There is probably no landscape so evocative of Germany as the Middle Rhine. It is as if everything from the water to the trees were composed by Richard Wagner. With its rolling green hills, the river bustling with barge traffic, the quaint villages and innumerable castles, the whole place is like the fever dream of some 19th century romantic poet. This is what I was here to explore.

I had traveled from Düsseldorf that morning (nearly a two-hour trip) and arrived in Koblenz—the largest city in this section of the Rhine—by noon. There, I dropped my big backpack in a storage locker and then immediately hopped on another train.

In just another 15 minutes, I was in Braubach, a sleepy little town on the eastern bank of the river. But I was not here for the village. Instead, I walked straight to the top of the hill that overlooks the town, rushing so as to catch the first possible tour. I was going to visit the Marksburg. (Some people say “Marksburg Castle,” but “burg” already means “castle.”)

Now, the Rhineland has been an important territory since Roman times. Simultaneously a geographic division (near the border with France), as well as a major artery of trade, the river is a key to political and economic dominance. As a result, it is densely packed with castles and fortifications, from those hoping to defend from invasion or extract tolls. Most of these castles have been destroyed in one war or another. The castles standing today are, most of them, reconstructions dating from the 19th century, when the Rhine became an epicenter of the Romantic movement.

But the Marksburg is one of only two castles which was never burned down or blown up (though it was severely damaged by the Americans in 1945—sorry). For that reason, it is one of the jewels of the river.

You can only visit the Marksburg on a tour, and most of these are in German. Yet anglophones need not fear: non-German speakers are given a little information card to read along as the tour guide explains what’s what. I optimistically thought that my German might be good enough to catch at least some of my guide’s explanation (which sounded very engaging), though I quickly had to admit that I was in over my head. Still, it was a fascinating visit.

We began by entering the main gate. Immediately I was given a sense of how difficult it would have been to actually conquer this castle, for we found ourselves in a kind of narrow stone passageway with a wooden platform above us. For any archers—or even for a boy with a heavy rock to throw—we would have been sitting ducks. On the wall were the coats of arms of all of the noble families who once controlled this castle. At the top there was a battery of cannons pointed out towards the Rhine. Looking out, I could see that any ships on the river below would be in much the same position as a soldier storming through the gate—proverbial fish in barrels.

Now, because the castle fell into neglect before its acquisition by the German Castles Association, none of its original furnishings remain. Thus, the interior of the castle is more of a museum than a time-capsule. There is, for example, a room dedicated to the different types of arms and armor used by soldiers throughout history (a bit corny, to be honest), and a garden full of plants important to the medieval herbarium. I particularly liked the kitchen full of period utensils; it put me in the mood for a kingly feast (though I had to settle for currywurst in the castle’s café). But the most beautiful thing to see were the romanesque frescoes on the wall of the chapel.

My next stop was a town bearing the attractive name of Sankt Goarshausen. This town is yet another fairly nondescript village on the Rhine. Its main claim to fame is being next to the Lorelei—a huge rocky cliff at a pronounced bend in the river. For centuries, this was a perilous point of navigation for water traffic on the Rhine, and so various legends have grown up to explain the numerous shipwrecks. The most famous of these involves a kind of blond siren who distracts sailors with her beauty. This legend was put into verse by the famed poet Heinrich Heine, whose poem has been set to music by several composers. Here are a few lines:

Die Luft ist kühl, und es dunkelt

Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein

Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt

Im Abendsonnenschein

Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet

Dort oben wunderbar

Ihr Goldenes Geschmied blitzet

Sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar

In English this goes something like this:

The air is cool, and darkness comes

And quietly flows the Rhine

The mountain peaks are glistening

In the rays of the evening sun

There sits the beautiful maiden

Up there, wondrous

Her golden jewels are shining

She combs her golden hair

You get the idea. Well, beautiful maidens notwithstanding, the Lorelei is indeed a navigational hazard. As recently as 2011, a barge met its demise at this place. And as with seemingly all capsized boats, this one was carrying an environmental hazard—in this case, several thousand tons of sulphuric acid. Sorry, fish.

