Trip Trumpet Central

I've written this travelogue in a pretty ridiculous amount of detail, far more than one would expect if the desire would be to publish it. Surprise: This'll never be published. Instead it's being written primarily to trigger the memories had in this trip chiefly back to one person, myself - even if the format's voice and tense is seemingly addressed to an audience at large. So, for the person who isn't me, perhaps the best thing to do is to scroll and look at the pictures. Ure, maybe read some text adjacent to an interesting photo or location's vicinity. Or read it all. Or none of it.

In August-September 2022, I embark on a not particularly remarkable cycletour. That's because it's on the shorter side compared to other cycletour trips I've made abroad, for one thing, and for another I'm not trying to make any claims on even modestly attempting to achieve any deeper understanding of a different culture. I'm already well familiar with the Germans, the result of being in their constant midst while living in Kaiserslautern for the better part of 6 years from 1982-1988, aged 16-22. So I know what I'll like from what's on offer in general. Instead the trip's more about getting some exercise, re-sampling local food (that I'm mostly already familiar with, and same with the beer), but I will cheerfully be open to surprises. It's not like I did a great job of touring the country back then, plus I was a young punk. Here I'll even give away the first surprise, the result of rolling through Bavaria: that's where the best hefeweizen (my favorite beer style) is!... with the possible exception of Belgian whites (where I'll briefly go as well).

Anywho, so no big expectations, nope, not even if my cycletouring is always all about having a looksee at places I haven't been to before - which'll actually be true here for almost all of the trip. In the process of the above, meanwhiel, this silly American Fahrradfahrer will get to relitigate The Battle Of The Bulge of an entirely different sort with the Germans, but here I won't be putting up much of a fight - especially when I *also* discover that Bavaria is just one beer garden conveniently located a stone's throw from the next... and with park benches (hopefully in the shade) nearby to pass out on afterward. HOWEVER! I will at least solemnly vow to stay away from the ubiquitous gelato places in every city center until I've reached some kinda fighting weight equilibrium. Gotta have standards.

TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY (9,10 August 2022):
Landing in Frankfurt International Airport this year *does* feel a bit like coming home, at least in comparison with doing the same the previous year. Then, I immediately made my way to catch another flight onward to Prague. Not this time, though, and - happily - neither must I deal with any CoViD protocol nervousness in changing borders, wondering if any entry might be denied on the basis of vaccination or viral status. Thus do I waltz through Frankfurt IA's passport formality, gather my beat-up $0.99 suitcase filled with similarly crappy gear, then find my way to take an S-Bahn train. It'll be a mere scheduled 11 minutes to arrive in the heart of Frankfurt, at its Hauptbahnhof.

From the train platform I'm immediately looking over the instructions to get to my hostel, fortuitously only all of a few blocks away. I drag my rollercase through first the hordes at the train station, then I'm navigating those outside in the - ah, that explains it! - red light district. I really should have guessed about the latter, though, being by the train station and all. In just those few blocks it seems like there are many folks from about every socioeconomic status and culture, but things get decidedly more seedy as soon as I turn off of the main drag of Kaiserstrasse to walk the last mere block-plus down Moselstrasse. Right away the smell of piss is almost overwhelming, and most of the signs are for sex clubs, each with a not particularly fit quasi-bouncer out front or just inside the door. The folks on the street here are just loitering about, be they prostitutes with a quick hiss my way, pimps, or derelicts. There are obvious places where various homeless are evidently spend the night - a beat up mattress or glattened cardboard on the ground are dead giveaways - and I'm also witness of some arguments between malcontents of whatever stripe on the sidewalks. Criminy. The descent into Dante's hole is rather quick indeed.

Such tawdry business comes to an immediate halt when I enter the doors of 5 Elements Hostel, a unlikely but eminently friendly confine given its location, an oasis of sorts spread over a number of floors with a large reception area sporting a large glass overlook of the mayhem outside - which continues unabated - to give an odd backdrop from which to knock back a beer or three. Can't complain about that view, not at all, as entertainment truly can take many forms. I'll witness a few scenes that are frankly (tragi-)comic out these very windows over the next few days. (My favorite will be an argument over a parked car, with the two combattants alternately yelling at each other, sometimes ducking from some randomly thrown thing from the other, one generally chasing the other down while - fortunately - never actually engaging in fisticuffs.)

5 Elements will work well for dealing with jetlag, meanwhile, always a thing for me when traveling east to Europe from the States. For the most part I'll do okay this time 'round, holding out to 7 or 8 p.m. the first few nights while trying to get up at a normal-ish time. (A stewardess on my just-completed Condor Air flight has suggested this strategy, one she uses.) Happy hour, with 2-for-1 drinks, plus free dinners provided by the hostel in using cooks that I learn are Ukranian refugees staying at the hostel, will undoubtedly help. I actually only time out well for one of those freebies, though, happily donating to their tip jar afterward. More importantly, Happy Hour's a good place to continue a conversation with one of my roommates from the fourth floor I've just met, Mattia from Italy. (He's more precisely from near Chiavenna, that ancient town through which I cycled to make my way into Switzerland via Maloja Pass and Italian Switzerland some years prior). We run through the gamut of politics, film, literature, etc. - all the glories and benefits of hostel exchanges, where I find folks more consistently educated than the average bear. Europeans in general seem more world-aware than Americans in the first place, of course.

Mattia's company will also prove beneficial in an unexpected way, in the form of a few computer files that he's obtained somewhere on the 'net, the 3-part documentary Get Back (about The Beatles recording session of the Let It Be album and the famous rooftop concert) which I've been jonesing to see. Soon we're joined by a Frenchwoman from Metz and an American guy from Seattle (a PCT through hiker), as well. I'll quickly learn from this trio that a buttload of travelers have been taking advantage of a special regional train deal that Germany's been offering for 3 months that I've had no inkling of, a 9-Euro-per-month pass to use the trains without limit. Wow! Talk about a windfall type of savings! Apparently it's a response to the jump in gas prices from the Russian-Ukranian War somehow, spreading some breaks given to the citizenry that seemed to have not helped those of more limited means much. The weird thing is that foreigners can get in on this social benefit of sorts, but so it is. I doubt tourist operators are complaining, especially after the massive losses from CoViD lockdowns - and Germany locked down about the hardest outside of China's draconian, hell-ish version.

Outside of jetlag considerations and getting my ship right in that aspect, the "plan" in Frankfurt will merely be to wander a bit about on foot. To that end I'll primarily just check out the Innenstadt, the oldtown district right by the river that I'll later learn was actually completely rebuilt - twice. Of the numerous old edifices I'll see in that area, it's actually only the cathedral that remained after the war. It's a funny thing to me to admire just how good a job they did in this reconstruction from absolute rubble: virtually all of the buildings looking properly old! This'll be the case in numerous cities that I'm to see soon, too, where as many bricks, beams, and stones from the ruins were reused as was possible to recreate old town areas that were put together using old photos, plans, and assuredly, memories. In spite of such painstaking care to detail, Frankfurt is by and large rather dirty, busy, and loud. Staying in a hostel located across the street from a lot of construction going on doesn't help, either, nor does not really wanting to wander about on any less-trafficked streets. This does seem like a good place to get mugged if not careful. There's no shortage of guys just standing around and seeming to appraise your value as target the way they run their eyes up and down you not in the lascivious way one might expect for the district. It feels more predatory in a material way. More pleasantly, anyway, I'll quickly come to realize that the Main (it IS Frankfurt am Main) river - not so far away - should be a nice place to play some horn and people watch. And that's exactly what I'll do.

That'll do it for Frankfurt, anyway, two quiet days of schlepping about and nights in the lounge downstairs until the witching hour of 8 or so. Concering my upcoming cycling, I've got a cheap-o card and the ability to use one of my phones for text and the odd call with a couple of restrictions for outgoing and incoming calls that I can live with. Also, I've gotten the hostel management to agree to keep my crap suitcase for a month downstairs in their luggage room. I repack everything in transferring all of its contents into the panniers I had inside it, buy a ticket to Nurenburg, then get ready to spend all of a single night there. This is necessitated by being suddenly confronted with the reality of those aforementioned 9Euro tickets and the unexpected difficulties in obtaining convenient spots on trains to get to Prague or Plzen (either of which would be suitable to getting to Vroutek - where my bike sits). Fortunately, Nurenburg sounds nice and I've never been there before, main qualifications for visiting a city these days in my book. Moreover, it has a convenient A&O Hostel (I've used a few from this chain before, industrial but clean and dependable) by the train station, plus I do remember that, hey, I actually *know* someone in town: Luca, from the cycling the year before. Time to get in motion.

THURSDAY (11 August 2022):

A morning train from Frankfurt to Nuremburg is short and uneventful, the biggest issue being the walk from my hostel to the train station and then from the other train station to my new hostel. Hauling 4 loaded panniers, however light they individually are with convenient handles, turns out to be more of a pain in the ass and ungainly than expected. Suffer the fool. As for my new home, my stay in N-town will be all too brief, consisting of a bit more sleep, first of all, then walking its reknowned oldtown area within some impressive, massive, and ancient city walls over 3 hours. I'll ultimately briefly meeting with Luca, too, but our first plans for a beer at night are quashed by his schedule... which actually might be better, anyway, as I get to do a proper walkabout with no schedule to adhere to. That's the best way to ramble.

That I somehow first find myself in the red light district, also near the train station like in Frankfurt, but much cleaner on this day, is an odd coincidence. Truly. The difference here, though, is that the women are mostly in windows overlooking the wide cobblestone street along the old city wall that I'm shuffling along at first without realizing they're even there or where I've precisely found myself in heading from one watchtower to the next. Some halfheartedly call out to me to check out the goods, to which I can only give a friendly smile, nod, and keep on keepin' on. It's in the afternoon as I'm ambling by this zone, I assume a pretty slow time for vice as I look down a mostly empty (and clean) street. (I'll be told later that often it's a mess like in Frankfurt, but it's duly cleaned up probably every day.) Escaping these dens of iniquity by the slimmest of margins, I'm sure, I instead continue with my map-following to hug the walls a bit longer between their towers before turning inward to their formerly well-protected contents. In so doing, I immediately have an apparently to sample what is apparently a very Nurenburg-y brotchen stuffed with 3 small bratwurst. I slather its innards with mustard, chew approvingly, and continue to my way zigzaggedly along the older thoroughfares indicated on my tourist map.

Soon I'm crossing a few small and picturesque bridges over the local river, take in some half timber architecture that signifies the oldtown area of any city in Germany, then make my way up toward the looming castle hill as it closes its guts to visitors. Fortunately I'm not one to tour dungeons or coats of arms, anyway, and I'm still able to, far more importantly, get onto its walls/ramparts for some overlooks. This was the capital of Franconia, I've learned by now (thanks, as always, to Wikipedia!), a region now completely subsumed by modern day Bavaria/Bayern. Views of the oldtown area from above properly appreciated, I continue my unguided tour while simultaneously also appreciating what a goodly size the old town area comprises along with its appeal as a place to hang out. I get its fame, yep. Down from the castle hill and curling still within the old walls, I next find that there's an island with some water controls, a cultural area that abuts it, and these are followed forthwith by the main shopping streets, cathedrals... all the usual suspects. And the usual throngs. Lots of people about, everywhere, all day, and a number of them are wearing t-shirts that say "Camp David" on them, something that I'll see over the course of the trip and never get to the bottom of as a brand or image that's being sold about America. No idea. For my money, though, I'm far more excited to find a nice Vietnamese place where I can get a classic sandwich on a baguette. Perfect. Topping that, and many steps later, it'll be another hefeweizen back at the hostel, a confirmation of the trend that's begun already and will continue for this entire trip. That'll pretty much finish up Nurenburg for me. Check!, I guess.

FRIDAY, SATURDAY (12,13 August 2022):

Well, almost. In the morning I meet Luca for some breakfast. He's 'net-looked up some kinda healthy food place nearby, apparently specializing in waffles and granola-y bowls of goodness, but we're both pretty underwhelmed by the offering (at least it likely *is* good for us, we joke) while happier with the catching up. Most of that's about our brief time riding together near Salzburg the year before, a better subject than this boring fare we're mechanically chewing through as even the promising smoothies fail by promising to freeze our teeth off. Being in Nuremburg, meanwhile, I can't help but make a joke about how I might post on Facebook that I've arrived in town hearing about some really big rally planned that should be happening sometime soon. Evidently it's to be filmed by some Leni woman. The point is missed entirely by Luca, unfortunately, and between the infamous rally (rallies?) and the famous trials performed here locally after the war, that's about the extent of my Nuremburg foreknowledge. Guess I shoulda beefed up my material or looked up Nuremburg on Wikipedia BEFORE coming to town.

As for Luca's own cycletouring, I'm told that he hasn't done a cycletour since the previous year's, but he still likes the idea. And so it goes for an hour or so, a mix of last year's trip and random comments about Nuremburg and the ubiquitous Ukraine war worries for winter. Most importantly, it's always nice to see a friendly face during one's travels - if only for a short visit. Soon enough, though, it's time to walk to the train station with all of my panniers still in hand instead of bike. At least here I'm glad to have the help, remembering how they were surprisingly a bit cumbersome with two per hand (and the trumpet on my back) for even a short distance. At the station we stop for a parting coffee, at this Coffee Guys chain I've been noticing both in Frankfurt and here, and this is a much more successful affair than breakfast. Then it's time to say goodbye, a "bis später" at the tracks with the train arriving.

This train is much more crowded than the previous's, perhaps because it's regional and thus subject to the 9Euro fare. It's standing room only, and I won't score a seat for its entire two hours. After 1/2-hour, though, I do manage to get out of car's far end by its entry area, squirming just barely into the air-conditioned area when someone leaves and I spy the opportunity. It's a bit warm-ish out! And in! In doing so I continue engaging in a periodic conversation with this Ukranian man who's done the same leap for the world of A/C. He's one person of a traveling group of four consisting of two couples who are originally from Ukraine's Odessa. Hmm. They have shopping bags and look quite fit, I can't help but note, as I also can't help but wonder how the two men - in their early 30s, I'd guess - have managed to get out of serving in the Ukranian Army with the war going on full blast. It's been well-reported that the country's borders have been closed to Ukrainian men trying to leave under the age of 60 for a while now. I never ask that question, though, coward me or polite me, and after 1-1/2 hours I'm instead very happy to squirt out of this packed train into the town of Marktredwitz. Well, its train station.

This next train is already waiting for us, and it's to be a ride for only a half hour. Better still, it's blessedly empty, clean and cool. Ah! Come Cheb, our destination on the other side of the German-Czech border, I get out and traipse into a rather vacant station - where I'll learn that I'm to catch my continuing bus just outside on a circle lined with a number of busstops. I wait here for perhaps an hour, playing some silenced trumpet in an empty busstop as I'm eventually to be pestered by a couple of panhandlers as other random walkers-by look over at me and my horn with a bit of surprise. The first panhandler tries a clever tack of being a fellow musician for a bit - who knows? - before just trying to hit me straight up for the inevitable change it'll take to catch his bus home. Or continue his performance tour. Whatever. The other is more direct, going to the tried-and-true pitiable face-making while holding out her hand. I guess it works on some, but this has has never been my chosen milieu for giving even as much as I'm not strictly against buying someone a beer. But how about some comradery first? Eventually I'll realize that I'm actually not at the correct buspost, anyway, so I change places to next wait for the bus along with a slowly gathering group that's all planning to go straight on to Prague. The bus comes, we board, and it's mostly empty half of the way before filling up completely before an hour's gone by... and it's time for me to get out at the side of the highway in Lubenec.

Here Petr is waiting for me, a friendly face to go with a handy car that will take us the short distance to his village of Vroutek. There I immediately find myself saying Hi to the family - one boy is missing, in Prague - and then doing the same with the nice young couple next door with their young daughter and infant that I met the year previous. We stop in on the mother-in-law caring for his wife's mentally-disabled brother, then we're loudly exchanging hellos with his wife's friendly but practically deaf grandmother... before we head to the nearby pub for a couple of beers with the neighbor. There'll we'll worriedly keep half an eye on his daughter, a joyous imp who insists on running around the parking lot as we all nearly suffer heart attacks in her repeated approaches to the busy street right next to us. In the U.S., I muse, a busybody would likely already have called the police and child services. Later, back at the house, Petr informs me about his recent bike trip in France that went awry - he got sick and had to bail not too long into it - before he's showing me a large stack of advertising sheeting he's kept over the years. They're all for computer chip prices, to which I can only marvel at how truly different we are for both being long haul cyclists. I'm not sure if those sheets are a metaphor of some sort, but he indeed is the bullet train focused on speed and destination while I'm the reliable regional that's puttering along and while always looking about for where I might next stop for a spell and take a breather in a bar, cafe, or restaurant.

