Day 30 – Husum to Frankfurt

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

The view from our hotel window in Husum, Germany

It’s a lazy Wednesday by the Wadden Sea, and a short vacation will come to a finish. Not in a rush of activity but the quiet gray of doing nothing much at all. It’s okay to not be in a hurry, to take refuge in a warm room with the conveniences required for sequestering ourselves, even if for only some hours. Languorous activities such as we are engaged in ask for a bit of mindlessness, and maybe the act of writing violates those principles of inactivity, but staring at the ceiling or the inside of my eyelids doesn’t feel like an option either. So I write of the past from the future of when said things I write actually occurred.

This theme of photographing the space where I commit my thinking to bits represented on a screen should have been given more thought many years ago because, more than selfies, I would have quite the collection of locations and settings where I’ve sat down to this exercise of trying to explore wit, cynicism, spleen, awe, love, and delight.

This is the door to the house where Theodor Storm’s parents lived. I’d guess that he lived here as a child. With Storm arguably the most important person in history to hail from Husum, no wonder the small town recognizes him. Maybe I’d also consider Nicolaus Bruhns, who was said to have been an influence on Bach for celebration, too, if he actually had that influence. What’s not in doubt is that Bruhns studied under Dieterich Buxtehude, which lends some gravity to this person who only lived a short life of 31 years back at the end of the 17th century.

I certainly didn’t try this masterpiece as that might have ruined my admiration that something so beautiful was on display, tempting my sense of culinary wonder. It will forever hold a place in my imagination that this may have been the greatest-tasting cake ever created. I didn’t even bother to note the location where I saw it as I hope to forget just where it was. Should I ever return to Husum and have the burning desire to finally try one, maybe I’ll learn they no longer make this work of art, but it can live on here forever.

Friendliest looking moat I’ve ever seen. Klaus and I hiked up the mountain to Schloss vor Husum (or Husum Castle). That’s a lie because there are no mountains anywhere near here, but the quite small castle actually does exist. Also, this is not a moat; it’s just a lush pond.

This is a corner of the castle that must represent the rest of the structure. I would have liked to photograph the place in greater detail, but some groundskeepers had red tape up to cordon off the area directly in front of the main part of the buildings so they could get some maintenance work done.

Bird photographer, I’m not (cue a chorus of “Photographer of many things you are not, John”), but that’s not going to stop me from trying. Heck, I don’t really care about this bird, for that matter, but it will do as my stand-in for the many birds that were out of sight but not out of hearing range. This makes me wonder where Rammstein was when they penned the words for Ohne Dich and the lyric Und die Vögel singen nicht mehr (Translation: And the birds no longer sing). Obviously, they weren’t in Husum.

Time has eaten the lion’s face and will ultimately eat mine, too, except mine will likely be a horrific sight as it’s happening.

I’d guess this street looks much like it always has and that Theodor Storm and Herr Bruhn would recognize most things aside from the electricity box and the cars.

The house Storm lived in for a short period doesn’t open until 2:00 or 40 minutes before we depart. Like the castle, Caroline and I now have a few things to return to Husum for.

These three ugly gnomes were in a sideyard with no explanation of their purpose. Maybe they keep the spirit of Storm alive?

Time for more food, more fish, more Bratkartoffeln, more mineral water, and a very nice server at Gaststätte Tante Jenny.

North-Friesische Futjes from Waffelgut sure looks like orange-sized balls of fried dough, er um, donuts, but who am I to turn up my nose to the strange delicacies of ethnic peoples when I’m visiting their lands? Buying five was .50 euros cheaper, so I played it safe and only got two with sugar and the other three plain.

Don’t go thinking I’m eating lunch, futjes, and then ice cream; the donuts are for the train. The Waldmeister and hazelnut ice cream were to go with my coffee. Now I’m ready to get on a train that’ll take about 8 hours to bring us back to Frankfurt. By the way, I didn’t really want the Waldmeister ice cream, but I knew that once Caroline saw this photo, she’d be asking how it was, so I had to oblige her. To be honest, I can’t say I really enjoyed it, though I did finish it.

Only two trains will be required to get us home; this one goes to Hamburg and the next one to Frankfurt. I met a man from Yorkshire here on the platform in Husum who’s been living in Erfurt for the past 20 years; he was waiting for the train so he could photograph the two engines pulling our transportation to Hamburg. Something about the diesel engines intrigued him, but I didn’t have time to learn more as the train was on approach, I stepped away so he could focus on the matter at hand and not me.

I don’t know where I’m at, and if I think deeply about that, I may never really know where I’m at other than with myself in a bunch of situations that defy believability. I mean, how is it that I’m on a train cruising at 100 mph across Germany, and in less than a week, I’ll be having coffee with Ed Tankersley again at King Coffee on Union Hills Avenue in Phoenix, Arizona? Ah, did you pick up on that? I can’t confuse who I am with where I’m at, but how many times do I make such wrong-headed comparisons where I count on my wife finding and correcting my blunders? Is that part of the basis of surrealism or absurdity? But John, you stated you didn’t know where you were. Oh really? My inference was about where I am inside and where I am when I’m somewhere else other than the John, who is talking to Ed, Klaus, Caroline, or anyone else really. The John that is writing this is using his fingers to express a voice that is never heard by anyone but myself. My writing sounds like me to me, but does this version of John sound like the one you know? I know where my body was when I wrote this, but the person who has been changed in subtle ways over the past few days hasn’t been realized fully yet. Or maybe I have been, and I’m mostly just the person I am and always have been as I write this.

I didn’t travel 1,300 kilometers to be the same person I was before this journey that has taken me to the tidal mudflats of northern Europe. I’m looking for something. Did I find it? I never know for certain as it doesn’t present itself as a bookmark, an artifact, or even a carbuncle of oozing knowledge. That would be a thing, wouldn’t it? Every time you gain something when learning, you move one step closer to appearing as Baron Harkonnen in Dune. Better would be sprouting a new branch; maybe trees used to be humans who learned that it was better to gain knowledge while reaching into the sky and enjoying a life of standing in place, taking it all in.

