Photo of the Week: Rottinger

This is typical of the small German towns along the Romantic Road in Bavaria. Rottinger doesn't even warrant a mention in most guidebooks, and there's not a whole lot to do other than wander around, but if you have a car, it's fun to stop and see a little bit of what "real" German life is like, as opposed to the touristy areas right next to the train stations.

Dinkelsbuhl

Many travelers following Germany's Romantic Road would love to find a town that is the non-touristy equivalent of the picturesque Rothenburg ob der Tauber.

Unfortunately, such a town does not exist, as Rothenburg's preservation as a medieval city was only made possible through its fall in the Thirty Years' War (1618-1648) and the ensuing poverty that lasted until the 20th century.

One town, however, comes close - Dinkelsbuhl.

Dinkelsbuhl sits along the Romantic Road less than an hour away from Rothenburg by car.

With many of Rothenburg's charms - a medieval wall, a Gothic cathedral, cobblestone streets and excellent local eateries - Dinkeslbuhl is less crowded and feels more like Germany and less like Disneyland, but it lacks the historic significance of Rothenburg and the myriad restaurants.

I visited Dinkelsbuhl in 2006, and I found it to be worth a stop on the way to Munich if you have time. It seems like much of the wall has been taken out, but substantial portions still stand. You can't walk its length like you can in Rothenburg, but after Rothenburg, you should have your fill of walking around the walls.

There are a few shopping streets in Dinkelsbuhl, and you can find the sorts of shops the locals typically frequent. Rather than Rothenburg's tourist traps - where sellers hawk spoons, beer steins, fake medieval weaponry and Christmas decorations - Dinkeslbuhl's shops include clothing stores, soccer shops and grocery stores.

What Dinkelsbuhl has that Rothenburg lacks is a lake full of swans and a nesting spot for the birds atop one of its buildings. (There's a chance the nest is for a stork, but swans are on the lake).

When I visited Dinkelsbuhl, I wandered around the town's uncrowded streets, visited the cathedral and had an excellent serving of apple strudel with ice cream at a small restaurant near the cathedral recommended by one of the helpful locals.

One of the trips I want to take in the future is a bicycle trip along the best sections of the Romantic Road, with more time to explore each individual town and the surrounding rolling green hills.

The Taste of Travel: Sausages in Nuremberg

It was by accident that I found what claims to be the oldest sausage restaurant in the world.

Wandering through the old section of Nuremberg with my family a few days before Christmas, 2008, we were arguing over where a restaurant we had seen the night before was actually located. After asking several locals, we got as many different sets of directions.

My mom wanted someplace "cute," and I just wanted to eat, so when I saw a quaint-looking building around the corner, I pointed it out and said, "We're eating there."

That building happened to be the Zum Gulden Stern, a sausage restaurant established in 1419.

We looked at the menu, decided the price was quite reasonable and went inside to be seated at a long communal table next to a kind, elderly German man.

We ordered half-liters of Tucher weissbier, and I asked the older German man what is good in my poorly accented German.

Fortunately, he was more than willing to tell us all what his menu favorites were, bang glasses in a toast (teaching us that the thick bottom of a pilsner glass is where they should actually be hit - useful information for any wannabe beer snob), explain the history of the building and talk to us about life in general.

I wish I could have understood three words of it. He sure was nice, though.

We all ended up ordering the same thing - plates of eight sausages and potato salad. The sausages, as small as one of my fingers, are a Nuremburg specialty, and they are absolutely delicious. I've never had another sausage that tasted quite the same, and nothing I've had in the States even compares.

As for the potato salad, it wasn't the creamy, cold, onion-infused picnic food we have in the United States, but chopped potatoes with a vinegary sauce that complemented the sausages very well.

The sausages - available in orders ranging from six to 12 - were not very expensive, with six coming in at about 7 euros and 12 costing slightly more than 12 euros. You can also get them in eight- and 10-piece orders. By the way, "stuck" means "piece" and "beilage" means "potato salad."