Otherwise it's to be a quiet stay of a couple of nights in Vroutek, with numerous servings of a tasty goulash that stays on the stove as we make a couple of small outings in the meantime. One is to the nearby town of Kryry, where we "hike" for several minutes to go up to a tower with a view of the countryside - you can see perhaps 10km in each direction - and a lovely wind. Truly. I'm not a fan of wind, generally, but on some hot days and with the right kind of wind, it's a refreshing thing. Shockingly, this tower's been here all of his life and Petr has yet to go to it... until now. So my visit is of some use, I tell him.

Later, we'll also drive over to another nearby town, where Petr's wife and older son have alternating shifts as security guards. It's for a castle/palace that's been somewhat renovated/restored for tourism, now also housing some local art as a gallery to add something beyond the sculptures found on the grounds. There are concerts here from time to time, too, I hear, as we also meet a few female generations of a Ukranian refugee family staying/working here. The elder mother - likely only in her 50s - works/volunteers at the castle; her daughter cares for her newborn 3-month-old baby - which hasn't seen her father yet, as he can't leave the country and they fled while she was pregnant. The war keeps arriving in these small pieces. Meanwhile, her husband, we're surprised to learn, actually hasn't been called on to do anything yet with the war effort. After this brief conversation we finish our wanderings-about until rain moves in. The grounds here are certainly interesting enough, I agree, as is the little village it sits in - which further sports a number of other ornate buildings to suggest that this place once had a moment in the sun. Its future looks promising, if sedate.

SUNDAY (14 August 2022): Schwandorf to Regensburg 45km

Now reunited with my bike, my ensuing plan to get the actual cycling tour started somewhere in Germany - it was to have started in Krakow, Poland, next moving toward the non-Ukrainian side of the Ukarainian border through Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, and Romania in succession - has run into a little hitch. For one thing, I can't get a train ticket all the way to Munich with my bike, with the bike being the precise issue because of limited spots. For another, I've learned that the local train from Vroutek I've thought about taking to Plzen (Pilsen) is actually using some kind of shuttle due to some repairs. Thankfully, Petr's willing to help out, taking me instead to (nearby) Bladno-Jesenice - where the shuttle ends and the train service resumes. Whew! The train is already sitting on the tracks when find the station after circling about the village some. It's a wee thing, dead quiet and empty, but seeing as there is no other train about, we know it's gotta be it.

So Petr and I lug over my bike and bags, immediately throwing everything aboard while having a final chat in next waiting for the shuttle bus to arrive with its few passengers. Soon enough they punctually arrive, so I'm saying thanks and goodbye to Petr as the train next begins its slow-but-short journey to Pilsen. As for *that* notable city, arrived at in a blink and toured just the year before, I don't even consider leaving the station with a mere hour to kill. Instead I use up my last Czech crowns (literally, with only one or two to spare) to ply the favors of some vending machines for snack and drink. Thus provisioned for the hardships of the upcoming road, I wander to the end of some tracks on the platform to play some muted trumpet with the city's higher buildings - the church and the brewery - not far away as a backdrop. Which reminds me that it's time to photo-documenting this thing. The random traveler looks over in surprise at the trumpet, perhaps the bike as well.

The Praha-München IC train I'm waiting on arrives rather packed, but fortunately - necessarily - I've reserved a spot for my bike and I. As far as Schwandorf, anyway. That's as far as I've managed to obtain with so many reserve-able trains being fully so and otherwise stuffed thanks to the regional trains being the same due to the 9Euro ticket. It's a cascading effect that's seeing even the more expensive trains getting similarly filled. So, although the thinking had been to train to Munich to next cycle in the shadow of the Alps, very-not-Alps-adjacent Schwandorf will have to do. Even nearby (to Schwandorf) Regensburg was too far to manage a bike spot on the Zug. So, Schwandorf! Known for... nothing (at least according to Wikipedia, where I'll open up a browser tab to read at some point for virtually every town of possible note that I'll encounter on this trip).

Funnily enough, it'll turn out that almost everybody has to switch trains for some reason in Schwandorf, anyway... even if I'm about the only person who actually gets off in the small city. Indeed, there are only a few people wandering about this quiet town as I leave the station with its seemingly resident drunk vagrant population behind. I put the bags on my bike properly for a first time, then roll a mere few blocks to find some shade and get oriented on the map I've downloaded. I shortly pull off to a side street to repack my bags somewhat - why I didn't do this on the train is a valid question - while eating a sandwich and mentally preparing in some small measure for the beginning of another cycle your. My mind is also determining what things I'm already choosing to leave behind. There were already more things left at Petr's than expected, but I'm decided to just dump even more now. I make a small use of duct tape to repair something or the other - no wasting time on that emergency measure already (!), a surprisingly early but expected first use of every man's best friend - before soon leaving a tiny pile of things in a downtown doorway. I'm hoping some random folks might find a working flip phone useful. A spare part of flipflops, gloves, who knows? I try to convince myself that this isn't littering but a donation.

Now oriented as to where the hell I actually am - (North?)East Bavaria - the way to Regensburg, my first destination, is simple enough. I should mainly be taking advantage of marked bikepaths while also generally following the main road that is handily called Regensburgerstrasse. I nevertheless make a couple of minor routing mistakes in doing so, but generally otherwise I manage a pretty direct route toward this medieval town that I'm vaguely remembering hearing of here or there now and then. More importantly, although as of only a few days ago, I've learned that it's on the Danube River: hey, that has a nice cycle path! I've even been on it (between Vienna and Bratislava)!

To get to there just entails following the handily-named Regen River, a gentle flow which I increasingly see alongside me as I make my way south and see various natural spots along it. People are congregating similarly alongside it to swim, play sports, or just generally lounge about to barbeque or picnic. It's a nice scene that's forming the further I get south and near the city, frankly, so perhaps it's out of mild jealousy that when I come to a particularly scenic stretch with a couple of old mills on the river (in Regenstauf) I decide to stop for my first cycling beer with a watery view. There'll be plenty more, of course. In fact, there will be literally be more here... as I decide on a second tasty Weisse. Damn this stuff is good! Thus is a cycling them born on Day One.

From Regenstauf I soon make it to where the Regen and Danube rivers meet, a slightly confusing confluence when relying on the map in my memory. Here some large barges sit, anyway, to denote that I've come to place of actual commercial relevance and such. There are some bridge options to figure out, on how best to cross over to the old town, but after a few false curls and circling about I've soon enough done so, even in so doing moving already a little beyond the town center to find a canoe club camping place I've heard about nearby. That suggestion came only in the last 24 hours, courtesy of a WarmShowers host who can't take me in - as is so often, I'm contacting hosts who themselves are out riding with this being high summer and all - and it will certainly do the trick nicely.

That's because (a) it's close to the interesting part of Regensburg but also (b) because there aren't so many folks around and it's cheap. It's got a shower, of course, the most important thing, but there's also a nearby restaurant with more wheat beer, enough outlets at the campground to charge up any devices, and there are even vending machines with even *more* wheat beer for all of a Euro and a half. Geez. Perfect! Surveying all and magnanimously approving of the bounty of the land, there'll also be an Englishman, Mike, who's tent isn't far from mine. He gives me his own quick lay of the land from the campground to the town in a pleasant exchange, and so with that I'm off for another wheat beer - and a curry wurst to boot - next door at the small restaurant adjacent to the soccer field. Yes, the cycling has now truly begun... and soon I'll be sleeping the first sleep of the dead that comes with such activity. 20km, 50km, 100km, it doesn't matter. Zzzz.

MONDAY (15 August 2022): A first break to the cycling already, in Regensburg

My first break from the riding has already arrived, and admittedly this didn't take long at all. After 45 measly kilometers. But I'm in the tourist destination of Regensburg and, let's face it, I won't come here again (that I can guess of). Helpfully (to the end of tourism, anyway), I'm surprisingly up and at 'em at all of 8 a.m. and my jetlag, I imagine, is now officially a thing of the past. I'll take it. Mike the Brit (an engineer who runs a small company making molded parts for VW, BMW, and others out of Berlin for many years now) is similarly up and about next "door", and he'd like to join me for my starting walkabout into town. Sure! I'm happy for the company, always a big IF when cycletouring.

Already here for a few days, Mike points out that the main tourist bridge leading into the oldtown hasn't been rebuit all that long now - after having been flattened in WWII. Apparently there was a lot of arguing over how to do it right, or authentically, and this lead to decades of stalling. Huh. More importantly to the moment, we cross it to find a nice scene of cafes for a coffee and croissant on its other side. We'll become part of the outdoor furnitiure for a good while in such a postcard spot with the medieval towers beckoning closeby and back across the river. Over a long conversation I'll learn how Mike's near the end of his tour by motorbike, now debating how he will return to Berlin but not exactly in a hurry to do so, either. He details the pros and cons of running your own little company, how you are never fully "free" even when on vacation. He certainly has an impressive clientelle and I can't imagine having the level of expertise he must have to make these specialized parts for some of the top manufacturers in the world.

The required ritual of morning coffee accomplished, we head back over the bridge and through oldtown so we can make direct tracks through it so he can point out a brewery he likes... which is closed today. Damnation! The good news, though, is that they have another restaurant in the nearby Stadtpark just on the edge of oldtown. Well, okay then! We take a goodly stroll about to find it, map be damned, but find it we ultimately do and a hefeweizen beer accompanied by a traditional plate of Schweinbraten, dumpling ball, and fat crackle is a pretty tasty pile indeed. Kneitinger is the place, and it'll turn out to be just one of a zillion Bavarian breweries that I'll shortly find are up to snuff - like every time. Leaving happily stuffed, Mike and I part ways for the day as I have some touristing to do that he's done before. He'll be happy to just quaff beers back at the campground and read books over the course of the day - just as I found him the previous night. I don't suggest to him that - ya know... - he could the same in many more picturesque places about town, including just dangling one's feet over the river with a bottle in hand (which I'l be doing soon enough). Each to their own.

I spend a good portion of the remaining day, then, traipsing a;; about the old medieval town, making sure I stare appropriately long at every grand old building or half-timbered house along with 1000 other tourists. The history here is deep, rich, etc., from Roman times to medieval ones, but it's chiefly the latter for which it's known. I discover by accident that there's a grand residence for a king or something - will ya look at that! - plus some nice plazas that are formed of weird angles (I guess that's a medieval thing) and a properly gothic church. Also there are a couple of tourist offices where I'' obtain a bit of WIFI signal to possibly set up a first WarmShowers hosting in upcoming Ingolstadt while simultaneously charging up the odd device (soon to be a pattern).

When not doing so, I continue with trying to hit about every indicated old street or alley as indicated on the tourist map - plus a few other tacks that seem promising as well. They generally all are, with lots of facades to fix my eyeballs or camera on, but it's obvious that the focus of the tourist horde by and large is down at the river. And especially so in the environs of the bridge and isle it leads to (and where we had breakfast). So I obligingly shoot away on both my minitablet and old Samsung phone, although I don't know how long I'll shoot with both to later have the fun of comparing pictures between the two to see which is more worth the bother.

Regensburg is a rather large UNESCO site, it's worth noting, but in the end I discover that it strangely makes no hold on me. Maybe it's the tourism level, true, but it's all the more surprising that it's the case despite somehow surviving WWII mostly unscathed from bombings. A nearby oil refinery and airplane factory were leveled then, but the town was spared such destruction. It didn't* escape a number of its other horrors, however, like what happened to the Jewish population and how - later - some Jewish and Polish prisoners from various camps were forced into some slave labor here near the end of the war. A number of metal display placards on the island near the bridge tell me so, a sober reality that's partically weird to jibe with considering all of the happy and open cafes amidst which they stand. The aforementioned victims apparently cleared great deals of rubble as they slowly starved to death, a contrast to the beauty of this town which has to be looked at in its proper light.

Back at camp I return to my lengthy discussion with Mike, now holding forth well on varied subjects like literature and history when not returning to the topic of his job and years working primarily for Siemens and the above auto companies like Porsche. Surprisingly, the work history is not boring stuff, unquestionably helped by the fact that he's a curious and practical man, for example doing his own motorcycle repairs. An engineer indeed. Later I'll pull out the trumpet to show how I like to camp. This meets with the apparent approbation of some families playing volleyball right in front of my tent, although naturally they're surprised. A trumpet player outside of an auditorium is evidently a freak, something that must be a fact based on my personal - and now lengthy - history. Meanwhile there are beers to drain from the automated machines in the camp's building, too. Yeah, not a bad setup for, what, 9 Euros? I'll have to keep this canoe club concept in mind down the road; I hear that there may be more found on the river(s) ahead.

TUESDAY (16 August 2022): Regensburg to Kelheim to Eining, 56 kilometers (cumulative: 101)

Morning finds a rather lazy wrapup of things at camp, another long discussion with Mike, then finally it's time to get properly rolling along the Danube. In a way it actually feel like the tour is beginning now with the Schwandorf-Regensburg start just a prelude to a sizeable Danube run. The plan of the moment (literally) is to ride this sucker out upstream, probably all the way to its source, wherever that precisely is. Mulling this over, I'm assuming that most folks are riding downriver, first very sillily guessing at 95% to 5% to take advantage of a downslope, but reality will of course step in when it's to be almost always flat as a pancake.

Certainly there are likely more people coming downriver, I feel pretty sure about that, but it'll probably end up more like 60%-40% or 65%-35%. Hell, even 55%-45%, since I'm just guesstimating this with the very unscientific sampling that comes from my one own experience. The good news is that there'll be no mistaking the route, plus it looks like I'll ride in the shade for a while on this (south) side of the river. I'm always more than a little happy when I get to avoid putting on sunscreen for a while. Hate the stuff, but respect it, too. Almost as testimony to this feeling, when I do put it on an hour or two into the ride, I have my first fall - or rather my bike does when I inappropriately use the kickstand on soft earth. Guess I get to check off experiencing a fall one way or the other from "the list". This is the good kind, with nary a bruise or scratch. Just the embarrassment of picking my steed up off the earth as a rider cruises by and looks over my minor calamity being set to right.

There certainly *are* a good number of folks riding on the Donauweg, that's for sure, and plenty of them are blowing on by on e-bikes and of them not a small number are pretty unfit. These river routes are the easiest, of course, and Regensburg is a top-draw attraction in Germany, I'm aware. But at least they're pedalling... and maybe they're keeping a car off of the road. So there's *that* hope, that some carbon's being saved while maybe some fitness is happening. Who knows, but what isn't happening is any kind of direct line from one town to the next. The river meanders as it does, not at all as the crow flies, but so be it. It'll thus take a longer than expected, steady haul to finally arrive at the town of Kelheim - where after a while of riding I can only hope I'll find a proper beer garden. In such environs I should be able to properly ponder what the huge, classically columned monument on the hill is all about for a spell (something about Napoleon, I'll learn later on Wikipedia: the Befreiungshalle, commemorating the victory over the French tyrant in 1813-1815), but first - as always - I'm mostly focused on seeing what there is to Kelheim's small old town as I load up on fruit from a stand. Naturally I'll also wander into the tourist office for the usual online check-in, map grazing, and device charging.

Soon enough, though, my wanderings-about will bear fruit: there's a Schneiderweisse brewery plant right here in town. And it has its own beer garden! Score! Lunch is settled just like that, then, a heavy Käse-Spätzle dish with loads of fried onion slices on top - accompanied by the obvious choice of beer. Perfect reigns. Not long afterward, consequently, I'm waddling over a tiny bridge outside of the oldtown, finding a bench for a nap in the shade. Before the lights go out, I see some other cyclists from the day's roll lounging about here or there or coming by slowly as well. I assume they all look at me enviously, while for my part I assure myself that the proper pattern is now being set for the tour, and a good pattern it is to be.

Less wise is what comes next, when I follow the cyclepath out of town toward Bad Gogging. I assume that, since Big, Bad G is on the river, getting there should be following the Danube, of course. Au contraire! Turns out that I'm very quickly on a 18% deathgrade that's cutting straight up and up and into a bit of forest. I'm sweating bullets in no time even if there is some nice shade. My sweatglands are completely flushed in an impressive rainstorm of saltwater bullets. Didn't... expect... this! It does finally top out, though, and it certainly is nice to be the only bicycle on what for a time will be just a forest path. I remain the only cyclist when I hit the asphalt again, now spying the river down below - and, I assume, the Donauweg - and away to my right. At least there are approximately no cars here, so in the end this isn't bad. Soon enough, too, I spy a bench alongside the road to play some trumpet with an elevated view while also achieving some shade. Those sweatbullets are becoming a thing of the ancient past already. Everything in cycle can come in 3-minute bursts, a world-changing event always just around the corner.

Before long, a woman and her two small boys, of 2 and 4, come out to their yard across the street. In no time I've crossed over and am begging them for some water... which naturally enough - given my trumpet in hand - turns into playing the boys some tunes on the horn. I'm a hit to these nascent music appreciators, as frankly expected (The Three Stooges and Pink Panther can't fail), and for my supreme efforts the older boy decides to suddenly tip me a Euro. Has he seen buskers before? Better still, I'm soon being given some veggies from their garden and a beer from the brewery where her mother works at. Or maybe she owns it, as my Bavarian dialect detector-translator is far from refined. When I ask about swimming in the river I point at below, I'm given a suggestion of a local's watering hole nearby. They've just come back from there themselves not but a few hours ago. Perfect! All of this is exchanged only in German, I'm happy to see. Yes, the Bavarian dialect being a tough animal at times, but this is working out pretty well regardless. And she didn't even try to switch to English at any point in time. Germany has changed...