Maybe I’m always looking back at myself, and the person or realization I don’t find is lost in my inability to know myself in those places. I visit cathedrals, forests, oceans, rivers, cities, and coffee shops, always searching for the essence of self and place, trying to find a clear image of the person who was slightly different yesterday but in many ways the same as I’ll be tomorrow. I believe I know that I’m not outside nature, but my integration with it is a blur of deciphering as an ever-changing world goes by that doesn’t allow for fixing on points that might ground me in certainty. And so I keep on this path of discovery, hopeful to find whatever that something is.

Maybe the clouds are gods floating overhead, free to travel the earth and come and go as they please. Condensed water drops hold the power to deliver the most valuable resource to humans in the form of clean water that nourishes our green plants, so they produce our oxygen. A symbiotic system that is not reliant on the idiots in between. What about those of us who are between places such as here on this train, being neither here nor there? I’m busy using resources, not producing anything, ah but is producing information that may at some point be construed as knowledge have value? That’s not up to me to decide; only history and those with an interest in the past make those decisions. Then, in an age where information is akin to countless fields of wheat, we speed past and find it impossible to inventory and assign value to this commodity that will rot in the field if not tended to. I have to accept that every word and every letter written here just might be one kernel of wheat out of 22 on one of the five heads of a single plant 62 meters away from the train in a row I cannot identify. An ant could come by taking that kernel I’ve left to its nest, and in a week, all that I contributed would be gone. The grains I leave behind will ultimately disappear, having been transformed into something else.

Hamburg, Germany

We’ve reached Hamburg, and again, we are playing musical trains as we jump from track to track as flexibility is required to move so many trains through a busy system. We’ve still not seen the new Elbphilharmonie, nor is it in this photo, but someday Caroline and I will visit the hall, which is one of the largest concert venues on earth.

We passed through Uelzen and Celle, both of which I’d never heard of. They went by in a blur like so much fence, graffiti, and wheat the train passes at terrific speeds.

Note: after I returned to Frankfurt, I looked up Celle and have now put it on the list of places for Caroline and me to visit. As for Uelzen, while they have an interesting main train station, that seems like that’s about it.

We have stopped and taken off again as we move down the track at nearly 250 kilometers per hour or 150 mph away from Hannover. With less than three hours remaining before reaching Frankfurt, it feels like this journey will quickly come to an end.

You don’t know how much you love the sun and mountains until you’ve left the flat gray area of somewhere that sees little to nothing of these two aforementioned attributes.

I’m reluctant to move on to the next image as I have nothing else in the camera yet, and my traveling south is being occupied by putting these words up. If I were to pause, might I get sleepy? So I must find something in the silhouette of the land and dramatic clouds that inspires me to babble on. Note that it’s now taken me five hours to write the 1,693 words I’ve written so far (pre-Caroline edits, of course), which, writing this statistic, makes me open the calculator to see that I’m writing about six words a minute minus eating, drinking, and photography breaks. That probably means I’m getting closer to seven words a minute when I am writing. If I am to occupy myself for the next couple of hours, I better slow this blistering pace down.

On the way Göttingen, Germany

Shadows are creeping over the landscape, especially as I set in to write for this photo, for it is a good 30 minutes after I snapped this shot. We just passed Neu-Eichenberg with a nice old train station about 40 kilometers from Kassel and our last stop before Frankfurt. I just finished reading about the history of the Eichenberg Station. Should you be interested in what it looks like and its history, follow this link to Wikipedia. And with this, I can only share that we are riding into the sunset. Should I find another photo, worthy of inclusion, I might discover more to blather on about. Until then, maybe you too, should just stare out a window at nature or, better yet, take yourself into it.

Crossing the Fulda River as we approach Kassel, Germany

Didn’t have to wait long, and fortunately, I was able to snatch up the camera just in time to grab a photo of the sun setting over the Fulda River that I didn’t think was salvageable as I had a lot of reflection from the window I was shooting out of. But the important parts of the image that tell the story look nice to my eye. It’s 8:30 in the evening as we pull into Kassel. This city was supposed to be one of my side journeys that is surely out of contention for a visit, as are so many others. Paris, too, will have to wait. Maybe when Caroline and I return in the fall, we can find our way down some of these other romantic roads and rail lines.

One hour from Frankfurt southwest of Kassel, Germany

We are quickly running out of daylight during our final hour on the InterCity Express train (ICE) we’ve been on since Hamburg. I should point out that these 8 hours of travel are all the easier as we are sitting in 1st class with fast wifi, no seat neighbors, a table, and a quick ride that doesn’t suffer from turbulence.

Fulda, Germany

I thought two photos ago that I was done and could just relax into the last minutes on the train, but here we are passing through Fulda, and I spotted some buildings on a distant hill, but as I started snapping photos, this factory sprung into view. That was a win.

Klaus Engelhardt on the train to Frankfurt, Germany

Maybe this is redundant, as I posted an image of my workspace on our way to Husum this past Sunday, but right now, I can’t remember, and I’m too lazy to check. Okay, so I just went and checked, and I took that weird reflection photo in the tunnel a few days ago, but that photo was then; this is now. So, do I sign off figuring I can’t do any better than this, and at 26 photos, this is certainly a long enough blog post, or do I hold out for one more? Just kidding, I’m done. Vacation to the Wattenmeer and all that it included is done.

Day 29 – Bike Ride to Westerhever Leuchtturm

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

We are ready for our e-bike adventure to the Westerhever Leuchtturm (Lighthouse), and while it’s still as cold as yesterday, the patches of blue sky hold great promise. For some crazy reason, our hotel doesn’t start bike rentals until 9:00 a.m. or almost 5 hours into the day after the sun has started rising. The 29 Euro price for the entire day is pretty good when you consider that e-bikes in Germany of the quality we’ll be riding today cost between $3,300 and $4,300.

It was already 10:00 when we left Husum and entered the countryside. We pass many examples of these Frisian homes with their distinct thatched roofs, but photographing them isn’t always easy because they are often built right next to the street and have fences so close to the front of the house that getting an uninterrupted view is a challenge. Maybe this is a good thing; otherwise, I might turn the day into an architectural study of these unique historic homes.

