I’ve been here before, meaning almost everywhere in Frankfurt. I feel no urgency to photograph anything because to see things unseen before today will prove difficult. A walk along the Main River, a visit to the cathedral, or any number of points? I no longer feel the pull to reacquaint myself with this city that is incredibly familiar and simultaneously distant. This is likely obvious if you’ve seen yesterday’s post that was a reflection of how unmotivated I was to document anything and only managed to share nine images and barely a thousand words.

Important memories though remain essential, and before leaving Caroline, Jutta, and Katharina to have a lady’s afternoon, I had to grab a group shot to memorialize the generations.

Others are more interested in leaving a love lock on a bridge, which is a way of tagging a space and showing that “Kilroy and his girlfriend were here.” Throwing the keys into the river assures their love cannot be undone which ultimately ends in tragedy because someone must come along and destroy this connection by cutting it off the railing and disposing of it. Then again, all things are temporary, and the sentiment of the moment of leaving this visual sign for others is a romantic notion worth celebrating.

If you are a native English speaker and could read this, you might think it’s a joke, but Die Partei is real and holds one seat in the European Parliament. As for the messaging of the sticker, it reads Fuck All of You! As for their name, The Party, yes, it is a satire of fascist parties and is also a backronym meaning Partei für Arbeit, Rechtsstaat, Tierschutz, Elitenförderung und basisdemokratische Initiative (“Party for Labour, Rule of Law, Animal Protection, Promotion of Elites and Grassroot-Democratic Initiative”). In America, we have a rigid two-party system that languishes in a stalemate of lethargy while compromise has been lost to hate and division.

This city remains in constant motion, a stream of things, ideas, architecture, culture, people, and the flow of the river that slices through it. Everything is changing, a perpetual movement that doesn’t stop for people, time, or the stupidity of politics and biases that so often stymie cities and populations in the United States. Frankfurt has a peculiar nature of drawing things in and pushing them right back out, be it capital, music, philosophy, art, trade, or whatever it is that needs to find wider distribution.

This constant movement of change doesn’t stop people from trying to hold onto time by entering routines where places and favorite stops along the way are habituated. Jobs and school help lend ideas of permanence, as do the hymns sung at church. There will always be those searching for consistency that assures them that they are living in a kind of eternal moment where their existence might remain until the end of their time on earth.

And then age makes an appearance. Not the common day-to-day, year-to-year kind of stuff but the shuffling, walker, or cane-assisted slow pull into dissonance that will affect us all. Will you schlep your frame with grace or will you deny what everyone else around already knows? Denial among the elderly regarding their situation is as rife as the young are oblivious that they are spending their precious years chasing marketing dreams and fantasies created by capital.

Did I see even one Litfaßsäule (advertising column) in Scandinavia or a wall at a train station featuring upcoming events? For all the talking we did with locals, we never asked about the local cultural scene. Reason #39 to return.

Heading to Bergerstrasse in Bornheim Mitte, long-time residents will lament perceived gentrification, but the reality is more likely that the elderly of the aging neighborhood will move into assisted living like my mother-in-law did, and the young professionals and foreigners will be seen as interlopers ruining the place, just as Caroline and I get that vibe about Nordend where we used to live.

The generation that took up residence here was coming of age and growing up out of the conflict of war. They are rapidly aging out, and as they leave Bornheim, the businesses that catered to them are no longer trendy, and the new residents are demanding services that speak to their dreams. Churn will happen, and businesses will leave, but if this corner of Frankfurt is lucky, laughter will return as many a grumpy old person appears to have lost the ability to laugh. Look at those who remain; there is a weary misery behind their eyes as they grow increasingly isolated.

Of those who are young but in misery, the human necessity to explore waking dreams is largely broken. Maybe someone wasn’t able to identify with their parents or friends who were too focused on their own interests to support the child/teen. Other parents are more interested in pushing their own agenda on the indifferent child. Using children as surrogates of the self and our unrealized dreams, we spurn the mystery of what is sparking the imagination of a youngster. What sparks the curiosity of young people cannot be known or controlled by adults dominating this evolving person. At best, we can take a keen interest in the aspirations of others and allow them to share ideas with us instead of foisting ourselves on them. Isn’t this relationship the basis of a sharing love between people anyway?

A mentoring inspirational role is a preferable path compared to the more often employed master/slave dictatorial relationship that brings out resentment or uncertainty. How is love given, and how is it taken or received? What happens when it’s demanded?

We can recycle many things and will need to dispose of others. We can acquire skills, money, property, and lunch, but we have no means of trading emotions and dreams that can be intrinsically absorbed by others. Maybe stories can offer glimmers of possibilities if the listener is already familiar with what they can feed us.

