The Middle Rhine is majestic and impressive, but it is not exactly tranquil. There are barges and ferries full of tourists constantly running up and down the river. There are small villages, yes, but they are often crowded with visitors. During my visit, an American fighter jet even flew over the river valley. The Middle Rhine, in other words, for all of its beauty, is not a trip to the countryside for a bit of scenery and fresh air.

But its little brother, the Moselle, is wonderfully sleepy by comparison. Joining the Rhine at Koblenz (of which, more later), the Moselle seems to flow lazily along when compared to the mighty current of the Rhine. Rather than being surrounded by steep cliffs and towering hills, the land gently rises into green knolls, all of them covered in vineyards.

I observed this gentler valley as my train traveled from Koblenz, and was immediately charmed. My destination was the little town of Moselkern. I had arrived early, and the town was so quiet that it almost seemed abandoned. Nothing was open, and nobody was on the street. But I did notice some silly pieces of doggerel printed on the sides of buildings. In front of the Hotel Kebstock, for example, I read this:

Mein lieber Gast,

laß dich

Nieder mache Rast

Bei Bier und Wein,

bring Glück herein.

An der Mosel

und am Rhein,

trinkt man

den guten Wein.

In essence: “Come on in, drink some wine, and have a rest.” It certainly sounded appealing.

But I couldn’t stay for long, for I was not visiting Moselkern to see the town. Rather, as I had been doing so often on this trip, I was there to see a castle: Burg Eltz.

As you may know, most castles everywhere are situated in or near a town, normally on a piece of high ground. This particular castle, however, is not in any town, but right in the middle of a forest. To get there, in other words, I had to take a hike.

I marched out of Moselkern headed northwest, following the Elzbach, a little stream that empties into the Moselle. Very soon I found myself completely surrounded by woods. It was marvelous. As I have had occasion to say many times on this blog, one thing I miss about New York is the lush greenery of its forests. For all of its beauty, most of Spain is relatively dry and arid, the landscape yellowish and bare. Thus, I intensely savored the sensation of being, once again, in a dense, green wilderness, surrounded by birdsong and close to the sound of running water. Indeed, I found this hike so intoxicatingly enjoyable that I almost forgot about the famous castle. Later on, I found that this forest is actually an official nature reserve.

Now, it is possible to reach the castle by shuttle bus. But for anyone contemplating visiting the Eltz Burg, I highly recommend doing so this way. Stepping from under the canopy and into the clearing, and seeing the enormous castle above you, is a tremendous experience—the closest that you can probably get to time travel.

(Another tip for travelers is to bring cash, since the castle does not take credit cards and there are no ATMs in sight. Thankfully, I came prepared. You should also be aware that the castle is only available for visits from April to October.)

At first glance, the castle is both imposing and perplexing. It is difficult to imagine what such a magnificent keep is doing seemingly in the middle of nowhere. This mystery is resolved when we learn that this used to be an important trade route between farmers to the north and the Moselle to the south, where their crops could be shipped downstream. This is such a key point to control that there has been a fortress of some kind here for over a millennium. And for most of that time, the castle was controlled by one family: the Eltz.

This is precisely what makes Burg Eltz so special. It has been in the possession of a single family since the Middle Ages, and it still is today. This has made for truly exceptional preservation. Most of the Rhine castles, for example, were damaged or destroyed in various wars; and what stands today are usually later reconstructions, often with whimsical Romantic fancies added on. Even the best-preserved castle on the Rhine, the Marksburg, does not have its original furnishings. But the Eltz is a kind of enormous time-capsule, an unbroken link to the medieval past.

Burg Eltz has only ever been seriously attacked once. The evidence of this is to be found on a hill overlooking the castle, where the ruins of a small fortress can be seen. This is the Burg Trutzeltz, which was constructed to bombard Burg Eltz with catapults and primitive canons. This was part of a local power struggle of the 14th century, known as the Eltz Feud, in which the knights of Eltz Castle struggled to maintain their independence from the Bishop of Trier. Eventually they capitulated and the family became once again vassals. As it stands now, the castle is remarkable more for its beauty than for its value as a fortification. Indeed, the tall, flat walls of the castle would make it an easy target for canonfire. I would wager that a single piece of artillery could wreck the place.

I climbed up the stairs to the main rampart—quite sweaty by now—and bought a ticket for the next guided tour. It would start in about 45 minutes, which gave me some time to visit the castle’s treasury. This is a kind of miniature museum in what appears to be the castle’s dungeon, exhibiting the family’s most valuable possessions. Some of the objects on display are quite fine, exhibiting the prosperity of this aristocratic family. There are, for example, ceremonial crossbows and ornate hunting rifles. And of course, courtly life requires plenty of fine dining. There are ivory drinking vessels, silverware with mother-of-pearl handles, and even a weird mechanical drinking game, a device which participants would wind up and release on the table, dooming one unlucky (or lucky) couple to draining its contents. 