This is not an example of our Riese und Müller e-bike, but it is a fine specimen of a very old bicycle. Our bikes today have a top speed of 35 km/h or 22mph, with the battery conveniently mounted over the back wheel. Klaus pointed out that our bikes are made just outside of Frankfurt in Darmstadt, so maybe he has some local pride about that. As we have 80 kilometers (50 miles) to cover today, we are in Eco mode, which is the lowest electric assist there is, with Tour, Sport, and Turbo remaining untested until we determine how the battery is performing. The Nordsee-Hotel Hinrichsen, where we are staying, supplied us with the bikes and also included the charging unit should we need to charge the battery down the road. Not only that, they gave us a phone number we could call if we had a bike failure so we could get a lift back to town.

Windmills and farms, dikes and sheep, clouds and wind, with those things, you have the Wattenmeer. If you time things just right, you may never see the sea out on these flatlands.

This environment is incredibly kind to bikers, well, for at least half the year, as I might be leery about the narrow roads in winter. In many cases, the roads have bike lanes that run parallel to the main road and far enough away to not be threatening. There will be times you have to share the streets with cars, and where I said these roads were narrow, I’m saying that cars have to pull over to let another car pass, so when a bike is on the road, they go to the far left. Fortunately, German drivers are extremely well-trained and mostly observe the rules.

Google Maps has many ideas of roadways that could cross this landscape. You have to do some pathfinding and zoom in on satellite maps, trying to find out if the other side of a dike is paved or just falls off into the sea. Well, not really the sea, but a massive mudflat (at least when the tide is out). By the way, this is not a bike trail but a street shared with the occasional driver.

While you can’t see it in this image, the sign on the front of the house is offering this as a vacation rental; I’m pretty sure that’s a joke.

I’ll take one in electric, please? The Citroën 2CV (Deux Chevaux or two horses) is a classic French car and was the answer to the Volkswagen beetle, and yes, I really would like one of these as an electric model. This or the amazing Citroën DS.

These damned northerners are Lutherans, and unlike the Bavarians, who are Catholics, with churches open every day of the week, the Lutherans and Protestants only believe in church on Sunday. Nothing like serious guilt to push people into needing a church at any time of day or night. Hmmm, this makes me wonder if synagogues are open 24/7.

Well, at least they have church tours available for bikers, but when are they open? That’s right, five church tours out on this 30-kilometer-long piece of land. As for the church, I couldn’t enter, it is the St. Nikolai Kirche.

Out in the middle of nowhere is a place called Tetenbüll, and with nothing around us besides the ubiquitous sheep, there is this small restaurant called Spieskommer. In the bike parking lot are more than a dozen of us, if only they had bike recharging facilities. This was a great stop as we are more than 20 kilometers (12 miles) from Husum, and I had anticipated more of these little stands, so I didn’t bring water. This turned out to be a nice little stop for lunch, and if you are thinking that this seems early for lunch, well, it took us 2 hours to get here.

Whoa, you two are only going twice the speed of walking, and you are on e-bikes? We both carry DSLR cameras, and while this might look like the 10th stop if you were counting the photos above, there were at least twice that in between where we stopped for photos Klaus wanted, photos I took I didn’t like, and verifying we were still going in the right direction.

With coffee, water, a fish sandwich, and a salami and cheese sandwich to refuel us, we were again on our way.

But not for long. Well, this is a first for me: a Milk Station, not a gas station, but a place to pump milk.

No joke, there’s self-serve milk on demand and a vending machine with eggs, beer (no I.D. required), juice, cereal, salami, and other stuff right there in this Holstein-painted hut. Look in the background of both photos, and you’ll see the barns where the milk comes from (Note to Caroline: Yeah, I know milk comes from cows, but those cows are in the barn, so give me a break).

Maybe we didn’t really need e-bikes in the first place, as this land is so flat, but when the wind howls, that extra power is super helpful. We only felt a couple of raindrops out here; seriously, only one or two tiny ones, but it was enough to send a prayer back to St. Nikolai Church in Uelvesbüll that we wouldn’t see rain. Oh, I forgot to add a detail regarding the cold: I don’t have a jacket or sweater with me, and there was no way I was going to wear that 6-pound raincoat while out on a ride either.

To walk on the Watt is to live, but what is a Watt? The Watt of “Wattenmeer” is translated as mudflat. And while I was up here nearly frozen, windburned, and getting sunburned without the sun, there was a family of six (three are out of frame) walking barefoot out in the mud.

Maybe this is a good time to explain the Wadden Sea (Wattenmeer in German) that stretches from the Netherlands past Germany and into Denmark. It is the world’s largest tidal flat and one of the two most important vacation destinations for Germans. The island of Sylt, which is north of us, is acclaimed for its natural beauty, but it’s also derided as being a destination for snooty, wealthy Germans that the larger part of the German population hates or at least dislikes.

Speaking of likes and dislikes, Germans love rules, their cars, others not talking to them, and expensive things. They don’t like rule breakers, conspicuous consumption, foreigners (unless they are tourists who go home), and ice cold drinks. As for me, I love laws but find silly rules that press too deeply into conformity here in Germany silly. I’m now old enough not to care about cars, I like cheap things, foreigners are great as they bring new things to culture and our palates, and I grew up on cold drinks, so those are okay too.

Etepetete is a great word to describe many Germans. What is etepetete? First of all, yes, it sounds kind of like “Ate a potato” to me, with German Wikipedia saying, “Fussy…excessively picky… princess-like behavior.” Well, this describes maybe 80% of the population here in the center of Europe. Hey, wait a second, that sounds like you, John! Yeah, I’ll own that, but Germans can’t see it in themselves, while their form of humility is of an arrogance that rubs me like sandpaper. In this regard, Germans and French are identical in that both feel that their culture and education give them the right to be as etepetete as they want.

But etepetete is NOT arrogance unless you consider intelligence and pride of culture as arrogance. America has its own arrogance found in vulgar strength, weapons, being loud, and dismissing everyone else as weak. Germans and French are rightfully arrogant if you call worldliness and tolerance with a measure of intellectualism thrown in as being etepetete. When so many other places on earth value strength and bloodshed as the hallmarks of civilization, then maybe central Europe would look weak and arrogant behind their peaceful multi-culturalism, but that would be wrong. Refined tastes of the few versus the unrefined maws of the un-enlightened masses might be confused. For those striving for a better world, they shouldn’t be humble as they try to demonstrate a better way. Long live being etepetete.

These sheep are heading in the direction of the Westerhever Leuchtturm, a pilgrimage we must all make.

