konigswinter pedestrian area, my favorite pub just right of center.

October 2, 2002

I find the conference with little trouble this day.

The conference concludes.

The conference over, we break up and go our separate ways. Some are going shopping in Bonn. I go back to the hotel, once again feeling like I need a nap. After a snooze, I wander back down to the pedestrian area and have Pils with my bestest German buddies.

Then I go back to the room and pack. I've got to get up at 4 AM, drive to the airport in Cologne (Koln).

I'm an old hand at the Autobahn by now, and it's not a long drive. There is a period of bafflement, as I need to drop the car, hours before the office is open. But I've checked it out with my good buddy at the desk in the Maratim, and I know to just drop the key and move on. I catch the flight back to Amsterdam, Chicago, Minneapolis, and Fargo.

This turns out to be actually EASIER than it sounds.

My wife is there to meet me, and I'm home, exhausted, before very long at all.