LarryU

Slippery as ICE

I typically do not do very well adapting to different time zones and this morning was no exception. However, one slight advantage of being chronically chronologically challenged is that I am often treated to some very pretty sunrises within the course of my travels. Whereas the precise orientation of my room at the Hilton did not really provide me with a view of the rising sun as such, it did reveal a very lovely visage of the silhouette and contours of the Cologne Cathedral set against a vivid blue background.

Most meaningful to me was the fact that the sky was exceptionally clear, a meteorological condition that I not encountered for several weeks. The snow and ice that had lingered in PDX for so many days had morphed into dreary overcast skies throughout the duration of my very brief tenure in Germany so the sun had been nowhere to be seen for a very long time.



Indra joined for me breakfast at the Hilton and the spread of hot and cold goodies was quite a treat, both in terms of quantity and quality. The attendant staff members were also extraordinarily pleasant, sporting a demeanor that nicely matched the very classy ambience of the restaurant. Nevertheless, a palpable tinge of melancholy permeated breakfast because we both understood that we would now have very little time together. My ICE train was scheduled to depart Cologne for Frankfurt at 9:51 AM and I would be flying back to PDX the very next day. Indra would be returning to Sri Lanka sometime in the very near future.

After checking out of the hotel, the two of us strolled over together to the Cologne Hauptbahnhof and then set about to determine from which track my train departed. Oddly enough, I could not find my train listed anywhere on the departure board. After I double checked both the date and departure time listed on my ticket, the two of us carefully scanned large yellow schedules mounted on walls throughout the station but still could find no evidence of my train listed at all.

Seeking some expert travel assistance, we soon found ourselves in a very long queue awaiting consultation with professional Deutsche Bahn customer service personnel. As we waited, Indra cautioned me that, in her experience, the attendant Deutsche Bahn staff are typically neither helpful nor personable. Indeed, I noticed that when the next person in line had failed to move forward when a staff member finished processing a customer, the clerk simply glared at the hapless patron rather than oblige her with a simple, "nächste." It was certainly a good thing that looks could not kill.

Fortunately, the demeanor of my particular Deutsche Bahn staffer was not nearly as unpleasant or formidable. After studying the nuances of my ticket, he kindly pointed out that the reason my train was not listed on the schedule was that it did not depart from this station! He explained that it leaves from a completely different station entirely, Cologne Deutz!

I guess that I must not have noticed the "Deutz" designation when I initially booked my Deutsche Bahn ticket several weeks prior to the trip. And now I was stuck with this choice because "savings fare" tickets booked on line are only valid for the specific train actually booked and cannot be used on any other train. One option would be to purchase another much more expensive ticket for the train of my choice and forgo the value of my prior ticket. A much more satisfying and economical option would be for me to find my way to Cologne Deutz.



With that, Indra and I dashed over to the other side of the station and bolted down a flight of steps and onto the awaiting S-Bahn platform. A few minutes later, we hopped onto a regional train and we were on our way to Cologne Deutz.

Fortunately for us, the S-Bahn cars were sparsely populated with passengers at this early hour on a Saturday morning so we had very little difficulty stowing my luggage and finding a place to sit. Also fortunate was the fact that we had not encountered a conductor by the time the train pulled into Cologne Deutz. In my haste to make it to my ICE train on time, I had neglected to purchase a ticket for the S-Bahn train and it was somewhat debatable whether my prepaid ICE train ticket would serve as satisfactory credentials for use on this particular train.

After we successfully disembarked onto the Cologne Deutz platform, the two of us stood for a while in the cold breeze, contemplating the nuances of some distant signage. We eventually concluded that my ICE train to Frankfurt was scheduled to depart in 10 minutes from track 11 so off we ran, deep within the bowels of the station.

With only five minutes to spare, we arrived within sight of my track, whereupon a conductor commanded us to halt and asked us about our destination. When I told him that I was heading to "Frankfurt," he explained that my train would be leaving from track 12. The fact that his instructions directly conflicted with the official verbiage displayed on the departures board confused me, but I had very little time to argue.

Accessing track 12 required schlepping my luggage down a flight of steps, traversing an underground passageway and then running up a matching flight of steps at the other end. We arrived at a platform that was devoid of passengers where two conductors lingered chatting nonchalantly just outside an awaiting ICE train.

The conductors confirmed that this particular train was indeed heading to Frankfurt and cautioned that it would be doing so within another minute. That left Indra and I very little opportunity for a proper goodbye but I had simply run out of time. After hopping aboard the train, I found myself in the dining car so I schlepped my stuff forward into the relatively empty domain of another car and helped myself to a seat, this time presumably in the proper class of service. Almost as soon as I sat down, the train pulled forward, soon leaving Cologne Deutz far in the distance. At the very least, I had wanted to wave goodbye to Indra as the train pulled away but from my particular location on the train, I was unable to get a good view of the platform so I did not get to see her again.

The ICE train picked up speed very quickly and it was soon abundantly clear that this would be a much faster trip than I had experienced when I first arrived in Cologne several days ago. For one thing, the train's routing to Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof was much more direct, bypassing the Rhine river altogether. Another reason for its celerity was that there were no intermediate stops at all, other than a brief visit to Frankfurt airport.



About 20 minutes into the trip, a conductor entered the sparsely populated cabin and made his way over to my seat, whereupon he asked me for my ticket and the credit card that I had used to make the purchase. I dutifully submitted all of the requested credentials, quite reasonably concluding that all possible trip complications were over by this point. Needless to say, I was more than mildly surprised when the conductor looked at me quizzically and asked, "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" After I responded "nein," the conductor replied, in English, that "we have a problem" and then proceeded to explain that I was on the wrong train.