Oh, how I wanted the sun if for no other reason than to be warm on the tiny path along the mudflat, but here we are at the lighthouse, and the heavy clouds lend big drama to the sight.

And the gray of the area also plays well to something Jutta shared with me prior to leaving Frankfurt. It was found in a poem from Theodor Storm about Die graue Stadt am grauen Meer or The Gray Town by the Gray Sea, which told of Storm’s hometown, Husum. It is titled:

The City:

At the grey shore by the grey sea
and apart, lies the city;
mists push down hard on the roofs
and through the quiet the sea booms
uniformly about the city.

No wood murmurs; in May, no bird
chirps without intermission;
only the migrating geese with harsh cries
fly by in the autumn night;
and by the shore the grass ripples.

Yet my heart clings to you,
you grey city by the sea;
forever and forever the magic of youth
will rest smilingly upon you; upon you,
you grey city by the sea.

Fifty miles (80 kilometers) just to see the lighthouse by the gray sea under gray skies was a perfect way to spend the day if you were John and Klaus.

I’d have sworn we had to go left from my internal compass, but obviously, it was malfunctioning as we had to go right. While our route back to Husum was a different one, we made the smart decision to just ride as the lower the sun got in the sky the colder it was getting. Not only was it getting chillier, but it was also growing windier. Why didn’t I bring a sweater when I knew that the temperatures wouldn’t go above 65 degrees? I’ll tell you why: in Arizona, during the winter, when we have many days of 60 – 65 degrees, it’s incredibly nice out, but we don’t have any humidity.

Grain, grasses, sheep, and cows are the main staples found on farms across the region. Most of the pauses taken by this time are chances to let our butts stop hurting for a minute, along with allowing thighs on fire to relax.

Klaus and I are very different people, which should go without saying, seeing he’s German and I’m American, but we do have a few things in common. We are married to the daughters of Jutta Engelhardt; our superpower is finding things for our spouses, we both love being outside, photography, and we both love cooking. Maybe because of the German/American thing, our demeanors are incredibly different. I’m loud in comparison, while Klaus is soft-spoken and often quiet. I volunteer too much and am heavily opinionated, while Klaus must be drawn out and has opinions that seem fixed but could be malleable.

We’ve certainly laughed enough while out on our first brothers-in-law’s trip away from everything, and we’ve enjoyed turning into pescatarians for this journey, learning just a little more about each other. I’d certainly do all of this again, although it would be in a warm and sunny environment, or I’d have the proper clothing. As a matter of fact, I’d love to see Klaus visit me in America where I could take him out on a road trip to the West Coast of America. Ideally, my sister-in-law would overcome some temporary hiccups she’s currently experiencing, and Caroline, Klaus, and I could get out for a visit to some of our favorite sites out our way.

We are nearly back in Husum and need a break. Wow, what a great stop, although the cafe was closed. This old building from 1610 that was a brewery from 1707 to 1850 now serves as a place to refuel when out on bike rides in the area. With the cafe, a nice clean bathroom open 24 hours a day, and an e-bike charging area outback, this is a serious luxury catering to those who choose to pedal through this landscape of northern Germany.

Day 28 – Wattenmeer 2021

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Husum, Germany

It’s a cold, 55-degree (13c), gray morning, and, for the sake of convenience, I inconvenienced myself. Rain is expected throughout the day until early evening, and while at the last minute, I decided to wear pants instead of shorts as I was certain I could deal with some cool weather and drizzle, I’m still in the hotel room as Klaus is out searching for a shop I can buy a cheap sweater and rain jacket for just this one day. Tomorrow and Wednesday promise boundless sun and warm temperatures if you consider 63 degrees (17c) warm.

Certainly, I’m not only in the room for this reason; writing has to continue as well. I fear falling behind even for hours would lead to a cascade into doom, and I could never catch up and I could simply enjoy the break and only focus on the moment. Foolish, you might say, thinking I should always be in the moment? I’d argue that my contradictory position is that I’m always in the moment but with a forbearance that strengthens my resolve to be intentional. I cannot tell you if constant writing offers me anything meaningful at the end of the day or will have done so by the end of my life, but I believe that my focus on what I’m doing as I do it must have sharpened my ability to see and retain what I will share later.

Husum, Germany

Klaus texted me about a shop that was open early, and so I walked over to meet him there. Rain jackets for 60 to 200 Euros ($70 – $237) weren’t what I had in mind, and as it is “summer,” there are very few long sleeve warm shirts in stock right now either. Nothing left to do but get a coffee and wait for the other shops to open at 11:00.

Janny's Eis Kaffee in Husum, Germany

Janny’s Eis-Kaffee has indoor seating along with coffee and ice cream, so that’s where we parked ourselves. Taking a table, we were surrounded by kayaking pictures, but it was this large setup that grabbed our attention and elicited deep laughter from me. In the U.S., you can’t use the word “Fuck!” on the wall of an ice cream shop that kids will obviously visit. But you can in Husum, at least if you are 57-year-old Freya Hoffmeister, who owns Janny’s along with another Eis-Kaffee on the harbor in Husum, and she’s a badass. Freya has circumnavigated Iceland, New Zealand, Australia, Ireland, and South America and is now on a 10-year 50,000-kilometer (31,000 miles) first-ever circumnavigation of North America – all by kayak! In 2015, she was named the National Geographic Adventurer of the Year. Gobsmacked is not a strong enough word to share the WOW factor she inspires.

Tomorrow, I start advertising fish sticks for my new gig as a spokesperson for a fish company selling convenience. This rain jacket (nostalgically known as “Friesennerz” or “Frisian Mink Coat” in Germany) is so heavy I’ve decided I can find warmth in this and will forego a layer for the sole reason of saving money on things I don’t want to carry back to Arizona though this rain jacket is going home even if I have to ship it back. Now I’m ready to face the cold, wet day.

Good thing we checked on what food options exist out on the island of Pellworm that we are visiting today because we won’t have any with the limited time we’ll be there.

We’d like to be on the island for a longer time, but the ferry that takes us on the 30-minute crossing doesn’t run so frequently, apparently only 3 or 4 times a day, and first, we’ll have to catch the bus that requires 40 minutes to take us to the ferry launch.

