The day repeats another as I fall into a routine. Just getting to breakfast can be a task as I find four or five things to write. Finally, I’m hungry enough, and with a lunch date scheduled with Jutta, I better go eat now so I have an appetite when I see her. I’d like to visit a different cafe but this one is the closest to where I’m staying, and it’s a known quantity, so I go back. I sit down to eat, but before I can touch a thing, I’m setting up the computer. Instead of getting right to work on yesterday’s post, I realize I should add something to the day I’m already a few hours into. Then I jump back into yesterday, sip my coffee, and start in on my first Korni-Brötchen. Switching channels back and forth is a type of mental gymnastics that has me wishing to finish the previous day’s blog on that day so I can start fresh the next day, but getting home late and getting up early creates its own dilemma.

You know how I shared yesterday about meeting that 77-year-old lady today at Eifler Bakery? Well, that happened, but you already knew that. And now that I’m done with yesterday, I can fully move into this day. Time for the 2-mile (3.2km) walk from Bornheim-Mitte to Dom/Römer.

Seeing this is an entry about routine; here I am again at the Wednesday open-air street market in Bornheim-Mitte. As I sat at the bakery, the traffic going by into the market was markedly heavier than the number of pedestrians here on any other given day. I certainly understand the appeal of these pop-up markets and wish something like this existed in the United States, and no, this is not like a farmers market in Arizona that has haphazard collections of (mostly non-food) vendors with no certainty about who might show up. So, without the ability to count on consistency, how would someone be able to predictably shop for what they need on a week-to-week basis?

My nemesis the bike bell. It stalks me, mocking me as I walk by, daring me to give it a ring. With me passing thousands of bikes a day locked to all manner of things, a kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder yanks at my better sense, begging me to ring the bell to hear its tone. I do my best to avoid this behavior when others are near as it startles them into thinking a bike is approaching. But some of the bells are so persuasive I give them a little push or snap, and their “Klingel” offers me a small delight that is simultaneously a guilty pleasure. If only you knew what I know.

From one U-Bahn stop to the next, I eschew getting on board to make a quick race across town as I never know what I might discover, although I do enjoy the people-watching on the train, too.

Last weekend, Caroline mentioned an encounter she had had with a dead and somewhat odoriferous coyote she passed on her morning walk. I texted back, “Photo or it didn’t happen,” and of course, she had one ready because she’s Caroline!

So I present her with a recently deceased bird from the streets of Frankfurt, Germany, because I love her.

So now I know that 100 balloons are not enough to take someone aloft. Every day I walk on Zeil between Konstablerwache and Hauptwache I see at least two vendors selling these colorful, shiny balloons that inevitably coerce many a parent into putting one into the hands of their children.

Back on May 28th, my 4th day in Germany, I presented readers with the front of this building without identifying it. This is the backside of that same building known as the Museum für Moderne Kunst. The “S” in Kunst is silent and means Art.

I don’t really know what this shop is for as it’s all over the place; it might even be an art project from the coffee shop next door. What drew my attention first was the “Beuys will be Beuys” t-shirt in the window, which has the same design that you see at the top center of the image. Then there’s the “No! I won’t do that,” and maybe my favorite of them that I should have focused on is in the top left and hard to read. It says, “Du Dumme Sau,” which translates to, “You dumb sow,” and features the image of Klaus Kinski, who famously unleashed these words.

Finally, over Zeil, I arrive at Lebenshaus near Römer. Fill out the visitation form, visit the men’s room to wash my hands as part of the visitor’s protocol, and put on my FFP2 mask, as other masks are not allowed. Walk up the two flights of stairs and over to room number 207, where Jutta stays. Some small talk and in a minute or two, we are on our way to lunch. I’ve tried finding another restaurant Jutta might enjoy, but I don’t like the others in the area, so we are stuck with Zum Standesämtchen. Behind this choice is Jutta’s ability to walk distances in an amount of time comfortable to her, with us being able to get back to her living facility should we not find a ground-floor restroom she can maneuver into.