I was here because I wanted to climb up to the top. The path was short but steep, consisting of one staircase after another. On the way, I passed a sign that told me not to “desecrate this holy place,” as it was meant to “honor German heathens.” Duly warned, I arrived panting and sweaty at the top, where there was a small park with an excellent view of the river. When I caught my breath and got my fill of the scenery, I decided that it was time to return to Sankt Goarshausen. Instead of going straight back down the way I came up, I followed another path on my map that seemed less steep. Soon I found myself in the middle of a field of wheat. I kept going, and soon the Burg Katz (“Cat Castle”) came into view. This is more of a mansion attached to a derelict turret than a proper castle, and in any case is now privately owned and not open to visitors. But it does make for a good photo.

(A bit upriver is the humorously named Burg Maus, or “Mouse Castle,” which was built by the rivals of the Counts of Katzenellenbogen.)

At Sankt Goarshausen I had a beer to cool off and then caught the train back to Koblenz. That was it for my first day on the Rhine. I had been moving nonstop since the early morning, and I needed dinner and a shower. But I still had the next full day to explore.

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Early the next morning, the train left me in Sankt Goar. This town is directly opposite where I was the day before, visiting the Lorelei. Indeed, Sankt Goar is the sibling town of Sankt Goarshausen, the two being named after Goar of Aquitaine, who served as bishop in Trier, over 100 km to the west. For many years now, a bridge has been proposed to connect these two estranged sisters (which would be the first bridge to cross the middle Rhine), but it has yet to be built. Instead, a ferry runs back and forth a few times a day.

I was here to see yet another castle, one of the biggest on the Rhine: the Rheinfels. In its prime, the fortress must have been enormous and formidable. Much of the structure was built under the auspices of the awesome Count of Katzenelbogen (“Cat’s Elbows”), of Katz Castle, who wanted to use the two castles to extract tolls from river traffic.

Unfortunately for us, during one of the many wars between the Germans and the French (this one during the French Revolution), invading troops decided to make an example of the iconic castle and ruined it (in technical terms, “slighting”). This was something of a scandal. Although the castle had, in previous conflicts, proven its ability to withstand attacks and sieges by far superior forces, the aging commander Philip Valentin von Resius, upon hearing that a huge French army was approaching, abandoned the castle in great haste. The keep was thus taken without a fight, even though it may very well have withstood the attack. As a result, the French walked right into the abandoned castle, and decided to demonstrate French might. Now only a fraction of the original building remains.

In my enthusiasm to take full advantage of my day on the Rhine, I arrived at the castle gates right as it was opening. I was the first and, for most of my visit, the only visitor in the enormous compound. If memory serves, I was given a little information card that had information about what each section of the castle used to be. But to be honest, I am not particularly interested in castle architecture nor in medieval warfare, and this was of scant interest to me. Instead, I savored the atmosphere of quiet ruin that hung about the place. I walked into one of the intact chambers, in the basement, and whistled—the echo ricocheting like a pinball off the walls. Then, after strolling through the ruins, I sat on a bench overlooking a valley behind the castle. It was a perfect summer day, and I felt that surreal sensation of being absolutely relaxed in a place which you have only ever seen in pictures.

My reverie was broken by a sound. The scream of an airplane engine caught my ear. And although I assumed it would naturally die down, the sound instead quickly increased into an overwhelming roar. For a moment, I panicked. Was a plane about to crash into the castle and incinerate me? 

Then the sound suddenly died away. Curious, I ran towards where it had come from, the river, but there was nothing to see. So I asked the man at the ticket booth, who told me that it was an American fighter jet, from a nearby military base. Sometimes they fly low over the valley in training flights. War is still close at hand in the Rhine Valley. (The town was occupied by the French again in World War I, and then taken by American troops in World War II.)

My castle quota reached for the day, I decided to have a little snack. My original idea was to walk into town and have a quick sandwich. Aside from the Rheinfels, there is very little to do or see in Sankt Goar. But its central street is attractive and charming. Though normally I don’t have a sweet tooth, a display of cakes and pastries caught my eye, and I decided to change my plans. Instead of a sandwich, I had a slice of Black Forest Cake (Schwarzwald Küchen). Very satisfying.

My stomach pleased, I walked over to the riverside, where I bought a ticket for the only operating ferry on this part of the Rhine: Köln-Düsseldorfer. I acquired my ticket and noted down the departure times. It was going to leave in just over an hour. This left me with enough time to visit the wine bar across the river from the Lorelei. It was a long walk and I had to rush; but as I knew from my trip to Vienna that Germanic white wine is delicious, I decided that it was worth it. I arrived sweaty and parched, which made the wine especially good but difficult to savor. I wished I had more time, but the ferry was approaching and I couldn’t risk missing my boat.