I have to admit that, most of the time, the accoutrements of the upper crust leave me feeling a little cold. As impressive as is the workmanship and artistry required to make such items, to my eyes their aesthetic value is drowned by their proclamation of wealth. This collection, however, was more charming to me for being the accumulated possessions of one single family, displayed in what is still—to an extent, at least—their family home. There certainly is an anthropological value, at least, to seeing authentic examples of luxury in their original context.

Now it was time for the tour. (There are no photos allowed on the tour, but the website has photos of all of the major rooms.)

Once again, I normally find tours of aristocratic or royal dwellings to be kind of depressing. But the interior of Burg Eltz was unlike any other building I have seen. Even though it was obviously the home of a wealthy family, the furnishings of the room often struck me as being charmingly rustic. The roof timbers were visible and the supporting columns were irregularly carved. The Eltz were a family of knights, and their arms and armor form an important part of the decoration.

But by far my favorite aspect of the castle were the wall decorations. These include vegetable motifs vaguely reminiscent of Muslim decorative styles (possibly brought back from the Crusades). Yet compared to, say, the Alhambra’s elegant designs, those in Burg Eltz are sort of clumsy and clodish. I do not mean this as an insult, however, as I found the taste displayed in these decorations to be beguilingly foreign—that is, genuinely medieval, and alien to modern sensibilities of line and color. To repeat myself, a visit to this castle is the closest one can come to a trip back in time, so wonderfully does it preserve the flavor of the Middle Ages.

After an hour, I was back outside. I was both satisfied and exhausted. The only place to eat nearby is in the castle’s café, where I had—what else?—a plate of currywurst and pommes, along with a beer. Fortified, I decided that I ought to explore the lovely forest some more before venturing onward. Thus, I walked on a circular path that goes around the valley below the castle. The best part was the view of the castle from across this valley, its grey spires contrasting against the sea of green around it. By the time I circled back to the castle, I was convinced that this is one of the great destinations of Europe. The castle itself is first-rate. Its dramatic location in the middle of the woods pushes it into another realm entirely.

After another hike, I was back in Moselkern. (In retrospect, I think I could have taken the path instead to the neighboring town of Müden, just for the sake of variety.) Here, I caught a train to the biggest town nearby: Cochem. “Big” is, of course, a relative term here, as Cochem has just about 5,000 residents, making it about half the size of my own little hometown, Sleepy Hollow. Nevertheless, it is a very attractive place, with the local castle—the Reichsburg Cochem—sitting on a hillock overlooking the quiet houses below. This attractive castle, as it happens, is yet another example of Romantic reconstruction, as the original was burned down by French troops in 17th century.

(Cochem has a long history, but perhaps the most interesting thing about the town is that, during the Cold War, it was in this sleepy place that West Germany kept its emergency supply of currency. In a bunker located beneath some nondescript houses, 15 billion German marks were stored away, to be used in case East Germany started counterfeiting their money.)

There is, I am sure, a great deal of sightseeing to be done here. But I was quite saturated by this point in the day, and was far more interested in sampling the local wine. The seemingly endless vineyards surrounding the valley in every direction seemed to confirm this desire. Thus, I found my way to a wine bar on the side opposite the town center, sat down on a wooden chair outside, and had a drink. In fact, I have to admit that I had a few. It was just too pleasant to give it up. The weather was perfect, the wine refreshing, and I had nothing else to do. Also, the knowledgeable bartender was quite willing to explain German wines to a clueless foreigner. I listened intently and retained exactly nothing of what he said.

After I decided that I couldn’t have another glass without jeopardizing my return journey, I reluctantly made my way back to the train to return to Koblenz. I have one night left in Germany.

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Koblenz is a proper city, with a population of well over 100,000. Like many places in Germany, Koblenz was bombed nearly out of existence during the Second World War, and had to be rebuilt. As a result, it is not exactly the stereotype of a charming European urban center. Nevertheless, I found it to be quite a pleasant place to relax after my journeys on the Rhine and the Mosel. It was quiet, convenient, and not entirely bereft of charm.

There is only one major tourist attraction in Koblenz, and that is the Deutsches Eck (literally the “German Corner”). This is the point where the mighty Rhine meets the charming Moselle, thus creating a cultural and a literal confluence. It was here that Wilhelm II—last king of Germany—decided to construct one of the many monuments to his grandfather, Wilhelm I. It seems to have been the younger Wilhelm’s object to elevate his grandfather to the status of national hero. He even demanded that Wilhelm I be referred to as “der Große” (“the great”). All over Germany, massive statues of the Kaiser were erected.

To be sure, the first Wilhelm was an important figure in German history, as it was during his reign that, with the help of Bismark, he achieved unification of the separate German states. Much like Italy, you see, for much of European history Germany was split into several dozen states, each with its own laws, currency, and ruler. During the 19th century, both Germany and Italy were unified in a wave of patriotic nationalism, thus allowing them to compete on an equal footing with France and England for domination of Europe. The symbolism of the confluence of these two rivers was surely not lost on those who built this monument.

