Missed Connections in Freiburg: Sailor Stefan and a Spectacular Sunset

FREIBURG, GERMANY – June 9, 2006 (rough notes only)

After a brief train ride through the countryside, I arrived in Freiburg, heart of Germany’s Schwartzwald, or “Black Forest.”

Daniel, CS/HC host, met me at the train station. Chatted over tea on the back porch of the flat he shares with two other students, surrounded by 5-story shade trees that canopied above us. You’d never know by the tranquil setting that a busy street and the main train station were literally out the front door.

Tour of the city – Freiburg’s Muenster (cathedral), complete with chicken-wire coverings to keep the pesky birds from destroying the painstaking artwork. It was market day – stalls filled the platz, selling mounds of fresh produce, breads, brats (sausages, that is!), flowers, and a variety of household goods. This was no “tourist trap” tent show – this was the real thing, where the locals came one of two days a week to get the goods at bargain prices.

Along the way, was careful to sidestep the little canals running alongside the streets. There’s a legend that says, if you’re unlucky enough to land in a canal (more like a ditch), you’re cursed to marry a local. I don’t actually know if that’s such a horrible thing, considering the charming ambience of this small German town hugged on nearly every side by the lush Black Forest mountains.

We hiked up the hillside to the city’s highest vantage point, and the location of a ruined castle. As if the steep trail leading to a high lookout weren’t enough, we continued up a cylindrical observation tower, spiralling into the sky. I lost count after 280 steps. Standing on the 2-person platform surveying the scenery below, I could feel the tower swaying slightly in the breeze. It reminded me of trips to the top of the St. Louis Arch I took as a young girl, feeling the swaying of the arch from my high perch as the winds blew outside. In either case, a bit unsettling… but the views over the rolling forested hills and the city in the valley below were worth it.

Then to the biergarten for some refreshment and conversation before continuing back down to the city. Wheat beer has a sweeter flavour, more delicate than many I’ve tasted throughout Europe. Served in ½-liter mugs that left us with no remaining thirst!

After relocating my (momentarily) lost passport and Eurail pass (left on the floor by Daniel’s couch), I realized the day was nearly spent – too late to journey into the hills for some hiking. So I returned to central platz, where the markets were bustling just a few hours before, for some fresh strawberries, only to find the stalls had all been packed away. Fortunately, a brat stand remained, with a steady stream of customers, and €2 later, I was biting into a piping hot brat with curry ketchup, folded into a warmly toasted, round bun. Delicious!

Kickoff for 2006 World Cup was tonight, and though not in Freiburg, the city itself was buzzing with excitement from fans of every age and nationality (Freiburg is a university city, so plenty of diversity exists). During my “lockout” (Daniel had no extra key to leave me, so I was on my own until 11:30 PM when he finished his work shift), I settled into a park bench in a shady square just around the corner from him apartment, with the rather large bags of groceries I had picked up. (I was hoping to make it back to the apartment before his roommates left to go watch the game from some pub or friend’s apartment, but I was too late, so the groceries had to stay with me until the end of the evening, when my “lockout” ended.) In truth, I stopped at this particular park because I had seen an attractive man sitting on the next bench over, and figured I might as well have something enjoyable to look at while waiting out my evening.

He was tall, tanned, with blonde-brown hair that was streaked with sunshine, slicked into a pony tail at the nape of his neck. His face, though a bit rugged, with a chiselled chin and deep-set eyes, was spread with a genuine smile as he watched a young father twirl his two bare-bottomed toddlers in the grassy lawn and pretend to dip them in the chilly fountain water. We locked eyes, and moments later, I was listening to the fascinating stories of this German-born sailor, Stefan, who worked for months at a stretch, navigating the Mediterranean and Atlantic. He had been to India, had sailed around the Cope of Good Hope all the way to Kenya, and was preparing now for a journey to the northern tip of Germany, near Hamburg, to pick up a sailing vessel which he and his small crew would then deliver to the wealthy couple in the Cote d’Azur, in France, some weeks later.
We both had a few hours to kill – Stefan was stranded for nearly the same reason as I: the World Cup game was to blame. His flatmates were hosting a large party, and since sports (soccer, at least) wasn’t up there on Stefan’s list of priorities, he had opted to spend his evening elsewhere – anywhere else. As he continued telling me about his adventurous life, making mine pale lousily by comparison, he mentioned that he played an instrument, a bongo-like creation he had picked up on one of his voyages. He enjoyed it so much, he said, that sometimes when he was home between sailing gigs, he would take it down to the Muenster platz and play for crowds, who would gather around, mesmerized by the sound of his Africa-inspired beats. And people would leave him money, which he didn’t really care about, because he did it for the sole enjoyment of the music and the rhythm and the crowds, and then he said he’d go get his instrument and play it for me.

So we made a plan to meet back at the park bench after he had retrieved his instrument from his flat. Meanwhile, I was determined to find a place to stash my groceries. Realizing I was just a few minutes’ walking distance from the train station, I figured I could simply rent a left-luggage locker, and leave them there for the duration of the evening. So as soon as he left, I scribbled a note, telling him not to go anywhere, placed a few pebbles on it to keep it from blowing away in the breeze, and walked off in the direction of the train station.

I wish I could say this story had some kind of a seductively entrancing ending. Like, he serenaded me with the rhythmic beat of his bongos as we sat watching the sun set over the city below from our perch in the mountainside. And then, after some passionate kissing under the moonlight, we walked hand in hand back to town, silently, with only the sound of our breath and the shuffle of our feet rising among the sounds of the night….

But sadly, this story ends only with a missed connection. By the time I returned to the park bench, the note was gone, and so was Stefan. And so, half-heartedly, I made my way back to the lookout spot where Daniel had taken me earlier that afternoon, and watched, alone, as the sun began sinking on the horizon. Down in the city, I could hear the cheers and whoops and hollers of eager fans as, no doubt, Germany continued its plunder over the opponent. The view was superb, as the setting sun warmed the sky to a tawny yellow. But I was distracted with thoughts of sailor Stefan, wondering where the night would have taken us.

~Melanie