Our indulgent lunch clocks in at nearly three hours before I bring Jutta back to the place she cannot remember and has previously been lost trying to find after venturing out. Getting away from this corner of the city in the afternoon, I have limited opportunities of what I might make of the rest of the day. Looking for a coffee shop where I might sit down and write a bit seems like a good idea, but nothing talks to me until I see the street leading to Kleinmarkthalle. Some fresh fruit sounds appealing.

My other visits to this old market were in and out just like everyone else, but today, I can sit by the back wall, and so that’s just what I’m doing. I finish my strawberries and now wish for a coffee, but the heat and humidity are trying to convince me to stay put and enjoy the occasional breeze that wafts through. It’s only now, sitting here without my mask, that I essentially feel normal but realize that the sounds that should be echoing in this cavernous space are a fraction of what my memory says they should be.

Speaking of sounds, while at the end of lunch as we were paying our bill, we spoke with our Greek waiter about how different things have been. He misses the tourists who were about all the places at Römer ever served. So, while they have customers, it’s hard enough to sustain the vendors here with high rents due to being in such an important historic district. But that’s beside the point, what I was aiming to share is that you are hearing the tiniest of fractions of voices from other lands. Last night, I spoke with two African ladies from Ghana, and on our way over to lunch, Jutta offered best wishes to a Thai lady who’d just gotten married, but these are the exceptions these days. Missing is the roar of a hundred languages filtering above the noise.

And then Caroline awakes and we have our first conversation of the day. Just as on other calls, one of us always seems a bit tired, probably because this call happens just after she wakes, while our next call in about eight hours is when I’ll be trying to go to sleep.

I took a coffee outside Kleinmarkthalle and sat on the wall next to where the Cuban fellow had been playing his clarinet for a few extra Euros. It’s shaded on this hot and humid day when the sun has returned. Next to me was a lady packing her bag onto the side of her bike, and my curiosity got the best of me. What I saw wasn’t extraordinary; it is, in fact, quite common, but I never bother talking (intruding) into the comings and goings of people just doing normal stuff like shopping. Today, I couldn’t help myself. I explained how infrequently it is that I see people older than about 55 riding bikes in America and asked if wasn’t too rude to ask her age. She gladly obliged me while stepping onto her bicycle and told me she was 74. Just minutes later, another lady, this one with pure white hair was asked the same question; she is 77 years of age. Finally, I asked a man his age. He couldn’t remember but said he was born in 1946, so he’s about 75. He also shared that if he drove, it would take him 30 minutes to get home from Kleinmarkthalle while on his bike; he’d be there in 15 minutes, but he added, “Riding on these streets at any age is stupid.”

If you are wondering if I only chose older people to ask this question, you would be wrong. Maybe it’s the demographic that shops at this old Frankfurt landmark, or maybe it’s because so many younger people are walking, taking trains, or are on one of the thousands of scooters scattered across the city.

Back to Bergerstrasse and one of the better murals I’ve enjoyed passing. If it looks familiar, that’s because these cute blobs or “city ghosts” are the work of Spot, who also drew Caroline’s favorite mural on Burgstrasse.

In my next incarnation, I might create a blog about nothing but doors of the world.

Will I ever be satisfied that I’ve captured enough views of Frankfurt that, should I need to refresh my memory at a future date of my time here, I can put together enough fragments that it will all come rushing back to me?

Packed up more stuff from Jutta that will be returned to the earth tomorrow. Working with Caroline to figure out if any of the flatware with some silver content has any value, which she will have to figure out from America, which is as ridiculous as it sounds, seeing there are people here who should be able to do this but are claiming no knowledge of how to find metal buyers in Frankfurt. With ten days left until the painter arrives, things are looking great to have the apartment empty. About to drop off some more clothes to the Red Cross donation box down the street, and then I’ll fetch some easy dinner. If all goes well, I’ll be back in an hour, work on the photos I already selected and be asleep well before the midnight hour.

The crew at the Döneria had a good laugh seeing me here for three days in a row. When my Döner with double meat and double chili pepper was handed off to me, one of the guys said, “See you tomorrow.” I’ve become a regular, and my routine is well on its way to being established.