The enormous equestrian statue that now rides atop the stone pedestal is, however, a reconstruction. The first statue survived the WWII bombing of Koblenz, but was hit by American artillery fire during the invasion of Germany (sorry about that). The pedestal was bare for several decades until the statue was finally replaced after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the reunification of Germany. Hoisting up the statue of a dead Kaiser may be an odd gesture to celebrate the end of communist rule, but it did help bring tourists to the city.

When I visited, the place was full of locals and tourists alike. The huge pedestal is a pleasant place to sit and enjoy the river, or for kids to climb and play on. Nearby, one can see the Koblenz cable car, which takes riders over the Rhine (sadly, I didn’t make time to go). The journey ends on the other bank of the Rhine, on the hill upon which sits Ehrenbreitstein Fortress. A real modern fortification rather than a romantic faux-medieval castle, this fortress is not exactly beautiful, but it is perhaps worth visiting for the view alone. 

On my first night in Koblenz, I was so tired that I just peeked into a Lidl for a premade sandwich and some chips and ate this paltry dinner in my Airbnb. On my second night, after a day of exploring the Rhine, I made the mistake of choosing a fast food place in the old city center (overpriced and unsatisfying). Finally, on my last night in Koblenz and in Germany, I had the good sense to find a biergarten. There is an excellent one—enormous, with hundreds of outdoor seats—right beside the Deutsches Eck.

Here, I ordered some sausages and potatoes and a large mug of German beer and sat down on one of the wooden chairs under the shady plain trees. Now, there is something that foreigners ought to know when drinking at a biergarten. The lovely glass mugs (or “steins,” as they are called in English, but not in German!) have proven to be so tempting that many people simply walk off with them as souvenirs. To combat this, one must often pay a deposit, called the “Pfand,” which is normally a euro or so. This amount is then returned to you when you bring the mug back to a special window.

Well, there I was, enjoying the fading light of my last evening on the Rhine, sipping an excellent beer and savoring the full feeling in my stomach, when I heard people talking right behind me. It was a couple, and they were wondering how they could use the bathroom. The door, you see, had a lock on it, and you had to put in a euro to open it. However, I had just found out that, if you asked one of the cashiers, they could give you a key to open it without paying. I turned around and conveyed this information in my best German, for which I was heartily thanked.

The interaction then took a strange turn. The female half of the couple spoke quite decent English and started asking me polite questions about myself. I did the same, and found out that they were young newlywed Germans on a little vacation. She then left (to go to the bathroom, naturally) and I was stuck chatting with the male partner. He was quite drunk and for some reason was convinced that he was able to speak English. What came out of his mouth, however, was a totally incoherent series of sounds with the occasional English word thrown in. I tried telling him that I could understand German, but it was of no avail, and I was subjected to a stream of literal nonsense until his partner returned. Hastily, I made my exit, and walked back to the monument.

I sat on the steps and looked out. The Rhine and the Moselle were beautiful in the sunset, and I felt very sad that I had to go. It had been an absolutely wonderful vacation. One day, I am sure, I will come back.

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.

It was the summer of 2022 and Europe was in the midst of an energy crisis. As a response to the rise in fuel prices, many governments attempted to make public transportation cheaper. Spain, for example, reduced the price of monthly metro cards by half and offered free train passes for commuters. Germany, meanwhile, offered a nine euro monthly pass that was valid for the bus, metro, and commuter trains for the entire country. It was an incredible deal, and I had arrived in Germany right in time to take advantage of it.

Now, this may come as a surprise if you believe in the German stereotype of efficiency and timeliness, but the trains in Germany are a mess, with constant cancellations and delays. (This is partly because, unlike in Spain or France, the high speed trains in Germany use the same tracks as the local trains.) The new 9-euro pass had only added to the chaos, since the added passengers put additional pressure on the already overburdened system. 

So the train ride was not exactly quick. But I was in a good mood, nevertheless. You see, Aachen had been on my list for years, ever since I watched Kenneth Clark’s magnificent documentary Civilisation. The first episode of that series begins with the so-called Dark Ages, and culminates in the rise of Charlemagne—an event which, for Clark, signifies the rebirth of European civilization from the brink of destruction. Though many historians would, I think, dispute this dramatic conclusion, it cannot be denied that Charlemagne is a figure of paramount importance in the history of Europe. And if you want to learn about Charlemagne, Aachen is the place to be.

But my arrival was something of an anticlimax. As it happened, my train pulled into the Aachen Hauptbahnhof at almost the same moment that several appointments were made available on the Spanish government website. As I was in desperate need of an appointment (in order to get a document that would allow me to travel back to the United States while my visa was being renewed), I spent a panicked 15 minutes navigating the poorly designed and unreliable website in order to secure myself a spot. After so many years in Spain, I still feel acute and almost crippling anxiety when I have to do anything regarding my visa. My hands literally shook as I confirmed the appointment. When I realized I had been successful, relief washed over me.