It doesn't take long to find the swimming hole, as stated next to a verrrrry low key ferry service that's done for the day. Soon I find myself happily swimming a bit in the river, albeit in a very fast and strong current of water that comes up to my waist at best. But it's very clear and refreshing, even if the footing is a lot of smoothed, slippery riverstone. A lost step would surely result in heading downstream at least some ten of meters, it's that strong if devoid of undercurrents here that I can discern. Thank goodness I have my closed sandals on! Meanwhile the random canoe or kayak goes by, and quickly at that, which is a thing, I'm learning. The canoe club of the previous night, of course, should give ample suggestion of this.

When I tire of this cooldown washdown, I cop a squat on the river's bank to pull out the horn and play it openly with a setting sun. So nice to play without the mute! Yes, this is a good day indeed! Some folks soon come by to sit and chat with me, about cycling or canoeing the river or jazz, or in walking by give a thumb's-up. All the makings of a perfect lazy summer day's end at the river. When the sun's about to go, I look about for a spot right alongside the river, soon finding one where I don't make much of an effort to hide since I've already asked a couple of locals what they think about my doing so and they could care less. So I won't, either. A first wildcamp of the trip: I can now check that off, too.

WEDNESDAY (17 August 2022): Eining to Ingolstadt, 40km (cumulative: 141)

It's an easygoing packup come morning, perhaps in spite or because of a night sprinkled with random and weird sounds throughout that at times throw me off my sleeping game. Easily the most troublesome is an unending ringing of church bells in the pitch black of night, a barrage that messes with me after they go long past a count of 12 bongs. When they pass 24 I can discount military/international time, too. WTF?!? (I'll learn later that this can be a 6 a.m. village thing in Germany. To which I ask: And they put up with it?!?) From my Eining camp on the river, anyway, it's a very quick (and early) cruise along the top of a berm - a common cyclepath for these big rivers - to head into Neustadt an der Donau. I naturally immediately look for a morning coffee at a bakery, find a success there in the necessities of a coffee and pastry, but it feels the less so in terms of its grumpy baker... and lack of a bathroom. Foiled! So I mosey on over to the gelato place to have another 'joe and a go. Priorities. Morning starts with the reality of belly and bowel, however much polite society might want to dance around the subject.

Thus am I now properly (em)powered to propel myself forward and onward, even though I'll immediately find myself mostly using a detoured route to the Donauweg to make it to Vohburg. I do roll faster this way, however, as the berms are usually (nice but) hardpacked gravel and the detour's all asphalt. The speed difference is appreciable, as the cars can likewise be at times. Not this time, though. In Vohburg I beeline it up to the central, walled structure overlooking the town. I'm surprised to find that it's mostly just a cemetary to be found inside the walls, however, and it has only so-so views from the parapets that I have access to. Weird on both counts. I have more success, though, when I drop back into the village center some few minutes away, dropping in on the tourist office to confirm my evening's hosting plans while receiving some handy local maps and suggestions on routing ahead in the process. Finding a nearby bakery for a sandwich, I eat on the shaded steps of a church like a proper hobo before executing the de rigeur walkabout of the small oldtown. And... that about does it for Vohburg. I do walk into a beer garden, thinking hefeweizen, but when I'm not attended to in a reasonable amount of time - and it's frankly an oven of a location with little shade - I decide on bailing on the idea. There'll be more beer, of that I'm sure.

The next section has me churning away on the berms again, now going between dams that make sections more lake than river, while taking in more sun than I'd like. Dehydration, anyone? The riverbanks, meanwhile, look unapproachable and the water univiting for swimming - as advertised and warned about in Vohburg - so that's that. Onward! Even briefly taking shelter from the sun, with ideas of possibly playing some trumpet under an overpass that I take to be an autobahn near Ingolstadt, doesn't work. Too hot; I'm bothered. So I go ahead and complete my now water-less roll into Ingolstadt, immediately taking to walking along only the shady sides of the pedestrian zone to take in what turns out to be a larger oldtown than expected. I think I've MAYBE heard of Ingolstadt before? Or not? Dunno, but somewhere around town is the car manufacturer Audi (moved from what became East Germany after WWII when the Soviets took their facilities, I'll later learn), even if for now my main mission is to find a place that sells wine: I can't walk into my hosting emptyhanded! A number of queries to with strolling locals all result in pointing roughly to the same grocery store located right smack dab on the main drag, but it's unobtrusive enough and the Bavarian accents so strong that I'm actually looking for the wrong spelling of the place. But, finally, I find it and ICH HABE WEIN!

So NOW I'm ready to find my hosts, a young couple (Anne and Tom) with a couple of young, precocious kids (Moritz (4) and Sara (2)). They politely thank me for the wine, and soon I of course learn that they mostly drink beer. And it's good beer at that, which my lips and tongue soon attest, some local stuff that makes me wonder if Bavarians know how to make a bad beer. I'm guessing not, or any fool who'd dare to do so would be afraid to show his face. Anne is a pediatrician and Tom is some kind of computer whiz who works on Apple iPhone satellite signals or something; both are exceedingly kind. Their house is a really interesting structure, too, one that they've taken over from one of their parents since CoViD hit and they've found themselves temporarily - or permanently? - abandoning the Munich area.

Being a engineering type nerd, meanwhile, has allowed Tom to make some kind of wood-fired pizza oven with a number of wires leading to it that - and this is all that matters - churns out some amazing pizzas. The upshot is that I eat far too many slices, not knowing how to say no to each offering, and to the extent that I'll later wonder what they think. But, as fellow cyclists, I deem it impossible that they don't know that there is ever only one answer to "Would you like some more?" Burp. Although new to WarmShowers, they *are* fellow cycletourists and do so as an entire family (they have quite a stable of bikes and attachments in the garage). A pleasant evening is had, talking about cycletouring and stereotypes concerning Americans and Germans both.

Going to bed, and par for the course, I still don't really know anything much about Ingolstadt outside of the general lay of its oldtown area. This consists of the requisite handsome church, a huge painting of some guy in celebratory fashion, a main high street, plaza, and old city hall. An ancient city gate with a tower, which I pass through a number of times, is what impresses me most (which is typical, I don't know why). (Per wiki, Ingolstadt is the second largest city in Upper Bavaria after Munich and the fifth largest city in Bavaria after Munich, Nuremburg, Augsburg, and Regensburg. After Regensburg, Ingolstadt is the second largest German city on the Danube. It first gets mention way back in 806 and shows up in the history books more than a few times for its status in the Middles Ages, Reformation, etc.)

THURSDAY (18 August 2022): Ingolstadt to Neuburg an der Donau to Donauwörth, 65km (cumulative: 206)

Morning's a bit of a slow start, as often is the case with being hosted. If the evening's been pleasant - usually (virtually always) the case - then breakfast is slowgoing and chatty. Even though Tom's already long gone by train to Munich by the time I'm up and about, Anne has the day off and we enjoy conversing for a good while as the children are also attended to. Breakfast is muesli, hard (the good kind) bread, and the rest of the typically healthy and varied German breakfast, plenty of coffee, and then I'm playing some kind of raven(Rabe)-fruit board game with Moritz that he's quite intent on. The trumpet finally comes out in the last hour to pretty good reception, too, making for 2 days in a row entertaining 2- and 4-year-olds. This time I'm particularly wowing the little one, a postcard Heidi. I mean Sara. By "wowing" I mean wide-eyed and thumbsucking, but those characteristics absolutely count in my book. Playing music for kids is always good for the soul, it is indeed, but ultimately the performance needs to be cut for time as the moment has arrived to be loading up the bike.

Anne is soon offering me some routing suggestions toward Neuburg an der Donau and, in the process, she laughingly tells me that there is no shortage of Neustadts and Neuburgs in this country. It's confusing enough to the extent that you always need the second part (an der Donau, an der Weinstrasse, etc.) to know which one is being referenced (unless in a wholly local frame of reference). I guess what helps all of the "New"s in New England is that their counterpart is in England without the "New" business. (As for all the places in the U.S. that exactly copied European city names, that's another thing altogether.)

So off I go per Anne's suggestion to stay on the north side of the river for a good while. The main route is on the other side, true, but this way's quiet, forested and, being thus, nicely shaded. Bliss. I can hear the river quietly churn alongside me as my mind thinks away about whatever. Almost no one's headed my way at all; as for the river, it looks quite full here, still not really swimmable. So on I go, even as I eventually am forced to cross over the river and onto the main trail not too long before I make it to Neuburg. This morning's ride has never been less than great, and now I find that the entry into Neuburg will continue the streak. It sits majestically on the river begging a photo or ten. Wow - what a view! And it's this amazing introductory backdrop to the city that prompts me to get off of the bike and play some trumpet for a long spell on a bench in a riverside park. I gaze away and play away to take in the view while (naturally) also thinking of bakeries, beer, and, well, that's about it, per the usual.

Eventually I do wander into town, of course, alternatingly on foot or the bike. I gawk as one does at the handsome buildings, and there are plenty here, as I as usual make it a point to try and make it thorough circuit of all of the old town. Most of it the good stuff's up on a small hill, with the castle's lower part nearest the river - so that's where I head to see what's what. Yes, one oldtown does start to look like another, but one might say that about pretty girls in a sense. It just doesn't get old, and you're always interested in finding a different feature or angle. Of course I'll also drop in on the tourist office for the odd email and map (obtaining a list of all campsites on the Danube/Donau in the process, which will prove handy), but then for once I'm also making my way into the castle grounds - aided and abetted uncoincidentally by the fact that it's free, admittedly. There are extensive details painted into the main courtyard's walls, all of which should make some sense after having briefly looked over the town's history on Wikipedia, but of course I've already forgotten them.

To be fair, though, said histories are almost without fail generally about how this location was ideal for controlling trade routes particularly via the river, plus some moments of kingly heyday (when the castle comes into being), then how it fared in WWII with any potential rebuilding afterward. One surprising fact that I should've known from living in Germany in the 80s is just how many of these beautiful old town areas are - again - really just faithful reconstructions using as much of the original material as possible. Naturally, I'll usually forget which ones actually miraculously survived the bombings. For the record, the castle was built in the Middle Ages on top of what was a Roman fortress... both to control river traffic. Yep. Meanwhile, as for the rest of Neuburg... well, there's always a bakery begging my presence for a sandwich and perhaps a pastry for the road. I check those boxes before snapping a few parting shots in crossing the bridge leading back over the river and out of town. Kayakers plying the waters with the castle behind them would make quite the brochure for this picturesque town, and I'm willing to sell. Click.

The haul to D-wörth - the town which follows in following the river - is just that: a haul. It takes some doing to cut through numerous villages while just following the Donauweg the entire way - a way which is generally nondescript, on asphalt, but thankfully mostly devoid of real traffic. Sure, there's the odd grand-ish building in the middle of nowhere begging the question - WHY?!? - but it usually turns out to be a monastery or a regional school of some sort that seems reasonable enough in terms of explaining the incongruity. More significantly, and for the first time on this tour, I find myself climbing mild hills - with the screwup outside of Kelheim being excepted as a stoopid mistake. Hills such as they are is what happens when the route gets so far from the river, allowing promises of only flatness and more of the same to go out the window. One benefit of said climbing, though, is that the last 9-10km to D-wörth is generally a descending glide. Yes, I take a wrong detour into a town prior to the real one - the sign is misleading, making me think I'm already in D-wörth - but otherwise it's been pretty straightforward sailing. Again, the German cycle signs are have generally proved their merit and thoroughness time and again. This one's on me.

The town of D-wörth proper, it turns out, is not on the Danube at all. It's on a smaller river, the Wönitz, but there's still the expected pleasant oldtown to stroll through regardless. This time it includes an island, a tiny old blob in the river that's obvious at first glance is *the* place to be for a tourist. So I clear out of there quickly. For once the tourist office - not on the island, surpisingly - fails me by and large for WIFI, but no matter - it's pretty hard to get lost at this point. From just past its vantage in an alley, meanwhile, Ican see that the bulk of oldtown that isn't on an island is something of a grand high street. It culminates at its top with some big churches, but it's also precisely from this point that I turn to one side and off of the main drag to descend quickly to the river and into/along some sort of wildlife sanctuary. The canoe club I've learned about isn't far away, I know, across a bridge by an old mill, and it'll also be abutting this same sanctuary. Not a bad view for a tent! So, although my first impression of this town wasn't all that great, the walk-ride-about has found it redeemed.

Paying by honor system envelope, I settle in quickly at the slowly filling campground while further befriending a cycling French family I've just chatted with a little before in town on the island, Then, with the tent set up, I find that it's here of all places that I have good WIFI to make any queries to GoogleMaps, Warmshowers, and Wikipedia - my usual go-tos. This town's only looking up! Next, although with rain on the way, my mind being the way it is insists that I soon have recommendations for a good restaurant - and I do. Enter the Goldener Hirsch - so many restaurants are a Hirsch (deer) of some form or another - where I'll indulge in a large Schwäbische meat grill that is nothing short of great. Especially when accompanied by yet another great hefeweizen. Yes, the Bavarian beer reputation remains very, very solid. Thus, with a belly full and a smile to go with it, I return to camp just in time for the rain to hit in full fury. What do I care?

Back in camp I can reflect that the odo-needle inched a bit higher today, to about 65km. Practically speaking, this means that my netherparts and the saddle are readjusting nicely, even - dare I assume - coming nearer to an uneasy but stable truce. Which can't come soon enough. So, in loosening the reins a bit today, I'm allowing The Empress of the Asphalted (and apparently gravelled at times) Seas to experience a mild trot. I've even allowed her head a bit. I imagine that there will likely be gallops to come soon, perhaps the excitement of a panicked breakaway, but those high-flying moments - of course - will likely be accomplished due to the enticing tune of a barn-beer-garden ahead. We shall see.

FRIDAY (19 August 2022): Donauwörth to Erlingshafen to Schwenningen to Höchstädt to Dillingen, 35km (cumulative: 241)

Come morning I care plenty since the damn stuff won't stop. This means that I'll stall and play some horn in the tent, sure, but then I pack up the bike in a brief break from the wet to next shelter with my loaded bike under the camping admin building's deck jutting out from its side. The French family's soon joining me there, collecting their cycling gear in what's soon becoming a very crpwded space to avoid the fat drops from above. We engage in some conversation in so doing, where I'm more than happy to keep the chat in French even as the father keeps trying to switch to English. Yes, I know you speak English, I'm thinking, but since we started in French and the rest of your family is happy to stay there... shant we, can't we? Sigh. Which isn't to say that he or they are anything less than quite friendly. They've had a good run of the river, but this has been theur planned end of the tour - and just in time, considering the rain. They slowly pack up their vehicle which they prepositioned here while using the train as a shuttle. Smart.

With the rain continuing unabated, we're eventually joined by a Dutch couple as well, and it's this that finally forces English after all. Soon we're discussing the Dutch system - practical, as per the usual - that is an alternative to the hippie nature of WarmShowers. In the Netherlands a touring cyclist can pay 22Euro/night to take advantage of a bed-breakfast-shower system that somehow stays just barely on the right (legal) side of Dutch regulation with respect to bureaucracy, taxes and whatnot. The couple assures me that yes, they also belong to Warmshowers, but living in Amsterdam - they're absolutely bombarded with requests, which overwhelm them and thus they ignore - they feel a bit guilty about using it abroad. That makes sense, and I certainly can understand why they wouldn't respond to the barrage. In fact, it's for that very reason that I've generally given up on WS in cities. It gets old waiting for responses that simply aren't going to come. However, as an alternative, I recommend that, since they do want to use the system some while traveling outside of the Netherlands, what they could do to give back at home is perhaps just open up their place during a tight hosting window of perhaps a mere week or two during then year. Then otherwise they could just check the box for NOT hosting and thus avoid getting any more requests outside of then. They like the idea; I'm an effing genius, I am.

Meanwhile the French father has given me some suggestions about where to go after I reach the "source" of the Danube. Perhaps I should leg it to a place in Switzerland (Schaffhausen, with its huge waterfall) to begin my upcoming Rhine roll? Before then, I might try follow the Blau River for a day after I get to Ulm. Both are mentally noted for future reference as I'm always open to such suggestions. More to the moment, I wish he had a pronostication about the exact windows of rain for the day. When I final decide to depart in a light drizzle, I begin a game of cat and mouse with the sky to try to catch windows between downpours. In this manner I generally make it dry enough to arrive in Höchstädt by lunch - and just barely in time to avoid an immense downpour. That wet mess will see me stretching out my lunch in a Greek restaurant on the main square as long as possible, then shifting the bike under a table umbrella out front as I next switch to a cafe next door. There I'll kill even more time over coffees, then ice cream, as the deluge continues. After I feel I can't stay there any longer without more purchases my stomach doesn't want to stomach, I go back out to the bike. I wipe off a seat to play some trumpet under a different table's umbrella to next receive a number of odd, if happy-while-sorrowful looks or thumbsups from the rare, rain-brave passerby while doing so. This weather is beyond horrible. And it's not getting any (sun)lighter out.