We politely bantered back and forth about the situation for a while and from what I could understand, although this train was indeed heading to Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, the train I had booked was ICE 121 but this train was actually ICE 621. My guess is that when the conductor guarding the platform at track 11 had redirected me to track 12 upon hearing that my destination was "Frankfurt," it did not occur to him that I was booked on a different train to Frankfurt, one that was scheduled to depart seven minutes later.

However, my ticket was only good for my originally booked train and if rules are rules, I would be obliged to cough up another, much more expensive fare for the privilege of enjoying this alternative transportation. Had this been the case from the beginning, I could have just hung around with Indra at Cologne Hauptbahnhof and taken a train from there.

I am not sure what was going through the conductor's mind that morning as we sped on our way towards Frankfurt. Perhaps he had a nice time carousing in Cologne the night before, or was just in a good mood or just liked the jib of my Flyertalk hat. But after a pause of the merest few seconds, he smiled, told me not to worry about it and continued on this way to check the credentials of the other passengers. ^

Now that my needlessly complex transportation endeavor had finally come to a favorable resolution, I could finally sit back, relax and contemplate my activities for my last day once I arrived in Frankfurt. My plan was to spend the day undertaking a quick tour through an assortment of scenic castles and dormant vineyards dispersed along the cliffs and hilltops perched over the Rhine Gorge. Just two days before my departure form Portland, some local German friends advised me that Brigitte, a friend of theirs from Frankfurt, had very kindly volunteered to be my host for the day!

After a total of 50 minutes in transit, my train pulled into the Frankfurt airport long distance train station and 10 minutes later came to its final stop at Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof.



From the station, I undertook a shortcut under the heavily trafficked Am Hauptbahnhof and emerged onto Wiesenhüttenplatz, a mere one minute stroll from the Le Méridien Parkhotel, where I would be spending the night. Although I had intended just to store my luggage and then hit the road, it turned out that my room was already available and waiting for me.

In contrast to the substandard treatment and recognition endured at another Le Méridien property, the Dom Hotel in Cologne, this property at least furnished me with spacious room accommodations, appropriately catered with two large bottles of water and a nice assortment of chocolates and cookies. I strolled down to the lobby at about 11:25 AM and five minutes later, Brigitte pulled up in her car precisely on time.



Noble Rot of the 50th Degree

After exiting the streets of central Frankfurt, Brigitte and I drove westward towards the middle Rhine valley and continued past Wiesbaden and Mainz, where I had spent two busy days exploring the area earlier in the week. We proceeded onward towards Bingen, this time trundling along on the northern banks of the river, a choice of locales that was no accident. Given the cool climate and northerly latitude in which Germany finds itself, the southerly exposure of hills flanking this side of the river has proved to impart conditions considered optimal for the ripening of grapes.

The section of the Rhine between Bingen and Koblenz is notable for boasting one of the densest concentrations of castles in the world, whose structural conditions range from ruined to relatively pristine. Many of these castles were built to protect the inhabitants from invaders, whereas others sheltered a shady assortment of thieves, bandits and plunderers. Not a few of these castles served as very profitable customs houses designed to extract fees and tolls from commercial businesses and hapless citizens alike, in a sense, I suppose, just another flavor of thievery.

Grapes had been cultivated in the region from the time of the Romans but viticulture really came into its own starting in the 10th century, when the Archbishop of Mainz ordered the obliteration of all forests along the Rhine and replaced them with vines. The peasants who undertook the strenuous task of toiling in the Rheingau were subsequently granted freedom and the region was subsequently known as "the land of farmers with civil rights."

Our first stop on our drive from Frankfurt was at Schloss Johannisberg, a winery whose tenure dates back to the time of Charlemagne. Benedictine monks had concluded that this was one of the best areas for growing wine, which therefore also made it optimal for constructing a monastery at that location. Thirty years later, they built a basilica to honor John the Baptist and the hill upon which the monastery stood was heretofore known as "John's mountain," Johannisberg.

Riesling grapes were first planted here nearly 300 years ago, which makes Schloss Johannisberg the oldest Riesling vineyard in the world. A little over 250 years ago, the harvest could not be initiated for three weeks because of a delay in obtaining official permission from Prince-Abbot of Fulda, the estate owner. As a consequence, all of the grapes were infected with Botrytis fungus and rotted on the vine. When the seemingly worthless grapes were handed over to local peasants, an extraordinarily sweet wine emerged, and thus Spätlese was born from the noble rot. Such is serendipity.

As we pulled the car up to the mansion, we appeared to be the only visitors on this bright but cold day. From the parking area, we ambled over to the edge of the vineyard where we surveyed the very hazy vista of the Rheingau displayed far below us, a region once described by Goethe as, "Blessed plains and vine-clad countryside." Mounted in the middle of the vineyard, a solitary marker delineated the precise location of the 50th parallel north.



Epiphany at the John

As we wandered amongst the various buildings that comprised the estate at the Mountain of John, I was quite bemused to observe the very concrete affiliation of all religious icons with wine. A drawing of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus was unmistakably adorned with clusters of grapes and grape leaves. We wandered into the associated abbey church where we encountered not a single religious painting or statue that did bear a dutiful amalgamation of the viticultural with the ecclesiastical.



After departing the shrine to wine, we walked through a small courtyard at one end of which the descendants of an earlier proprietor still reside behind black iron gates marked "private." On the other side of the courtyard, a nondescript building housed some public toilets, situated amongst a series of unmarked doorways.