For more information about the restaurant, visit the website. (You'll have to be able to read German, but the address is listed on the home page).

Keysersberg: Simple Living in the Alsatian Vineyards

Keysersberg barely rates a paragraph in most guide books, but it really is worth a visit.

It's not unlike a host of similar towns in Alsace, and that in itself is the draw for me. Located just a short distance from Colmar on the eastern edge of France, Keysersberg is a quick drive to a place that is largely away from the tourist crowds - at least when I was there in December.

Surrounded by vineyards, Keysersberg is dominated by a ruined castle on a hill. The buildings themselves looked medieval, and I like to think someone transported from 400 years ago would recognize the town.

The first thing I saw when I approached the canal was a rainbow. After taking a few pictures, I walked through the old streets with my family, crossed stone bridges and headed toward the castle, which was flying the Tricolor, giving me the hope that I could climb its tower.

The hill on which the castle stood was blocked by a wall, and I hoped it was possible to reach the ruin. I stepped into a shop and, in my halting French, asked if it was possible to get up to the building. The problem with knowing just enough of a language to ask directions is that it's impossible to understand the response, but after quite a bit of pointing, I got the message.

Two paths actually led up to the castle, and we followed the nearest one as it wound through a copse of trees and past vineyards before finally ending at the castle walls.

Once inside, I immediately headed for the tower, expecting a closed and locked door, but was happily surprised to find it open. It's the kind of thing that would probably never happen in the United States, and I climbed to the top for a great view of Keysersberg and the surrounding lands.


Keysersberg probably won't ever be a tourist attraction like Rothenburg, Germany, simply because there isn't much to do once you're done wandering the handful of streets and seeing the castle, but it's definitely worth a trip if you're looking for small-town charm. I still find it hard to believe that people live in these sorts of places, since they're what you see in fairy tale books when you're growing up, but for the inhabitants of Keysersberg and the many villages like it, it's just life.

Photo of the Week: Headstones in Prague's Jewish Cemetery

Prague's Jewish Cemetery holds about 14,000 graves. Used primarily in the Middle Ages, the headstones are very old. Many of them have smaller stones on top of them, an homage to desert burials, where rocks are laid atop the graves to keep the sand from being blown away and exhuming the bodies.

As the ground settled over time, the once-upright headstones began to lean, eventually ending up in their current state.

Lodgings: Gastehaus Uhl

If you’re looking for a medieval city, Rothenburg ob der Tauber (Rothenburg o/T) in Germany is one of the best. Being such a charming historic city, many of the hotels are expensive, but it is possible to stay inside the walls at a very affordable price without sacrificing comfort or services.

My hotel of choice is the Gastehaus Uhl. Located just a five-minute walk from the market square, it is very close to the town’s major attractions, and the view from some of the upper floors is a beautiful scene over the top of the wall through the valley beyond.


Far from being just a place to stay, the Uhl family has run the historic building as a café and bakery for 30 years. At the top of the list for me are schneeballen (snowballs) – basically deep-fried balls of pie crust coated in sugar, chocolate or flavored icings (on the lower-left shelf below).

Aside from the great geographic location and the fact that the building dates to the 1600s, the things that make Gastehaus Uhl the perfect place to stay are the rates and the friendliness of the owners.

In a city where comparable rooms cost 80 euros and above, I stayed at the Gastehaus Uhl in December of 2008 for 55 euros per room.

When I went to Rothenburg in 2006, I had not reserved the room for the first night, thinking I might stay somewhere between Frankfurt and Rothenburg. When I arrived in Rothenburg, I found Gastehaus Uhl full until the following night. Robert Uhl, who somehow manages to work six or seven days per week and remain cheerful, managed to get me a room in a neighboring guesthouse for the same rate, and let me use his parking spot for my car.