The ferry pulled into the harbor and I climbed up to the top floor, where a bunch of other sunburnt tourists were baking under the sun. The ride was slow and scenic, reminding me of the ferry I had taken the previous month in Lago di Como. Every little town seemed to have its own castle, and much of the remaining land was given over to vineyards. The most impressive sight was the ship-shaped Pfalzgrafenstein Castle, which has been built in the middle of the river. It used to work with the nearby Gutenfels castle to extract tolls from passing ships. Unlike so many other fortifications on this martial river, the Pfalzgrafenstein has never been seriously damaged. However, as it was only a military bastion and never the home of a nobleman, its interior is quite spartan. (You can take a tour from nearby Kaub, but I read that it wasn’t worth it.)

The boat deposited me in Bacharach, one of the most famous villages on the river. The town is full of delightful half-timbered houses—one of them goes all the way back to the 1300s century—giving it a kind of stereotypical German quaintness. Yet as soon as I got off the boat, I decided to walk up into the vineyards on the hill surrounding the river, in order to get a better vantage point. There, I climbed up one of the old watch-towers of the medieval town, the Postenturm, to get a wonderful view of the Rhine valley beyond. After getting my fill of the scenery, I walked up the main road to the Steeger Tor, a gate from the old medieval walls.

The town of Bacharach is crowned with yet another impressive castle, the Stahleck. I decided not to make the trek up to visit, however, as it is now used as a youth hostel. (In any case, like many of the castles on the Rhine, this one is a reconstruction of a previous castle destroyed in war.) But I did walk up to appreciate the Wernerkapelle. This is a beautiful gothic ruin on a hilltop—a perfect romantic combination of medieval mystery and desolation. Unfortunately, the story of this chapel is not so pleasant. It is named after a young boy who was murdered in the 13th century. The townspeople blamed the local Jewish population (with no evidence, of course), which led to a massacre of 40 people. The past can be very inconveniently ugly.

After getting my fill of the sights and views, I decided to kill the time remaining for my return ferry journey by sampling more of the local wine. The typical wines of the region are all white wines, crisp and fresh. Very refreshing. I lapsed into a kind of half-drunk, half-dehydrated reverie.

Finally it was time to return to Koblenz. Luckily for me, the return journey happened to be on the most famous boat on the Rhine, the RMS Goethe. The largest side-paddle steamer in the world, this boat began sailing back in 1913. After being hit by a bomb in the Second World War, it sat for some time on the bottom of the Rhine, until it was finally restored in the 1990s. Nowadays, it is floating nostalgia. I nabbed a seat on one of the side decks and enjoyed a final beer as we crawled up to Sankt Goar. It was the golden hour and the river was especially beautiful. I could see why so many countries and leaders have spent so many centuries fighting over it.

I had loved my time on the Rhine. In many ways, it reminded me of my home in the Hudson Valley—small towns nestled along a picturesque river. Even the verdant landscape was reminiscent of upstate New York. But of course, there are no castles where I’m from (or, at least, no real ones), and our wine is not nearly as good. At least we have better pizza.

Düsseldorf

Düsseldorf is not on many travel agendas. Indeed, it doesn’t even merit a mention in the copy of Rick Steves’s Germany travel guide that I had brought with me. For my part, I knew close to nothing about the place. And yet this was my destination.

As it happened, a friend of mine from Spain, Sai, had moved here (for work), and offered me a place to sleep on his sofa. Another coincidence: my German conversational partner, Karen—whom I had met in Scotland—lived quite closeby, and offered to show me around. So Düsseldorf it was.

Düsseldorf is named after the river Düssel, a tributary of the nearby Rhine, which flows through the city. (“Dorf” means town or village.) While the Rhine Valley is famous for its dramatic hills and castles, at this point the land is extremely flat and highly urbanized. Not for nothing does Steves call it the “unromantic Rhine.” With over 600,000 inhabitants, Düsseldorf is a medium-sized city, somewhat smaller than nearby Cologne (with which it has a fierce rivalry). Despite this, it is Düsseldorf, not Cologne, which is the capital of the region. 