Over one of the doorways, I could not help but notice the unmistakable insignia, "20 * C + M + B * 08" ominously scribbled in chalk. It was a vestige of last year's calling card from the Sternsingen, who would no doubt be invading the area within the next day. I did not want to take a chance of getting caught unprepared by the Ninja death star-wielding "Star Singers" so I figured it would behoove us to move on to our next destination as soon as possible.



A Loss at the Schloss

Our next stop on our journey through the middle Rhine, found us a very short distance from Schloss Johannisberg, at the 800 year old wine estate of Schloss-Vollrads, sitting high on the hills overlooking the village of Winkel. Originally established by "Vollradus of Winkel," an early 14th century tall stone tower house stood in the center of the estate, accessible only by an ice covered bridge that crossed a stagnant moat. Never at a loss for poetic and profound words, when Goethe visited the estate in the early 19th century, he eloquently described the tower as "unusual."



In later years, heirs to the Lords of Winkel ran into significant financial difficulties running the estate. When it was ultimately reclaimed by the bank in 1975, the current proprietor withdrew to the inner sanctum of his beloved vineyard and blew his brains out.

These days, a two-winged manor house built near the tower in the 17th century occasionally opens to the public just for special events. We hung around in the area for a relatively short period of time but there was a palpable rotting stench that pervaded the wine processing area and whatever rot it was did not appear to be especially noble. With that, we moved on to our next destination.

From Prussia With Love

At the conclusion of the Franco-Prussian War in 1871, Prussia soundly defeated France, with a little help from its friends, the other members of the North German Confederation, along with Baden, Württemberg and Bavaria. This military achievement marked the official foundation of the German Empire, a union of German states that endured for 47 years until its collapse after WWI.

What could be a more fitting way to commemorate the unification of Germany into the Deutsches Reich than a suitably prodigious monument befitting the industrial might and military power of the new union? The Niederwalddenkmal Monument features a towering figure of Germania, a goddess-like entity representing the personification of Germany. Bearing the laurel-entwined imperial sword in one hand and the recovered German Emperor's crown in the other, Germania stands alongside an imperial eagle.

The base of statue's pedestal bear's the inscription, "Zum Andenken An Die Einmuethige Siegreiche Erhebung Des Deutschen Volkes Und An Die Wiederaufrichtung Des Deutschen Reiches 1870-1871," "In memory of the unanimous victorious uprising of the German People and of the reinstitution of the German Empire 1870-1871." A little lower down the monument, flanking either side of the pedestal are two smaller statues, one representing war and the other symbolizing peace. In the middle of the monument, residing under another imperial eagle, is a relief depicting emperor Wilhelm I sitting astride his horse amidst an assemblage of sovereigns, army commanders and soldiers. Appearing just under the historical relief are the complete lyrics to Die Wacht am Rhein, a militaristic and patriotic anthem.

And, of course, would a monument on the Rhine really be complete unless it featured two very large figures sporting icons of the grape harvest at its very foundation?



Residing far down below the hill on the shores of the Rhine under the watchful gaze of Germania, the town of Rüdesheim is one of Germany's biggest tourist attractions, second only to the Cologne Cathedral. During warmer times of the year, tourists can even avail themselves of a gondola lift for transportation between the town and the Niederwalddenkmal Monument. Today, with only a few hours of sunlight remaining during the short days of early Winter, we just had time to walk around for a few minutes before hitting the road again. Although, I must concede, spectacular local attractions like the Mediaeval Torture Museum certainly sounded provocative.



Attack of the Killer Mice

As we continued driving along the edge of the Rhine, the river valley began to morph from an area of gently sloping banks into a steeper rocky gorge. A few minutes west of Bingen, we found ourselves within view of an old stone ruin precariously perched at the edge of a steep hill, nestled amongst several heavily terraced layers of vineyards. This structure was the remains of the 800 year old Ehrenfels Castle, operated for many years by the Archdiocese of Mainz as a customs station.



The heavily fortified castle lacked a clear commanding view of the river of its own, so a tall tower had been constructed on a small island situated in the middle of the Rhine, which provided it with a much more expansive view of approaching ships. A heavy chain would be stretched between the two towers so that all river traffic was effectively blocked until a ransom had been dutifully paid.



The Mäuseturm served basically as a lookout tower, constantly in search of ships from which it could forcibly extort heavy dues used to line the pockets of the Archdiocese of Mainz instead of using the funds to maintain the river channel. Any crew staffing ships who failed to comply with the extortionist demands, would be shot by crossbow from the platform of the tower.

According to popular folklore, Archbishop Hatto II was a man of many talents, both a deeply devout clergyman and also a cruel and sadistic oppressor of all peasants who resided within his domain. During a severe famine that inflicted the area in the year 974, the archbishop sequestered all available grain in his barns and would only sell it at prices well beyond what the people could afford.

When he learned that the peasants were none to pleased about this, Hatto II advised them all to assemble in an empty barn where he would bring food. Needless to say, the peasants were delighted and they all assembled in the specified barn to await the archbishop's arrival.

When Archbishop Hatto showed up, he ordered his servants to shut and lock the barn door and set the barn on fire. As the peasants burned to death, he remarked that, "They are like mice, only good for eating up the grain."

Having done the deed, Archbishop Hatto II returned to Ehrenfels Castle but was besieged by an army of mice. Trying to flee the angry horde, he took a boat across the river to the safety of his lookout tower but the mice swarmed into the Rhine and thousands of them began to crawl onto the island. Hatto II barricaded himself behind the tower's massive thick doors but the mice ate through the doors and followed him up to the top of the tower where they ate him alive.



The name of that tower, the Mäuseturm, means "Mouse Tower" in English. According to a popular 19th century poet, August Kopisch, "the Bishop's ghost appears every midnight pursued around the tower's battlements in a hellish light by hordes of glowing little mice."