So instead of leaving right away, we have a good hour to spend, and where better to do that than in a warm, dry building? This is my second time visiting the Schiffahrtsmuseum here in Husum; the first time was with Caroline. It’s tragic that I’m so close to Denmark on the north German coast and can’t find Danish Poon and will instead have to satisfy myself with this Dutch Poon.

From poon to buttplugs, I thought this was a ship museum, not a toy store for my friend Brinn?

It was April 2013 when we first passed through this area of Germany as we wandered without a plan on a trip that was a spontaneous jump into the rental car. We had to go somewhere while in Germany for the first time in 18 years, so why not north? We’d traveled back to Caroline’s birthland because Jutta had broken her hip, and seeing that broken hips can be fatal for the frail and infirm, both of which my mother-in-law could be considered, we left for Germany right away. Luckily, Jutta recovered very well, allowing us a couple of multi-day jaunts into the areas we had not been to before, such as the Wattenmeer.

If you want to see more from that visit to this very place eight years ago, click the link in the previous paragraph. Back then I shared a photo of this entire shipwreck that was dug out of the mud nearby. It’s a 400-year-old relic and one of those things I never thought I’d see with my own eyes a second time in my life.

During that other visit, I pointed out that we had a rental car; Klaus and I, on the other hand, came up from Frankfurt on the train and are now heading to Pellworm Island on the bus. Stopping for photos is out of the question, as is getting off the bus and just grabbing the next one.

With a few minutes to spare before we left, I thought it was a good time to grab a photo of myself as, without Caroline here, there doesn’t really seem to be a great reason for selfies, but I have to admit that I do enjoy an occasional visual reminder that I was in the place I’ve taken so many photos and written so many words that were shared here.

Klaus Engelhardt on his way to Pellworm at the Wattenmeer in northern Germany

Cold and rainy didn’t matter to my brother-in-law Klaus as he, too, was enjoying the quiet cool of being somewhere different for the first time this year.

We have two hours before the last ferry of the day returns visitors to the mainland. We hopped on a bus to take us to the old harbor, which must be the center of town. There’s really nothing here. If there’s another village on this island that has a larger population and more historic buildings, it’ll have to wait for a subsequent visit, as we didn’t feel we had enough time to get out to the lighthouse either.

So we walked through the small number of buildings, happy to be here at the end of the rain.

There was a Friesian horse in this pasture, too, but it was not going to pose for a photo, so you get these two beauties instead.

This is the old harbor.

And this is the other end of the old harbor.

This is a traditional Frisian house with thatched roof.

And a close-up of a window.

From the Old Harbor, we started our walk back to the ferry dock. So, should you ever decide to visit Pellworm, do not take the last ferry to the island, and whatever you do, bring a bike or rent one.

We barely got here, and the island is already saying goodbye.

If you told me that there were more sheep on Pellworm than people, I’d believe you. This got me thinking that Google might have answers for that, and so upon searching I learned that there are about 1,200 people here, 2,000 cows, and about 3,000 sheep.

To be a sheep living on a dike eating grass all the time next to the sea sounds like a great life until you get to the slaughter part.

As for being a human living on the island, I’ve heard the weather up this way is harsh. Unless you farm, teach school, or run a shop or restaurant, I think the means to make money are rather limited. Maybe an Airbnb for a month up this way could be in our future?

That or grow a thick coat of wool and just hang out here like this chill sheep.

While at the Old Harbor, there was a measuring stick on high ground showing six floods from 1573 to 1976, with the 3rd of January 1976 being the most recent, with water 4.74 meters high or 15.5 feet over normal. If it wasn’t for the protective levees that have been continually raised, most of the island would have been underwater.

We were moving too fast back to the ferry, with a good 30 minutes between our expected arrival and the departure back to Husum. Obviously, there was nowhere else to go.

We’ve seen oystercatchers yesterday and today but none as aggressive as about the half-dozen that were circling us. Were we near their nests? Were they simply excited to see people where there are so few?

On the left of the photo is the lighthouse we would have liked to visit.

Four cars and maybe half a dozen humans were the cargo making the 30-minute return journey across the shallow sea. Back in Husum, we had dinner at Fischrestaurant Wiesendanger, and while the fish was great, it was the broccoli cream soup with smoked salmon that was the big winner, especially on such a cold, wet day.

Exhausted, we were back in the hotel before 10:00 and asleep minutes after that. Tomorrow we are looking at nice weather and a warm-up to 17 Celsius. I hope that’s warm enough, as I’m not wearing that giant raincoat on an 80-kilometer (50-mile) bike ride.

Day 27 – North To The Sea

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, Germany

To bed late, early to rise. Neither Klaus nor I were woken by the alarm, but he woke long before I did. Taking an earlier train to the Hauptbahnhof than planned, we were able to grab a bite to eat and coffee casually instead of sprinting through the main train station.

Onboard the RE50 train to Fulda in the quiet 1st class section; we left Frankfurt at precisely 6:26; this is Germany, after all. Travel time is about 90 minutes, but without wifi, things feel a bit primitive. For the next 8 hours, we’ll be on one train or another as we have three connections over the course of the day.

Klaus Engelhardt on train to Fulda, Germany

Klaus is my travel companion today. This is the first time he and I have ever gone somewhere together; not only that, it is his first vacation without his wife, Stephanie. It is also our victory lap for having finished everything that needed to be done with our mother-in-law’s apartment. The keys were turned over to the owner ten days early, and he’ll be able to let his next tenant move in early.

On the way to Fulda, Germany

Regarding the 8 hours of travel, we are headed to Husum, Germany, in the far north. This is a fairly good starting point to explore the Wattenmeer (Wadden Sea), which is a shallow body of water of tidal flats and wetlands. When Caroline and I were last in the area, we never saw the sea as low tide makes it disappear, but Caroline did walk in the famous mud. With Klaus and I up in the Wattenmeer until Wednesday, we should have enough time to see many of the sights that we previously missed.

On the way to Fulda, Germany

Over the coming few days, I’ll share (because I know how to overdo that so well) much, if not everything, about what we see and experience. With that in mind, here’s a barn on a farm with windmills in the background out the window of the train somewhere between Frankfurt and Fulda.

Fulda, Germany

Ninety minutes later, we are transferring to the train that will bring us to Hamburg for the next leg of the trip.

Fulda, Germany

The train that was supposed to be 20 minutes late turned out to only be 10 minutes late. We are now on the slowest moving ICE (Inter City Express) train ever as we crawl down the track at about 130km/h or 80 mph.

