Day-trip to Brazil... err, Weggis, Switzerland

LUZERNE & WEGGIS, SWITZERLAND – June 3, 2006

Now hold on just one minute there… how did I get to Brazil? Last I remembered, I crossed borders, but I don’t recall leaving Europe altogether…

Suddenly, I’m surrounded by flailing hips and pulsating Brazilian beats, dark-haired and dark- skinned Brazilians with passion for life in their dark, smiling eyes, the smell of rice and skewered meats, and tables strewn with Brazilian flags and shots of Ciaparinha loaded down with limes. There’s a man with a basket of fruit on his head, doing the salsa with a blow-up doll of a dark-haired woman, and most of the crowd standing around him are clad in yellow and green soccer jerseys.

And then it hits me. I’m not in Brazil, after all (what a relief!! I think I’d be in serious trouble with Immigration Services!). I’m in Weggis, a 40-minute ferry ride from Luzerne, the holy ground upon which the popular Brazilian soccer team has been beefing up their plays during the past few weeks of pre-World-Cup soccer camp.

On this, the last day of soccer camp, Weggis was a mess of die-hard Brazilian soccer fans and plenty of locals who just popped in for the day to see what all the fuss was about. And then there were total soccer outsiders like me, who came along for the ride because, c’mon, how often do you have a chance to experience some local celebrity-like commotion when you’re popping between cities more often than you change the gallon of milk you keep in the fridge?

Thomas, Simone, and I took the ferry over the Weggis this afternoon, after a mid-morning climb up the hill near his flat to the famous Gutsch hotel, a beautiful old place that, much to the chagrin of the local population, closed down a few years ago, locking away one of the most romantic spots from which to enjoy a Swiss meal surrounded in old-world ambience while looking out over the lake and mountains for which Luzern is so famous. Although the hotel is closed, the view from the landing is still free for the taking, and on this beautiful morning, we took in our fill. (Interestingly, Thomas told me that Michael Jackson has shown some interest in the property in recent months. As you can imagine, the local community aren’t fanatic about the idea.)

The ferry ride over to Weggis was blissful. Forty minutes of sailing across pristine lake waters, a cool breeze skimming the surface and cooling our cheeks until bright, red patches emerged where our broad smiles stopped. Midway across, the breeze blew the clouds off the mountain tops, and the beauty of Lake Luzerne, ringed with layers of forested peaks and ice-capped peaks beyond, was revealed. Docking in the harbour, we hiked the rest of the way up to the base camp, all the while enjoying the warmth of the sun as it shone down over the village.

We knew when we arrived at “Soccer City.” There could be no question about it. It was one huge Brazilian party. Up one side and down the other of the paved pedestrian path were shops and stands around which hungry fans were clustered, chomping on Swiss sausages, shovelling Brazilian-spiced rice, sipping Brazilian liquours and chugging Swiss beers.

People everywhere were clad in soccer jerseys, flags draped Superman-style across their shoulders, women sporting green-and-yellow Hawaiian leis and too-tight green-and-yellow tube tops. As Latin beats blared from huge speakers near one well-populated tent, dozens of Brazilian joined in to switch their hips and a multitude of other body parts in expression as only a Brazilian could. From a high-profile rooftop nearby, a half-dozen costumed women twitched their bodies sensuously, then in perfect unison, removed their overskirts to reveal Brazilian-cut bikini bottoms underneath.

We walked up and down the promenade, living the Vida Loca with the Brazilian crowd for as long as we could take the heat under our many layers of cold-weather clothes (boy, was that weather man in trouble!). We stopped for a Brazilian lunch of chicken and rice, and while standing there with our forkfuls, managed to bump into an old friend of Thomas’s, a sweet Hungarian girl named Csilla, who was in Luzerne for a few days on business. She worked as a professional pianist, playing in upscale hotels as the evening entertainment.

We talked for a few minutes before she had to rush off, but not before leaving me with her address and phone number for her Budapest residence, and inviting me to stay there when I came through town. The generosity of the Europeans never fails to amaze me.

Finally, having had our fill of Soccer City, we boarded our return ferry back to Luzerne and adjusted once again to life in tranquil Switzerland. But oh, that Brazilian madness was hard to shake…

~Melanie

Double-Entendre Swiss Franks: Silver Coins and Sausages

LUZERN, SWITZERLAND – June 2, 2006
(rough notes)

Arrived @ 1 PM. The good news: I left the rain behind in Lindau. The bad: the sun is still hidden under a thick layer of serious clouds. And the ugly: everybody was right – Switzerland is expensive!!