Taking its Toll

From the realm of the Mouse Tower, we continued on our drive along the Rheingau Riesling Route, passing through Assmannshausen on our side of the river and along Bacharach on the opposing shore. Further up the river, haze partially obscured the tall spire of the Church of St Martin's in the town of Oberwesel.



Once we arrived at the town of Kaub, we stopped for a closer look at a picturesque Baroque structure occupying a small rocky island in the middle of the river. The shape of Pfalzgrafenstein Castle, known simply as "the Pfalz" amongst its many friends and admirers, resembled a medieval battleship, which I suppose made a lot of sense given that its origins were medieval and it was conceived to do battle against ships. As was the custom at the time, a chain would be deployed across the river forcing passing ships to submit fees for the privilege of passing by.



The castle itself was not actually the customs station per se because its surrounding waters were much too swift and shallow to afford its prey a safe place to berth. Its primary function was to watch for ships and to draw their attention with a loud blast from a trumpet. At that point, the ships would be diverted to the actual toll station in the town of Kaub, where their merchandize was inspected and appropriate fees levied.

In later years, the castle was enhanced to include a series of corner turrets bearing a bastion of cannons pointing upstream, which made it the first castle in the middle Rhine to deploy the new fangled technique of artillery. This proved to be very effective at stopping ships when the trumpet failed to draw their attention. If traders still proved to be uncooperative, they would be thrown into the dungeon until their ransom was paid, a structure comprised of a wooden float residing deep within a well.

Despite numerous battles and conquests that plagued this area over the years, Pfalzgrafenstein Castle was never destroyed. Various occupying forces invariably recognized the great financial opportunities afforded by the tradition of the tolls so they would always happily maintain the Pfalz for their own purposes.

High on the edge of a rocky hill overlooking Kaub, Gutenfels Castle worked in concert with the Pfalz to extract tolls from river traffic. Originally named "Cube Castle" after its shape, one legend states that Gutenfels Castle was named after the "Lady Guta," a sister of the Count of Kaub, after she was won in a fighting tournament in Cologne.



The castle did not stand up very well to modern 17th century weapons and it was eventually handed over to Napoleon without a struggle in the latter part of the 18th century. Napoleon felt that he was not greeted with sufficient fanfare so he ordered the fortifications razed. In the 19th century, much of the woodwork and masonry were auctioned off and the remnants of the castle sold. However, it was then carefully renovated and now operates as the Castle Hotel Burg Gutenfels.

Die Lorelei

According to local legend, Lorelei was a maiden from Bacharach who took her own life by throwing herself off the top of a steep cliff into the turbulent waters of the Rhine river when she learned her lover was unfaithful. Reincarnated as a siren, she would lure navigators to their doom with the sounds of her hypnotizing voice.



Brigitte and I arrived in the realm of the Lorelei via a comparatively safer route, by car. After we ascended the winding road that led up to the top of the 433 foot high slate promontory overlooking the Rhine Gorge, we were obliged to walk very gingerly along ice-encrusted stone pathways, lest we join the dismal fate of numerous generations of sailors in the gaping maw of the river far below us.

Lorelei resides at the very narrowest point of the Rhine, where treacherous shallow shoals abut the depths of the river and the current is swift and turbulent. The name of the rocky cliff is thought to derive from "lureln," the old Rhine dialect word for murming and "ley," the old Celtic term for rock. Indeed, well before the noise of modern civilization intruded upon the area, a murmuring sound emanated from the heavy currents of the river and a nearby small waterfall, further amplified by the acoustical echoes of the rock. This echo was said to be wailing song of Lorelei.

Cat and Mouse

As I stood on the icy edge of the precipice, I glanced northward, along a sharp bend in the river. Above the town of Sankt Goarshausen, a large castle was perched on an outsized rocky ledge, just a stone's throw from the rooftops of the village, sporting two tall towers that resembled the ears of a cat. Burg Katz had been built in the latter part of the 14th century by Count Wilhelm II of Katzenelnbogen to use as a military base and to help form a fortified barrier used to enforce Rhine river tolls.

Even further north along the Rhine Gorge, I could barely make out the faint outlines of Burg Maus through the thick haze that had been steadily gaining momentum in the valley. At the time considered somewhat of a threat to Burg Katz, this castle had been built by the Archbishop of Trier, ruler of an opposing electorate. Originally called Burg Peterseck, its sponsors had much more limited resources than the residents of Burg Katz, who once declared that "the mouse would be eaten by the cat." It has been known as the "Mouse Castle" ever since. These days, the reconstructed structure of Burg Katz serves as a private boarding school, whereas the rebuilt remains of Burg Maus now hosts an aviary.



As I faced southward along the deep river gorge, the sun's low position in the sky spawned long shadows amongst the trees, shrubs, grasses and ice covered rocks. Beyond that, a very sharp bend of the river hid a long panoply of scenic Rhine towns and villages situated just beyond our field of view.



The Ice Burg

From the mythical domain of the Lorelei, Brigitte and I continued further north along the Rhine until we came upon the town of Braubach, characterized by numerous narrow streets populated with many half timbered buildings, some dating from the 16th century. Near the entrance to town, we drove past the Obertor, the "upper gate," the eastern-most gate in what had once been the city-wall, formerly used as checkpoint on the trade-route to Wiesbaden. These days, one can rent a conference room at the top of the tower.

High on a hill overlooking Braubach, the impressive edifice of Burg Marksburg dominated the skyline, just as it had long ago dominated the political and military climate of the region. Its main claim to fame is that it is the only fully preserved castle on the Rhine, an accomplishment due in no small part to the fact that it has never been overtaken or destroyed.