Now, I could explore the town with no distractions. My route took me to one of the two surviving medieval gates of the city, the Marschiertor. (On the other side of town is the even more impressive Ponttor.) Nowadays, this huge gate stands alone, as Aachen is happily safe from foreign invaders—for the foreseeable future, at least.

Speaking of invasions, Aachen has been under the control of France on at least two occasions. First, it was ceded to France for about 15 years after Napoleon defeated the Holy Roman Empire. Then, after World War I, it was controlled by the allies until 1930. Germany lost control of the city at least once more after that, to American troops, who virtually leveled the place in the process. It was the first German city to fall to the Allies during the Second World War.

As you can see from these snapshots of its long and somewhat turbulent history, Aachen is not the sleepy town that is status as a spa city would have you believe (its hot springs have been appreciated since Roman times). Partially this is due to its history as a capital of the Holy Roman Empire (of that, more below). But this is also because Aachen is near the borders of Belgium and the Netherlands, making it simultaneously the door to Germany (in the Second World War) and, via Belgium, the door to France (in the First). 

All this has resulted in a multitude of names for this place. In German it is, of course, Aachen, while in French it is Aix-la-Chapelle. Meanwhile, in Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish, the city is called some variation of Aquisgrán. This is an awful lot of historical and linguistic weight for one town of a quarter of a million souls to bear. But, on that sunny summer day, none of the residents seemed to notice or mind.

My first stop was the Aachen Town Hall. This is a venerable old building that, like Aachen itself, has suffered many reversals of fortune—burned down, left to crumble, burned down again, and then finally bombed. As it stands today, it is an imposing neo-gothic structure that looks more like the abode of a nefarious count than a civic-minded mayor. But the flocks of school children on field trips, and the wedding party out front, showed that—appearances to the contrary—this is indeed a beloved part of the town. For a modest price, you can even visit the interior of the Rathaus. If for nothing else, this is worth it to see the extremely well-made replicas of the Imperial Regalia of the Holy Roman Empire. (The originals are now in Vienna.) This includes the famous Imperial Crown, which is so encrusted with jewels that it looks decidedly uncomfortable. 

My next destination was the Aachen Cathedral. This is by far the most famous sight in the city—the church built by Charlemagne himself, where 31 kings and 12 queens were crowned, one of the first places to be listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site. I walked in and was immediately awe-struck. But my amazement turned to confusion when I failed to find the legendary Throne of Charlemagne. I asked one of the tired-looking guards, in the best German I could muster, “Wo ist der Thron des Karl der Grosse?” He responded quickly, repeating the word “Führing” several times, which my dictionary told me meant “guided tour.”

With this new information, I left the cathedral and found the neighboring office, where tickets can be bought for the guided tour. Once there, I noticed an option to buy a combination ticket for the tour and the cathedral treasury—which worked out quite well for me, as it gave me something to do while I waited for the tour to begin.

Now, I have been in many cathedral treasuries by now, and most of the time I find them rather uninspiring—usually consisting of gold and silver reliquaries of various shapes and designs. But the artwork on display here was exquisite and unique. There is, for example, the Proserpina sarcophagus. Made of marble and carved in ancient Rome, it was brought here as a symbol of imperial rule by Charlemagne, who was quite possibly buried in it. Also (potentially) belonging to Charlemagne is a hunting horn and knife. But two works of the goldsmith stood out to me as the jewels of the collection.

One is the Cross of Lothair, made around the year 1000. On one side the gold cross is completely covered in jewels (much like the imperial crown). Strangely, in the very center of the cross is a cameo of Augustus Caesar. Now, it is possible that this pagan emperor was included to symbolize the connection between the ancient empire and the medieval so-called Holy Roman Empire. But it is just as possible that they simply did not know who it represented and thought it was a holy figure. In any case, the reverse side is certainly pious. Delicately engraved into the gold is a portrayal of the crucifixion. To modern eyes, it appears rather standard in design, if well-executed. But in 1000 the image of Christ suffering on the cross still wasn’t paramount in Christian decoration (notice the many depictions of Christ of the Last Judgments in medieval churches). This crucifix, then, is not only beautiful but artistically daring.

The other is the bust of Charlemagne, a reliquary containing a part of the king’s skull. Roughly life-sized, the bust was made hundreds of years after Charlemagne’s death, and so probably bears little resemblance to the actual king. But this portrait, however idealized, is shockingly lifelike nevertheless. The anonymous craftsmen who made it were obviously masters of their arts. The bust works on three levels, as a work of art, a religious object, and a symbol of imperial power. For example, the king’s tunic is covered with the imperial eagle and he wears a crown covered with jewels and, again, ancient Roman cameos (signifying the inheritance of the Roman Empire). It is a marvelous statue—delicate and beautiful, while authentically royal and imposing.

