Köln, briefly

I stopped briefly in Germany on the way home. It happened like this.

Educational Opportunities arranges most of my overseas escapades. I asked them if it would be possible (after finishing off a group in Israel/Palestine) to have a one-week stopover to visit my daughter. The air department kindly worked their magic and adjusted my ticket.

The kids were excited to show me their new place. I was excited to see it.

I boarded an early morning Lufthansa flight out of Tel Aviv. Five hours later we were standing in the Rhineland.

The air/rail transfer labyrinth in Frankfurt, Germany.

The bewildering complex of glass and steel known simply as FRA was a hub of activity. Frankfurt has the largest airport in Germany and one of the largest in all of Europe. Here, air meets rail. I cleared security and followed the signs to the railway terminal. Inside I found my first German mystery: the train ticket self-service kiosk. Shortly thereafter I acquired the phrase, “Die Maschine ist kaputt!”

I cast about for an information desk. I found one, unoccupied. Undeterred, I sat down and fingered my iPhone. No signal. I dug through my roller bag searching for a small plastic container. Inside was a paperclip and a less Israeli-specific SIM card. I tried the necessary iPhone surgery with the tool on the bench. Then I dug through my bag a second time, this time looking for eyeglasses. Technological challenges abound in Germany.

With the new card in its tiny slot, I finally got the bars I needed. I emailed Moriah.

One railway platform in FRA.

“I’m in the Frankfurt train station! Where do I get off in Köln?* There seem to be several stops.”

“It’s confusing,” she comforted me. “I’ll get your ticket on the app and email it. Look for the ICE trains.”

ICE trains? That’s so Nordic.

Of course, this is not ice as in Lambeau Field, but I-C-E or “eeeeee-tseee-eeee,” the acronym for “Inter City Express.” As I learned, these trains really blow. Like two-hundred miles an hour, they blow. Whoa!

I found the right platform, car, and seat. I leaned back in my icy ride and braced myself.

The wheels-down 190 mph experience was not as white-knuckled as I expected it to be. It was really quite comfortable and floaty and if not for the blur of scenery (and the occasional ear-popping tunnel), I would have never guessed we were moving at mad speeds only possible while riding in a jet or in a car driven by my son.

The scenery was generally rolling and open. Stands of deciduous trees, new leaves coming on, clustered here and there. They lined the hills and spilled downslope. Wind turbines walked like giants over the ridges. Quaint villages, well kept and brightly painted, dotted the landscape. It was springtime in Germany: wet, cool, windy, and still attempting to escape winter’s grip. All the natural world was seemingly holding its breath in abeyance, waiting for the signal to cut loose.

The ICE, the German high-speed rail.

Less than an hour later, the screen inside the train indicated we were approaching the Köln Messe/Deutz station. As we slowed, I grabbed my roller bag and stepped toward the door. I hopped down to the platform. Moriah had texted me to meet her on the Hohenzollern Bridge. “Look for the horse statues,” she said. “Kings or generals or something.” I got directions from a local (or two) and headed for the four horsemen.

A wide set of stairs took me up to the pedestrian walkway on the bridge itself. For the first time, I could clearly see the twin towers of the Köln cathedral. They dominated the skyline. I headed across the bridge, pausing once or twice to watch the brown water of the Rhine sweeping beneath me. A light rain was falling.

Then I saw a figure bundled against the wind; her arms were waving.

It was Moriah!

She comes by her crazy naturally.


*Köln (or even Koeln) is the German spelling for the city most English speakers write out as Cologne. In many places around the world, locals will spell a city in their own way to make it sound phonetically correct to them. Interestingly enough, Cologne—used by English speakers—is drawn from the French (Doesn’t that stink? . . . . Ahhhhh!—Cologne. Yes, I just did that.)


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