In the early part of the 13th century, the fortress had been known, appropriately enough, as "Braubach Castle" and underwent a series of ownership changes over the years, as its might and power grew. During seven hundred years of occupation, the castle's design and structure grew and evolved as its needs and functionality changed over time.

Conceived primarily as a refuge during hostile times, it was often left unoccupied during the relatively rare times of peace. In later years, the castle sometimes housed disabled soldiers and also operated as a state prison; later on it had even been used as apartments. These days, the castle is owned and operated by the German Castles Association, under whose auspices it has undergone a series of major renovations.

The castle's current name, Marksburg is derived from one its earliest structures, Markuskapelle, "St Mark's Chapel," on the first floor of the chapel tower. According to a popular legend, Elizabeth, the daughter of the original lord of the castle, Seigneur von Eppstein had the hots for a local knight, Siegbert von Lahnstein. Siegbert ran off to do battle with Bohemia, which was a popular hobby at the time and never returned, which was also somewhat of a tradition at the time.

A young monk named brother Mark, who had been named to honor the patron saint of the chapel, Saint Mark the Evangelist, took pity on the grieving Elizabeth and tried to give her emotional support, possibly with privileges. A year later, Rochus von Andechs materialized at the castle, alleging to be a cousin of the deceased Siegbert and thereby claimed the inheritance of the property, which I suppose included Elizabeth.

Although Rochus could offer all that a maiden could ever desire in that era, money and power, Elizabeth had bad vibes about him, complaining that he was emotionally distant. She shared her innermost thoughts and yearnings with her monk friend, who also claimed to not trust Rochus. Rochus was not too thrilled about the monk either and Elizabeth's father was fairly oblivious to the whole thing, not quite understanding what all the righteous Rochus ruckus was about.

By now, the official legend refers to Rochus as the "Black Knight," which definitely makes the legend more legendary. On the night before Elizabeth's wedding, the monk Mark prayed to St Mark for Elizabeth's happiness and the safety of her soul. Miraculously, St Mark appeared before monk Mark, warning him that the Black Knight belonged to Satan. St Mark presented the monk with a Holy Cross, advising him to touch the Black Knight with it.

When the Black Knight showed up for the wedding, monk Mark hit him across the chest with a right "Cross," whereupon the Black Knight was swallowed up by the earth. I suppose that the story is rather weak as miracles go but it was evidently a good enough yarn for Burg Braubach to be renamed "Marksburg."

On our drive up the winding road to the castle entrance, we passed through a hilly landscape liberally covered with abundant trees and vegetation. However, the scenic vista was also scarred by the presence of three large unsightly smokestacks belonging to the Berzelius Metall Group, Europe's largest car battery recycling plant. At the time of the castle's origin, this same area had been the site of a very profitable silver mine that had been granted to the original Lord of the castle as part of his fiefdom.

We eventually pulled into a large parking that contained only a few other vehicles. As we walked up several very steep flights of stairs, we found many of the steps and the safety railing to be covered with thick patches of ice, which made walking a little precarious at times. In warmer climes, when the castle is besieged by hundreds of visitors and finding a parking space becomes more of a competitive tournament, visitors can also commute to the castle via a tourist shuttle that leaves from the old town section of Braubach.



From the top of the stairs, we arrived at the first of four gates, the drawbridge gate, which led directly to a vaulted tunnel. We emerged into a small open courtyard alongside of which was an antiquarian bookshop, formerly the residence of the castle's gatekeeper. In front of us, the fuchstor, or "fox gate," led to another stone passageway that ended at the Schartentor, or "Notches Gate." At one time, defenders of the castle would smash in the heads of invaders by bombarding them with stones from a balcony above the gate.



No Tours for You!!!

The time was now approaching 4:00 PM and several other tourists were milling about the area. However, a few minutes later, a somewhat larger cadre of heavily dressed visitors slowly emerged from beyond the "fox gate," led by a woman who appeared to be a staff member. Knowing that visitors are only permitted to enter the castle under the auspices of an official guide, we asked her about a tour but were curtly informed that there would be no more tours for the day.

The attendant, whose sour facial expression indicated a profound level of spiritual pain that must have permeated the very depths of her soul, essentially slammed the door in our face. I wondered briefly whether she could have staffed the towers many hundreds of years ago in the formative days of the fortress. Or perhaps she was a sister of the Black Night? In any case, it was abundantly clear that Markburg Castle's very formidable defenses that had so effectively deterred limitless legions of pesky invaders throughout its long history had been brought to bear on us and evidently still worked quite well.



And lest the staffer's abrupt dismissal not been sufficiently clear to us, an elderly female visitor who had herself undoubtedly just emerged from somewhere deep within the castle's torture chambers, brusquely turned to us and said in a very sharply worded tone, "You should have come earlier!!!," her every angry syllable spat out and enunciated like a handful of knives stabbing at helpless livestock.

As is my custom, I figured that I would try filming her especially photogenic visage for posterity, just as I had done for the younger version of herself who had just slammed the castle door in our faces. However, she just turned away quickly in disgust, which I suppose is just as well, or I might have been unceremoniously tossed over the battlements, along with my camera.



With all that said and done, Brigitte and I wandered around the public areas for a while, admiring the expansive view of the town of Braubach set against the hazy backdrop of the Rhine river far below us. We walked past walls of ice-covered masonry and thickets of frost-encrusted shrubbery that well matched the icy disposition of the lady of the castle. After a brief visit to the ancient public toilet and ye medieval gift shop, we proceeded to trundle back down the stairs to her car, as a luminous half moon peaked at us from amongst the towers and battlements of the fortress.