Come 5 p.m., I finally decide it's time to dash on when the rain lightens some - if definitely not enough to make me optimistic about staying any measure of dry whatsoever. That's because I know it's 10km to Dillingen, where there's another campground, so it's time to bite the bullet whether I like it or not. And I bite it hard I do, as the rain on and off comes down in a barrage and I just endure the soaking with visions of feeling dry again someday - hour? - soon. In riding on berms for a lot of this section, I churn up loads of Danube pebble dirt which spatters all over me and my bags, but that's the way it just has to be. What a sloppy mess.

Finally I approach the outskirts of Dillingen, immediately spying a sign for the campground through the driving rain, but it'll take some circling around near the river - in ever more heavy rain - to actually find my way to the admin building.. I park the bike under a table umbrella, then leave a trail of water drops and plops behind me as I walk inside to check in. There's nothing about any of me that knows the word "dry" that isn't inside ziplocked plastic. I'm still absolutely dripping wet as I next try to set up as much of my camp - including the tent - under a table umbrella. I then run out from under it with as much as possible to hurriedly transfer it to a spot sort of under trees in the almost empty small field that's between the admin building and the river. In so doing, there are already puddles in the tent to try and sop up before I finally have the rain fly properly installed and know that at least no new rain will enter inside. I stash all of my gear all inside in some kind of order, sighing to myself that "yeah, well, it's shelter..." I do believe this is my record for being wet, ever, outside being inside of a swimming pool, lake, ocean, etc.

The shower that follows can't be more heavenly, nor will be the putting on of dry clothes. Ahhhhhh! The Flädkessuppe and hefeweizen which almost immediately follow will measurably help, too, as I guiltily spread my wet rain gear over all of the chairs at my table while vowing to stay in the restaurant as long as possible. Maybe I could sneak my way to a patch of floor that no one will notice overnight somewhere in the building? I wish. Sitting to soup and such thoughts, meanwhile, my trumpet case is on the floor and creating a growing puddle of water that is leaching out of its exterior of foam covered by nylon mesh. Well, it IS clean water. And mops do work... When I finally decide to call it a night, making it out to the tent in the complete dark, I next somehow manage to have a decent night's sleep. Whether this is in spite or because of the rain which just unceasingly comes down all night long I'll never know nor care. As for the river, just a stone's throw nearby, it's virtually at a flood level. But it somehow will manage to stay below the campground's level. I don't know if I'd even get up if it started to seep in, or if I'd even notice. Zzzz.

SATURDAY (20 August 2022): Dillingen - Günzberg - Ulm, 57km (cumulative: 298)

Come morning, there finally is a break in the rain, and thus are thoughts briefly entertained - of staying put for a day or two to let the rain pass on by - put to rest. Instead, I can't bust camp fast enough. Or, rather, I dilligently and efficiently start my day by putting everything back under the tarp/umbrella area by the outside picnic tables where I had staged my dash the night before. This allows me to breathe, past the reach of any rain until *I* decide. I stretch everything out in mostly vain hope that some drying will take place as I repack slowly to allow at least most wet items to stop dripping. Perhaps some are even going as far as even drying somewhat as I use up an avocado and the remaining nut/seed bread from god-knows-which bakery I picked it up at. Fortunately, just a few steps away and inside the building there is a coffee machine which'll pump out a few surprisingly decent cups of coffee in the form of cappuccinos and such. Finally I decide to give up on the drying; time to finish packing up and go.

In a slow spin of wheels I make my way into Dillingen's nearby oldtown - a not bad place, I deem it, still staying with the program of giving it the usual walk through. It's another river town with a millenium or so of history, some minor moments in battles in the area, but less of a note than the other river towns I've stopped in however briefly. More importantly, with potentially more rain I have absolutely zero plans to stick around too long, anyway. So I'm soon making it down to the river, again following the Donauweg, and away I go until, I'm guessing, 1p.m. That's when the next deluge should drop down according to the online forecast which has suddenly become my bible of the moment. This finds me soon enough in Lauingen, slamming on the brakes when I see a particularly promising bakery. And indeed it is that, delivering some amazing olive and seed breads beyond the usual poppyseed pastry I can't get enough of. Score! This Spell O' Lauingen continues, too, when I finish curling around through its oldtown and descend upon an unexpected but always welcome open market. There I'll further pick up some cheeses, salami, fruit, and veggies. Now THIS is more like it. And Lauingen - I'm now in the land of "Ingen", to be sure, as most Schwäbische towns end in -ingen, something I was told by my host wayyyy (it seems now) back in Ingolstadt, even if I'm technically in modern day Bavaria - sports a bit more of a handsome presence than Dillingen to boot. This is likely a consequence of it being 5km closer to Ulm, thus of more utility when battles with the French were taking place in the area.

In any event, it's this provisioning that allows me to leave Launingen in pretty good spirits, even if still wary of the Sky Gods. But the rain's still holding off, so I'm back on the river path and pedalling away. Here it's asphalt for a good ways, too, so I take advantage of this crucial detail to kick up my speed considerably before any rain should come. This'll quickly take me through quite a few fields of crops, a greenery which'll abruptly end I reach the town of Günzberg - which is apparently on the last day of some kind of festival.

To that end, there's an oompah band blaring away on a bandstand in the main square - which is really just the center point of a grand high street which is set on the top of a wee hill - as I wander through walking the bike. My eyes are open, as always, to see what architecture the place has to offer, and this doesn't disappoint as neither does it surprise. Okay, then: hefeweizen! And, apparently, an Indian restaurant. Hell, yes! Accepting the impending rain as a fait accompli and recognizing that an oompah band's not too bad a backdrop (all decked out in Lederhosen and the odd Dirndl), why not? I'm soon happily stuffing my face with a slew of Indian appetizers since I want it all and I want it all now. This approach works, as does the local weizen although, for a first time, the latter isn't amazing but merely good. Huh. I guess this is my first sign that I'm leaving the Bavarian influence for the Schwäbische one - which focuses on other styles of beer. (Spoiler alert: more great hefeweizens will come.)

Back on the river and its companion Donauweg, I'm aware that there are a couple of campgrounds before I get to Ulm. I even hear that one's got a zoo (by Schwarzerhof in Leipheim) and another is some kind of LEGOland place. To which I'm thinking... nah. I'm not 10. Far more interesting is the river beside me. It is absolutely manic, surging brown in this section as it's being allowed to blow through the dam spillways which are being left open to just let it flow. That undoubtedly beats flooding or letting things just build up and break, I'm sure. What a mess of churning water, though, and there are scads of debris moving down the river, too. In spiteo of this, I actually have been managing to sort of dry things out along the way, clothes flapping from the bike and even a stop to stretch out the tent, sleeping bag, and air mattress some. Good enough.

Come Leipheim, at 3 or 3:30 or so, it finally looks like the rain has made up its mind to unleash its fury, however. The sky's incredibly dark and menacing, so I keep scanning the terrain to my right for where I might quickly pitch a tent out of sight in some woods. Along the river there comes some kind of park to my right, fortunately one with some deep enough sections where I might scurry and hide. There are a few cars and trucks pulled off into it near the river for perhaps afternoon naps - I'm not the only genius on the planet, apparently - so I make my way well beyond them to discover an area well out of any sightline to where a car might travel. The tent goes up in a hurry as the wind picks up dramatically and the first drops begin to fall. Here it comes again! I secure the bike to a tree, then bolt inside the tent for a while to briefly practice some trumpet before passing out about 3 seconds after my body becomes horizontal. Bonk. But then, after only an hour or so of entering my abode and concluding with said heavenly nap, it appears that the rain has changed its mind after all. It never really came down hard, and meanwhile it's still only mid-afternoon... hmm. It's awfully early, and this isn't exactly a really interesting spot.

So back on the bike I go, now determined that it's to be Ulm or bust. A light rain eventually does begin, naturally, and it'll linger, too, but fortunately it won't ever build to a disturbing level as I'm again pedalling hard - once again on gravel dirt, but less spattery than the Dillingen schlop - to reach my goal. Along the way I come to where a large tree has fallen from the previous night - I assume, it looks like a very fresh fall - to fully block the path some kilometers still from Ulm. Hmm. Screw it, I'm coming through!, I decide, parking the bike to attack it with a bit of drive. I'm breaking branches willy nilly, eventually able to create a hole that will allow me to get the bike up, over, and through it. A man on the other side comes up slowly as I complete this task, stopping to watch me emerge in amazement. He obviously was considering turning around and taking an alternate path, but now it looks like he's changed his mind, getting off of his bike and taking its panniers off. I've got no time to appreciate his minor triumph, however, as it's only another burst of pedaling to finally drop me into the big city. In no time I'm smack dab in its lively city center as the rain stops and looks to hold off for a bit. Yay!

Putting on my tourist... helmet, I get off my steed to wander about a good portion of city's walking zone, immediately taking to admiring the half timber architecture and more before eventually crossing the river to find the local canoe club. It turns out that it's right where I've crossed over, just across from the heart of the tourist zone. Effing brilliant! A French couple on similarly-rigged bikes arrives within moments of my doing so and we all can't believe our good luck of finding this mostly empty, if small, campground in such an amazing location. There's even a local kayaker who offers up the code to enter the building so we can use its facilities. Given that none of us are canoeists, I'm immediately wondering how long this amazing racket will continue before other tourists start figuring it out and learn how to fake like you're canoeing... or even biking. With the tent soon up and a shower taken care of, the previous night's arrival into Dillingen seems fully a year ago.

In a very good mood do I thus wander back to the city for a pleasant stroll as night creepingly, soothingly descends. It turns out that Ulm's not a bad town at all, and I rate a its oldtown/tourist area pleasant plus. I've always known of Ulm, of course, but I'd previously never even thought to ever visit it. Dunno why. Now I see that that was always an oversight. Its gothic cathedral (minster) is particularly impressive, for one thing, with the tallest steeple in the world, but so is its main square and adjacent blocks of restaurants, bars, etc., highlighted by the walkways closest to the river consisting of tiny lanes and bridges with waterwheels and the like. There's even a wine festival going on this fine night in an enclosed part to one side of the cathedral. It's really quite hopping. Hey, what night is this, anyway? Saturday? Already I've lost track. I'm no hurry to return to my camp across the river which, technically, is in Neu Ulm, Bavaria. Ulm is in officially in Baden-Württemburg. I've changed (federal) Lands, the first of the trip!

SUNDAY (21 August 2022): Ulm to Blaubeuren to Shelklingen to Ehingen to Rottenacker, 52km (cumulative: 350)

When I arise at 7:30 a.m., the French couple I chatted up so much the previous night is already long gone, likely already sitting pretty in their train home to France, waving baguettes to The Marseillaise while sipping wine or pastisse and nibbling fromage. Even the incredibly yakky group of German girls (teenagers, college fresh(wo)men?) who arrived en masse in the dark to set up their tents, evidently backpackers from the mountain of laden rucksacks I witness on a midnight bathroom run, have packed up. Am I really this much a slacker? Or is everyone just opting out on paying since no one is really manning the store at this place? I was kind of surprised the night before, when we were given the all access by the local kayaker - and who otherwise couldn't be bothered with us while helping the random arriving kayaker/canoeist fix or prep their boats.

I dawdle only briefly myself, going ahead to put the rig together while eating my precious nutcake from Lauingen. Should bought more from that amazing bakery! It's still early when wander just beyond the canoeclub's fences to play some trumpet on a river-facing bench, taking in a gorgeous view of Ulm. As for where I am, in Neu Ulm, I suppose it's a nice (albeit smaller) town in its own right, but it's not the real draw by any measure. What I'm looking across the river truly is, and I wonder if the river serves as any kind of barrier between language, cuisine, or drink. Do Germans feel attachment to their various Länder the way Americans do to their states? It seems not, although regionalism is quite strong... when considering the ancient regions, not the current one. For example, today's Franconia is completely enveloped by Bavaria, true enough, but the people there consider themselves Franconians, period.

Coffee, next up, will turn out to be a trickier equation. Sunday in Europe generally means it's a chore to find anything open, and here will prove no different. The best bet is a tourist area, of course, so I with the trumpet resheathed I mosey back over the river to make my circles through oldtown, continually disappointed for longer than expected in finding an open cafe. Damn! Finally I do find a decent-sized bakery that's open, though, serving coffee, bread, and pastry and all is finally right with the world. There's also soon a long line out the door, too, as others have evidently searched around and come to the same conclusion/result. This might be the only game in Ulm town, but at least it's good stuff - although even a crap place would've made a killing with the demand. I finally can now head to the tourist office, hoping to scavenge whatever maps might be helpful for the area, then head directly back down to the river to pick up the main bikepath.

I'm barely on the Donauweg, however, before I'm to get off of it, here making the suggested detour to follow the Blau river out of town instead. There's soon a bit of a confusing riding roundabout the Hauptbahnhof, where the signage gets confusing - further heightened by a mess of construction - but finally I see a Blaubeuren sign and know I'm headed correctly. Almost immediately, I'm joined alongside by a grizzled older man out for a day ride on a light speed bike, also headed toward Blaubeuren. We chat in German as he happily plugs the upcoming town and the route that'll be taking us there. To the latter point there'll be no disagreeing on my part, as it's a small, clear river that we're following that is steadily becoming more picturesque. It helps that the path generally hugs it pretty well. After a chunk of kilometers, however, I learn that my new riding companion technically already has one - a companion. He's technically riding with his wife; he probably should wait for her if he doesn't want to be sleeping on the couch or have spit in his sauerkraut or something similar, I'm sure. So I leave him behind, although we'll briefly bump into each other (mit Frau, naturlich) with a fond, reminiscent "Hallo!" come Blaubeuren.

Perhaps halfway through the 20-odd kilometers to Blaubeuren do things get particularly pretty in the scenery, a burgeoning postcard in the making. There are karst formations on the other side of the river now, in some places with some really nice outcroppings and even the ruins of a castle on one. I'll soon spot some climbers on the rock making their way to the ruin from below it, even. With the river so deadly clear, meanwhile, I decide to I stop for a while at a walkbridge over it to just revel in the views. Absolutely schön! The grasses in the river flow gently, the ducks swirl about, and I even notice a hedgehog go for a determined swim, determinedly chasing after something or other for a number of minutes. Really, only a hefeweizen is missing and, if I were properly sane, I'd already have managed to have one in hand and be scheming where I can pitch a tent.

Instead, I move on, breezily and peaceably chugging through the last kilometers on the flats to Blaubeuren... with several hundred other cyclists, it seems. I'm guessing that this is perhaps THE Sunday jaunt to make from Ulm, easy peasy, not a great distance, beautiful as mentioned, and with a true destination. The latter item, of course, is Blautopf, a waterhole that is a particularly impressive shade of blue or green (depending on one's point of view). It's crystalline clear, 27m. deep, and evidently the source of the Blau River to boot. A massive gaggle of folks are taking pictures of it (that I will soon join), all trying to find ways to get the old waterwheel into the shot while also capturing the clarity and the grasses and other plantlife that are further evidence of an idealized beauty. A bit confused about exactly what else there might be on the pathway around the lake, I breifly take a path that heads off and up and up... to nowhere. But at least I can say I now know that, I guess, with not a single more advantageous, birdseye view of Blautopf even offered for such an effort. Back where I first detoured to check out the waterhole, I read that Blautopf is just the opening to a massive cave system that has not been fully explored. There have even been some interesting finds of ancient man down there in the hole by divers. How about that?

I return to where I've put my bike; the wet towel draped over it is now dry. What? Sun? Yes. I next plod along with the herd to the Blaubeuren Abbey, leaving one kind of stage to find another inside its walls. There's some kind of folklife singer-songwriter festival going on, sounding something like the late 60s/early 70s scene back in the day (if in German), but I'm guessing even it wasn't going on there'd be quite a crowd in this town. In fact, not that many people are checking out the singing as a percentage of the whole. It's all about Blautopf and he other main attraction, the walled-off Kloster (abbey) whose grounds are open to us tourists to walk about. Appx. 1 zillion of us are doing just that, but I'm nevertheless able to find a nicely shaded group of steps to sit on by myself - the perfect place to munch on a sandwich I make from that same marvelous bakery's bread, with mustard, olivebread, salami, cheese and a number of other items from the Lauingen farmers' market to help it along. I'm ready for the next farmer's market, too, come to think of it. Numerous folks wander by; I can only assume they are filled with immeasurable envy. For my part, I'm just taking in yet another collection of half-timber architecture. Here the highlight is an elevated walkway between two buildings, with a face emerging from the wall near one of its ends.