I opted to save myself 8FF and lug my backpack around with me for the afternoon, instead of storing it in the station’s overpriced lockers (by comparison, storing the same bag for the same amount of time just across the border in Germany would cost less than half that).

Some other notes:
boy feeding swans
Hofkirche and cemeteries
Covered bridges
Promenade lined with classy cafes
Lion Monument
Castle wall – Alaskan Tom
Sipping sodas along the harbour
Enjoying the clear, glacial green water churning by, carrying ducks downstream turbo-speed
Sun came out from hiding; it was glorious

I suddenly realized that Thomas, my Swiss chum who lives in Luzern – and who is responsible for getting this city on my itinerary, believes it to be the most beautiful city in Switzerland. It was hard to argue when snow-topped mountains reaching into the clouds and stretching along the base of Luzern’s gem of a lake, were staring me in the face.

After saying goodbye to Tom, I made my way to the train station, where I met Thomas. We spent my first night in Switzerland grocery-shopping for the weekend (unlike the U.S., European stores aren’t open 24/7. In fact, good luck trying to find anything open on Sunday, aside from cafes and restaurants where locals congregate for a relaxing meal with good company. Besides, Monday was a holiday – something inextricably linked to Christian tradition, but Thomas couldn’t remember exactly what and didn’t want to burst his mom’s bubble by calling her to find out. No matter.)

He cooked up a traditional Swiss dinner for me to sample – bratwurst and mashed potatoes served with a vegetable-and-gravy sauce. I placed a call home on his 3FF/hour (you can’t beat that!) fax line, while Thomas left to pick up his girlfriend Simone at the train station. We stayed up late plotting out tomorrow’s adventures, which were hinging on the marginal possibility that we’d be granted some good weather.
A few more notes on Luzerne:
medieval old town with ancient rampart walls and towers, 15th century buildings with painted facades, and two famous bridges: Kapellbrucke (Chapel Bridge), famous for its distinctive water tower and the 1993 fire that nearly destroyed it, and Spreuerbrucke, both with painted panels under their roofPoignant lion monument, carved out of natural rock in 1920, in dedication ot the Swiss soldiers who died in the French Revolution. Mark Twain said it was the saddest piece of rock in existence.

~Melanie

The Skinny on Hostels: A Rundown from an Old Pro

LINDAU, GERMANY – June 1, 2006

Liechtenstein… the day-trip the didn’t happen… If you guessed rain, two points for you. Swashbuckling around some swampy city for a few hours just to say I’d been yet another illustrious European country lost its appeal before breakfast was over. Breakfast which was, by the way, included in the cost of my overpriced hostel – which made me feel better about staying at this “lake resort” despite the rain.

It was, I must say, the most lavish breakfast spread I’ve seen yet, and I’ve seen more than most. Rolls and sliced breads, butter, honey, an assortment of jams, slices of cheese and some oddly colored sliced meats, yogurt, at least eight granolas, fresh fruit, juice, coffee, tea, even hot chocolate. Folks, this is as good as it gets – and it doesn’t get this good very often. So when it does, you stand up and take notice.

The price I paid for this eating splendour? Not a €… but my unfortunate proximity to the little boy’s dorms more than made up for it. Judenherberge Lindau is in every sense of the word a youth hostel. Unlike most hostels I have encountered in my ten weeks of backpacking, at this one, the average age would probably be hovering somewhere beneath half of mine. I share a hallway with a room of quirky barely-teenage boys who find noises resembling uncouth bodily functions absolutely hilarious. That, and every time I enter or exit my room, I am greeted with an awkward “Alo,” and an accompanying even-more-awkward stare. It’s as if they’ve never seen a female before. Were they not a bunch of harmless boys, I might be bothered. Good thing I’m a tolerant soul. Having a 4-bed dorm to myself for the past day and half hasn’t hurt either.

Every hostel has its own flavor. Some had a vibe, like the Funky Hostel, where I spent a few nights in Granada. Others, like Villa St. Exupery in Nice, France, and Wombat’s in Munich, Germany, actually have a night life all their own. I’ve stayed in dorm rooms with as few as two beds, which had much more of a bed-and-breakfast feel, and as many as sixteen beds… which multiplies significantly the odds of getting stuck in a room with a snorer, sleepwalker, or worse, a canoodler with a one-night-stand stowaway. Trust me, it happens.