The rooms are comfortable, but small – like most in Europe. I’ve always stayed on the fifth floor, and there aren’t any elevators. The whole building is spotlessly clean, which is something of the norm in German lodgings. Both of the top-floor rooms have showers, and one has a view of the street while the other has a view of the countryside and wall. The room with the street view has a tropical mural on the wall, which always makes me laugh.


The café is reasonably priced, and the menu features a wide selection of German favorites. I really, really liked the wiener schnitzel with potatoes. The cookies, pastries and other desserts are excellent, and if you are up early enough, you can probably get them fresh out of the oven (or fryer, in the case of schneeballen). The schneeballen are softball-sized, and the Uhls sell about 25,000 each year.

The Gastehaus Uhl sits on the Plonelien, a street that keeps popping up in postcard shots. The half-timbered buildings with the nearby tower that spans the street make for a good photo, as I tried to capture below. (The building with the light on top that shines at the tower is Gastehaus Uhl).

In my stays at Gastehaus Uhl, I have yet to find any reason to stay anywhere else. With the location, prices and friendliness of the staff, it would really be hard to beat.

The Café and Gasthaus Uhl is located at Am Plonlein 6-8, Rothenburg ob der Tauber 91541, Germany.

Photo of the week: Notre Dame at Night

This is the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. I took this photo two days before Christmas, and you can just see the Christmas tree in front of the cathedral. Notre Dame was started in 1163 as a result of the debacle that surrounded the blessing of the Second Crusade by Pope Eugenius III, when the previous church was inadequate and led to squabbling and fighting between the French and Italian priests. The squabbling turned into a brawl as each faction argued over who would keep the elegant carpet laid on the floor, and the French King Louis VII was even hit in the face when he tried to break it up.

Built on the Ile de la Cité, the largest of the islands in Paris, the site for Notre Dame was chosen not only for its centrality to the major trade route that was the river, but also for the metaphor comparing Christianity to a ship steering for harbor. The Ile de la Cité resembled the rear of a ship, and the ship eventually became the main symbol on Paris' coat of arms.

The site of the cathedral is not a new one, as a Roman temple was originally built on the same ground. The ruins of that temple, as well as other Roman ruins, can be seen by walking down the staircase located at the far side of the empty space in front of the cathedral.

One of my favorite things to do in Paris is just walk around the center of the city at night. It's perfectly safe, and the monuments, churches and governmental buildings are well-lit, providing for great photo opportunities and letting you know that you're in Paris, the City of Light.

The Christmas Tree of Prague

When I landed in Prague, I stepped out of the plane onto the runway, which was being dusted with a fine coating of snow, then boarded the bus to the terminal.

As the taxi drove my family and I to our hotel, I got my first views of the city I had dreamed of coming to for so long. The headlights illuminated block after block of Baroque architecture.

It wasn’t what I had expected. I’d been told Prague was beautiful, and I’d seen pictures of course, but I had always assumed that I had seen the historic heart of the town. Little did I know that most of the city, aside from what the Soviets built, retains its historic architecture and facades.

We stopped at our hotel, the Pension Green Garland, dropped our luggage off, and walked a couple short blocks to the Old Town Square, dominated by its clock tower and the belfries of the Church of Our Lady of Týn.

The sight would have been magnificent in its own right, but it was made more so by the cluster of low-slung shacks that made up the Christmas market, selling decorations, trinkets, souvenirs and food. Towering over the Christmas market was the best Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.

It wasn’t ostentatious, but it was so well-done that it just looked right at place, and the ornaments weren’t even the focal point. Aside from the bluish lights that occasionally flashed, there were another type of light that I had never seen before, but would see all over France and Germany in the next couple of weeks. They were foot-long tubes of LED lights that scrolled downward. The effect made the tree appear to be dripping light.

At other places around the square, tall wire-framed angels bedecked in lights and playing trumpets added to the festive spirit. As I worked through the crowds under the light snow to scope out some of the food, ranging from sausages to Trdlo (a cinnamon-roll type food I will write about soon), a group of carolers on a nearby stage struck up Christmas songs…in English.