With such unhuddled masses, however, I'm more than happy to return to walking along, to next check out the oldtown area. Yep, more half-timber stuff, plus there are long lines at every single place serving ice cream. Or perhaps anything, for that matter, but particularly ice cream. It seems the required item for a proper tourist day out in Germany, from what I can tell, but that's probably true about everywhere. Having my fill of mass tourism for such a small time, in none too long I'm remounting the bike to ride for a little way to get away from it. In minute I'm in the commercial district, my beady eyes quick to locate a pub with several tables outside of it... all full. Inside, then, I go, the only human outside of the few staff who are surprised to see a customer actually enter but are friendly and happy to chat with me in German. They're ALL smoking, of course, but my real focus is on this Gold Ochsen Weizen that I'm finally trying. It's the Ulm brew which I've been spying signs for everywhere and, although we are not in Bavaria by any measure, it's the real deal. Proper. Meanwhile, I do note to myself that there is at least *one* distinct advantage to being indoors: not having to fend off any bees. At virtually every place I've been eating or drinking at outdoors over this trip, I've practically without exception been having to deal with 1 or 3 of them circling my plate or even heading into my beerglass to sample some hefeweizen... and soon die in the sudsy waters. They love the stuff! Not here.

As I part the Gasthaus, I make it a point to garner a suggestion for dinner down the road. Be on the lookout for another Gasthaus in an upcoming village, Schmiecken, I'm told - and that's exactly where I'll have another Golden Ochsen and, finally, my first schnitzel - somehow! - of the trip. Jägerschnitzel it is, and a hunter never had it so good. The place is actually quite popular, it turns out (another Hirsch in the title - is that the clue?!?), so I have to promise my server that I won't loiter forever in using a table reserved for a couple hours later. Having broken that ice, evidently, soon it's first one local, then his two friends, who join me in barely waiting for my reply to join my table. The server, however, is on to the latter two. She makes them go to another table, where they find friends, while I'm left with putting up with the first man since he went to grade school with the owner - which he's proudly told me more than once already. I'm guessing he comes in for his daily free ice cream and beer, and that's just the way it is in a village. On the brighter side, this IS another opportunity to get some conversation in German in, further atuning my ear to the dialect. I *am* improving with it, listeningwise, anyway. I wouldn't dare to try and speak a word of Schwäbisch. Or Bayerisch, for that matter. Pfälzisch (upcoming), too.

From this small village it's a very easy 10km or so on empty bikepaths - I guess all the bike traffic really IS from Ulm - to make my way to Ehingen with the sun beginning its descent. There's nevertheless time to loop through the town a bit, a more modern-seeming place with a large plaza that tries to seem oldtown-y while ultimately coming across as merely pleasant. It's well-attended at its edges, anyway, in the several restaurants and bars fronting the square. Folks look over me as if nary a cycletourist heads this way - and perhaps they don't, turning back to Ulm from Blaubeuren en masse. Certainly no one's headed here, something that's obvious as I make my way through what's mostly an industrial town. The most interesting building by far is a large brick one that might have been - or is - a factory.

In any event, Ehingen is where I'll rejoin the Donauweg. Already it's become a good deal smaller here from what I saw in Ulm. Yes, it's still swollen, but now it's not so brown or wide. With fading light, though, the more important question is when I should get off of it to set up camp somewhere. I now follow along the river with wide, searching eyes, and when the path puts me zigzagging through the town of Rottenacker, I finally spy an apple orchard that looks like it will do the trick. And that it does, but not until I push the bike up and over the tiniest of hills to become invisible. I walk the bike a dozen trees or so away from the pathway, kicking some rotting apples on the ground (one smells apples everywhere these days, harvest time for sure) to make a level enough spot without (smushy) lumps. The untrimmed grass I'm erecting the tent on does have me wondering about ticks, something I was warned about from someone or other in a conversation with over the last week or so, but... here goes.

MONDAY (22 August 2022): Rottenacker to Riedlingen to Sigmaringen to Hausen (or so), 75km (cumulative: 425)

I wake to find that there's been a goodly amount of dew overnight, something made the more obvious by the number of slugs sliming all over my tent - a first (and to be only) for this trip. Sigh - memories of last year's trip, which had them nightly for the first few weeks. Another good night in the rough indeed, particularly since - fortunately - there wasn't even a hint of someone stumbling near or onto my redoubt overnight. Even the nearby road was blessedly quiet, outside of the random motorcycle idiot revving to blaze down it. But such activities typically cease rather quickly after a sunset completes its checkdown.

Looking about my latest stealthcamp, meanwhile, I grab a few apples off the ground that seem to have just fallen overnight. I'll store them away in my foodbag for later - and will forget about for some days before pitching them as not particularly tasty). In any event I otherwise quickly pack up and go, in minutes cutting through a heavy fog to immediately pass through a number of sleeping villages. It's cool out still with the sun obscured by such heavy air, and there's nothing open in any of them to consider the briefest stop as I'm also rolling over minor hills in the process. After about 25km and come Riedlingen, however, my luck changes. There's a cafe as I soon as I cross the (now awfully rather) small Danube into its oldtown area. Pastry, coffee, and bread is always a recipe for success, and here's no different, but the tourist office offers no further maps of interest even if at least its (now life-affirming) WIFI allows me to think up possibilities for the road ahead. Oh, what to do, when no more Danube.... Sounds like a song. As for Riedlingen, well it's another cute -ingen, fer sure, a little nicer than the average -ingen when seen from the river and it's small hill perch with curling roads to its central plaza add to its charm. Medieval, Habsburgs, Hohenberg, a Capuchin monastery, yeah, all that, but I have to admit that I'm most impressed by my first encounter here with the most industrial bicycle I've ever seen (courtesy of the Bundespost, delivering the Post courtesy of the Bundesrepublik to a location near you).

From Riedlingen it's another flurry of villages and towns, crossing the now-ever-clearer Danube any number of times, consistently with dreamy thoughts of swimming in it that aren't to be. It sure has gotten shallow, which is a shame since there are actually some pretty decent entry points where I'd otherwise easily take a dip if it weren't so. This stretch of the way is again pretty flat, anyway, and it'll stay so all the way to Sigmarigen, be it through shade along a forest or through farmfields. Come Mengen (which, unsurprising, started out as Me-ingen, with Roman and even roots to the Bronze Age) I do pause, however, both as it's a little bigger (and thus sporting more architecture to slow a spoked wheel), but vastly moreso as it's because I find a fruit shop that is frankly stupendous. It's one of those soup nazi places where you can't touch anything (I'm glad I asked before grabbing a first forbidden fruit), but to be fair the woman is pretty helpful in spite of such an edict. She's no doubt glad that I'll buy about 2 or 3 of everything in sight: apricots, nectarines, peaches, raspberries, carrots, tomatoes, you name it. It's a bit of a challenge, actually, to successfully store it all in the forward bags of the bike. There's so much overflow from the foodbag on one side that I have to house the remainder in the cyclegear bag across the front tire from it and on the handlebars. I WILL sacrifice for a good cause.

Sigmarigen (34km from Riedlingen), meanwhile, means a gawk at the Hohenzollern castle (Schloss Sigmaringen) I'm confronted with almost immediatlely upon arrival (origins back to 1077, but under the thumb of the H'zollerns starting in 1535 to current day). Yep, that's one big, ornate, (and a few other adjectives of similar vein) hunk of stacked rocks and mortar. It's on one hell of a perch, too, but that's less obvious from my first vantage points. But, as usual, I'm almost instantly far more preoccupied with where I might eat and drink well. The Mengen fruitstand woman had kindly suggested a restaurant that I've been mispronouncing in my head, but a local eventually realizes that I must mean the Traube (a reference to grapes and thus wine) place. Yes, that must be it! Soon seated at (naturally) the single table available, I'm instantly learning that deer stew with some kind of berry cream turns out to be a fantasic thing - especially when accompanied by Spatzle and (of course) a hefeweizen. Oh, and bees, lots of bees. I probably should just start drinking them, but with my luck one would have a remnant, last gasp stinger ready to go as it slid down my throat.

From a docent at the information center, meanwhile, I get a recommendation: after I make it to Donaueschingen, I'd do best to cut over the mountains to Freiburg, in other words just continuing west instead of heading south to Schaffhausen. She rather convincingly makes it sound like the Rhine path between those two which I've been thinking of would not prove interesting at all. I'd better be ready for lots of river and grass, flat land with no towns of note or architecture, and plainly nothing more than a big snore over how ever many days. Noted. (In a few days, camping in Kehl by Strasbourg, I'll actually meet someone who will verify that fact exactly.) Heading through the Black Forest instead, she insists, although perhaps a bit of a chore (understatement) of climbing for a short spell, should be more interesting. More positively spun, it'll also be much more direct in getting to Strasbourg which, of course, any map makes plain. Perhaps it's in celebration of this suddenly-decided first shortcut of the tour, then, that it'll be here in Sigmaringen that I decide that, yes, I AM in enough riding shape to (finally) merit some ice cream. Oh, it's a slippery slope, oh I do know that, but... it's time. I look about myself to shortly discover a place with a zillion outdoor tables, where the road curls below the castle. I duly get in line, and it's long before the coned prize is in my paw. Why I've waited until now to do this is a stupid question. I'm stupid.

It's only in next leaving town, meanwhile, that I'll fully realize that I haven't as of yet had a proper view of the magnificent castle. It's one of the absolute highlights of the Upper Danube, after all. Bad, bad tourist! So I come to a complete stop just after after I roll over the bridge to begin my departure from town, taking the hint of a park situated precisely there and specifically for the purpose of the expected gawk. Yeah, that *is* one hell of a structure, especially with the way it looms over the river. Criminy. Postcard. But would it have been worth going inside, doing the expected preening and slobbering over crown jewel-like riches undoubtedly on display? Dunno, but since I've yet to ever be wowed by such previously I decide on yet another skip. I've long found that, for me, anyway, it's far more about the lay of the land and the grounds when it comes to such places. I do of course read the history on the castle and the town and their notables before or afterward on wiki, but as usual it's at best of passing interest. I've generally come to take a jaundiced eye on all such things almost unequivocably, even going so far as taking such rulers to almost always be nothing more than murderous assholes on ego trips. How else does one get such digs?

In leaving Sigmaringen, then, the castle of such fame is quickly forgotten. That's because in mere minutes, it seems, I've already entered into what will be the highlight riding of the entire trip. Yes, it's another section with karst/limestone structures alongside the river, just like on the Blue River, but now the valley and the river have choked themselves further - which means that it's even prettier and more dramatic. While there is a pesky, busy-ish road that travels this route as well, the cyclepath fortunately deals with its intrusive cars and their noise practically not at all in keeping a healthy distance from it. So I'm rewarded with a very peaceful affair, one offering many, many places worthy of a stop for a picture... or perhaps a sounding of the horn. Picturesque this truly is, and in spades.

Some wee bridges generally provide the best overlooks, each worthy of the pause it earns due its slight gain in height and river-crossing vantage point, and it's near one of these that I spy a bench for some prolonged trumpeting. Here's another rare time where I do so with an amount of abandon, unmuted, although I'm a bit paranoid at first that I'll somehow ruin someone's day (not the usual reaction, usually quite the opposite in fact, but sometimes...). I start with mixing some lip trills with slow ballads, but then I go for a grandiose extreme of tunes (think Spain) without care as, across the small valley from me, I watch cars putz along or zip by through a few tunnels cutting through the karst. Among them I'll also see a number of motorcycles, each getting impatient when stuck behind a car, and each of which invariably next switches into flying in high gear as soon as possible afterward - and likely upping their chances of an accident by many multiples. Mostly, though, I'm just loving the echoing trumpet sound, fun blasts bouncing back to me in applause (of course!) from the valley walls. (Here it's worth noting that, like the Gorge of Verdun, the "Grand Canyon" of France, this neck of woods is called/considered the same for Germany. However, no, it's not even close (the Gorge de V would make a better claim for such by far, anyway), but it's still awfully damned beautiful.)

One thing that's *also* been happening, meanwhile, is a lowering sun. Ach, ja. Knowing what's coming, the time comes to end this reverie and pack up the horn. Time to attend to matters that are necessarily at hand... which means first stopping at a pathside restaurant that looks promising. As always, most of its tables are reserved, but I nevertheless manage to get one when mentioning that I'll be gone soon enough (the usual trick). So a hefeweizen (a Paulaner, and here let me give a proper tip of the hat to truly one of the best, from Munich) is soon headed my way, naturally, but more importantly I get a first crack at Maultaschen. This is a Schwäbische specialty that's often called their "ravioli", although on this go I'll be receiving it in the form of a soup with the dumpling blobs inside it. The restaurant's offerings are awesome on both counts, and in appreciation of this new member of my palate's menu I vow to try more forms of the supposed ravioli ASAP.

Post restaurant and now with a sun gloweringly low, I'm instantly 100% focused and on the lookout for where I'll spend the night. I know that in this area there are numerous campgrounds on the river - this is tourism central even in its bucolic way - but I also know that they'll each be very crowded and thus far from peaceful. I'm not interested in listening to generators nor the TVs that they power inside of RVs. Thankfully, being on a bike has its advantages - like disappearing from sight on a moment's notice to poke about for potential campsites - and here I plan to make full use of them. With complete darkness now fully impending, I don't take long in locating what looks to be an abandoned pathway/small road leading off and into some woods just off of the trail. Naturally (sigh), there's some toilet paper found scattered about in the first several meters - I always assume women going for a pee who don't realize that the dabbing paper they leave behind will take years to dissolve - but I'm long past the point of ever strugglling to tune out such yucky initial warnings to go in much deeper. Sure enough, at perhaps 50-60m in, and after having to hop the bike over some fallen branches to get there (par for the course), I find a small clearing that I'll make clearer still in throwing littered branches about and away from where the tent will go. It's completely out of sight of the trail, as is generally necessary, even if said pathway is actually extremely close below me to one side. Home sweet home it nevertheless soon is, though, as I set up camp in my practiced and stealthy hush mode. With the Radweg so close at hand I'll hear the random bike truck on by below me for a short while yet, now each under lights, but the sounds of such passings-by soon evaporate in favor of nighttime insects coming out to do their thing. Now inside the comforts of my tent, for a number of hours more those buzzings-about will only periodically be interrupted by the local train serving the valley. Zzz.

TUESDAY (23 August 2022): around Hausen to Beuron to Tuttlingen (almost), 39km (cumulative: 464)

I get a surprisingly late start when wake up at the surprisingly late hour of 9 a.m., but in minutes I'm packing up and the bike is being hopped back over branches to regain the cyclepath. No idea how or why I could have slept so late or deeply, a camping rarity, but so it goes. Blame it on the Maultaschen. In any event I quickly roll just a little way down the path to find a bench where I can lighten the food bag (into my belly), then I stop for a coffee near Hausen. Here I witness the rather large camping scene with tents and RVs all jammed up against each other and people everywhere that I so happily avoided, all up and about and having breakfasts or perhaps packing up their vehicles. I'm so glad I didn't deal with this! Meanwhile, there's a guy in a German military uniform walking the path that I'll pass a couple of times before and after my bench; he seems quite out of place here, to which I make a silly joke (something about the German Army being everywhere) that he laughs at. I pause to realize that he's the first soldier I've seen on this entire trip (and will be the last), somethings which feels particularly odd in some sense what with the war in Ukraine going, but given the location I should hardly expect to, I'm guessing. More importantly, the place with a nice view I've found for my morning coffee is slowly, then ever more quickly, filling up: time to roll.

The route, fortunately, continues its run of uncorked beauty, highlighted as a castle or something similar perches on a hill, so it's not long before I find another bench from which to play some quiet trumpet, now overlooking Beuron. Yep, it's quite a view, but I'll soon be surprised to learn from a few bikersby (who chat briefly with me) that I'm not as quiet as I think: they hear the horn some ways away. The good news is that they like it. Whew. The better news, though, is that lunchtime has approached enough, and it's time to go into Beuron for a beer and a plate of Maultaschen at a recommended restaurant, Pelikan. Here I'm again blessed with a plate that's simply amazing, filling, and -naturally enough - I see that if the restaurant isn't named Hirsch, then it's the beer that has to be: I happily sip on a Hirschweisse to accompany Maultaschen #2. Said suds are an award-winning beer, I learn, apparently among the best weizens anywhere, and I certainly won't be one to disagree. Damned tasty stuff. The restaurant, meanwhile, has been completely filled almost the entire time and, again, I've been very lucky to be seated. (I'm sure that sometimes it really does help to be just a party of one - and eminently flexible at that as to where I'll accept to sit.)