I did spend an endless night in central Germany caught between the ricocheting snores of two nearly apneatic sweet dreamers – even heavy-duty earplugs weren’t enough to save my beauty rest that night. Some hostels showcase state-of-the-art bathing facilities, like the brand-new Oasis Backpackers in Sevilla, Spain, which boasted marbled countertops and an endless supply of steamy-hot water. Others feature the push-button concept, in which you receive 10-second bursts of never-the-right temperature water, barely enough to get the suds out of your eyes before you have to reach for that damned button again. Some have incorporated impressive architectural feats – like the all-glass floor on the terrace of Sevilla’s Oasis, which looks down into the chill lobby, complete with leather chaises for ultimate lounging comfort. Or the Cat Hostel in Madrid, which lured travellers to stay indoors, enjoying the sounds of water trickling off fountains in its brightly colored inner mezzanine that was actually listed as one of the city’s historical treasures. (Note: all photos shown on this posting are from the Cat Hostel, Madrid, Spain. Pretty posh, for a hostel!!)

Most, naturally, are forgettable. That’s the tradeoff you except when you’re paying a fraction of what a “true” hotel room would cost. But for every lack of luxury, there’s an equal but opposite benefit – hostel staff, in my experience, generally speak better English than hotel staff at the lower-end budget hotel establishments abroad, which becomes a very advantageous consideration. Then there’s the frequent availability of kitchen access, which goes a long way towards stretching the budget. Breakfast is often included (ranging anywhere from a twinkie and tea to the all-you-can-eat buffet I witnessed today), laundry service is usually a possibility (for an extra fee, of course), and Internet access is never far (again, ranging from free, no-holds-barred to you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me €6-14/hour with severe limitations). The top benefit of hostelling, aside from saving a few almighty Euros, is the people factor – there is no other place that, as a traveller, you can meet so many more of your kind, so easily. You chat at the reception desk, while waiting for the shared bathroom to free up, over breakfast while waiting in line to use the toaster, while hanging out in the lounge during your “down time.” There is never of shortage of interesting people within arms reach… and I mean “interesting” in the loosest terms of the word – from dreadlock-toting potheads to straight-laced exchange students on semester break to, thank you Judenherberge Lindau, teeny-boppers on a camping holiday, and everything else in between.

Which is why Judenheberge Lindau isn’t a complete wash, by any stretch. Is it on my top-10 list? I won’t lie. No. But its very character proves yet again that there are many sides to the hostel kaleidoscope. Travel long enough, and odds are you’ll learn how to pick the good ones from a mile away (note: they’re always the ones that book up weeks in advance!). And when all else fails, chalk it up to experience and check out in the morning. There’s bound to be an empty bed waiting for you somewhere else.

~Melanie

Googly-Eyed Teens and the Chocolate Pact

LINDAU, GERMANY – May 31, 2006

I am sitting at the far end of one of Lindau’s docks, surrounded by dozens of yachts tottering in the blue-gray water of Lake Bodensee. It’s just me, the yachts, and my chocolate bar – yes, chocolate bar – enjoying the sunshine that is gloriously streaming down on my pale-again arms and legs.

I'm under- dressed in my tank and jeanskirt, considering the temperature is hovering somewhere just under 60 F. But I don’t care.

This is the first time in days I’ve seen the sun shine, and my soul just needs a little overdose of golden rays. The warmth is delicious on my skin; I could be content to do little else but to spend the remainder of the afternoon sitting here in this exact spot, soaking in the sun, and the lakeside ambience. Behind me, seven small sailboats, each steered by tow young neon-orange lifejacket-wearing youths, peruse the gentle waters, their instructor making wide arcs in their tow has he checks on each team.

It’s a good day in Lindau, small little island in southern Germany, overlooking the Austrian Alps beyond the lake’s edge. “You’re lucky,” the receptionist told me as I checked into the Judenheberge (youth hostel) a few kilometres in on the mainland. “It’s been raining here for days.” I decided to spare her my laundry list of all the place I’ve been rained out in over the past nearly three weeks, and instead just smiled as she handed me the key. I didn’t want to waste a precious moment before making it back to the island where I had arrived by train less than an hour ago.