Now it was time to visit the cathedral. The visit began with the traditional entrance to the church, the Wolfstür. This is the subject of a legend, which (if memory serves) goes like this: The townspeople, lacking the time and resources to complete the church, made a deal with Satan. If he completed the church, he would be able to keep the soul of the first creature that entered its doors. But when it came time to honor the bargain, the townspeople craftily sent a wolf to enter the church doors, which is obviously not what Lucifer had in mind. The enraged devil tried to leave the church to punish the townspeople, but got his thumb caught in the closing door.

This story (repeated, in various forms, all over Europe and perhaps the world) has some physical manifestations. In the bronze door knocker, for example, there is a bump inside the lion’s mouth, which legend says is the satanic thumb. Once inside, there is a statue of the unfortunate wolf, and opposite that is (for whatever reason) a pine cone.

Finally we entered the church itself. The core of the structure—the so-called Palatine Chapel—goes back all the way to the year 800, though it has been so finely refurbished that you would hardly guess its age from its polished and immaculate appearance. In structure it is hardly like the typical European church, with its three names culminating in a main altar. Instead, the church is octagonal, with no natural front and back. It takes this design from the Byzantines, as the core of the church is closely modeled after Basilica San Vitale in Ravenna. Indeed, the structure even incorporates ancient marble columns taken from Rome. Clearly, Charlemagne was quite consciously forging a connection between his new kingdom and the splendor of the ancient world.

Hanging in the center of this splendid octagon is the so-called Barbarossa Chandelier, named for the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick I (who had a red beard). Looking like a giant crown, its symmetrical shape complements the octagonal space, creating a sort of tunnel view up to the mosaic on top of the cathedral.

Then, our guide took out a large key and opened the grated metal door leading up to the stairs. This was the moment I had been waiting for, as I knew that Charlemagne’s Throne was on the up there. After pausing to admire the railings, ceiling mosaics, and marble columns, we arrived at the legendary seat.

It is, at first glance, almost comically unimpressive. Far from being the gold and bejeweled seat one might expect, it is made of plain stone slabs, sitting on a platform of what appear to be cinder blocks. Apparently, however, the slabs which make up the throne are relics of some kind (there are different theories, but they all connect the stones to Jerusalem and the life of Jesus). This contrives to make the throne itself into a kind of relic. And, indeed, visiting pilgrims would crawl underneath the throne as an act of devotion.

Considering this religious nature, “throne” may not even be the best word to describe this esteemed seat—at least, as it was originally conceived. Charlemagne, for example, was not crowned here, but in Rome. And, certainly, it is strange to imagine that ruler issuing his decrees from the second floor of a cathedral. But it became a throne, if it was not one to begin with. As I mentioned, dozens of monarchs were crowned on this very spot. Napoleon, in a rare moment of humility, climbed the steps but refrained from sitting down himself. According to our guide, such scruples did not stop Heinrich Himmler.

Now it was time to enter the gothic church. The original Palatine Chapel has, you see, been supplemented with a gothic choir, of a much more conventional—not to say unattractive—design. This part of the church also has its share of famous objects. There is, for example, Henry’s Pulpit (also called an “ambon”), which is yet another example of the golden and encrusted style typical of the Carolingian period. It is covered with exquisite ivory carvings and, as typical of the Holy Roman Empire, it incorporates elements of pagan art pillaged from Italy and the Holy Land. Nearby are the Karlsschrein and the Marienschrein, two enormous gold reliquaries. The first contains the bones of Charlemagne himself (moved from the Roman sarcophagus, apparently), while the second is supposed to contain Jesus’ swaddling clothes and a dress belonging to the Virgin Mary. What is indisputable, however, is that these two are remarkable examples of medieval metalworking. 

This is where the tour ended. Dazzled, I wandered back into the streets of Aachen. It had warmed up by now and my jacket was unnecessary. Extremely hungry, I was gratified to find a German sausage restaurant right around the corner. There, I tried to order the most “German” thing I could, and decided that would be a mug of beer and a plate of blood sausages, accompanied with mashed potatoes and applesauce. A bit over the top, but I enjoyed it.

Stuffed to bursting, I wandered back to the train to return to Düsseldorf, where I was going to stay. But that is a story for another post.

If there is one city more strongly associated with National Socialism than Munich, it is Nuremberg. For it was here that the Nazis had their infamous rallies, and also here that the Nazi leaders were tried and convicted after the war. But even without these epochal events, the city would be worth visiting, for it has the same charming combination of an attractive city center and a Bavarian beer culture that makes Munich so popular. And as the second-biggest city in Bavaria, after Munich itself, Nuremberg has quite a lot to see.