Between Fulda and Göttingen, Germany

Maybe you were expecting my exceptional photography skills to be on display here. Taking photos from a train window leaves a few things to be desired, starting with clean windows, but we can do nothing about that.

Between Fulda and Göttingen, Germany

Fortunately, there haven’t been 100 beautiful little villages we’ve passed as we are out in the middle of nowhere.

Between Fulda and Göttingen, Germany

Just pulled into Gottingen 3 hours after we left Frankfurt. Hannover is our next stop, and then Hamburg. Strange enough, time seems to be flying. The stress that comes with driving your own car makes 3 hours of travel a bit tiresome, while being the passenger just gazing out the window is not only relaxing but also offers the chance for a random photo.

Between Göttingen and Hannover, Germany

The train has finally picked up speed as we race over along at 221 km/h (137 mph)

Between Göttingen and Hannover, Germany

The green blur of a bullet train moving along like a bullet.

Between Göttingen and Hannover, Germany

We were in a tunnel when I took this hence the white streak across Klaus’s eyes; they are lights outside the train as my camera is focused into the darkness, but the reflection jumped back at me. Not the result I expected but not a bad one either. Like a gazelle, we are about to leap into Hannover.

Between Hannover and Hamburg, Germany

As we inch closer to midday and further away from Frankfurt, we had to give up our unreserved seats on the left side of the train for the sunnier right side where the warmth of the sun is making for heavy eyes. That or the less than five hours of sleep either of us had is playing a role. I guess it goes without saying that my step count is looking ugly, but we should make up for that after we arrive at the sea.

Hamburg Hauptbahnhof Germany

We arrived in Hamburg with almost enough time to spare. Well, we had a minute or two before we had to board the train on the track right next to where we pulled in. The ambiguity of what part of the train was ours confused even Klaus, and we quickly learned we were on the segment of the train going to Kiel and not Flensburg. No problem, we jumped off and headed for “our section,” which was the next car, but the doors were already closed and were not going to reopen as I pushed the button and then the train started to move. This wasn’t me making it go; it was the train saying goodbye to idiots as it pulled away.

The next train leaves in an hour. Time for lunch, which turned out to be as bad as the cup of coffee we didn’t enjoy on the trip from Fulda to Hamburg. So, attention Deutsche Bahn, your coffee is meh, your user experience and user interface are both meh, and now on this regional train with 90 minutes of travel time, we don’t have wifi. Oh, and that part from Frankfurt to Fulda is also 90 minutes, with no wifi, what decade are you guys operating in? What is the incentive to travel by rail if the ability to connect and get fueled up on good coffee doesn’t exist? This begs the question, is this your idea of 1st class ICE service, really?

Rail tracks north of Hamburg, Germany

We arrived in Hamburg to gray skies, but once we were some kilometers north of the city, the clouds started to break up, offering great views of billowy clouds. The cumulous display might be part of the weather forecast that suggested Germany was in for some heavy rains everywhere except Husum. You are looking at rail tracks photographed with a slow shutter to smear them. Next stop, Schleswig, or maybe another photo if I see something spectacular.

Schleswig-Holstein Cows in their ancestral lands in Germany

I almost missed taking this photo, and I’m surprised I got any of these cows in the frame. These are the famed Holstein breed of cattle in their ancestral lands: Schleswig-Holstein. The Germans have built these cows for over 218 years using similar processes they’ve perfected in building the Mercedes-Benz. If you see these cows in other lands, be assured they were made in Brazil or Pakistan from inferior parts, as only the Germans hold the patent to these highly engineered robot cows. Final fact: in full gallop, a real Holstein can reach speeds of over 240 km/h or 148 mph.

Wind turbines in northern Germany

Evidence of Germany’s move to alternative energy has been following us the entire day so far. Wind and solar are scattered over the landscape far and wide, and contrary to German worries about these turbines killing birds, I only witnessed a couple of dozen being shredded by those blades of terror.

Random town on the way to Schleswig, Germany

And then there was that moment I realized we’d become airborne, flying over small villages to which access to mass transportation is denied in order to ensure those people never escape. I think I’m happy I cannot look out my window as it appears it’s a straight drop down to the merciless earth below.

Hedeby and Danevirke are the areas I learned about on the website listed here. This strip of land has been settled as far back as the Viking Age and is the narrowest point between the Baltic and North Seas. This also acted as the border area between Scandinavia and Central Europe. I photographed this on our brief stop in Schleswig, which features as a starting point to explore the area, as far as I can tell.

Looking north, about 40 kilometers (25 miles) from here, if you could see that far on this very flat part of the earth, you’d be looking into Denmark. We are on the fourth and final segment of our trip to the top of Europe.

We’ve reached Husum on the North Sea, but before anything else can happen, Klaus has to get a COVID test. Without that, he cannot check into the hotel with me, nor can he eat in restaurants if it proves too cold up here. Then again, he’ll have to get a test at least every 24 hours if he’s to eat in restaurants. While he waits for the swabbing of his sinus, I’m outside, happy I’ve been fully vaccinated. With his test complete, he’ll have to wait about 20 minutes for the results so we head to the hotel to get checked in. By the time our bags are dropped off in our room, his negative results arrive; we show them to the person at the front desk, and we are good for the remainder of our stay here on the edge of the Wattenmeer.

How about a nice 10-kilometer (6 miles) walk before dinner? We didn’t leave with that in mind, but that’s where the trail took us as we left the harbor area, walking towards the sea. Reaching one of the dikes, we went through the gate and saw this sign asking dog owners to keep their hounds on leashes so as not to ruffle the wool of the local sheep.

There are dikes that are pooped on by grazing sheep and then there are pristine levees such as this one that, with a little bit of blue sky, look as though they could be a Windows 95 background.

The weather here is a rapidly changing skyscape of racing clouds that change from billowy white to menacing gray, threatening imminent rain, but they, too, just stream overhead and are quickly gone.

There’s so much to see here, and the light is playing a significant role in what get’s photographed and subsequently shared as my photographs shift between dull and vibrant as quickly as a cloud moves from one side of the sky to the other.