I took the public bus back to the water’s edge, smashed inside a sardine can on wheels among thirty-plus high schoolers just finishing their school day. Sometimes it’s so entertaining just being a single woman traipsing all over the place. I couldn’t count on two hands the number of googly-eyed looks I got form 14- and 15-year-olds, who probably had no idea they were grinning stupidly at a woman nearly twice their age. I must hide it well, I chuckled to myself, as I slid the volume on my iPod a notch higher and restrained myself from rocking out loud to the Sugarland tune buzzing in my ears.

And here I am. On the dock. Gentle breeze. Enjoying the last bite of my toffee- crunch Romanian- made chocolate bar. A few weeks ago, in Amsterdam, I swore off chocolate indefinitely after an obscene overdose on Belgian truffles, RitterSport squares, and Milka bars. I talked myself down to a month chocolate-free, and managed to make it all of six days before buying a bag of candies which, as luck would have it, were candy-covered chocolates. It was at this moment that I realized I was depriving myself of the fruits of the chocolate kingdom of the world (sorry, Hershey, you’re out of your league here).

I remem- bered back to Morocco, when I bought a chocolate bar off an eight-year- old entrepreneur selling snack food to those of us fortunate enough to be stranded on the bus for an hour as we docked between Chefchaouen and Tangier in some scrubby little transit town. The dry, diluted disaster wrapped up like a candy bar was an utter disappointment, but the closest thing to chocolate I had had since leaving home. And so, I’ve made a new pact with myself – I am allowed a bar of chocolate a day, for as long as the quality justifies the calories. Granted, I may need a new wardrobe by the time I reach the boundaries of the chocolate kingdom, given the fact that, as of today’s indulgence, I am guaranteed good chocolate as far out as Romania. But I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy the process.

~Melanie

Wishin' and Hopin' and Prayin' ... That the Rain (and Snow!) Will Stop!!

REUTTE, AUSTRIA – May 31, 2006

I walked the last 2.5 km back to my guesthouse in the rain last night, in need of a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. A few late nights in Munich, this changeable weather, and a day spent soaked and shivering left my immune system tottering on thin ice. I was not enjoying the feeling in the back of my throat like someone had opened my mouth open wide and run jagged fingernails down to my breastbone. Nor did I much enjoy the odd-tasting honey lozenges I picked up in Fussen to try to keep my throat at bay. But it seemed to be getting worse. Throughout the night, I could feel my chest rattling.

Up until now, the continual rain has been mostly an annoyance, but as of this morning, I felt desperately in need of a change in environment. Thoughts of spending another few weeks, let alone days, in this wet and cold weather left me feeling quite cold and depressed. I get frustrated with myself at how easily the weather toys with my emotions, my enjoyment of my travels, and my overall attitude. But until I can find a better way to handle it, I just have to accept the fact that I’ll be choosing to live somewhere like San Diego over Seattle, Arizona over Alaska, and Granada over anywhere in this mudpuddle called Germany!! It’s just that simple. And if Germany is going to continue to be such a weather disaster, maybe it’s time I think of doing something drastic… like returning to Italy, for crying out loud. That’s the last place I can remember where the weather was, well, decent.

I scanned my map of Europe for a viable Plan B, thinking perhaps to bypass Lindau, completely, as this usually charming lakeside town on the southern tip of Germany would have me smack-dab in the middle of Spring-gone-horribly-wrong Western Europe. But alas, I realized that I had little room to breathe, in terms of recharting my path, thanks to the necessity of booked-weeks-in-advance hostel reservations, a friend awaiting my arrival in Luzerne, Switzerland in two days, and – hopefully – a package sent form home with some much-needed guidebooks awaiting me in Gimmelwald, in central Switzerland. So into the mountains I go. But first, I’ll stop for two days at the Germany resort of Lindau, an island near the southern tip of Lake Konstanz, where hopefully I can relax and rest up, and if I am not out of my mind for wishing it, catch a few rays of sunshine.

~Melanie

Mad Kings and Crazy Castles in Fussen

REUTTE, AUSTRIA & FUSSEN, GERMANY – May 30, 2006

I enjoyed one of the most filling breakfasts offered yet in my travels, from the guesthouse where I stayed last night, in the small town of Reutte, Austria. Crusty rolls, plates of meat and cheese, a basket of mixed jams and honey spreads, and fresh juice made for a delicious start to the day.