When I arrived in Nuremberg I was in a sour mood. I was coming to the city from Prague (a place for another post), and had very thoughtfully planned the trip by buying a bus ticket beforehand. But I failed to take into account that the metro runs more slowly on Sundays; and so my trip took ten fatal minutes more than planned, and I arrived at the station just as the bus was pulling away. Thus I had to buy a ticket for the next bus, which cost twice as much as the one I already had and which lost me two precious hours in Nuremberg. Admittedly this is not very important; but I hate wasting money and I felt like a fool for not giving myself more time to get to the bus.

But my ill temper was soon alleviated as I walked around the center of Nuremberg. This was my first trip with my new camera, a Canon Rebel T6—all my photography before having been with my phone—so I eagerly marched through the city, snapping photos like a maniac of anything and everything that caught my eye. And this was quite a lot of things, since the old center of Nuremberg is a handsome place.

Like Munich, Berlin, and so many German cities, Nuremberg’s original old center was sadly bombed out of existence during the Second World War. The ability to aim bombs back then was rudimentary at best; and in any case I do not think the Allied bombers were apt to be very careful, since one of their goals was to demoralize the population. I do not know whether or not it would have significantly impeded the war effort to have tried to avoid destroying these historic cities, but still I find it sad that so much great architecture went up in flames and was reduced to rubble. War and art are perpetual enemies. Lucky for us, however, the people of Nuremberg reconstructed their historic city after the war; and if not perfectly replicated, the result is still very fine.

Nuremberg has historically been a walled city; and the old center still stands behind high walls, lookout towers, and an old moat that has been converted into a park. Nuremberg’s central square is the Hauptmarkt, which in December is home of a Christmas market, and all year long has stalls selling fruits, vegetables, sweets, preserves, and other delicacies. The square is presided over by the noble Frauenkirche (“Church of Our Lady”), a brick gothic structure whose stepping roof leads up to a central clock, under which the Holy Roman Emperor sits enthroned in a golden robe, surrounded by counselors. The church is rather unusual in having a balcony above its front portal. This was originally because the Holy Roman Emperors wanted to use the church for ceremonial functions. Nowadays it is used to give the opening speech of the Christkindlesmarkt.

In the center of the Hauptmarkt is the Schöner Brunnen (“beautiful fountain”), whose tall, golden, gothic spire juts into the air, decorated with statues representing the liberal arts, the church fathers, and other political and religious figures important to the Holy Roman Empire. The fountain is aptly named.

Right next to this central square is the river Pegnitz, which runs right through the center of the city, and whose calm surface is never free of a couple loafing ducks. From the city’s well-preserved Fleishbrücke (literally, “meat bridge”)—a lovely Renaissance bridge that escaped the bombs—you can see the Heilig-Geist-Spital (Holy Ghost Hospital), a pretty building that extends out into the river, supported by two arches. Built in 1399, it long served its medical function, in addition to being a kind of old folks’ home and, from 1424 to 1796, the depository of the imperial jewels. Originally there was a church attached to the building, but the bombs destroyed it in 1945 and it wasn’t rebuilt. But there is a nice restaurant there nowadays, apparently.

The most magnificent church in Nuremberg is, without doubt, the Lorenzkirche, or St. Lorenz Church. This is a Lutheran church which was another casualty of the world war, not destroyed but badly damaged. But it has been restored magnificently. The imposing gothic façade gives way to an equally impressive interior, whose vaulting, statues, and stained glass form a harmoniously somber whole. Standing on the other side of the old town is the almost equally majestic Sebalduskirche, which has the same curiously hunchbacked profile as the Lorenzkirche. This distinctive shape resulted, I believe, from converting an older cruciform church into a larger gothic building, raising the side aisles and adding an ambulatory in the back. In any case, it is another damaged and well-restored structure, which preserves the original shrine of St. Sebaldus, Nuremberg’s patron saint. (I was under the impression that Lutherans don’t have shrines to saints, but apparently I was wrong.)

Presiding over the northern edge of the old city, perched like an enormous eagle on a hill that overlooks the town, is the Imperial Castle of Nuremberg (Kaiserburg Nürnberg). This castle was extensively used by the Holy Roman Emperors, making Nuremberg a sort of unofficial capital of the empire. (This association with the Holy Roman Empire, which Hitler retroactively named the “First Reich,” is one reason why he chose to have his rallies here.) Like everything else, the castle was badly damaged during the war, but has been repaired beautifully; its brown buildings and rust-colored roofs fit in perfectly with the city’s aesthetic.

Walking towards the castle, you may come upon the attractive Tiergärtnerplatz, a plaza surrounded by pretty buildings and, in good weather, full of beer drinkers sitting on the pavement. Nearby is the historic Albrecht Dürer Haus, where the famous painter lived from 1509 until his death. It is a typical municipal dwelling, with a sandstone bottom and a timber-framed top, and houses a museum dedicated to the artist. If you continue from this square up the hill into the castle, you will be rewarded with an excellent view of the city, spread out before you like a dinner table.