We either define our path in terms that are compatible with the herd, or we suffer being cast down the wrong trail where the chasm of the downtrodden falls into ruin. Once lost in despair, we often perform enough self-abuse to finish the harm our parents and society managed to miss. Deeply confused and wondering if we are the only ones experiencing such uncertainty, we can choose to ignore the nagging thoughts about existence. Are we on the right track, or must we inebriate ourselves, blaming our existential angst on factors perceived to be bigger than ourselves? From here, we can turn to God if we haven’t already, which is likely a valid salve for most people as it offers a quick and absolving message to trust God for all of these issues that are larger than we are.

Who among us has time, mentors, or interest to answer big questions when the need for instant gratification looms over us and takes us down the path of consumption? Finding the headspace to explore the voids within can be treacherous going for the intellectually ill-equipped. Even those inclined to delve into the fragile domain of understanding and self-discovery often discover the risks, faltering into a pit of malaise built of their own making.

Awareness of pitfalls is only the smallest factor in this equation. How to help one another find love and respect that can buffer a hostile inner and outer world is a dilemma I struggle to document as I go writing. Because I seem to have found my way, I’m desperate to formalize it into a recipe I could share, but meeting with resistance from others who feel that their brand of uncertainty and confusion is unique to them, I must first unravel the threads that separate us.

Seeds give rise to plants; plants mature and become food that also produces more seeds, which perpetuates the cycle of replenishment. On a farm, weeds invade the cultivated fields, and for a time, our scientists believed that the most poisonous of substances that were prone to unintended side effects were needed to enter into warfare against undesirable growth. This is nearly identical to how we deal with people on the margins of society: we wish they would disappear. We poison them with drugs, alcohol, incarceration, and homelessness, and while some perish and vanish, those that remain inadvertently create consequences that feed a sense of crisis among those of us who wonder why our neighborhoods have taken on apocalyptic appearances.

Breaking out new laws to wash the scourge away will never work, nor will militarized police forces but the alternative of trying to bring back a society to a kind of order of the mind and not rotting in mediocrity might be a task too grand for hope. The proverbial saying, “You made your bed, now lie in it,” tells us to face the consequences of our actions and that might be exactly what is facing us. No amount of soap can clean away our self-centered stupidity that puts the accumulation of wealth above all else, including the divine.

This man is piss-drunk, literally. His pants are wet down to his feet. He is so drunk that he spills most of the beer he has no interest in drinking because he’s consumed by wild gesturing and engaging me in conversation while I can’t make sense of a single slurred word. He had two bottles in his hands but one was flung without him noticing that it left his orbit. It was gladly picked up by another drunkard, surprised as much as I was that the bottle hadn’t shattered. This is how I see my fellow Americans, a ranting mess of piss-drunk nationalists unaware that they are throwing their democracy away like it’s a worthless bottle of beer all because they love reveling in jingoistic bullshit that only makes sense to the other inebriated half-wits, unaware of how stupid and lost they appear.

That’s all I’ve got. I’ve stopped again and again today to write and didn’t go very far walking around Frankfurt. I imagine that Jutta, Caroline, and Katharina were off enjoying themselves, not kvetching about the ills of society. Maybe I absolve them of needing to yammer about such things thus allowing them to enjoy each other company while I work out the gravity of what ails us. This is part of my burden; my Sisyphean struggles with a pen.

Enough of that; time for dinner with the Engelhardts in celebration of Stephanie’s birthday. Klaus had gotten a tip that this vegan Vietnamese place was highly recommended, and if getting a reservation on a Wednesday night is as difficult as this was, then it must be the popular place. Well, by the time we were leaving Ong Tao the restaurant was packed. For Germany, I understand why this place is popular, and vegan options are all the rage in many big cities in this part of Europe. They have a good thing going, but those of us who have had the opportunity to eat authentic Vietnamese food likely have a better understanding of just how much serious flavor is missing. All the same, we were not here for our own culinary experience; it was for Stephanie and her 58th Geburtstag.

For the first time in 28 years, after finding an open door, we stepped into Gluckstrasse 8,  the building in which Caroline and I lived together before moving to the United States. How strange it was to head up to “our” door. Had someone been there, I would have knocked just to have a peek inside. Sure, this is where our love blossomed but not without an amount of tumult that makes the fact that we are still together all the more surprising.

Germany is moving closer to disgorging us as we travel almost in reverse compared to the way we came into our vacation.

Who needs alarms when flying early in the morning? Not us; we were up about 10 minutes before our wrists were supposed to start vibrating at 4:00 a.m. In quick order, we were dressed and headed downstairs to wait for the taxi we’d arranged for yesterday.

Above it all and mostly distanced after 17 days in Scandinavia, we are still in a relatively safe space but that was coming to an unexpected end.

