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A kiss, when all is said, what is it? … ‘Tis a secret told to the mouth instead of to the ear. – Edmond Rostand
| Cafe Knösel Haspelgasse 16 69117 Heidelberg Phone: 0049-6221-22345 Fax: 00496221-600160 http://www.cafek-hd.de/startseite.html |
Heidelberg is widely considered to be one of the most romantic cities in Germany. Its winding cobblestone streets, gingerbready-looking eaves and arches, its crumbling castle … just oh-so-quintessential, Grimm’s-fairy-tale German.
And if you’re looking for a dose of old-fashioned German romance, you simply must pay a visit to Heidelberg’s oldest café, Café Knösel.
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Oh, the humanity.
When I lived in France and sat down to luxurious dinners of foie gras, fresh herbed salad, aged cheeses, and to-die-for desserts, sometimes I would sit back, close my eyes, and think … I could really go for some chicken tenders.
No matter how cultured I try to act or what affectations I put on (or how much I really, really like chevre or a chilled Vouvray), I’m a corn-fed Midwestern girl at heart. And, even though gastronomical adventures through another country are exciting, sometimes all you want is a taste of home.
Both fortunately and unfortunately, my plight was all-too-easily assuaged. Throughout my travels, I noticed an assortment of “American” restaurants sewn into the tapestry of the European landscape. McDonalds. Starbucks. Pizza Hut. I think I even saw a Chili’s in Switzerland.
Yes, I am ashamed to admit it, but tho’ the spirit is willing, the flesh is all too weak. I succumbed to my most base desires from time to time … and would pick up a quarter-pounder with cheese from ol’ Mickey D’s.
Guess what, folks? Eating at these “American restaurants” reminds you why you didn’t miss the food in the first place.
And never did I realize this so sharply than I did in my recent trip to Germany, where, against all better judgment, I took a detour from the beer gardens, wiener schnitzel, and bratwurst to visit the Heidelberg Hard Rock Café.
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“You are here all alone?” the young man staffing the funicular ticket booth asked me.
When I nodded, he made a face that all Europeans know how to make from birth: sadly pursed lips, head tilted a smidge to the side, eyes slightly lidded and looking askance at me.
“It is sad to travel alone. It is best to have someone to share the experience with. And Heidelberg, alone …” He slid me my ticket and winked. “Next time you are here, come find me. I will take you out and show you the town.”
I glowed as I traipsed up the steps, reveling at how nice Germans were and how lovely the boys could be, and wasn’t it grand to be a fabulous young thing on a trip?
As I settled myself into the funicular caboose, my thoughts turned from meeting up with the nice young man (which I might have done, had I not been leaving the town that afternoon) to the subject of traveling alone. Before I’d left for my trip, friends had exclaimed: (1) “Won’t you be afraid to travel alone?” or (2) “Won’t you be awfully lonely?”
To which I always responded (1) no and (2) definitely no.
I’ve hardly ever felt lonely while traveling alone. I revel in the freedom of waking when I want, seeing the sights I want, getting lost and backtracking again and again whenever I want. To stand and gaze at a shop window for five minutes at a time, or flurry through the passageways of celebrated art museums and stopping at what I want to see, without having to acquiesce to group tastes.
No, the only times I’m lonely when traveling by myself are mealtimes.
Not so much during lunch – lunches are hasty meals by nature. I often find myself skipping lunches altogether while traveling. It’s easy to grab a sandwich or an ice cream if hunger bites too deeply, and I can see and accomplish so much more when I don’t have to stop for an hour or two in the afternoon.
Dinner, however, is a different ballgame. Evening meals are intrinsically social events, great family repasts where all gather around the table to celebrate after a long, hard day and savor the evening, gastronomically and communally.
Let’s face it: if you’re eating dinner alone, the societal expectations of camaraderie and companionship make you feel like a pariah.
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I’m an overpacker. I freely admit it. It’s been my experience that, whatever I decide not to bring, I will invariably need. If I don’t pack my umbrella because the weather report said it would be crystal-clear-sunny, it’ll pour three out of the five days I’m there. If none of the restaurants specified fancy dress in the Fodor’s listing and I leave my skirt at home, I’ll be invited to the opera. It’s just the way of the world.
I don’t mind lugging around extra items if I know I’ll use them. It’s another thing entirely when I’m lugging around all these items and find out later that I’ve forgotten half of the really important things that one needs on a trip, like shampoo and a toothbrush and such.
This usually happens in some level or another whenever I go on a trip, but on my latest trip to Germany, I took this ludicrousness to a completely new level.
In justification, I was attending a wedding, which required makeup, hair-care detritus, fancy dress and heels, and presents. The space on my carry-on was reserved solely for a pair of crystal candlesticks and the first two books of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower. A curling iron and hair dryer take up a lot of space, don’tcha know.
When my connecting flight got delayed, ensuing a flight switch and a day’s layover, and my checked bag became lost in Luggage Hell, a blinding illumination came to me:
I was the quintessential Don’t Bee.
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I stepped off the train into a Christmas card. Or as my fellow passengers on the train to Siegen would say, “eine Weihnachtskarte,” or that’s what they would have said, were they not glaring into the feather-light snowflakes tumbling out of the dusk and frosting the quay.
Before I had boarded the train for my Christmas vacation (Weihnachtsferien) in Germany, Tobi had informed me that while there would be snow in Siegenland, it always fell steadily, never too quickly, and always in an amount that was manageable. How very German, I thought, for in my mind, Germans and Germany were the epitome of the engineering philosophy, marvels in regimentation, beer, and leiderhosen.
And, also, Christmas. After all, most of the beloved aspects of an American Christmas – Christmas trees, Saint Nick, and the Christmas Pickle (well, beloved in my family, at least) – originated in Germany. When Tobi had recommended that I spend my Christmas abroad with his family, I agreed immediately. Seeing as my bloodline is almost half German, I thought it only fitting.
From Paris to Köln on the TGV, and then from Köln to Siegen, I imagined the welcome that would await me once I arrived in the land of my ancestors: Tobi waving merrily as the train pulled in to a station frosted in a picture-perfect dusting of snow while a brass band played Stille Nacht in the background.
The snow was definitely there to greet me, but not Tobi. I clutched my duffel bag and tried to look coolly Parisian while all around me rose, not the sound of Franz Gruber’s famous melody, but the buzz of the rich, buttercream-thick, absolutely incomprehensible German language. Fortunately, Tobi appeared almost immediately, his father in tow.
“It has snowed about a foot,” Tobi said, bundling me into the VW. “All the highways were blocked. It is a crisis.”
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