Traveling Baker

Along the rolling Danube River in downtown Regensburg, Germany, sausage and beer lovers rejoice at Historische Wurstkuche, an outdoor restaurant near an impressive stone bridge. Built on a dozen pillars by Romans in the 12th century, the bridge was an engineering marvel of its time. Today it is closed to public traffic, but it remains a central gathering spot. Camera-toting tourists stroll across the span, running their hands over the old stones and enjoying an unspoiled view of the city. Below, families gather for a quiet picnic on the banks of the river. A man on a bicycle stops to fish for a while after work.

Regensburg, like much of western Europe, revels in such gathering spots. You’ll find several cobblestone town squares in any city, each with a smattering of outdoor cafes and shops, and smiling folks enjoying coffee drinks in the soft afternoon sun. On church steps, monuments and other places that afford good scenic views, friends gather to talk and to meditate.

Sarah, Yvonne and I settled into our chairs at a round table underneath a large umbrella. All around, the German language hung in the air as people chatted and their children frolicked in a fountain nearby. We took turns nibbling on an overflowing glass of ice cream, and as we spoke about what life is like in our respective homes, the sun slowly slinked down toward the horizon.

Some highlights from the past few days:

• I forgot to mention this from our jaunt into the Netherlands: Aging prostitutes sat in big windows, hoping to lure customers and looking like living, cigarette-smoking mannequins in a twisted department store.
• On our way to Germany, I had a pleasant realization that the country is the official Land of Gummy Bears.
• We climbed the stairs to Walhalla, a museum outside Regensburg that was built in the Greek Revival style. The view from the top was a mind-blowing 180-degree look at the landscape below. Cars the size of thumbs whizzed along the Danube, a helicopter whirled overhead and you could stare effortlessly for miles into the horizon.
• Yvonne took us to a small Irish pub in Regensburg, where two German singers performed covers of Bob Dylan and Lynnard Skynnard. “Where are the Irishmen?” I wondered aloud, missing the lovable drunkards from the Irish pubs back home. “The Germans must have kicked their butts,” Sarah snapped back.
• Many of you know that I have a little theory that Germans love David Hasselhoff. Well, I curtly asked Yvonne about this, and her evasive answers left more questions than answers. “Yvonne,” I asked, “is it true that Germans love David Hasselhoff?” She looked confused, then smiled broadly, searching for the right words. “I guess it is true that many do, but I don’t,” she replied. But then she continued about how she wasn’t even interested in the 1980s actor’s recent divorce or the pending lawsuit by his ex-wife. Hmmm… “Sure seems like you know a lot about David Hasselhoff, Yvonne,” I said. She feigned ignorance and tried to change the subject to Don Johnson. I think this just further proves my theory that Germans love David Hasselhoff.
• On the way to Kaplice, Czech Republic, yesterday, we took a wrong train and wound up three hours off schedule. No one spoke English, so we had to resort to hand gestures and onomatopoeia to get back on track. Later, a conductor woman with an ironed-on frown admonished me for stretching my legs into the seat in front of me. She wagged her crooked finger in a big show of disapproval, and then every time she passed after that, she furrowed her brow and glared at me, daring me to do it again.
• The beer still floweth smoothly in this part of Europe. I’ve had so many different kinds — good ones — that I can’t name them all. Basically I have one, then try another brand. In Czech, you’ll find the city of Plzen, birthplace of the beloved Pilsner beer. And also in Czech is Budweiser — the original, and namesake of its inferior American spinoff.