I gazed around and savored the moment. I stood under an overhang out of the snow, sharing the space with a group of Czechs sipping their hot mulled wine and eating sausages. To think that it has only been 20 years since the Communists were thrown out seemed absurd. The city was brightly painted and everyone seemed happy.

My overall impression of Prague on that first night was of a city basking in

its freedom. Though it saw better glory years when it was a commercial center and prospered under the rule of kings such as Charles IV, I think that to be so alive in such a relatively short time after the drab life under Communist rule, the heart of the city makes a statement for itself and the Czech Republic.

As I explored Prague over the next few days, there was always something more I wanted to see. While it doesn’t beat Paris for my favorite city in the world (that’s a pretty tall order), I loved my time there. Unlike much of Europe, it wasn’t ravaged in the wars of the past century, and remains one of the best-preserved capitals in the world.

As I went through Europe after visiting Prague, I traveled to medieval walled cities dusted with snow, larger cities famous for their Christmas markets such as Nuremberg in Germany and Strasbourg and Paris in France, but none of them eclipsed Prague for the feeling of festivity and beauty of the tree. Despite my affinity for Paris, the tree in front of Notre Dame on Christmas Eve didn’t come close to evoking the same sense of majesty as the one in Prague.

The Ponte Vecchio

Bridges always fascinated me. The fact that a road spanning water can be so iconic of a city, while being such an essentially utilitarian structure, is intriguing. Take, for example, the Golden Gate Bridge, London's Tower Bridge, Paris' Pont Neuf and Florence's Ponte Vecchio.


When I arrived in Florence, it was to visit my sister, who was living there at the time as part of a study abroad program through her college. She was lucky enough to get an apartment right in the center of the city, and the Ponte Vecchio was a short walk away.

Most bridges today serve solely as a means to transport people and vehicles across a body of water, beautiful though some of them may be. What I never realized before reading a few novels set in the middle ages was that, throughout history, bridges were often lined with houses, shops and other buildings.

The Ponte Vecchio (literally meaning 'old bridge') is one of the few examples of this practice left standing today.

Standing on the bridge, it was easy to forget that I was over the Arno river and not in an everyday street, since the buildings lining each side give that impression. Only in the center could I see the water below.

At first glance, I didn't like the bridge. It doesn't have the grace or style of others I've visited, and I wasn't exactly familiar with its history.

It wasn't until I saw it lit at night that I suddenly realized how beautiful it actually is. Standing under a clear sky, with my jacket pulled tight against the wind, I stood on the banks of the Arno and just gazed. The lights reflected in the water gave it a surreal feeling, and I suddenly felt a connection with the bridge.

Walking across the crowded structure, I passed shop after shop, mostly selling jewelry. At the time of construction in the mid-1300s, most of those shops belonged to butchers, but the fact that each opens like a treasure chest makes the current residents seem more appropriate.

Walking the bridge is an interesting experience. I was at once dazzled by the expensive jewelry and fine art in the shops, and annoyed with the beggars hawking cheap trinkets. It's the same junk you can find at the Trevi Fountain, Eiffel Tower and half the other attractions in Europe.

Legend has it that when the Germans pulled out of Florence in World War Two, the Ponte Vecchio was spared the fate of demolition Florence's other bridges were sentenced to because Hitler had a particular affinity for the Ponte Vecchio. True or not, it adds to the mystique.

Though I still don’t find the Ponte Vecchio to be the most beautiful bridge in Europe, I can say that it serves as an excellent example of a medieval bridge that retains some of its originality.

As always, whenever I’m in a historically significant or just plain old spot, I feel somehow connected with the people who laid the stones, using technology we would laugh at today for its simplicity. Despite the lack of heavy machines, concrete that set underwater, and modern materials, the men who layed the original roadbed on the Ponte Vecchio managed to get it right. The fact that it still stands is a testament to their craftsmanship, and I find myself wondering if I’m capable of creating something that will last for 700 years.