Sai was busy at work, so it was Karen who showed me around the city. First, she took me to Königsalle, the widest boulevard in the country. It is so wide because a large landscaped canal runs through the center of it, with bridges covered in ornamental statues crossing the water. But Kö (as the locals call it) is mainly famous for its upscale shopping, with luxury store after luxury store. Each of these locales, as Karen pointed out, has a kind of bouncer out front, controlling access to the expensive goods within. It was a slightly sickening sight.

After that, Karen took me to the marina of the city, where a few dozen smaller, private boats are docked. There, we sat on a park bench and admired the Neuer Zollhof. These are a group of three buildings designed by Frank Gehry, which feature the characteristic twisting architecture familiar to anyone who has seen, say, the Dancing House in Prague or the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. Each one is made out of a different material—brick, plaster, and reflective stainless steel—but when I visited, the plaster was in poor shape.

This pretty much concluded my first tour of the main sights of Düsseldorf. From there, we walked along the river Rhine. It was a hot day, and I wondered why nobody was swimming in the water. But I quickly gathered that that would be a bad idea. For one, the current is surprisingly fast and strong, easily able to sweep you downstream. I also doubt that the water is particularly clean, considering the constant traffic of barges passing up and downstream. Even now, the Rhine is a major artery of commerce. I enjoyed watching them go by, wondering at their cargo. The captains and crew must live a good chunk of their lives on these ships, which sometimes had the appearance of mobile homes—with their cars parked on the back and, in some cases, their kids playing on a swing set as the boat drifted downstream.

In Germany, drinking in public is perfectly legal (a wonderful state of affairs!). Thus, we bought beers at a stand and sat down on some beach chairs facing the river. This was my first taste of Altbier, the local beer of Düsseldorf. It is sort of rust colored and has a strong, hoppy taste. (It is called “old beer” because it is fermented with yeast that floats on top, which is older than the bottom-fermenting yeast used to make lagers.) Despite being brewed like ales, however, its taste is quite distinct, and significantly lighter. As I discovered later, Altbier—like Kölsch, its rival from Cologne—is typically served in small glasses, which are circulated by the waiter on a tray. When you take a glass, the server puts a mark on your coaster, thus keeping a tally of your drinks.

We finished up the day by going to dinner in a Japanese restaurant. It was excellent. Düsseldorf, you see, has one of the largest Japanese populations in Europe. Indeed, Düsseldorf is a highly diverse city in general, with a substantial Chinese population and a great many immigrants from within Europe. Shortly after I arrived, for example, Sai took me to one of the Asian supermarkets near his apartment, and I was astounded at the selection of available foods and ingredients. A few days later, Sai invited me to a picnic in the park with some friends of his, most of whom were of Chinese extraction. We had a veritable feast of non-German foods.

Sai has a demanding job, but he found the time to show me around the city a bit. We took a walk towards the Kö-Bogen, a large and flashy complex of office buildings near the Königsalle. Nearby is the Hofgarten, Düsseldorf’s central park. It was a beautiful day and the park was full of strolling families and youngsters lounging on park benches. Soon, we came upon an impressive neoclassical statue, consisting of a perfectly muscular young man who is dying on his bed, accompanied by a sympathetic lion. This is a war memorial, but not one dedicated to either World War. Instead, this commemorates the dead of the German wars of independence as well as the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. Since that time, war memorials have become less beautiful and more anguished. 

As it happened, the day of the picnic with Sai was also some kind of museum day. This meant that many of the city’s museums were free to visit and open late. Many of these institutions are probably well worth a visit, but I had other plans. I wanted to go out to the city’s Altstadt (Old Town) to enjoy some of the famous nightlife.

This proved to be a mistake. Sai and I arrived shortly after dinner, and the entire neighborhood was completely overrun. There were bachelor and bachelorette parties, and groups of university students on the prowl. Every single one of the seemingly innumerable bars was packed. I was astounded that such a seemingly sleepy town could turn into what struck me as a giant frat party. During the day, Düsseldorf seemed so perfectly bourgeois; but at night, it was overtaken by a kind of adolescent, macho drunkenness. Sai and I had a few of the Altbiers at a bar, but quickly retreated from the noise and chaos. Instead, we got some beers at a corner store and walked along the Rhine. Even here, it was scarcely quieter. For me, being stuck in the middle of so many drunk young people made me distinctly uncomfortable, and it was a relief when we called it a night early.

Such was my experience of Düsseldorf, a city that perhaps deserved more of my time and attention. My brief impression was rather confused. With its high-end shopping, large immigrant community, and raucous night-life, the city seemed to have a split personality. Next, it was time to visit its rival.

