A Tale of Two Weekends.

Entry IX
Day 20- 13:12
In the dorm

Ah, to steal a line from Dickens, there is no classier beginning for a post. Morale is high here: the heat has abated for the next millennium, I have the afternoon and evening off, and this morning I bought a blue pen, which improved spirits immensely. It's very shiny. In addition to updating this periodically, you can view various photos from my journeys on the Facebook account. Cheerio.

Now that the introduction is concluded, we now take a short jaunt to roughly two weeks ago. That Friday, the I got on a train for the Schwarzwald, the rail lines of the IC leading me farther south, past Baden-Baden, almost to the borders of Switzerland. I disembarked in the Freiburg am Breisgau Hauptbahnhof. There’s something the mass opinions are fond of saying about first impressions; that they’re almost always right most of the time, I think it was. I didn’t bother to muse over whether it applied to Freiburg, but I did find it odd that they permitted the sale of dentist’s torture devices in the middle of the train station. More continental levity here, I presumed.

Exiting the station, I quickly legged it up to the tram stop, the frigid wind snapping at my light anorak. I noticed later on my way to the hostel that the tall buildings that lined most of the streets shielded me for the most part, but that I would need a heavier jacket than my present one if this ghastly weather were to continue.

I found my lodgings, the Black Forest Hostel, shortly after exiting the Strassenbahn, and checked in. The hostel is situated at the base of the Schlossberg, the mountain that formed their alpine backyard. It was quiet and still inside for the most part: either the guests were still asleep or gone out for the day. After stashing my possessions in an empty locker, I set out to wander around, and also to search for a new jacket.

This has been the standard procedure that I have followed since arriving in Germany: first time you're visiting somewhere, walk around until you familiarize yourself with the surroundings. It doesn't really matter whether you get lost or not, and this was especially true for Freiburg. The town's growth has been constricted over the centuries, first by the mountains that surround it, then as the rail lines began to define where the city center was, so it remains on even a smaller scale than Mannheim today.

Now then, to the jacket. As I have mentioned to almost everyone in our group, the Germans know how to make better jackets than the Americans. If you study their clothing, it has overt similarities to military dress and style, one of the things I liked about it. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that I spent nearly the entire afternoon looking for a jacket: there was a wide selection, and it was raining. I suppose, bondless from any rendezvous, free from any group with me, I might have been a little absorbed in my search. Everyone else had gone to Amsterdam for the weekend, for obvious carnal reasons which I naturally eschewed. Regardless, I emerged from the ESPIRIT store in Freiburg, clad in new threads, and with the sun shining brightly down upon me. It didn't get below 80 for the rest of the weekend. Blasted ruffians.

However, only slightly disinhearted by this unfavorable change of the weather, I returned to the hostel and claimed my camera from its steely cell, and set out once again just as quickly, this time on a quest for photos. I've also adopted the practice of not taking the camera with me on the first run while I get my bearings. It's too distracting, plus I'd rather look like an idiot tourist who knows his way around the place instead of an idiot tourist who's lost.

Since the weather had improved, it gave me an opportunity to attempt to scale the Schlossberg, the mountain which was behind my lodgings. To gain access to it, I crossed the main road and ascended the steps astride the Scwabentor, a clock-tower that was adorned by a spirited depiction of St. George. After reaching the summit some 15-20 minutes later, I gazed upon the vast landscape before me and reflected on the German mania for building crazy things on the sides of mountains. You would presume, naturally, that the alpine conditions: rugged terrain, uneven footing, rocks, indigenous beasts possessing a strong penchant for devouring trespassers, would discourage such endeavors, but nay. On the side of this one mountain alone, there had been constructed: a cable car lift, about 7200 km of hiking paths of various conditions and origins, scattered memorials to God alone knows what, seeing as all the plaques are in German, a vineyard, and (my personal favorite) a miniature golf course.

Now that I had seen the most of Freiburg from the vista, I descended upon the city proper and threaded my way through some of the lesser trafficked streets and alleys. One of the unique features of Freiburg are the small brooks, called Bächle, that line most of the cities streets. They are always flowing, never calm, never still, always in motion, much like the country of Germany itself. They were first introduced in the 12th century to keep the city cool in the summer sun, and to help fight fires. According to local folklore, if you step in a Bächle, you will marry a person from Freiburg. I took a picture of one that flowed down several steps in the rock, near a plaza where many of the students from the university hang out on the weekends. As I walked away down the narrow street, I could hear a barroom piano coming from the square I had just left. Unless my ears were deceiving me, I could've sworn he was playing "As Time Goes By."