Bruges: Belgium's Jewel

Coasting down the gentle canal waters, surrounded by brick buildings and the medieval walls, it didn’t seem like a place that should actually exist outside a fairy tale or a movie set. Once the economic hub of the Low Countries, the town of Bruges, Belgium, is today one of the most appealing small cities in Europe.

Just a one-hour train ride from Brussels, the capital of the European Union, Bruges stands seemingly forgotten by time. The Europeans haven’t forgotten it, though, naming it the European Capital of Culture in 2002.

When I was there, it was after a visit to Brussels, where the old market square and Mannekin Pis were worthwhile, but I didn't have a chance to fully explore the city. With only two days before I had to fly home, I hoped Bruges wouldn’t disappoint.

It didn’t.

My first night there was a blur of train station, taxi ride through dark streets and check-in at the Hotel Adornes, located in the old town.

In the morning, I awoke to the splendor that is Bruges. An overcast sky threatened rain, but the canal outside my window gently lapped at the piers of a centuries-old bridge and ran past brick buildings as it met up with the other small waterways that add to the ambiance of the city.

The hotel offered free bicycles, and my family and I wanted to make use of them before any rain came. We went down to what I thought of as a stable, and selected four of the 20-odd two-wheelers there. Childishly delighted with the bells attached to the handlebars, we rumbled over cobblestones toward a series of windmills knowing that all cars yield the right-of-way to bicycles in Bruges.

Along the outer canal of the old town, several old windmills stand as examples of one of Belgium’s quintessential sights. None were open at the time, though it looked like they were sometimes available for tours. I would have liked to see the wooden wheels and pegs that made up the older windmill gears, but I had to settle for the views of the exteriors and, inexplicably, only manage to take one (poor) photograph.

Leaving the windmills, we rode over a dirt path that circles the old town. In the canal to the left, low-slung barges passed each other under stone-and-brick bridges. Several of the larger roads spanning the canal had fortified gatehouses erected when Bruges was entering its golden age, between the 12^th and 15^th centuries.

The curved sides and stout construction of one of them indicated its being designed for mortal struggle, but with the host of swans lazing in the canal beneath it and the occasional car passing through its permanently open gate and portcullis, it’s hard to imagine a time when enemy armies might have threatened the town, even though its port was used by German U-boats as recently as the First World War.

Looking back to the town, building after idyllic building passed by, separated from us by the street and fields of flowers. The citizens of Bruges are surrounded by a rare beauty, and they maintain it well.

Further on, we came to Lovers’ Lake, one of the more pristine areas I have ever seen in any city. The natural beauty is no more impressive than Hyde Park in London or some of the islands in Paris, but when the distinctive architecture and a few swans are thrown in, it’s hard to rival.

As the capital of Flanders, Bruges embodied many of the fine arts during and just after the Renaissance. Many canvases from the Dutch Old Masters are on display in the city’s various museums, but with limited time, we opted to see one of the original fine arts still practiced today.

Following directions in our guide book, we weaved through several small streets before coming to a lace museum. We wandered through it rather quickly, stopping to view some of the most ornate garments and tablecloths I have ever seen, then walked into the meeting room.

A low hum of click-clicking greeted my ears as I stepped through the door to see about 30 elderly women tossing wooden spools of thread over each other to weave intricate designs. The less-complicated patterns required the workers to juggle between 10 and 30 spools, while some of the more complex designs necessitated far more.

I’m usually one of the first to roll my eyes at the obvious tourist-trap “crafts” that any 12-year-old can make in art class, and this was nothing of the sort. It was abundantly clear that the women, chatting to each other in Flemish, French and English as they worked, had spent years honing their skills. Without a burning need for a doily, I couldn’t rationalize spending the money that the pieces are definitely worth to buy one, but just watched them work.