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Köln

Cologne is in every way a bigger city than Düsseldorf. With over a million inhabitants, it feels properly urban. Whereas the Düsseldorf train station makes very little impression, for example, Köln’s enormous Hauptbahnhof immediately conveys to you its size and importance.

I visited on a tight schedule. This was several days after my visit to Düsseldorf. That morning, I had left my Airbnb in Koblenz (in the Rhine valley, to be related in a future post) in order to return to Düsseldorf for my evening flight back to Madrid. Cologne was one of the major stops on the commuter train from Koblenz, so it was easy to get off and see this famous German city as a final sightseeing stop.

Indeed, Cologne seems custom-made for day trippers. The train station is full of automated luggage storage lockers, which bring your baggage to the basement via an elevator. It was easy to use, cheap, and worked perfectly.

Right next to the station is Cologne’s principal tourist attraction: the Kölner Dom, the city’s magnificent gothic cathedral. Like many European churches, it took several eras to complete. It was begun in the 1200s, in a pure gothic style; but construction was stopped in the 16th century, the Renaissance, with still half of the church unbuilt. For centuries, the half-built cathedral stood in the city, with the medieval wooden crane still mounted atop one of the towers. Finally, in the 1800s, when a romantic passion for the medieval past was sweeping over Europe, it was decided to finish the building according to its original plans. Its completion in 1880—632 years after it was begun—became a national celebration for the relatively new nation of Germany (unified on January 1, 1871).

Since I had recently visited Italy, it was natural to compare the Kölner Dom to that other massive gothic church which took 600 years to finish: the Duomo of Milan. For my part, the German church is the clear winner. Whereas the Duomo is a confused mess of spikes and statues, the Cologne Cathedral has a unified and coherent aesthetic. Its first and last impression is of overwhelming verticality, as if the church is a kind of spiritual rocket about to take off towards heaven. Indeed, even today Cologne Cathedral is among the tallest church buildings in the world, stretching up 157 meters (or over 500 feet). Even its bell is big. The enormous Petersglocke (affectionately called “Fat Peter”) is the second-largest swinging bell in the world, weighing one ton more than the massive Pummerin in Vienna.

Like so many churches and monuments in Europe, the Cologne Cathedral was badly damaged during the Second World War. On a wall near the cathedral, you can see photos of the destruction. The entire city of Cologne was turned into rubble from Allied bombing raids, but the towers of the cathedral remained standing. In the final battle for the city, a German Panzer tank fought a rearguard battle against advancing Allied armor, disabling two Sherman tanks in the process. It was finally destroyed by one of the new American Pershing tanks—an event captured on video by an attached American cameraman.

Right across from the cathedral is (or was, it seems to have been moved) the Roman-Germanic Museum. Cologne, you see, was originally a provincial outpost of the Roman Empire. Indeed, the name of the city comes from the Latin colonia. As a result, the area is abounding in Roman ruins, many of which are collected in this museum. Right nearby is the Ludwig Museum, the city’s premier institution of modern art.

But with my limited time, I decided to go slightly further off and visited the Wallrat-Richartz Museum. Its clunky name notwithstanding, this is a fantastic painting gallery, with a collection that spans from the gothic to the early 20th century. The medieval section is likely the strongest, as the museum has many excellent examples of gothic paintings, some of the best I have ever seen. But with Rembrandt, Monet, and Van Gogh in attendance, there is no lack of quality in the other departments.

Right across the street is the Farina Fragrance Museum. It was here that the Italian Giovanni Maria Farina (whose name is often Germanized to Johann) produced his famous eau de cologne (“water of Cologne”); and they are still in business to this day. (Curiously, although in English cologne is normally marketed for men, in Spanish “colonia” does not have such gendered connotations.)

From there, I went back in the direction of the cathedral. From there, I walked across the Heinrich-Böll Platz, where I noticed a strange sign in French. Apparently, the city’s concert hall was constructed under this square. But it was not well-conceived, for the sounds of people walking could be clearly heard in the Philharmonie. Thus, every time there is a performance, the plaza must be closed to foot traffic. Lucky for me, there was no symphony going on, and I could cross without issue.