I met a nice family from Colorado -- Ralph and Pat brought their two college-age daughters with them for a two-week trip through Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. Unfortunately, they've been caught in the same weather pattern I have. But my heart went out to them. Much as I hate the rain, I know at some point it will end, and the sun will come out again. And I will travel on. When I met them, they were on their way back to Munich for their return flight back to the States... so many dreams probably dashed by this European Monsoon.

Nevertheless, I was here to see the famous Neuschwanstein, the "holiday house" created by more-or-less mad King Ludwig II, who was obsessed with Wagner's opera icons, including swans, dragons, knights, and damsels in distress.

I learned that the erratic bus schedule from Reutte to Fussen was going to create transportation havor for me -- the next bus out didn't leave until noon, which was hours away, and wouldn't leave me much time to get to the castle and back. Luckily, the Austrian group also staying at the hostel was heading in that general direction (putting up with all that commotion last night turned out to be not worth nothing), and offered to give me a lift to within a 15-minute walk of town. Rain drizzled as we drove along hte Alp-lined roads between northern Austria and southern Germany. If not for the dense clouds hovering above us, the views would have been spectacular.

Arriving at the bend where the busload went one way and I went the other, I waved goodbye to my Austrian friends and started trekking in what I hoped was the right direction into town. Every few minutes I'd pass a sign scribbled with Germany gobbledygook (hell if I knew what any of it said -- it was all Greek to me), and try to get my bearings.

About this time, my toes began feeling a bit numb, despite the fact that I was speedwalking. Let me explain. Three days before, in Munich, I was caught in a downpour in Englischer Gargen. Back at my hostel that night, I scrubbed out my shoes, which were caked with mud. But, as luck would have it, rainy day after rainy day meant that what was wet, stayed wet, and instead of drying out, my own decent pair of shoes was beginning to smell of rot. Not exactly wearing condition. So now, they were soaking in a bucket (converted trash can) of detergent back in my hostel room and I was traversing the Alps in my barely-there leather sandals.

The only other drawbacks at this point, aside from the fact that I had no map or clue how to reach the castle, was that my rainjacket had somehow managed to disappear over the past couple of weeks… not that I had known it until just a few days before, when I finally broke down and emptied my entire pack, desperate to find something to put between me and the rain that didn’t ever seem to let up. The last time I remembered seeing it was weeks ago on my overnight train to Nice, when I had used it as a makeshift pillow. I had a sinking feeling that it somehow never made it off the train.
Passing a well-placed rack of rainjackets, I started browsing, until the €79 price tag caught my eye. Yikes, with one little purchase I was about to undo two full days of my Europe budget. (Let’s not mention the fact that I spent nearly €100 several weeks ago in Spain…. But that was different…. How do you say “NO!” to a red silk dress from Spain?) Then, I found my kind of store – with a bright orange, 100% waterproof jacket hanging near a sign proudly declaring that my would be purchase was only going to set me back €15. Wanting to thaw out my toes and try this jacket on for size, I headed inside, only to discover there were a few more shopping bargains under my nose. €52 later, I left with two pair of pants, matching tanks, a workout outfit, jeanskirt, miniature speakers for my iPod… and the rainjacket to boot Fussen – I came for the castle and left with my arms filled with clothes! Now that my back was dry and I could feel my toes again, I headed off to resume my search for the castle.


After getting lost in the woods, I managed to find a Tourist Information officer who pointed me to the Fussen train station. Suddenly I realized what should have been obvious, and chastised myself for not realizing it sooner. Despite Rick Steves’ suggestion to use Reutte as my base to explore the castle of Schwangau, I could have much more easily stayed in Munich and day-tripped by train! Oh well, here I was at the train station, and just in time – the hourly bus departing for the castle had just pulled up to the bus stop. Halfway up to mountain, I struck up a conversation with two San Diego U students on a 2-week European holiday and Bethany, a too-mature-for-her-age 23-year-old who, in addition to reminding me of myself, had spent the past three years actually doing what I had been dreaming of – travelling the world. We spent a good long while talking “shop,” especially about her most recent travels, from Jordan to Turkey and through Eastern Europe, nearly the exact opposite of the route I was attempting. I was intrigued by the experiences she recounted to me. It seemed that my instinct was right – not only could it be done, and done safely, but travel through these regions was culturally stimulating in ways that Europe could scarcely compete with. I was hooked.