I can’t help but feel I’m looking at the canopy of the world that is forming north of here. These are the clouds that floated out of America, across the Atlantic, passed over the United Kingdom, and are on their way to Scandinavia before retiring in the Arctic. Like whales, they are migrating; only these are leviathans of the skies. You can trust that I don’t really believe that weather and the cumulus that inhabits it work that way, but you also can’t know how my imagination works.

Earlier, I wrote that the Germans are building cows, they also build land using sticks. By limiting the wave action using these water breaks in shallow waters, they can limit erosion and start collecting sediments that extend the land, thus taking from the sea instead of the other way around.

Even at the end of the Earth, you will find art, in this case, wind trousers. The German word “Windhose” means “whirlwind” or “tornado,” so this is, in effect, a pun.

I suppose in some way I promised loads of poop when I showed the pristine dike above, but from this angle and distance, this land, too, appears perfect. Look closely at where your feet are when walking here, though, as evidence of the sheep is everywhere.

It is not 1:29 p.m. when the Lamb of God appears to John; it is late in the day and nearly evening, though the sun is traveling with us at such a late hour. Looking at this photo I’m struck that maybe this was the sign I was looking for in visiting all the churches and cathedrals on previous journeys. Here was Jesus himself looking into my soul and I gazed upon him as a dumb animal as I’m too blind to see the obvious right before me. So was he the dumb animal, or am I?

We’d almost sat down for dinner at a table right here next to the water when the sun peeked out for another performance, giving me what I thought would be my sunset photo. I was wrong. We were also wrong about sitting next to the water as the wind picked up, and it was feeling cold. This contrast of a temperature of 61 degrees (16c) to the 95 degrees (35c) we were having in Frankfurt was a bit unexpected in how jarring we recoiled from what should have been a pleasantly cool temperature.

It was nearly 10:00 p.m. when we left the Compass Restaurant where we dined on a couple of great fish dinners. What I forgot to share earlier is that we’d stopped for ice cream before our walk, which was part of what necessitated our lengthy stroll next to the sea. Now with 17 hours into a long day and tired feet that barely carry us back to our hotel, we are just minutes away from falling asleep with wishes to not arise with the first bird song we hear.

Day 26 – Between

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Frankfurt, Germany

Between America and Germany, between here and then, between culture and death. We have choices of where we want to be, what we want to eat, and how we want to feel. Sure, it takes a lot of love, friendship, and trust to succeed in finding our way into and between these joys, but there are options for those who are uncompromising in their ability to compromise.

Frankfurt, Germany

Today is my day in between as tomorrow I go while today I stay. Between things are preparation and then a train ride that will cover 640 kilometers (400 miles) from Frankfurt to Husum in the north. It would be faster to drive, but taking photos from the windows of a car is not as safe as doing the same from the train. My mind is already halfway to the next place and three-quarters of the way home. I’m in between.

Frankfurt, Germany

I’m in between others’ lives too. How does one care about what passes among family members when certain obvious conditions are at play? Do we ignore tensions for the sake of neutrality while that train approaches possible wreckage? Or do we engage ourselves, risking our own place in a crumbling cohesiveness that is at the precipice? I know the answer and throw myself into the volcano.

Frankfurt, Germany

What if I’m wrong? Then, the ensuing wreckage threatens to ensnare others into the mess I might be creating from misplaced perceptions that were only obvious to me. What if I’m right? I can’t really ever know, as the forces that move people ultimately have to come from the truth that resonates within them.

Frankfurt, Germany

So, I walk and walk and walk. My sense of time is out of sync with my significant other, who is 10,000 kilometers away from me, on the opposite side of the earth. Our love is never more than milliseconds apart; even when asleep, I feel that our heads lay right next to one another with nary a millimeter between them. To fill that minuscule gap, I walk, and I walk some more. In every step, those places between my thoughts are traveled, and the distance is shortened as I grow ever more familiar with where I’ve been and where I might be going.

Frankfurt, Germany

Still, there are pathways I hadn’t seen that require a sharp right or left turn, and yet others I never saw coming that present opportunities to peek into the dark alleys where danger might exist. If I attempt my best to remain aware, maybe I’ll find just enough light to illuminate my own ignorance.

Frankfurt, Germany

Between the darkness and light, our youth guides us unless we murder that naivete to enable the future dead self to operate in the here and now. How does one reconcile living with one’s own corpse? We close the gap between spontaneity, positivity, and hope so we can clasp that hand of despair. Do not walk with the dead, as you, too, will soon be rotting.

Frankfurt, Germany

Do you know those places right in front of you when you are wandering around that stand between moments in time? They’re among the trees, in architecture, and the faces you might encounter. All things are in between their own history while simultaneously existing between everything else’s history. If you cannot perceive that the person across from you is not your age, nor are they remotely aware of where you are in your own life’s process, it’s likely because you’ve turned off your awareness and ceased wandering. The dead coyote or sleeping woodpecker were expert wanderers living in moments of freedom until consciousness fully stopped or was just taking a pause; it seems that only humans can be considered as the living dead.

Frankfurt, Germany

If you are foolish enough to remain at home witnessing the past without any possibility of peering into a spontaneous moment. Your routines are blocking you from refocusing the telescope and the microscope that is your perception. Your thoughts, like the notes on a piano, drift out of tune, and befuddlement befalls you like a discordant song played at the wrong speed.

Frankfurt, Germany

Now I must go walk as I run out of what I filled up on during my previous walk. I’m inching closer to being in between the words that will run out before being replenished. Walking is the food for my mind, as is what I press into my mouth is nourishment for my body. The symbiosis should have always been known, but when a society places a premium on cultural suicide, how do we survive that strangulation of our imaginations when the voices that would inform us of our ignorance are lost in the noise between entertainment and consumption?

Frankfurt, Germany

Do I lament this place time has brought me between young and old man where idealism and hope might be blinding me to a reality where the masses no longer care about survival? I do not mean physical survival but the independence of our ability to create and explore the complexity our ancestors discovered and gifted us. No, I cannot lament this great fortune of being present as the future may deal me a blow and take away this insight I believe I’m within. I’m not between here and there; I’m in the now and ecstatic for this awareness. And so, I go walk more.