Dinner Mit Musik

We had traveled as far as Koblenz during our journey alongside the Rhine but the sky soon began to grow dim and we figured it was time for us to high tail it back to Frankfurt. Of course, there were several important obligations on our way back, such as stopping to load up on chocolate, but we made it back to the city in due time for dinner.

We decided to dine in Brigitte's neighborhood, the Sachsenhausen district, located on the south bank of the Main river, across from the old town district. One of this neighborhood's main claims to fame is that it is home to several well known traditional cider houses, purveyors of Apfelwein that can be easily identified by a wreath of evergreen branches adorning their entrances.

Apfelwein is often the least expensive alcoholic beverage in the region and is consequently exceedingly popular. As a matter of fact, local law requires that Apfelwein be the cheapest alcoholic beverage for sale by any public house. At an alcohol content upwards of 7%, it is traditionally served in a Geripptes, a 0.3 or half liter glass that is cut in a pattern that refracts light. This specific type of serrated pattern is considered very practical because it provides a much firmer grip for greasy hands that might have opted to forgo cutlery.

These days, many of the Apfelwein restaurants use a quarter liter glass as their standard and patrons often derisively refer to the smaller glass as a Beschisserglas, or a "rip-off glass." For thirstier patrons, Apfelwein is sometimes served in a Bembel, a rotund blue and grey stoneware jug that can hold a liter or more of liquid.

We chose to grab a bite at a very popular local establishment, Zum Gemalten Haus, "To the Painted House," well known, quite appropriately, for the extensive array of murals and frescoes that adorn its walls. Established in the late 19th century, Brigitte's uncle was the artist who was responsible for much of its extensive collection of murals, many of which depict scenes from life in Sachsenhausen, greater Frankfurt and the surrounding Rheinhessen area.

Ninety five kegs filled with 15,000 liters of apple wine are stored in the restaurant's cellar, which guarantees that they are well prepared to quench the needs of the thirsty. According to their web site, patrons "sit together and talk about God and the world. You drink a pint of cider and enjoy typical Frankfurter specialties."



The restaurant was crowded and noisy, clearly quite popular amongst both locals and visitors. We started out with the first of several rounds of Apfelwein, mine served straight and Brigitte's diluted with a little mineral water. I ordered a dish of Rippchen, some very traditional fare comprised of cured pork shoulder cutlets and sauerkraut. In addition to some bratwurst, we also ordered two other very traditional local dishes, eggs with Grüne Soße and Handkäse mit Musik.



Said to be Goethe's favorite grub, the former dish was comprised of four hard boiled egg halves and boiled potatoes served in a mayonnaise-like sour cream and yogurt sauce combined with at least seven herbs, most typically parsley, chives, dill, sorrel, chervil, salad burnet and borage. The latter dish consisted of a large blob of pungent Handkäse, hand cheese, which has been softened by vinegar into a translucent, gelatinous mass.

It is typically sprinkled with caraway seeds and topped with fresh chopped onions and the local Hessian populace is said to take special delight in introducing foreigners to the nuances of its unique flavors and bouquet. The "mit musik" in the name of the dish refers to the very professional level of flatulence typically induced by its consumption.

After a great meal that incorporated lots of food, abundant Apfelwein and plenty of "musik," Brigitte graciously dropped me off at the Le Méridien where I thanked her for a fascinating day and her wonderful hospitality while fährting through the Rhine.

Gambling With Check-in



When I last flew out of FRA in late August, I had asked the UA check-in agent whether I could upgrade to first class using one of my system wide upgrades but she quite correctly explained that my Z fare was non-upgradeable. My current situation was that I had already been upgraded to first class but wanted to avoid engaging in any sort of risky behavior that would increase the odds of losing my seat in the pointy end of the plane. To my mind, minimizing this risk meant that I should ensure that very few human eyes would be in a position to scrutinize the details of my reservation.

A very easy way to accomplish this task would have been to check in on line well before I arrived at the airport. However, after a very long day spent escaping from Cologne, touring the Rhine, drinking Apfelwein and making "musik," I was quite pooped by the time I arrived back at my hotel. The bottom line was that I had never gotten around to checking in for my flight but I figured that it did not present much of a problem because I could always avail myself of an "Easy Chicken" kiosk at the airport.

After a very efficient check out from the Le Méridien at 7:45 AM, I walked over to the sparsely populated Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof in about five minutes. I soon purchased my train ticket and quickly found myself at the appropriate S-Bahn platform with a few minutes to spare.



Given that "Easy Chicken" kiosks are quite ubiquitous at so many other UA stations, I had not anticipated that I would have a problem locating one at FRA. However, even after several circumnavigations of the terminal, I was unable to locate any at all! There appeared to be some paid internet services in the general area but it did not seem like any of them offered printing services.

Not wanting to risk losing my first class seat, I was not quite sure what I should do at that point. I was just about to bite the bullet and risk interacting with UA personnel, when I vaguely remembered passing by a very distinctive business during my past few visits to this airport. I knew that it was somewhat of a long shot but I reversed my steps and strode back in the direction of the train station where I found what I was looking for. Just to the right of the escalator was a diminutive casino sandwiched between terminal one and the regional train station, a somewhat anomalous enterprise easily identified by the sound of slot machines and the stench of cheap cigarettes wafting through its entrance.

As soon as I opened the door, I was transported to an alternative reality, an alien universe comprised principally of the cacophonous clamor of electronics and video games, all of which were well immersed in a thick noxious fog of stale, smoky air. The master of this universe was an older, zaftig woman wearing some raggedy clothing and a sullen expression. When I queried the saturnine matron about the possibility of internet access with the ability to print, she pointed to a preprinted list of prices and asked me to "show her the money."