After being nickeled and dimed for bus and admission tickets to continue on up to Neuschwanstein, we arrived, at the foot of Mary’s bridge, from where the castle can be seen against its backdrop of encircling mountains. No sooner had we set foot on the bridge, but rain began to fall, turning suddenly to huge, wet snowflakes. As we stood there, several hundred meters above a furious waterfall (on a rickety wooden-planked bridge!), an unexpected snowfall blanketed everything in sight. The storm clouds gathered thickly, and soon even the castle itself was lost from sight. No matter that it was nearly June – here in the upper reaches of Schwangau, the temperatures were hovering around 4 degrees Celcius (38 F).

We climbed the path leading to Neuschwanstein and waited anxiously for our timed entry to the castle to begin. (It wasn’t so much being overcome to excitement about the castle itself, not that I wasn’t looking forward to a glimpse into the mind of Mad Ludwig. But mostly, I was starting to lose total feeling in my toes, and at this point, self-preservation instincts were starting to kick in.) €9 buys you a 35-minute whirlwind tour of the finished portions of the castle, which Ludwig ordered to be constructed at the expense of his kingdom’s floundering economy. The interior was lavish and overwhelmingly medieval, quite unusual, given that its construction began in the 19th century. Among the highlights were a 2,000-lb chandelier in replica of a king’s jewelled crown, murals of knights and maidens painted on cloth canvases, and a grotto, complete with cave-like stalagtites and, originally, a running waterfall.

While the interior of the castle was a delicious visual teat, my memories of Neuschwanstein will forever be ingrained with images of frosted alpine mountaintops surrounding this fairytale castle, where I stood from a high bridge enjoying the scenery in a snow cloud myself!

~Melanie

Bavaria: Where Rothenburg and Romania Meet

ROTHENBURG OB DER TAUBER, GERMANY -- May 28, 2006
(rough notes)

Long day-trip to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, including three train switches and tight connections (one was only 3 minutes long!). Last train, energetic little American boy in the seat behind me, his father patiently bearing the 1,001 comments he made. I chuckled to myself as I eavesdropped on the conversation I couldn't help but hear, thinking of my years as a primary school teacher in Taiwan and Northern Virginia. Yes, they sure do have tons of energy! But this little guy was bordering an acute case of ADHD. Feeling the need to rescue his father -- for a few minutes, at least -- I struck up a conversation with the little guy, whose name, it turned out, was Stefan. His father, Tanase, was Romanian born and raised, and now lived in the states where he taught his school math. The pair were traveling through part of Western Europe en route to Constanta, Romania, the seaside town where Tanase grew up, where he planned to spend the rest of his summer vacation with his son, father-son time.

We spent a few hours wandering around Rothenberg together, climbing the Rathaus tower for unparalleled panoramic views -- and a heavy dose of claustrophobia! -- from the highest point in town. We sampled Rothenburg's famous "schneeballs," which I personally think my guidebook wayyyyy under-rated. What is a scheeball, I can already hear you asking. They are pastry-like fried-dough balls, usually rolled in a thick layer of powdered sugar, to resemble snowballs... and that's literally what "schneeball" means. We downed some Radler, beer mixed with lemonade -- quite tasty! -- and wandering the pleasant streets of this quaint little town.

After Tanase and Stefan caught their train on to Fussen, I spent a few more hours exploring the town before returning to Munich. I stumbled across an amazing store filled with swords, armor, shields, and sterling silver chess sets. Chatting with a Rothenburgian who worked at the shop, I learned it was the largest of its kind in all of Germany. I found a restaurant with a sunny outdoor table and enjoyd a delicious mid-day Austrian feast -- wienerschnitzel (breaded pork cutlet) with mushroom sauce, potato croquettes, mixed salad, and a warmed apfelstrudel with whipped cream for dessert.

I spent an hour ambling around the outskirts of Rothenburg, along the stone fortress wall which offered impressive views of the surrounding area. I watched a probably inebriated German woman lower a small bucket from her second story window to the ground level, where cafe tables were clustered together, to deliver some candy to her youngest patron. His parents were smiling, but I couldn't help but wonder what they thought of the whole scene. A man dressed in a crimson shirt and apron offered apple chips to passersby, samples from his food shop. Smiling daytrippers snapped photos of each other and chomped on ice cream cones and schneeballs. And for not even one minute today, after arriving in Rothenburg, did a raindrop fall!

~Melanie