From Beuron my mission becomes one of finding a swimming hole in this amazing valley. I'm determined. The trick is that the river is, however beautiful, generally awfully shallow now. Fortunately, though, the same guy who recommended Pelikan to me a mere couple of hours ago has *also* given me rough directions for a spot he says the locals use. It'll take a bit of asking of more locals to find it, though, including an unexpected stop at an odd (former farmhouse?) building along the path that houses something shy of a dozen numerous vending machines. The interior has been surprisiongly modernized, but the bigger surprise is that one machine is loaded with beers - perfect! - but I can't get its ID reader to use my passport to let me buy one. Less perfect. Arggh. A couple of other guys come by, similarly excited to next similarly be unsucessful in trying the same thing I've just been rejected at. A couple of old local ladies sitting out front of the building even come in and try to help, but to no avail. However, the women *do* help me with finding the swimming hole, giving more concrete directions than the ones I've been working with. Sure, I have to fight a bit with their Dialect, but this only adds to the bonhomie as they find it amusing and impressive that an American understands them. Since they speak no English, I'd better!

Thus do I bike on a bit further down the path, soon confident hanging a right to cross over the river to next travel along a relatively unused path where I'll eventually find what I think is the spot. Unfortunately, it also seems like a place where cows hang out - especially evidenced by a lot of crap at a river crossing which I'll assume is my entry point - but soon I'm in the river, next walking in the stream upriver of that spot to take in what'll turn out to indeed be a superb spot. There I'll find a man hanging out by himself, taking a break, and he indicates that, yes, this is the real swimming hole. He points out places here and there where one can easily - finally - submerge easily and completely. In our little gab I'll learn that it turns out he's Slovenian, so in no time we're chatting about his country (where I just spent a couple of weeks the previous year and enjoyed myself so much). He's interested in my itinerary for this go-round, asking many questions, but he admits that he's not particularly keen in taking to a bicycle per se himself. Somewhere along the way he also recommends a restaurant, Scharfeck, which I should find in the town of Fridingen. From almost every conversation I'm rewarded with a recommendation, it seems.

Somehow a lot of the day has already gone by, meanwhile, so when I do mosey on and into Fridingen to do my customary roll through, it's already time enough for dinner... and another Weisse. Again I luck out to get a table plainly reserved for later, soon enjoying yet another weisse that this time comes alongside a large plate of lentils that I've mistakingly guessed to be vegetarian - but somehow has two large wurst on top. I eat it all, no complaints, as I'm joined before long at my table by an older couple who are similarly trying to get around the fact that everything's reserved. They, too, assure the waitress that there'll be time for her to clean up well in advance of the official reservation. Turns out that the couple are on e-bikes, hailing from the Bodensee, agree that lentils are indeed god's gift to the world, and that, yeah, the Upper Rhine (from Schaffhausen to Strasbourg, anyway) is by and large boring from a cycling point of view. I'm just so happy that I'm freely conversing in German so steadily now, but further confirmation is a good thing, too. I'm noticing more and more how random words keep popping back into my head from so long ago.

Bidding my new friends adieu, from Fridingen I next roll perhaps a mere 5km to Muhlheim - a place that my recent tablemates have told me might be worth a look. This'll involve a small detour up a hill to get to its oldtown, and it's indeed a pretty place, but I'm in no luck regarding what is now possessing my mind completely: ice cream, the natural choice to follow lentils, no? Instead I'll receive a friendly conversation with an older couple walking by, as interested in my rig and travels as I am by their thick Schwäbisch. At least by now I can function well enough with it, I muse, but with darkness soon on the way I know it's time to find a campsite. So I bid these latest new friends adieu as well, flipping back through town to drop back down to the valley - but only after first hitting up a couple on their patio, sipping an evening wine and hardly expecting a ragged cycletourist begging for some water. They helpfully oblige me, though, so I now hurriedly resume my course through a valley that's now wider and busier. Fortunately that's not a great issue on the bikepath, and soon I'm gauging the plausibility of a spot in a field alongside the path some 4km before Tuttlingen. I think it might do the trick, as there seems to be a curve to its shape that might just have enough of a patch of grass wide in it to hide a tent in what otherwise would be plain sight... zzz.

WEDNESDAY (24 August 2022): 4km to to Tuttlingen to Donaueschingen, 46km (cumulative: 510)

Overnight temperatures, for a first time, prove colder than expected, so in the wee hours I find myself throwing something - anything - over my sleeping bag during the night to stay warm enough. I even drowsily find myself at one point putting on socks. Has Fall begun? I nevertheless sleep well enough, rising at an acceptably late 8 a.m. to shake the dew off the tent before picking up the small amout of plastic trash spotted the night before in the vicinity of my chosen tent spot. Said detritus goes to prove - as always - that I'm never the first to spot these campsites. Us homeless scavenger types are all alike. Well, I AM the one who does the good deed of picking up others' trash. When I've packed up to start walk-rolling out of my redoubt to rejoin the path, meanwhile, a man cycling by can't help but stare at me in amazement for a lonnnnng gawk. He practically does a 180 with his head, even, evidently just the thing necessary to take in the amazing sight of someone who, yes, probably just wildcamped mere tens of meters from the public bikepath. From the looks of him, I half wonder if he'll check out my campsite later for a proper harumph, fully unaware of my saintly ways in picking up that trash. So there!

Tuttlingen (first Celtic, then Roman, etc.) is a pleasant enough town to start my day with, a busier than anywhere since Sigmaringen while quite obviously also the working heart of the entire valley. There's not too much old stuff to make me want to become photo happy, no, but I as always will at least perfunctorily wander about its active, central pedestrian zone... to find a really nice bakery for my coffee and poppyseed pastry. Tuttlingen passes muster, in other words, and in deeming such at the balery counter I start up a long conversation with the woman running the place, Maria - who it turns out is from Tuscany, but has been here quite long enough to count as a (my word) Tutter. She things I'm nuts to tour on a bike, of course, but hey. As we gab away, almost every customer that comes in exchanges a random Italian phrase with her to suggest that she's something of a local and somewhat beloved morning institution. I could see why, what with her upbeat manner, but eventually it's time to be off. I return to my former mission of a walkabout of the old city center - which I note here quite intermixes the new and old, a melange that's nevertheless chiefly a shopping district with enough random old buildngs thrown in for charm. I now can head back to the river satisfied with my assessments, shortly finding a shaded bench where I can serenade the odd and surprised cyclist going by. (I'll later find out that Tuttlingen's long been an administrative center, had a moment in the 1600s in a war with the French, burned to the ground a coupla centuries ago, and saw some nasty concentration-crematorium-etc camp business in the area with the Nazis during the war.)

From T-town I next enjoy some properly strong tailwinds which'll push me the entire way to Donaueschingen. How about that?!? Thus do I roll fast and furious, with a smile etched across my face widely with weather so absolutely perfect and without a cloud in the sky. This forces me to put on the hated suncream, true, but with 70s funk blasting the entire way absolutely nothing can go wrong. Well, except one. I'm unexpectedly expecting more karst formations as from Sidmaringen to Tuttlingen, but I'll find that that won't be the case here. So I'll have to be perfectly content - and I will be enough so - to instead cruise by/through small towns that don't have enough stop-worthy architecture to make me think of even a pause. At some point, I DO realize that I'm probably on alternate cyclepaths toward Donaueschingen instead of the Donauweg - seeing virtually NO riders in the other direction has a way of doing that - but, then again, it could also be because Donaueschingen is generally a starting point to a ride. So everyone would have already departed in the morning, which would not allow for me to be meeting them now. I dunno, but in any event I do arrive at the end of my Danube run in Donaueschingen at about 1:30p.m. I immediately decree that there'll be no more riding today, just a monstrous ice cream - 5 scoops, precise little balls as always, of mango/strawberry/nlueberry/hazelnut/pistachio. That's how you mark a job well done.

I'm in a determinedly celebratory mood, so after lollygagging my way to the tourist office I engage a goodly long chunk of research on the net while (as usual) getting a couple of maps in the process. A Slovak woman comes in to break this scholarly work for a spell, the result of ending up in a long conversation covering the wonders of her country in the form of my experiences there both good (everything) and bad (just my back). Eventually, though, I've sent her off with information about the wonders between Tuttlingen and Sidmaringen and all administrative details have been covered. So I can NOW walk to a restaurant nearby, where I've gotten as a recommendation from the women working the tourist bureau (usually a no-no to favor a local business, but fortunately here they don't care).

The Furstenberg Braustuble apparently is *the* place in this town, and trying another Fürstenberg hefeweizen (as in Sidmaringen) seems the perfect thing to signify a first victory lap. So does another helping of Maultaschen, in yet another of its forms (this ravioli is a chameleon). Then it's yet another hefeweizen, as this is precisely the day for such. A segment is complete! (One which I had no idea two weeks ago that I'd be doing...) Anywho, as I contemplate the road ahead, I'm also reflecting for a first time on my gear which is showing some wear that previously I've not thought much of. For one thing, my air mattress that now is growing a "tumor"... which has nothing to do with a small procession of Ukrainian women walk by singing and waving flags. Another hefeweizen, bitte schon! It DOES get to be so easy to forget about the world at large when cycletouring. Goddamn Putin! Monster!

Eventually I decide that I've done enough back-patting as required, so the time comes to retreat in the form of rolling back out of town, to what will be my last Danube campground. Somewhere nearby, I know, is a place where the Danube is said to originate - at the confluence of the Brigach and Breg rivers which come together and get renamed, so... whatever - but I can't be bothered to check that box. Instead, I'll venture 5km outside of town to Riedsee, where I'll lackadaisically set up camp followed by a lengthy discussion with a German couple who pull up on ebikes to do the same. They're just a small chunk of years older than me (just into their 60s), and they also ride normal bikes, they assure me - as we nevertheless launch into a good discussion about losing it if not using it as we age. Finding out that they had planned a West Coast cycling trip as CoViD hit to cancel it two years prior, soon I'm also giving them some tips on cycletouring in my neck of the woods. I plug going more into the interior of Washington State instead of its coast, then somehow going back and forth in Oregon to alternate between the Cascades and the Coast while being sure to not omit taking in the Columbia Gorge. I really need to cycle that stretch myself, come to think of it... Meanwhile, I notice in looking about me over the length of this entire chat, it DOES seem like I'm seeing more cyclists with colder weather gear...

THURSDAY (25 August 2022): 5km to Donaueschingen to Titisee to Alpenbach to Kirchzarten to almost Freiburg, 79km (cumulative: 589)

I'm up early enough, but it's nevertheless a bit of a slow start in getting my mojo as I sip on coffees from a machine and pick up a couple of things from the campstore (generally a poor man's convenience store when they exist). Finally, though, I manage to say goodbye to the German couple and roll the 5km right back into Donaueschingen... to then head directly out of it. And it's not long, either, before I'm in Bräunlingen after an easy, initial flat stretch to get the day's riding going. In B-lingen I supply up at a surprisingly deep bakery-deli I spy (always on the lookout for same), with assumptions that I'll be climbing imminently and any excess goodies might prove very welcome if the going goes tough. The Swabian Jura (Schwübische Alb), which I'll be crossing over, certainly is a proper enough mountain range in its own right, located right near the Alps to the northwest without being part of the fabled range, but the fact that I'll cross it in one day some says something, too.

In any event, raiding my provisions will not be the case for a while yet, although slowly but surely some hill and dale does start up as I'm passed by a couple of riding groups in matching outfits, perhaps teams or more likely local associations of cyclists as they don't look Tour de France bound. Or haven't been in a generation. Still, seeing them makes sense as I'm aware that Lake Titisee ahead is some kind of destination, even if for the moment it's still just one hohum farmfield or completely dead village after another. There are a few confusing sign situations, even, then come some true climbs - and descents - as eventually I leave what had been a lot of open space to find myself in deep forest with only the random sign. Well, I did ask for the Schwarzwald - and now I have it. Deep into the tall green, meanwhile, I'm hoping that I'm going the right way. In trying to follow what seems to be the main path, suddenly with a very steep and prolonged descent to followed by a similar ascent - I'm certainly wondering. This would be a lousy place to get lost, and I sure haven't seen any other riders for a spell... nor pavement. The bike's taking a bit of a beating here for the team. Finally, though, I see a lonely cycling sign that points me to Titisee and I breathe a sigh of relief.

It turns out the cycling path'll first take me NOT to Titisee but Neustadt instead (pronounced "Newman!"), but it'll take me a while to figure that small detail out. I enter this hilly town to find its center, soon ducking out of a suddenly beating sun to become the lone customer at a Thai restaurant run by a guy who almost seems put out that I'm not doing takeout like a normal human being. A couple of better-behaving customers will come by to do so over the next hour or so to show me how its done as look at me oddly for perhaps daring to sit a table. Oddly, the proprietor has a very large wall of pictures composed of selfies which are all of him in what seems to be about every country of the world. How on earth did he end up here, of all places? Who knows, but with my belly happily full with phad thai I'm properly prepared to further roll about town to figure out what makes this place famous... until after a few conversations with random tourists or locals does dawn on me that I'm not in Titisee at all. Well, okay then! Fortunately it's not far away, and a sunny cyclepath connector will allow me to get there before too long to join the expected throngs that have been so oddly missing to me.

Good gravy, there are a lot of people here! And this is indeed very, very posh. It's the kind of place one comes to buy an expensive watch to show off to your date in a designer dress... or perhaps pick up an ornate cuckoo clock, from the looks of it. The buildings are quite fancy; everything looks like a postcard. Trying to get into the spirit of the place, I decide to take an empty table for my typical hefeweizen, expected jacked-up price be damned. But at a lakeside establishment I'm denied service even as a number of tables to one side are evidently not in use. There's no obvious dividing line to precisely denote a closed section as to why, so I can't help but wonder if I don't look the part of worthy enough. Seeing as I'm about to drop nearly double the amount for a beer than usual (I look over the somewhat frou frou menu), I'm not completely disappointed. Maybe it's my clothes. Or my bike.

Whatever, but being denied a hefeweizen is enough of a sign from the gods that I sour on this town and its see-and-be-seen aspect rather quickly. I stroll with my bike through the mobs of folks slobbering over ice creams and holding shopping bags, en route to the tourist office where I hope to at least get maps and WIFI. As for actual cycling information, I'm discouraged from my ideas on how to get to Freiburg in hoping for more details. But I'll take this with a shaker of salt when this comes from a woman at the desk who I soon surmise doesn't ride a bike, like perhaps ever. She assures me that my chosen path options are too steep, dangerous, or only for mountain bikes. Mentally I'm all too quick to throw this new info out. Meanwhile, and fully in keeping with the Titisee program, I find this is the first tourist office where you have to pay to use the bathroom.

Thus I'm perfectly happy to leave Titisee behind, thoughts of a beer or ice cream be damned. And I'm definitely going the way I like on the map. Sure, it's plenty steep all too soon enough, but I expect that, and soon I get enough above the receding lake to have some commanding views of forest and hills into the distance. One big plus is that there's no traffic and, as it turns out, this way's all paved. What was that mountain bike stuff all about? Indeed, there's barely even another cyclist beyond the first several kilometers in leaving the tourist area. Instead I'm witnessing some beautiful, chalet-style farmhouses, altogether a truly bucolic scene to behold. What DOES annoy me, however, are the numerous flies that steadily begin to collect about me as I make the final chunk of my ascent. I'm just going too slow to be able to shoo them away, so one arm becomes periodically occupied in waving about to maintain my sanity as the other is required to steer. Arggh. Finally, though, I come to a somewhat level area where I can view the Feldburg ski lifts not too far above on a neighboring hill (mountain). This allows me to speed up considerably, both leaving the flies soon behind and then reaching the junction where I could off toward there... or head down.

Here I pause a moment, remembering that it was over there at Feldburg that I had my second day of skiing ever. That happened back in 1983, in blue jeans, when without knowing it I was just waiting for this thing called snowboarding to come along... especially when I tangled my skis more than once to fully understandd the words "force" and "strain". Skiing would only be tried once more in my life - and that'd be near where I cut through the last year, in Flachau, Austria. Memory lane properly dealt with, I get with the task at hand. Which means that - finally - down is what it's definitely to be about now. Yes, that's since that's where Freiburg is, but it's also where there'll be another hefeweizen, I'm sure. At a table where I'm welcome. Whee! Thus it is that the down which comes next is steep and fabulous, even if I'm likely a bit crazy for taking it at the speed I do - what with my bike so fully laden and only v-brakes to slow down this potentially runaway train. Nevertheless it all feels all under sufficient control, with good visibility, and there isn't a single car for the 10-plus kilometers that I rocket-bomb down through solid forest always blessed shade. This is a truly beautiful thing that I've damned well earned. Naturally I hit a few thermaclines where things suddenly warm up, but those are welcome enough by now.

Come Oberried, the first village of note I encounter, it's high time for an Alpirsbacher Weizen and a flatbread kind of pizza. But these'll have to wait until after I get a lightning quick wash of my entire head in the bathroom - something I've gotten down to a minute or two tops, using a small vial of concentrated soap suds and my oversized sippie cup which can dump a goodly size plop of water on my head in a hurry. What a difference these head washes make every time! It's like having sanity suddenly returned, with clearity. And I did sweat out quite a bit on that climb earlier, even using two of my dehydration tablets for what I'm pretty sure will by far be the biggest climb of this particular cycletour. As for the restaurant's tables - all spoken for, per the usual - at least here there is a Stammtisch on the patio to advantage of... even as several people slowly take up its other chairs over the next hour or so. And all of them, naturally, smoke. Sigh. But they (surprisingly, for once) ignore me as I take in the view of a large field to one side, where a steady flow of paragliders come in for their afternoon, day's-end landings. The mountains and forest sure make for one hell of a backdrop.