Frankfurt, Germany

What if tomorrow I have nothing to say? I may have walked a thousand miles by then, yet my fingers could obscure the letter sequence lost behind a gate of frustration. It happens that our emotional state tells the brain’s creative outlet that it is not allowed to deliver anything that might be meaningful to others due to internal turmoil when ego cascades in a destructive crush, trying to obscure the truth. Maybe the truth is I’m not being honest with others, or maybe not with myself. Can I hear those around me and the me that is within demanding I listen to things I must learn because I lost my ability to celebrate raw exploration?

Frankfurt, Germany

Mental illness springs forward in the void of neglect and self-abuse that arrives with turning in without the balancing counter-action of turning out. What exactly transpires or went wrong as we go rogue, turning into a hermit? The mythology of the troll comes to mind where this angry creature must suffer for taking refuge under the bridge and forever being afraid to go beyond its domain. How tragic the idea that as a shut-in, our inner troll emerges, pushing away all those who care and come near, costing this victim a hefty price of total alienation.

Frankfurt, Germany

Some are alone and lost, while others carry the voices of unwanted visitors within. Learning how to choose a path and what to filter out isn’t always as simple as an A/B choice. We must look to others for help to escape when our existence becomes a blur, or we are a reflection in the shadows between clarity and light. Take the hand of the one who is trying to rescue you; being alone is not the same as being human.

Day 25 – Am I Ever Going To Move?

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

It’s past noon before I emerge from my lair in Heddernheim, where I reveled in the mundane tasks of laundry, eating, writing, and just hanging out for the sake of relaxing for a minute. When I finally jumped aboard a train, I had been already entertaining the idea of just staying put, but that option would have me miss an opportunity to experience something that I would regret once I returned home. I wonder why I so easily take for granted where I live in Phoenix, but maybe I don’t take that city for granted after all. True, I’m no longer inspired to photograph it and justify that by telling myself that the repeating patterns of conformity offer no novelty for my eyes to explore, but I do still like being there for the incredible winter climate and being well-positioned to explore places beyond our desert home.

Motion where old meets new and motion where we move within and without versus standing in place staring at the same shadow theater in our homes that replaced the cave. The world is not so black and white that all of reality can be gleaned by witnessing it from afar. Our ancestors and contemporaries have left, but there are countless artifacts telling us where they’ve been and giving us clues about where they might have gone. Engage yourself on a path of randomized branches where you discover things that have always been there but remained unseen, or maybe an object right before you change your path as you navigate obstacles. Of course, if you are more comfortable finding the hidden landmines in your head, sit still, do not move, convince yourself that you’ve seen it all, or at least know it all, and you will be sure to fall off the ledge into your own madness.

A piece of fabric that stands between sanity and empathy has been able to divide peoples of various lands in a way that fascist thugs and religious zealots have done in the past using violence and coercion, not for the sake of public health but to cleanse a people of thoughts deemed poisonous to various regimes. How this small article that temporarily shields the nose and mouth has been equated to those on crusades, purges, holocausts, and persecution can only be a testament to how few enemies people have aside from the demons of insecurity that live within their heads.

You are not the lonely “Ferkelkraut” living alone outside of society and culture unless you removed yourself when you found the world intimidating to your limited knowledge of how the world should operate in a perfect state. Life is not a vacuum where you choose the exotic elements that you deem worthy to enter your universe. You are, for a moment, alive in the chaotic soup of constant motion compared to this weed that will never stand up and make choices that benefit itself and others in its proximity. You may choose to be a noxious weed, but should your raging fear and anger about lacking the means to participate on a group level cripple you, maybe you should choose to live the life of a plant fixed in place.

You will never see these paving stones where I have seen them. You cannot know if they were hot or cold or exactly what the color of the plant life was between them. You can only make assumptions, not based on reality, but using your bias to infer some value or other. This is the mistake of those who cannot move across and through the fabric of reality as they attempt to define this constantly moving plane of perception for others. The stone we see today is not the same stone we saw yesterday, and to reference it as the never-changing archetype that should define all other stones must certainly be a sign of man unhinged.

This is where we humans go when group psychosis afflicts a simple majority. We stumble over the stones that once guided us into reason, empathy, and compassion at a time when progress was hailed as all-important. Tripping over our better selves, the angriest among us snatch those who attempted to flee to safety, as what happened here with Hermann Lismann, who at 60 years old in 1938 fled to France only to be held outside of Paris in the village of Drancy until he was transferred to Majdanek Concentration Camp in Poland and murdered for his desire to live and believe the way he saw fit. We flirt with these kinds of insanity when we start to believe that external forces are the cause for the conditions we’ve inflicted upon ourselves through our fear of what we don’t understand.

You mustn’t understand me nor desire to define me. That I don’t fit your limited ideas of what and how reality has shaped you doesn’t offer you license to demand my conformity. It is not the immigrant, gay person, atheist, black, brown, or other among us that drives your fear; it’s the small and petty little animal within who is afraid of the beasty stealing your life or nest. You require therapy to fit into a fluid world that moves with the seasons, years, and the endless march of time that only goes forward.

What lies ahead is not the edge of the world where you will fall into nothing at the end of the trail; the nothing you fear is where your mind falls into uncertainty because you’ve convinced yourself that what might be ahead would certainly change you beyond recognition.

But what if down that path you find an incredible restaurant packed full of those others you think you abhor, and instead of stealing your identity, gender, orientation, rights, or culture, they welcome you to their table and share a story that has you laughing at how their uncertainty also gave them anxiety about joining the party. After a glass of the local favorite drink, you find yourself understanding that this person doesn’t have the power to destroy every belief system you have grown crusty in but instead offers you the chance to let down your guard. To be among strangers and sharing will most certainly leave you with impressions that move with you bending the path you believed you were on.

You know nothing about this man, nothing. Okay, you know he’s balding, bearded, middle-aged, with eyes that require help to see things clearly, but what else do you know? Will you like him or hate him? Should I tell you anything about him, it is my bias and personal filters that will tell you those things I want to believe him to be, but the reality is that he may well be someone altogether different from you. Not to say he won’t still be himself, but you bring yourself to this party and only you will ever know the things shared with him that might be exchanged between you two.

Now, head back into the night. You’ve crossed a bridge that offers you a new view of your former certainty. Maybe you’ve started learning that being stuck at the bottom of this dark river in the mud is not the ideal place to be when you could be in the brightness of sunshine, rowing in the flow of those enjoying the opportunity to find these special places of discovery, awareness, and acceptance?