Having satisfied herself with my presentation of a handful of euros harvested from the nether regions of my pocket, she led me into a back room that contained two computers and instructed me to feed coins into a slot and then to feed in some more coins after that. Soon enough, I was on line, logged in and checked into my flight. One minor problem was that the number of minutes of internet access afforded by my payment seemed quite limited, if not random. The other problem was that additional money was required to actually print a boarding pass.

Even with the expert help of a nearby Russian pilot using the adjoining computer, the best I could do was to coerce my first boarding pass out of the machine, and even that was formatted oddly. Nevertheless, that was all I needed for my flight out of FRA and with my new boarding pass firmly clutched in my grasp, I strode back in the direction of the terminal. On the way out, I thanked the casino caretaker, who I suppose really was wasn't that unfriendly, despite her surreal resemblance to a certain grotesque female protagonist in a Lina Wertmuller movie.

My original plan had been to hook up with a small assemblage of other Flyertalkers who would be gathering in the terminal B Lufthansa Senator lounge this morning. Needless to say, I was somewhat disappointed when I saw that my flight to IAD was scheduled to depart from terminal A. I was even more disappointed when I learned that my flight was already delayed by at least 90 minutes.

There were very few other passengers at customs, immigration and security at this mid morning hour on Sunday and none of the personnel looked askance at my peculiar looking boarding pass. Once these formalities were complete, it was a very short walk to the terminal A Lufthansa Senator lounge, where I was welcomed cordially by the concierge. The lounge itself was even smaller than the one in terminal B and proved to be just as crowded.



However, I was fortunate to find a vacant computer in which to park myself for the long haul, and I monopolized this machine for the duration, checking email, browsing Flyertalk and pursuing other equally admirable endeavors. As with the terminal B lounge, this lounge was very well staffed by attendants who paraded a steady stream of consumables out of the kitchen.

After several visits to the buffet, a trip to the frankfurter cart, two trips to the pasta bar and many helpings of Wodka Gorbatschow 44, I felt reasonably primed to place my fate in the hands of UA and see what they had in store for me for the day. Little did I know at the time, but my fears about losing my first seat class seat were not entirely unfounded. I would later be asked to move further back in the plane and wind up flying all the way back from Germany with Ted!



Flying in F with Ted

With 45 minutes remaining before my delayed flight to IAD was scheduled to depart, a Lufthansa concierge wandered over to my computer to advise me that my departure gate was a considerable distance from the lounge. This was an especially nice gesture given that I was not even traveling on a Lufthansa flight. I was even more appreciative of her thoughtfulness when I opted to heed her advice and it really did prove to be a much longer trek than I had anticipated.

Once I arrived at the gate, boarding was in full swing but when I submitted my boarding pass, I became somewhat concerned when the gate agent told me that I would need to obtain a new one. I explained that I had become quite emotionally attached to my old boarding pass, especially after having held onto it for so long during the delay but she insisted on printing a new one anyway. Nevertheless, my seat assignment remained unchanged and I proceeded through the jetway and quickly took my seat … on a waiting bus.

After a reasonably short bus tour around the tarmac, I trundled up a flight of stairs and into the awaiting maw of the F cabin, where I promptly staked claim to my assigned seat in 2A. After a few minutes, I noticed a little commotion in front of the cabin and looked up to see several flight attendants assist what appeared to be a very frail and elderly woman to the seat in front of me. I soon returned back to my very important duties and obligations, including making myself comfortable and faithfully signing the "United Voices" page in the Hemispheres magazine.

A short while later, I discerned an oddly familiar voice nearby, distinguished by a tone that was concomitantly subdued and resonant. A moment later, two flight attendants approached my seat and asked me if I wouldn't mind switching seats with a passenger who wanted to sit closer to his wife. Their tone was very friendly and respectful and as far as I am concerned, one seat in international first was mostly as good as any other, Mr Pillows viewpoint on the matter notwithstanding. As I gathered up my belongings and undertook my long migration to seat 3J, Ted Koppel approached me and profusely thanked me for switching seats with him.

What I did not know at the time was that the "elderly" woman sitting in front of me was not really that elderly at all. She was actually his wife and the reason she appeared so frail was that she was suffering from Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, a progressive and often fatal disease whose symptoms include both emphysema, chronic obstructive bronchitis and often both conditions concurrently.

She had been first diagnosed with COPD in 2001 and has since become the national spokesperson for the "Learn More, Breathe Better" campaign. During an interview with Katie Couric in 2007, she explained, "We're all going to die; we're all going to have the toe tag, and it's going to say something and it's most probable that my toe tag is going to say COPD. But we've got to face these things in life and say, 'What can I do to make my life most productive, most enjoyable and most healthy,' and I made that choice." ^

The service on the flight was exemplary and all of the flight attendants were very friendly and attentive, including a number of them who had wandered in from other cabins just to stop by and say, "hi" to me. The only downside of my newly adopted seat was a stillborn entertainment system, an oft too common occurrence in UA cabins these days. Sometimes, the old adage that "no good deed goes unpunished" really does appear to be true at times but at least Grace Anne Dorney Koppel could sit near her husband on the relatively short ride to IAD.



Even the food itself was not too bad, at least by UA's recently diminishing standards. Service began with an appetizer comprised of smoked prawns in a tomato sauce, followed by creamy carrot ginger soup. After the salad course, I opted to continue my German food theme by ordering a roasted bone-in pork chop in a dark beer sauce, served with caraway potatoes and Savoy cabbage, all of the above generously accompanied by my beverage of choice, Tanqueray.