From Oberried it's only a further 3,5km to Kirchzarten, a cozy little town which sports a small central area... where all of its outdoor seating's full, true, but that's not the reason for my pausing here, I can inwardly smile to myself. But it takes only a couple of minutes to walk its length, surprisingly finding that I won't get the next Eis in a cone I'm so jonesing for. Foiled! At least the WIFI at the closed tourist info point is working, and it's this which allows me to confirm plans for the next night. I should have a hosting in Offenbach, past Freiburg and near the Rhine. For now, though, I'm off to... where? Somewhere to sleep, hopefully. These means that I'm rolling on toward Freiburg with darkness descending in lockstep, not the best possibility for camping when urbanity is actually increasing. I curl about one possible stealth campspot after another before long, but each is somehow just too much still in view of the road or the cyclepath. Damnation. I even head uphill through a neighborhood toward woods, but I still just can't find anything suitable, plus it even feels like the odd person is watching me in my hunt. Crud.

Dispirited, I grudgingly decide to backtrack toward Kirchzarten if I don't find something soon, but it's in these depths that an inspired hunt near the cyclepath on the other side, over by the train tracks, reveals a clearing tucked just enough out of the way to do the job. It's in the middle of a blackberry bramble, yeah, not good, but it's getting dark quickly now so I count myself lucky. And that feeling's all the stronger when, after pushing my bike through the spiky cables of growth, I somehow don't have a popped tire. I actually DO have a number of thorns stuck in the tires when I flip the bike upside down immediately after choosing my tentsite spot, though. Yikes. I remove them while simultaneously vowing to gingerly, respectfully carry the bike out come morning. As for this night which has now completely fallen, it'll only further bring a number of train passings, as expected, and these won't go deep into the night... although, as I nod off, I suppose they'll sufficiently work as an alarm clock come morn.

FRIDAY (26 August 2022): 6km to Freiburg to Emmendingen to Larm via Sulz to Offenburg, 82km (cumulative: 671)

And that they do, but I can't complain otherwise about this convenient spot. What I can bitch about, unfortunately, is what happens next: I break a tent pole as I take down my trusty nylon abode. Crap. That's a first. Fortunately, it's an easy, short glide on the bike path into the city center - where surely I can get this tragedy undone - and the way is almost completely flat and executed under perfectly cool temperatures. Thus I arrive in a good mood to admire the city center's curvy, classic oldtown, properly staring first at the tower where I first journey back in time. I'm soon likewise gazing at the Oberkirche, the heart of this sizeable body of ancient architecture. My luck is trebled by the fact that there's an open air market in the church's plaza, mostly, I assume and deem, set up for the likes of me.

But first will come a coffee, if that only after a bit more wandering about and picture taking. Charming stuff, and I eventually'll find a nice spot outside near some city walls. Thus is both a great place for an extended read and an interested listen to the table next to me - which fills with an older couple and a middle aged woman who I almost immediately take for an American. Her German seems flawless, surprisingly enough to me, but somehow she's skipped the class on rolling R's. Fingernails screech down the blackboard, then, each time she hits a word with one R it - is this every 3rd word? sure feels like it. It's grating to listen to, and I can only wonder how can this not be at the top of her agenda to correct? Has she just given up completely? Lord knows she put the effort in to learning the language - from the R alone it's obviously not her native tongue, even as she impressively does rattle it off - why not complete the circuit? I'll never know.

Necessary coffees imbibed, it's time to finish my Freiburg walkabout on this quite lively Friday. First and foremost, I'm now happy to return to the open air market to pick up some cheese, bread, and fruit. There are buskers by now, too, further proof that there's ever more depth than expected to this older, core area. A famous college town for Germany with a deep history because of its location near the Rhine - and thus close to the French-German border which shifted so much back when - Freiburg im Breislau offers quite a lot and is more than worthy of proper stay of days, not hours. When I find myself not by chance in front of the city hall, meanwhile, it's nigh on high time to stop in at the tourist office for the requisite maps of (I hope) the upcoming Rhieinweg. And.... nope, but close. Well, it's not like it'll be hard to follow the river, anyway, so I shrug my shoulders and resolve to deal with the problem at hand: my broken tent pole.

Well, there's that plus the growing tumor in my air mattress: it's now about the size of my head, and it's quickly been getting trickier to sleep around let alone on top of it. The helpful lady at the tourist office has looked up outdoor equipment shops, thus directing me to one place not far from the center - which in turn will point me several blocks away, to their sister store. There I eventually locate someone who's efficiently helpful, even if performing the expected tsk-tsking over my calamity due to poor maintenance. Soon enough, though, he warms to me as I detail my shortcomings as a proper outdoorsman/cycletourist, ultimately fixing the tentpole by creating a new one and inserting into the elasticized chain as in the meantime I also purchase a new air mattress. I immediately leave the tumored old one outside, guessing that there might be the random homeless person about (there's evidence of many such all about me) to perhaps be willing to deal with what used to be a high end air mattress that's now sporting a bulbous tumor. Still, it had a good run: not a hole in the thing after, what, 20 years? Hopefully it'll still get some use, or be at least properly disposed of should its future mean a puncture from a heroin needle or god knows what else.

One thing is for sure - my extended walkings-about have already convinced me that Freiburg would be a good place to live, the first to sincerely strike me so on this trip. The previous year it was only Graz that gave me such a warm, fuzzy feeling. Both are college towns, active places which are not the gleaming poster cities of their countries' brochures, and I'm sure that has a lot to do with it. Funnily enough, I remember that, years ago, my first German instructor at my first semester of college, back at The University of Michigan, was from Freiburg. Werner, I think, was his name, but I couldn't guess if it was his first or last. I can still see his face... although I might be confusing him with the checker I got along best with back at the huge army depot where I drove a forklift in Kaiserslautern. Come to think of it, I think I am. The guy at U-M looked like the lead singer from The Scorpions. Now I remember! In any event, I'm quite bullish on Freiburg and find it shame to be leaving it behind at 11 a.m. or so... but I've got a date, and I can't be late.

Or something like that. Modestly disappointed to be leaving F'burg behind, I nevertheless compel myself to roll away from the city center. As usual, I'm all too soon questioning my routing, but between the signage and a well-posed question once or twice I find myself near the town of Emmendingen. This, I know, should be the first of a number of villages/towns that I'll need to get through in making my way to Offenbach. All are on the flats, I'm happy to note, but all are also immediately hugging the Schwarzwald which lies to the east of each. Emmendingen, however, will uniquely prove a mess when it comes to the cycle signs. It gets such that I'm having to chug through a number of kilometers trying to figure out where I am with regards to its city center/oldtown; even a few passersby that I ask aren't much help. Does anyone know anything* about this silly town? Sigh. Finally, it's an energetic young man at a busstop near the river - where I've returned to as always a good idea for location - who sets me straight. He indicates that I should follow the main road, cross a certain bridge, then eventually find the Marktplatz - which I duly do. As luck would have it, and it does, E-ingen has an open air market going in full swing as I enter the cobblestone plaze. There's even a Wurst Imbiss that is not to be denied, perfect for a curry wurst and pommes frites that'll take me in a clarifying instant back to the 80s. The taste of both haven't changed in the slightest. Oh, I've missed this!

The other villages and towns which come next will, yes, all likewise have nice enough main drags, but none will be quite as big as Emmendingen's. Nevertheless, I'll stop for an Eis in Kenzingen, then make my way through Herbolzheim. Lahr (also called Schwarzwald on the map) is bigger, and it's fortunately big enough to have a tourist office with WIFI where enable some final direction confirmations to my WarmShowers hosting. As I make my way through these places, meanwhile, I can see in the hills that begin the Schwarzwald and Alb to my right that there's coming to be one vineyard after another. I note, too, how some places have also been showing their names in French from those years in which some of these towns passed hands back and forth between the nations.There's even a castle here and there, formerly French or German I have no idea, but each serving to remind me that I'm indeed not so far from the Rhein. Oh yes, the Rhein and its wines! But not yet, I'm thinking, as it's in Larm that I stop to drink a Ganter weizen as I look hesitatingly to the sky and wonder if it will rain. Hmm. The wind even gets very gusty for a bit, bending some umbrellas in throwing things about in the pedestrian zone, to garner proper respect as serve as possible confirmation. Better get back on the bike.

From Lahr it's another 20km or so to Offenbach, and over this final stretch I'll see that what had been a pretty hot day around 30C is now cooling off quickly. Some storm clouds gather, then the wind kicks in again, too, but thankfully it's from behind me this time - so it'll only be an aid to my task, hopefully a dry one. Whatever. I'm feeling frisky and buoyant with a place to stay for the night, so throw some caution to the wind (literally) at one point to chance the rains in pausing in a cornfield to blast away at the trumpet for a while. It feels necessary sometimes. As usual, doing so surprises a few people who walk or cycle by - I wonder how this wind is carrying it? - as some others on bikes roll by completely oblivious to the racket. Anywho, with that requirement out of the way, I now can proceed on and into Offenbach. It takes a little doing in this larger than expected city to find the main train station, where I next have to figure out how to get across it via underpasses with stairs and/or elevators (a mild pain), but here confusion won't reign long as I soon my way the short distance further to my host's house. Victory! Sort of: With a dying phone, I have to call her from almost in front of her house because I can't recall its number and, well, these batteries are about completely dead! Click.

Fortunately Lise is already walking into the street, next letting me into her house's backyard... where she resumes cutting her husband's air. I immediately present my gift, this time cheese instead of the usual bottle of wine - I worried that I'd buy the wrong bottle in what is obviously wine country - and to my surprise Lise immediately recognizes both cheeses by look and names them to boot. (I've never heard of them, one with a blue streak and the other a little creamy, but both are appropriately stinky - which I always know to be a good thing!). She's quite pleased, and thus so am I. Soon I meet their son Anton, an assured if not quite precocious 10-year-old who's more than willing to talk about trombones all day long. Then I'm meeting older sister Clara, his opposite, who's all about arts and crafts of any kind and is sufficiently accomplished in all of them.

Both kids are in the process of making some kind of anniversary dinner for their parents, so I count myself pretty lucky that they've allowed me to intrude on this particular night. Luckier still, I'll score a bed inside the house when I haven't erected my tent yet on account of our ongoing conversation and the storm that finally does let loose with a fury outside. I scramble to bring everything in before returning to yakking with this musical and generally creative family. I learn that they were (in their words) something of hippies who had been content to live out in the boonies for the rest of their lives, only brought into the city for the kinds of schools that can give kids the kinds of arts educations they want. Next, with the parents heading off to another room for their candlelit fancy dinner, I generally find myself speaking with Anton, the trombonist, soon finding myself marvelling at his passion for the instrument. It truly is remarkable, and he shows pretty good control over the instrument in spite of still being so small. The parents will later relate to me that he apparently indicated that the trombone was to be his future already by the age of four. Criminy. I still don't know NOW what I want to be when I grow up.

For Anton and myself, meanwhile, dinner is to be a flammkuchen, a flatbread that can be made pizza-like or really into about anything, either sweet and savory equally. Given the night's occasion, I also score on some of the other dishes which've been made for the parents as they finish their special event to now come and join the rest of us. I'm truly enjoying the company this family's odd yet endearing mix of hippie, earnest, and proper, with active and engaged minds all. Over a long conversation we cover education for a good while - she's a French and Math instructor, he's a doctor - before making our way to the unavoidable current political situation, especially as regards Ukraine. There's been much talk in Germany about how winter will go when Putin shuts off the gas, but that moment's still a month or two away. How much support will the Germans maintain for the Ukrainians then? That's the big question, and it's not only the Germans who keep asking it. Finally, when it gets late enough, I'm shown to the room of the other son - off volunteering somewhere - and, sure enough, there's a massive drumset and all kinds of books and maps about a huge variety of subjects. Impressive folks.

SATURDAY (27 August 2022): Offenburg to Kehl, 20km (cumulative: 691)

I'm not in a hurry to get going when presented with nice conversation that starts right up in the morning. I might even be guilty of prolonging these hosted mornings, in all likelihood, just because of the mere outlet and inlet of a proper chat with some depth which can come and go otherwise far too briefly during travels such as this by bike. Motion is the key ingredient, which is the antithesis to the slow stew of a good talk. But as these talks do seem to always flow back and forth pretty well, I'm guessing that the pleasure is mutual. And this particular instance I'm particularly treated, getting to use German, English, and even French (Lise is originally from France and is happy to do so, plus daughter Clara seems to like to only speak it). Eventually it's time to go, though, and that's not just because all of my devices are fully charged again (and I need to be carrying fewer devices, which I solemnly resolve here forevermore) or that I even have some clothes washed (although I'll leave behind a shirt, something I question while folding everything else - I feel like one's missing...). I've also properly dried the few things that got left outside in the evening's crazy rain, when I dashed everything (I thought) inside. (A rain storm never makes for rational or steady thinking.)

Today's destination is not to be much at all, just getting to the Rhine/Rhin/Rhein River near or at Strasbourg, so I happily leave the house to accompany Lise in her errand of the Saturday morning market back in the center of town. She seems to know a number of the vendors on a first name basis, chatting them up; I duly don't miss the opportunity to pick up ever more fruit, veg, and even some Middle East pastries made with nuts and honey. To all of that is the reality that I really need to start depleting my food bag, the ever common theme to my trips when there are open air markets about, but cheese, salami, and more keep, so... off I go at noon. Well, true to those last thoughts, I *do* pause before fully leaving town, for once eating a large lunch out of my food bag instead of stopping at a local restaurant (and that after having asked Lise for suggestions). I'll never learn what Offenbach's place in history (or anything else for that matter) is...

With the sky indeterminate, I finally emerge from the city to head west... and into substantial headwinds. Almost immediately I'm following a bikepath right along a very small - but now also very muddy - river after the last night's rain. I'm aware that it will drain into the Rhine, however, so there's no possibility of getting lost, that's for sure. The day's (practically hour's) route cuts briefly through some small villages, always going right by their most picturesque buildings (the cyclepaths in Germany are really good about this, in contrast to France), which all too soon lands me a trumpeting spot that I deem absolutely perfect. It looks like a ferry landing or a fishing spot, a wooden platform jutting into this tiny river in the middle of nowhere, but with a shaded bench that's completely dry and inviting I feel that I have no choice in the matter. I can't pass up the opportunity, soon spending a long while blasting away with abandon. Only a few cyclists go by to nod or smile in my direction over the next hour or so, and I'm otherwise only "interrupted" when a women enters the area to her two small girls the river. They like what I'm doing, if a bit surprised to find someone where they've planned to test the waters for entry. Nope, it's too muddy and fast, the mother wisely notes, plus there are visible undercurrents galore. I'm told that it was completely clear and much, much lower at this spot just two days prior.

Trumpet again stowed, I return to the bikepath, next moseying along some river berms and a few more villages, always detoured within each to cut alongside their few half timber buildings. But there's no getting around the fact that this is a very short order for the day, so I'm already in Kehl at around 4 p.m. even with my lollygagging pacing. It's quite hot and sunny as I leisurely set up my tent in the town's campground plopped right against the Rhine River. Little by little, other cyclists show up to similarly erect tents near mine - most of the campground, as usual, is for RVs - and each of us go through the same peering at of sky and guessing of shade to at best find a patch of which there isn't very much. Thus each tree soon has a tent or two next to it, each a best guess as to how and where the sun will go between now and morning. Across the river, meanwhile, is an incessant beat of bass from what one must assume is some kind of concert, but in the innocence of afternoon we'll have no idea that this steady boom-boom won't stop until about 2 in the morning. Fortunately I can sleep through about anything, and for the rest of the day - and in spite of the bass blasting - I decide to forego checking out the legendary city for the moment. Instead I opt for my customary weizen at the camp restaurant to, in the process, again note that I'll have to vacate my reserved table before too long. What's with all this reserving of tables, anyway?!?

The table that soon follows is better, anyway. It's the one and only picnic table for the cyclist/tent area of the campground, but it's large and covered both. I eventually sit there to empty even more grub from out of my foodbag and into my belly, soon joined by Andrew (Sykes), a fellow touring cyclist who I've chatted with at his tent to invite him over. He's a French teacher from Yorkshire that makes a regular bit of cycletouring in Europe; he even has a longrunning podcast about the very thing. We naturally chat a bit about this job of sorts he's created, which he does get some supplemental income from, but I posit that that's about the best one can do unless you really are doing something different. I mention the article I've written now some time ago, still unfinished, covering cycletouring while carting about a trumpet and busking, of which numerous weird anecdotes have arisen. I'm not so sure he agrees on how interesting that might be, but he agrees that it's certainly unique. I guess I'll hang my hat on that.