Feeling ravenous at this point, I went off to find dinner. For this I went to Som Tam Siam Food, a Thai restaurant in the north of the city that I found online. You may think it’s silly to eat Thai food on a trip to Germany, but it was delicious and cheap, and I didn’t regret a thing. To be fair, the next day I tried the culinary specialty of Nuremberg, which are its bratwurst—greasy, juicy, meaty, delicious sausage. I also treated myself to a German pretzel, which are buttery and rich, much better than the pretzels that are sold on the streets of New York. But I have to admit the Thai food was my favorite; I went back the next day.

It is worth taking a stroll from the city center to one of Nuremberg’s cemeteries, the Johannisfriedhof. In my travels I have discovered that there is a great variety in cemetery design. In Spain, France, Ireland, the United States, and Germany, they all have a distinctive look. The Johannisfriedhof is a lovely open space filled with stone sarcophagi, filled with flowers, ferns, and trees. Like many cemeteries, it is a solemn and silent place, mostly empty, and full of benches to sit and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere. Its most famous inhabitant is Nuremberg’s most famous son, Albrecht Dürer, widely regarded as the greatest of German artists, in a league with the best Renaissance painters for his brilliance. I sadly missed the opportunity to see his iconic Self-Portait at 28, which is in Munich’s Alte Pinakothek, yet another of my traveler’s regrets. The artist’s grave is modest and plain, blending in with those surrounding him. His best friend, Willibald Pirckheimer, of whom Dürer made many portraits, is also buried in this cemetery.

My last stop in the city center was the Germanisches Nationalmuseum. It was founded during the eighteenth-century upsurge in cultural interest, and has since grown into a massive institution—Germany’s largest museum of cultural history. I visited on my last day in Nuremberg, when I only had a few hours to explore before going to the airport. This was not nearly enough time to properly see everything—or anything—but how much time is enough will depend, of course, on the visitor’s tastes.

The museum building itself is a sort of artifact, having been converted from an old monastery, like the Musée des Augustines in Toulouse. The lovely old cloisters and church are preserved and stocked with statues, most notably by the local gothic sculptor Adam Kraft. From there the museum seems to expand in every direction. There is a sizable collection of prehistoric and ancient artifacts, including Roman military equipment. One large hall is dedicated to fashion—and walking past so many oddly-dressed mannequins is a little creepy. Directly below is the museum’s impressive exhibition of antique instruments, showing viol de gambas, ornate pianos, obsolete reed instruments, and much more.

In five minutes you can go from the pious passion of gothic painting to the stylish precision of scientific instruments. Among these, the most famous is Martin Behaim’s Erdapfel (“earth apple”), the earliest surviving globe. The map is difficult to read now, discolored and faded with age; but it is obvious that the Americas are not included, since it was made in 1490-92, before Christopher Columbus returned from his voyage in 1493. (This, by the way, is yet another proof that people back then already knew the earth was round.) Leaving no stone unturned, the museum also has a substantial collection of paintings from the Renaissance, Baroque, and Enlightenment periods. This includes Dürer’s imaginary portrait of Charlemagne, a famous miniature portrait of Martin Luther, and several works by Rembrandt. But the museum is impressive for the range and depth of its collections rather than outstanding specimens, though it has its fair number of these too. The place is worth as much time as you care to spend in it.

§

As everybody knows, Nuremberg’s reputation as a seat of imperial power and the home of the German Renaissance’s most famous representative, Albrecht Dürer, was considerably darkened in the twentieth century. Nowadays it is nearly impossible for most outsiders to think of Nuremberg without immediately thinking of the Nazis. Far from trying to cover up this association, the people of Nuremberg have admirably opened two excellent exhibitions about this dark era, the first at the former rally grounds, the second at the courthouse where the Nazi leaders were put on trial. Because both are on site, they are situated a little far from the center; but they are well worth visiting.

The documentation center at the rally grounds has been built into its largest preserved structure, the Congress Hall. This is a semicircular arena, loosely based on the Coliseum, that could hold 50,000 party members. The documentation center’s metallic exterior seems to spear through the older stone building, creating a visual pun on the name of Albert Speer, the chief Nazi architect. Opened in 2001, the center is designed to explain the rise of Hitler’s party and the part that the Nuremberg rallies played in that story. The ticket automatically comes with an audioguide, which is good, since all of the text in the museum is in German so you have little choice but to listen. The exhibitions are organized by chronology and theme, taking the visitor through the early days of National Socialism, the Beer Hall Putsch and the writing of Mein Kampf, and on to their rise to power—including much else along the way: their ideology and rituals, their organization and methods of control, their use of propaganda and pageantry, and so on. Though there are plenty of photos, the main substance of the exhibit consists in this self-guided tour, making the experience of visit somewhat like listening to an audiobook—though a very good one.