Maintaining a balanced diet has always been such an important preoccupation with me that I made sure to enjoy a healthy portion of one the most important of all food groups, ice cream, since I had not consumed any for several days. Shortly before landing, a snack was served, comprised of a spinach and smoked chicken bruschetta.



As I stepped out of the F cabin and onto the jetway, Ted shook my hand and once more thanked me for switching seats so he could be near his wife. From the jetway, it was a short walk to the customs and immigration gauntlet, which turned out to be uncharacteristically empty. However, one officious official stopped me because he could not possibly grasp why I had no checked luggage. My casual answer that I fly on United seemed to satisfy him and I was then permitted to proceed on my way without any additional verbal molestation.

As a result of our late departure from FRA, my three hour connection to my PDX flight had dwindled to less than hour but that still left me a little time to pay a brief visit to the international first class lounge, if only symbolically. Recent Flyertalk discussions had suggested that new rule changes limited access only to passengers departing in international first but they graciously permitted me access without any unnecessary resistance or rancor. As it was, I only hung around the lounge for a mere 20 minutes before starting on my very long schlep to the farthest flung reaches of IAD at gate D20. Boarding for my A319 flight to PDX was already well underway by the time I arrived but I was able to avail myself of the red carpet boarding line to bypass the majority of the teaming throng.

Flying With a Tight Wad

The flight attendant who served the eight passengers residing in the F cabin on the six hour flight to PDX was quite pleasant and affable but I had very little need to avail myself of any of his services other than frequent helpings of diet Coke. The fare UA chose to show on the diminutive Airbus monitor did not prove to be especially engaging and almost made me reminisce nostalgically about the malfunctioning entertainment system on my "Ted flight" earlier that day. The food delivered to me on a single meal tray was equally uninspiring but I had been stuffing my face with extreme prejudice over the last eight hours so my food needs really were quite minimal by that point.

Although the video choices offered by UA were not very entertaining, I cannot say the same thing about the real-life antics of the passenger who occupied the bulkhead seat just in front of me. He spent a significant portion of the fight counting all of his money.

A large satchel parked near his feet appeared to contain innumerable wads of currency, all very tightly bound together in neatly bundled stacks. He would grab a stack of bills from his satchel, unbind them and then proceed to meticulously count each bill on his tray, one at a time. Once all the bills had been enthusiastically counted, he would stack them back on top of one another with great precision, each realignment requiring careful and deliberate taps on the tray. Then, he would deftly rebind the tight wad of money and place it neatly back into his satchel, whereupon he would withdraw his next wad of bills.

Oh, what I would have given for a nice gust of wind at an opportune moment. I valiantly tried to redirect my air vent but I could not quite vector it to the necessary angle of attack.

At the very least, I thought I should document the entire procedure and perhaps someday post a Youtube instructional video documenting money counting techniques but the fellow did not seem to be quite as enamored with the idea as I was. I suspect that the yellow dot that appeared on his bulkhead when my camera's focusing apparatus kicked in was probably a giveaway. So, the best I can come up with under the circumstances, is a semi-graphical reenactment of his methodology, which looked something like this:



An Icy Reception

All good things must come to an end and the same adage applies equally well to the more mundane aspects of life, such as dull domestic transcon trips. Many hours later, as we finally began our descent into the PDX area, I casually glanced outside my window and became concerned when I saw a terrible vision outside the plane.



There was clear indication of very significant precipitation hurdling past the plane. And it was not just any precipitation, it appeared to be a dense conglomeration of frozen precipitation as was evidenced by the copious amounts of thick snow particles that were frozen in space by the strobe lights mounted on the plane's wing tip.

Indeed, by the time we had landed at PDX, several inches of thick and wet snow had already fallen, as opushomes pointed out when he picked me up in his four wheel drive vehicle. By the time we arrived within a half mile or so of my apartment, high in the hills of a Portland suburb, a subtle hint of rain had only then begun to enter into the mix but by then it was too little too late.

We could conceive of no safe way for his vehicle to descend the steep, ice-covered hill that leads into my apartment complex. Quite frankly, there was really no safe way to walk down the steep hill either but we figured that I could do a lot less damage to surrounding structures and vehicles if I fell down than if his vehicle careened down the hill out of control.

As a result, the last quarter mile or so of my journey was reminiscent of the way I had started it, surrounded by snow. But this time I was confronted with a long, chilly trudge over several inches of snow accrued on top of thick layers of ice, facing a cold and biting wind, further encumbered by carrying a bag in each hand. I shuffled along as slowly and carefully as I could, sometimes stooping down so low to the ground that my walk was tantamount to a crawl. But I eventually made it back safely and could finally look forward to some much needed rest.

By early the next morning, there was no remaining evidence that it had ever snowed at all. Portland's very efficient snow removal technology had kicked in much as it had done so many times in the past. It was just a shame that the rain that had thoroughly washed away all of the snow had not had the consideration to arrive in the area just a few hours earlier.

I have now been back home for two months, certainly more than enough time for me to contemplate hitting the road again. I initially figured that I might swing by Sri Lanka but I think I'll defer that trip for a little while longer given the recent escalation of violence that has plagued that strife torn country for so many years. But that's where Indra is stuck right now, ensconced on her tea plantation high in the hill country in Bandarawela. And she will probably still be marooned there until well into April.

In the meantime, I think I'll poke around northern Thailand for a bit early next month and then return to Cologne to meander around Europe once Indra arrives safely back in town. But wherever I venture, I have just one very simple request. Ted Koppel, wherever you are, please stay out of my seat!