Two hours after leaving Norway, we are on the streets of Frankfurt, dragging our bags along for our first stop. On the train out of the airport, we noticed a marked difference between the polite and trusting Scandinavian culture we had left behind and the brusque and maybe even abrasive Germans. After 17 days of super civility, I wasn’t ready for the rude high school kids on a field trip riding in the same direction as us. Sadly, and yes, I’m aware that this will carry a hint of racism, their ethnicity combined with their aberrant behavior is part of what is likely giving rise to/sustaining the evergrowing nationalism in countries that are trying to integrate a growing immigrant population due to their own shrinking population. If you live in one of Germany’s big cities, you are likely inured to this spectacle of crass antics, but I can see how small towns would feel the sting.

The perspective shift of being enchanted when we land in Germany coming in from the U.S. is lost on entering from Scandinavia. Germany can be a bit cold and distant, but it’s mostly polite, respectful, and rule-driven, in stark contrast to the potential-of-violence-at-any-moment style of American uncertainty. If I’m reluctant about returning to the States after we visited Europe, this will be amplified when we return to Phoenix this coming weekend.

Frühstück (breakfast) was at Cafe Liebfrauenberg near Kleinmarkthalle. Not our first choice, but with our bags in tow (including the broken-wheel suitcase), we were more interested in shortening the distance between getting something to eat and visiting with my mother-in-law, Jutta. While still sipping my coffee, Caroline zipped around the corner to a sewing shop, hoping to find a few notions she might be able to use to repair her quickly disintegrating purse strap that, after years of constant use, was about to render the bag useless.

Here I am, no longer just a tourist. I should be able to write something meaningful, but constant distractions drag my eye and mind to watching the goings on around me instead of slipping into exploring the profound. To write, I must drop into a kind of routine where my focus is undisturbed by novelty. When I’m able to look within and between the thoughts that give rise to impressions, my hand feels mysteriously compelled to leave words on the page. I’m aware that the majority of words that fall from my pen can be mundane and mediocre, but on occasion, I find that what has appeared from a recess of my mind exceeds any hopes I might have had to produce such eloquence. That is what I’d like to aim for all the time.

We’ve moved over to Lebenshaus, but Jutta is participating in an exercise program, and while we can see her, she’s not become aware of us yet. As we watch, I see residents I’ve become familiar with over the past couple of years and notice that changes in aging for the elderly can be significant. The process of decay robs people of a lot. This could be a part of our future, yet few of us are prepared for this. Slow death is not a popular entertainment subject nor a part of reality TV. How and why do we choose to hide the elderly or, at best, relegate them to the margin where they need not be acknowledged?

Am I on the spectrum regarding my social tensions? We are at Zum Standesämtchen and I’m starting to seethe at the empty state of these vacuous lower-order excuses for humans on vacation. Dignified people do not stand with mouths agape, we should not get pissy with someone talking in their native tongue to us in their country. They have no obligation to speak your version of one of the 7,117 languages distributed around our earth. We owe it to ourselves to, at a minimum, master our mother tongue, speak clearly with concision, and, when appropriate, slow things down and temper the volume. You are in someone else’s culture, and respect starts with you.

When in a public space, I do not care where you’re from or what you like or don’t like about your vacation, life, or job. If it’s hot and humid or raining, nobody needs your pronouncement of the obvious. This is not small talk; it is the inanity of someone who needs to be at the center of attention or is afraid of the quiet. And don’t admonish me to pay attention to my own business as you drag yourself on stage screeching and dressing in ways that say, “LOOK AT ME!” The same goes for those of you sporting face tats and musculature that verges into the spectacle. You need and obviously desire attention and cannot dictate when your clown-ass has others gawking.

Away from Römer at Cafe Einstein with the throngs on the otherside of the threshold, I’m able to enjoy the moment with Jutta, sharing our experiences and a few photos from our vacation within a vacation. We spent a couple of hours at lunch and then another couple here chatting over coffee and sweets, which is not known as fika here in Germany.

The plaque here at Römer reads:

On this site, on 10 May 1933, national socialist students burned the books of authors, scientists, publicists, and philosophers.

The outer ring reads:

That was only a prelude. Wherever they burn books, in the end, will also burn human beings. 1820 Heinrich Heine

The sign says Construction Site Entry and I believe you should heed this as an admonition pertaining to your life; you are under construction and need to recognize that the work upon yourself is a never-ending project.

Over the course of the last weeks in Scandinavia, embedded among the more than 67,000 words I’ve penned were near-daily laments of the behaviors of those I could only wish were not on vacation at the same time we were. If I were as smart as I’d like to aspire to you, I should have encapsulated it all into this succinct poster we saw towards the end of the day, “You are not a tourist. You are an ambassador.” Come to think about it, doesn’t this apply to the very person we’d like others to perceive?