After an excellent lunch at The Flemish Pot (a future post), we grabbed a ride on one of the canal boats with a group of Mexicans proudly supporting their team in the World Cup, which was being played in Germany at the time.

Floating through the city’s waterways as the guide explained what we were seeing in no less than four languages, we passed under low bridges and got a better understanding of some of the historic buildings dotting the city, including the belfry that stands on the south side of the market square and has 47 bells still played by a full-time employee.

After the boat ride, we got back on our bikes and sped toward the town square for some chocolates from Dumon before the shop closed, and a stop at the town square, which has the belfry and the city hall. It was fairly crowded with a mix of tourists, buses, horse-drawn carriages and people out walking their dogs.

We had dinner at a local pub with delicious food and beer that seemed to evidence the Belgians’ assertion that their beer is better than Germany’s, and then it was time for a nighttime walk through the town, which had become surprisingly quiet. The water reflected the subtle lights and our footsteps echoed in the narrow alleys as we whiled away the last hours of our trip.

Taking the taxi to the train station that would take us to Brussels and a flight home the next morning, we passed through the city as it was waking up. The sun rose higher above canals and buildings that can only be described as quaint. At that moment, I felt like Bruges was begging me to stay. I had to settle for promising myself a return trip at some point.

The Tower on the Rhine

I had to climb it. I’d built forts as a kid, so when I saw a real one, I had to explore it. Never mind that I’d done that for much of the past week. The Rhine River is full of towers and castles as it winds through Germany, and I wanted to see as many as I could.

I stared up at the tower, which loomed above a small park, its masonry strong, but showing its age. In the shadow of the centuries-old building, children slid down a slide and played on a swing set. The small town spread out below the hill.

The oaken door was invitingly open, and I stepped through, to the chagrin of my family, who didn’t seem to care as much as I did to climb another tower. Aware of their reluctance, I paid the entrance fee (50 cents per person) and started climbing.

The tower’s many levels were a museum of medieval weaponry and artifacts. Sets of black armor hung along a wall, pikes and halberds standing between them. Swords, daggers and crossbows were displayed in glass cases in the center of the square rooms. I think there were some butter churns and pottery and junk too, but who has time to look at that when there’s a battleaxe in the next case?

My parents and sister were softening up to this attraction not listed in any of our guidebooks, and were actually slowing me down (because they wanted to see the butter churns and pots).

On the top floor, I passed a small alcove where the curator sat, reading a magazine. He came out to talk to us, overjoyed to practice his excellent English. He asked us the usual questions – where we were from, how long we were in Germany, etc. We made some small talk, then he asked us to wait and scurried off.

When he returned, he held an old leather-bound book in his hands. He set it down on an ancient-looking table and opened it.

“I found this a few years ago when I was cleaning,” he said. It was the original guestbook from when the tower was opened in the 1920s.

“You see,” he continued, “they go all the way. There are many Americans in here.” He flipped through page after page, and there were, indeed, many Brits, Americans, Germans, French and Italians, among other nationalities.

“Then we had a problem,” he announced, turning to an entry dated 1940. It was the last entry until 2002, when they started again in earnest. It was as if the intervening years had never happened. There were new entries from Brits, Americans, Germans, French and Italians. I smiled and signed my name and the date of my visit.

The final level of the tower was its roof. I stood between two of the ramparts and took in the view. The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue, contrasting with the stark green banks of the river, which were dotted with buildings and farms, crops growing on the gentle slopes.

It was easy to see how the tower could be used to exert power. Sitting on a spit of land jutting into the river, there was no way a boat could pass without its lord’s permission. Like many of the towers along the river, this one probably served as a customs checkpoint on what was the main economic thoroughfare of the time.

It was lunchtime, so we left the tower, saying goodbye to the friendly curator, and found a restaurant.

I would love to tell people where the tower is. The only problem with that is that I have no idea. All I do know is that it is somewhere on the Rhine between Bacharach and Bingen.