Since I had recently read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, a lot of the information was not new to me. The explanations of the actual rituals were, however, new and fascinating. As in my visit to Berlin’s Topography of Terror, what most struck me about the Nazi party was the degree to which its organization, rituals, and ethos of manliness were reminiscent of the Boy Scouts. By this I do not intend to insult boy scouts; rather, mean that, in its rituals and architecture, these rallies were like nightmare versions of boyish fantasies. Propaganda films show grown men roughhousing, partaking in good clean fun, exercising with their mates, laughing and singing songs together, and demonstrating their manly martial prowess in mock battles. The melodramatic gravity of the rituals reminds me of a children’s game, aping the movements and motions of real solemnity while missing their substance. The architecture consists of shallow imitations of classical structures or medieval fortresses; and you get the impression that, like so many boys, they were imagining themselves in an ancient time, in an epoch of emperors and knights and Crusades.

But clearly the rallies were effective. Indeed, during their tenure in power the Nazis proved themselves to be geniuses of propaganda. The rallies’ tight choreography and grand orchestration showcased the dazzling efficiency of the German army. Their massive marches and endless parades reinforced the image of German might. The mixture of military and religious rituals created an effective blend of awe and aggression. The free use of symbols from the past—the ancient Romans, the church, the Holy Roman Empire—impressed on the German people the idea that they were following in the footsteps of illustrious ancestors and fulfilling their destiny. The total coordination of myth, pageantry, rhetoric, and spectacle created a hermetically sealed whole, a cultural space where beauty, truth, and goodness were the party line, and the attendee just a passionate part of a glorious movement. The ability to inspire had never been so abused.

These were the lessons I learned from my visit to the documentation center and a short walk around the remaining buildings. It is a sobering experience.

Somewhat more uplifting is a visit to the Nuremberg Trial courtroom. The room is in the monumental Palace of Justice, Nuremberg’s court building on the other side of town from the Documentation Center. Nuremberg was chosen as the site of the trials partly for the city’s association with Nazism, and also because the Palace of Justice has a sizable adjoining prison. After entering through a side door of the building, paying the entrance fee, and ascending some stairs, the visitor is confronted with Courtroom 600, where the trial actually took place. My first impression was that it was much smaller than I expected, indeed hardly bigger than a civil courtroom I had seen in New York. Admittedly the courtroom is now significantly smaller than it was during the trial, since the back wall was at that time removed to allow for a double-decker gallery of onlookers and reporters.

Even so, it was a small stage on which to create history. For into this modest room there presided judges from the four allied powers (one main and one alternative for each, making eight); a bank of interpreters simultaneously translated between the four official languages (Russian, French, German, and English); prosecutors from every Allied power; defense attorneys for all the 24 accused; the accused themselves; a witness stand; guards, clerks, and amanuenses; and then the press, with cameras and notepads. It must have been very crowded. Standing in that room, I felt that strange mixture of disappointment and awe that historical places create—in this case, disappointment that it is an ordinary courtroom, awe that such normal surroundings could have been host to such a world-changing event. But history does not always leave an obvious mark; and the courtroom—which is still occasionally used—looks clean and polished.

Up another flight of stairs is the main exhibition, which has only been open since 2010. As in the rally grounds, here the visit consists of an audioguide and lots of panels. Really, the amount of information on display is overwhelming; to listen to all of it, one would need two hours at least. But it is good information, giving some idea of the leadup and consequences of the trial, but mainly focusing on the trial itself—its legal bases, its personalities, its progress. The audioguide takes an uncompromising pro-trial stance, which is somewhat surprising, given that they were often seen within Germany as an example of “victor’s justice.” For it hardly seems like a recipe for fairness that the victors to put the leaders of an enemy country on trial. And anyone must admit that the victor’s hands were hardly clean. The most extreme case are the Soviets, who had their own mass killings, invasions, and wars of aggression; but none of the Allies were beyond reproach: many French collaborated, the English appeasement strategy aided Germany’s rise, and America’s bombing of Dresden is nefarious.

Even granting all this, I still think that the Nuremberg Trials were a step forward in the bumbling progress of our species. The victorious powers could simply have shot the Nazis without due process, or have submitted them to a shallow show-trial. It is rather remarkable that we didn’t. As Robert H. Jackson said in his opening speech: “That four great nations, flushed with victory and stung with injury stay the hand of vengeance and voluntarily submit their captive enemies to the judgment of the law is one of the most significant tributes that Power has ever paid to Reason.” The trial set new precedents for international law—defining war crimes and crimes against humanity—which served as a model for similar trials ever since, such as those in the wake of the Rwandan massacre or the Balkan Wars. And the trials were instrumental in uncovering the horrible truth of the Nazi atrocities and the full extent of their culpability, since the prosecutors were determined to convict the defendants using their own documents.

If the Nuremberg trials were a victory for Reason, that the city most associated with Nazism could be home to two thorough and honest exhibitions about the history of their crimes is yet another.