I climbed up some stairs, onto the Hohenzollern Bridge. This is the busiest train bridge in Germany, constantly rumbling with traffic. It is also a landmark for lovebirds, who leave locks on the bridge’s railing. The bridge is named after Germany’s erstwhile royal family, and statues of the old kings guard the four corners of the bridge.

Across the bridge is one of the tallest buildings in the city (though still considerably shorter than the cathedral’s towers), the Kölntriangle. Situated on a little hill, this building is known for its viewing platform on the top floor. I paid and took the elevator to the top, where there is a 360-degree view of the city. Frankly, Cologne is not the most beautiful city to see from the air, but you do get a classic photo of the cathedral next to the bridge.

Finally, it was time to have lunch. My roommate at the time had a German boyfriend who was from Cologne, and he kindly sent me a long list of things to see and do. Unfortunately, I hardly had time to scratch the surface, but I did follow his advice as to where to have a good German meal. Früh am Dom is a traditional beer hall right near the Cathedral. Outside the place was bustling with activity and I was afraid I wouldn’t be seated; but as soon as I walked in, I saw that the beautifully furnished space was half empty.

To eat, I ordered Himmel und Ääd (the Rhinish dialect for “heaven and earth”), a formidable dish consisting of blood sausages over mashed potato and apple sauce. It was delicious—especially, when washed down with the city’s typical beer, Kölsch. Compared to Düsseldorf’s Altbier, Kölsch is much lighter in color and flavor. Though mild, I found it to be delicious and extremely refreshing. As in Altbier, the Kölsch was served in little glasses, and the drinks marked on your coaster. I believe I had three before the end of my meal.

Stuffed, I now had just a bit of time to kill before my train to the airport. To enjoy Germany’s lax laws, I got a Kölsch from a corner store, walked to the park along the Rhine, and drank it slowly in the sunlight. It had been a wonderful trip to Germany.

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Epilogue: Travel Troubles

But my voyage was not to have such a tranquil end. For one, the train was absolutely packed. I quickly gave up on finding a seat and resigned myself to standing with my heavy backpack near the doors, as the crowd surged in and out. We passed stop after stop, with the train only growing more and more crowded. After a little more than an hour, the train was full almost to bursting, and I was very eager to get off.

Yet that was not to be. On the tracks between Düsseldorf and its airport, the train came to a halt. Then, a crackling and muffled voice came over the loudspeakers, and made a brief announcement. My German was good enough to get the basic message. My heart sank: the train was not going to stop at the airport, but would bypass the stop and go to the next town over, Duisburg. Full of anxiety now, I got off and looked for the next train back to the airport. It was supposed to arrive in just 10 minutes. But after more than a week in Germany, I knew that this was unlikely. (The trains in Germany are famously unreliable.)

As predicted, the train was delayed. Indeed, it was so late that it had not arrived by the time the next train to the airport was supposed to come. That one was delayed, too. Then this happened again with the next train, so I was waiting on three. I began to grow very panicked, since now I couldn’t tell which train would arrive first or what track it would be on. I was so frantic that I jumped on the first train appearing to head in the right direction, without even being quite sure what train it was.

I had chosen well, and after a delay of about 40 minutes I was at the airport. But my travel stress was not at an end. As I walked into the main lobby, I noticed two enormous lines stretching through the airport. After some reconnaissance, it dawned on me that these were the lines for security. I had given myself a large margin to arrive for my flight, so even with the previous delay I still had almost two hours. But as the line edged forward, I realized that I might be cutting it close.

An hour passed, and we were finally in view of the metal detectors and luggage scanners. Then, behind me, a frazzled woman started making her way through the line, explaining to each person that she was going to miss her flight if they didn’t let her through. Finally, she made it to me, and I let her pass me by (I still had about 45 minutes). But the main in front of me adamantly refused.

“Please, sir, I’m going to miss my flight,” she said, holding her hands in a gesture of supplication.

“That’s not my problem!” he shouted back.

“Please, it doesn’t affect you.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s going to miss their flight?” he snapped. “I’m going to miss my flight, too!”

The argument went on for about ten minutes, with the woman pleading and the man growing more enraged, until finally, exasperated, he let her pass by. (Later, I heard him talking to a colleague on the phone, reporting that he did indeed miss his flight. I don’t know if the woman made it.)

I made it to my gate with just twenty minutes to spare, feeling immensely relieved. I’d had a wonderful time in Germany. But I must say, the country’s reputation for efficiency is rather unmerited.