We're soon also joined by a German pensioner, Achim, from Braunschweig. He's doing his current cycletour as a bit of a lark, he tells us, but it's not his first cycle rodeo. He's got something of a philosopher's smile, incredibly calm and content, to which I can't help but wonder that we should all aspire to the same. More lively, though, is a French family of four, with two young parents and two rambunctious boys of perhaps 5 and 8 or so. The kids are little smartasses, definitely, but are so in a fun way that we all enjoy. They particularly like to take the piss out of the American, that's for sure, but I'm game. Besides, the likelihood of agreeing with French folks about nutty rightwing Republicans (and especially Trump) is going to be skyhigh in the first place. They've just finished their tour, hanging out here to wait the few days necessary for a train to take them back to Nantes. With their bikes and gear, getting space on the train has proven to be a problem that only now they think they've solved. Naturally, all of the above leads to talk about WarmShowers and our different experiences with it, plus the usual cycletouring comparisons of gear and routes.

As for the kids, Marx Brothers in waiting, talking about cycling is far less interesting. Instead, they decide to sing random songs in English that they understand not at all, making cracks at Trump that they're half disappointed that I actually enjoy, so they change tack to get a reaction by turning to American cuisine to try and make inroads. What is America's specialty? Pizza? That's Italian! Burgers? From Hamburg, aren't they? Americans contribute nothing to the kitchen table! I can only laugh, agreeing for the most part, as most of our conversation is conducted in French - which seems appropriate, given our location. It's a nice break from German, anyway, especially for me since my Français is so much better than my Deutsch. Andrew's French is certainly more accomplished than mine, of course, being a French teacher, but I'll happily keep my accent as the French rolling off his tongue is British-sounding to a fault - even as all of the above is done to the tune of some wine, cheese, and bread. I guess we're all French cyclists at heart.

SUNDAY (28 August 2022): Strasbourg, 15km (cumulative: 706)

Morning finds our little group returning to our little round table of rectangular shape, with conversations renewed, now especially about those 9Euro fares that'll come to an end quite shortly. We've all been affected in one way or another, it turns out. Meanwhile, Andrew (as requested the previous night) also briefly interviews me for his podcast (https://cyclingeurope.org/Podcast/, #59, minutes 43:30-51:45). He's mainly interested in how my cycletouring is done on the cheap, usually with a locally produced (bought) bike and low end gear - which is quite the alternative to what most folks do. The main thing, I try to convince him and his future listeners, is that because my outlay is small my worries can thus be low. As to whether this is better in terms of what a quality bike offers, who knows? Interview conducted now for posterity of whatever sort, Andrew's soon off, something necessary when riding to the tune of 100km/day. He's trying to get to the (North) sea via the Rhine in about 7 days, rain be damned. Hmm. Not me, TYVM. Also leaving early-ish is Achim, who's proving typical of the Rhine route riders in not bothering to actually go over and check out Strasbourg - something which surprises me to no end. Other cyclists who arrived the evening before are also leaving the campground fully loaded, thus also skipping the city. Seemingly even the French family is off as well (they aren't, yet), but I similarly bid all of the above adieu as I plan to stay put.

Well, kinda, as the plan is to take a couple of days off here in Strasbourg - but that's 6km away, officially. To that end I'm soon enough rolling a hair up the river, crossing over on a newish pedestrian bridge, suddenly in France. Immediately I'm able to follow on (now French) bikepaths directly to Centreville (no longer Zentrum), none too crowded as it's a Sunday, I suppose. Suddenly the masses appear, however, when I eventually do hit the heart of the old city. Whoa. I come upon one of the old streets leading to the main square, and the cathedral, and I immediately find myself in definitely the most heightened tourism of the entire trip. (This'll remain true, too, even when the tour ends in a couple of weeks.) The cathedral is unquestionably ground zero for the horde, the teeming masses often following someone with a little flag and a microphone at times. Yikes.

True, You know you're in a top rung type of tourism list when suddenly you spot Americans - and Americans I do spot here in no small number - that much I know, as they're always seemingly almost only in the most touristed, famous places. But at least they're not the majority here, as (of course, thankfully) there are people from everywhere in such a vaunted place as S'bourg. Also, and to be expected, certainly I see more black and brown faces here as well - many from Africa (particularly the Magreb) for obvious (previously colonial) reasons. Yep, I'm in France. But being in France again also means that there's this definite feel of suddenly being in a place that's much more cosmopolitan, a feeling that's heightened when I suddenly recall that this is also one of the official seats of the EU, along with Brussels and places like The Hague. I think.

For all this tourism, however, I do struggle for a while to locate a proper place to have a coffee. This quest sees me biking about aimlessly (after first grabbing a citymap from the tourist office by the cathedral), but the good news is that there's plenty of architecure to take in pretty much in every direction. Most of it, though, is found on the island that essentially comprises the limits of the old town. The island's surrounding waterway and bridges, meanwhile, will serve as handy reference points - along with the steeple of the cathedral - should I somehow end up lost. Which I do a bit, but never horribly so. Plus I do actually have the silly map, which I'm never embarrassed to pull out and open up in proper tourist idiot mode. I don't care if I look like a tourist - I AM one. What's new to this trip, architecturally-speaking anyhow, are these grandiose buildings I'm seeing here and there in Strasbourg that the French are particularly in love with. Plus there are also those main avenues where all buildings seem to be 4 or 5 stories high, uniformly so, just like in Paris and Bordeaux. So... France. But, yes, there's plenty more of the half timber stuff - but only in the oldtown area.

I'm guessing that it's the Sunday thing that's making finding a coffee a bit difficult - no country likes to shut down more than France - but at some point in my ramblings I come upon what is obviously a nightlife district. Here some more places are (perhaps begrudgingly) open, and I'm even hopeful when I find myself ordering a falafel bagel at what seems to be a middle Eastern place with some authenticity, but... no. The coffees I next get, at what must be a lounge of a hotel, does the trick, however, although it seems like the staff is still getting over the hangover of the previous night - which would be a Saturday, after all, in the big city. All I care about is the coffee, though, and it's quite good. NOW can a day begin. It's that simple.

This getting out of the core oldtown area seems to be the trick to my better luck, I unsurprisingly conclude, so I continue with this theme to move outside of the core city center. This puts me along a street called Madeleine, with its local's plaza, where I find both a wine bar and an outdoor art show/sale that seems to be also a local's affair. Here and there, meanwhile, I make it a point to notice when there's a sign in German that serves as a reminder that this city changed hands at times. Eventually, anyway, I return to Madeleine's plaza, ready to do what also comes natural to me beyond wandering about a city: passing out on a park bench. First, however, I'm merely laying down quite awake for a good while, just listening to the tidbits of conversations coming out of windows about me, sometimes picking out some music that's a little distant at times, birds calling each other, plus the random laughing kid walking by. Not a bad slice of city life.

With my brain eventually refreshed, I resume my rollings about, finding a bench to horn it on the river alongside the central island at some point, then I proceed to loop the entire city center's island rather aimlessly. This makes for some good people watching here and there, most tourists limited to entering or exiting the zone. At some point I realize darkness is going to catch me, though, so I find a restaurant that's open - and busy - to sit down for a local flammé, the local dish which I've only recently become accustomed to. This vertsion of it is called a "mountain" - which I guess means that it has a bit of cheese, bacon niblets, and sliced potatoes. It's pretty tasty, really, and this is in spite of being in a place that's probably mostly frequented by tourists from what I can tell. But it's Sunday, the choices haven't seemed terribly numerous, so I'm more than content. And it's done just in time, too, as I hurriedly next make the 6-7km back to camp with darkness falling. No, I wouldn't like to figure out the reverse path to Kehl in the dark, signs or no, plus the distance is long enough to worry about the fact that I haven't taken enough care to get my landmarks straight.

MONDAY (29 August 2022): Strasbourg, 15km (cumulative: 721)

It only takes that one prior run of the previous day, surprisingly, to make me much more confident about a fast, efficient, and unerring roll of a return to the city... to engage in nothing more propitious than another day of going about in circles, admittedly. First, though, I do a quick checking out of this tiny sister city of Kehl, granted mostly to just find an ATM, but also to see what there might possibly be here in a town so tightly under the shadow of such a famous city. The answer is... not much, or not of real interest, anyway, outside of some kind of stories-high lookout tower you can ascend - I won't - to get a kingly view of the Rhine and a bit beyond. But it definitely is a clean and bustling place, what for all of its several blocks of main drag and a handful of offshoots. There's nothing to truly draw the eye, though, so, well, got my cashola, anyway!

Back at the river I have a nice trumpet session from a shady bench on the Kehl side of the river - which seems to be one very long, unending strip of park. Randomly, I'll shortly get filmed by someone I take to be a local character who's rolling by on his bike. He's very excited about the prospect of filming me playing the trumpet... in 3-D! After asking permission - sure, why not, how could someone say no? - he immediately pops out a small handheld camera to get to work. Oddly, before long he gets in pretty close to the bell as I play away, making me wonder what kind of movie this will make, but... okay! It's a brief and pretty funny experience; he's an excitable man. Nevertheless, I'm not offered any kind of link or contact to check out his film later; granted, I don't ask. Have I just turned into a celluloid gimp... or a movie star?

Now I'm officially ready to return to the grand city, anyway, and I DO pay attention this time to sufficiently notice landmarks. I mentally squirrel these away, convinced that returning to camp in the evening will be a snap (and it will be). Meanwhile I'm encountering Strasbourg on Monday, a workday, and it is certainly more happening here in the daytime than yesterday. I stop for a couple of coffees and a quiche at what is seemingly a pretty local brasserie; this I assume when no one pays the cycling tourist any mind whatsoever, perhaps, but far moreso when I notice that there sure are a lot folks busting out cigarettes and imbibing in a morning tipple. It's too early for the latter as far as I'm concerned, although the pricing at such a non-tourist spot makes pretty much anything on the menu more attractive.

I next re-enter the Centreville area using the map, quickly realizing in scanning it that my previous day's wanderings allowed me to miss quite a few streets that should supposedly be of interest. For one thing, there's the extensive (rebuilt) area called Petite France, a large collection of half timber buildings and small streets with oodles of tourist attractions, quaint signs hanging from buildings and whatnot. There are also a number of waterdays in the same area, always sure to draw out a camera, plus some covered bridges (ditto). There's even the old rail station, just outside of the zone, that's strangely been encased in a glass shell. (Main train stations are usually pretty attractive, grandiose edifices, given their importance both historically and in present day train-mad Europe.) Getting around is easy and generally very safe-feeling, as there are cycling paths here and there - not so much precisely on the cobbled oldtown streets - even if folks seem to use them only on a convenience basis, breaking all rules that seem pointless. Soon that's me, too, and in a nutshell this seems a key difference between the personalities of France and Germany writ large - or at least on two wheels. And perhaps it is in the spirit of the thing that I'm riding the day without a helmet - although mainly it's just to have that much less to lug around or worry about, an annoyance from the day before now solved.

At some point I end up on the busiest shopping drag for Centreville, apparently the suitable venue to allow for a stop at a place called Le Meteor. Supposedly it's the oldest brasserie in France, begun in 1640; later I'll learn that it's not the only one, and each and every one will make that claim. For argument's sake I'll just assume I'm in the original, of course. Whatever the case, it's certainly the place for a pitchet of a white wine that's nothing more than just a guess from the wine list (as such things always are). All the tables outside are full, perfect to enjoy the sun or be seen and see, whereas the large, cavernous, and actually quite interestingly decorated interior is practically empty. It almost seems a wasted effort, but I'm guessing that all of the action comes inside when darkness falls. One way, meanwhile, that I can tell that this place is on the tourist circuit is that, halfway into my sitdown for a good read, the waitress suddenly decides that she'll be speaking English from now on. Unsurprisingly, it's not long after this that I'm soon getting a bill, too. Neither seems very French at all, I muse to myself, and it's more than a little annoying to have this decidedly American way of doing things - table turnover, folks!!! - suddenly thrust on me. She also soon performs the massive, dramatic pause while fishing out the change hoping that I'll leave a massive tip - s-IGH - but I'll be leaving a normal tip, TYVM.

Although this brief and uncharacteristically French moment leaves me in a teeny funk for the moment, my ship is soon righted when I decide that this is the exact moment to head away from the city center again. Another brasserie is soon spotted as I'm spooling again down the road, now along a long straight stretch not far off l'Ile, and here I'll have a coffee, a tart, and a nice read of the papers. Sigh - the right kind! Ah, a local place and a local vibe! The waitress here is quite friendly, natural and, amazingly, I feel more generous when charmed with such authenticity. I'll find a small botanical garden nearby, too, part of some university, and that's where I'll next beeline in for a stroll and the obligatory nap on a park bench - now among the decidedly frou frou company of labeled, exotic trees. Well, exotic to France, anyway. Many come from North America, old specimens quite happily established here a long time ago. Lucky bastards probably have EU passports.

This EU angle, meanwhile, is something I don't fully explore in Strasbourg, a capital of sorts within that structure or the U.N. (I forget over which areas, such The Hague and the International Court Of Justice). More to my ends, I'm well aware that Strasbourg is *also* something of a cultural capital. In fact, it was officially named so one year not so long ago to go along with its UNESCO status. Furthering it's claims to importance, there's also that port on the river, a huge thing, although obviously that's not something a tourist will be checking out in detail (although I will accidentally do so soon enough).

Nope, the tourist sticks to meanderings in the oldtown and inner city about it, and I'm nothing if not a tourist here. Further wanderings afield, then, lead me to some kind of ravioli bowl concept place, perfectly materialized in the form of a really tasty pile of mushroom sauce loveliness to be wolfed down with kiwi juice. I deem that this stop to somehow tick a healthy restaurant box that I feel I've been missing of late. What with so many traditionally German plates that I've been happily indulging in - and will soon do so again - I really should be doing more of this kind of dining. In any event, it'll be darkness that'll put an end to my goings-about. Time to track it back to camp, skipping out on any nightlife at hand per the usual - as is the wont of a cycletourist. Back at camp I'm happy to note that this evening there won't be the massive bass beat until the wee hours like the previous two... but someone will neverless make a go of puming some music just about as loud until about 10 p.m. I can deal with that. C'est la vie, Vive La France, etc.

TUESDAY (30 August 2022): Kehl to Linx to Helmingen to Greffen to Schwarzach to Stollingen to Drusenheim (F) to Lauterbourg (F), 88km (cumulative: 809)

What is to be a mostly last day in France (and thus French mode, whatever that precisely is), rolling along the west of the Rhine northward, turns out to be something quite different. But that's getting ahead of things. Headwinds are where the day begins, and for the most part they'll stay, too. Fortunately they're not horrifically strong, but they do significantly add to the workload in their way for what'll be one of the biggest cycling days of the trip. First, unfortunately, my not carefully looking at a map adds enough extra work. That comes from assuming the trail signs know best, and that wastes no time in getting the better of me. The goof up starts immediately, on minutes after leaving camp to head north along the river... and straight into Kehl's industrial asshole - also known as its port. There I'm joined for a while by a German couple, also trying to make their way north, but similarly stumped when these long lanes we're following end up just leading to massive heaps of recyclables and building materials. I guess the first sign should be that nary a cyclist - or a hint of one, even - has been seen in the area the entire time. I'm guessing that this happens everyday and the workers in the area have a good joke about it over breaktime every day as well. A forced retreat, then, is what it takes to finally locate a sign with a map in it. A consult to GoogleMaps is also called for as a double-check.

So back to Kehl proper I go, separating from the couple - likely crossing the river to say to hell with this German side and its mess - to take a slightly inland, village-y tack. It seems like it should work out according to the maps, and before long I'm riding alongside a local guy (who works at a cosmetics factory which he tells me is located somewhere out in these boonies) who confirms I'm heading in a fine direction indeed. We cut through some villages together, having a nice conversation about cycletouring and cycling in general, then indeed we do part ways at a massive new-ish corporate complex in the middle of nowhere. My shortterm riding companion insists that we really are somewhere, but I guess that determination will be left for the generations to come. Fortunately, in parting he imparts a reasonable tack through the villages to come, including where I might head over to France... or just continue on the German side be it via villages or along the river.

Thus continues this village tack, then, happily pausing here or there for the necessary half-timber photo - I can't stop myself if a building has anything at all somewhat unique about it - and necessarily stopping at a friendly Bäckerei. The proprietor inside is happily surprised to see a tourist, making me feel like I'm doing my part in some kind of cultural exchange, then I'm next pausing at a fruit market - where a local woman insists I head to the front of the small line. Both stops provide a nice slice of village life, and I guess I indeed am a modest rarity hereabouts, the longhaul cyclist not on the Rheinweg. Between these villages, meanwhile, is only calm and unending cornfields, each inevitably bringing to mind my German teacher from way back in '82-'83, my senior year. Herr Konrad - we called him The Walrus - insisted on my more than one occasion that corn was "pig food", each time with a bit of odd, misplaced glee. True, one didn't - doesn't? - see much corn on the traditional German plate, but I doubt it's viewed that way any more. What all *this* corn is grown for - oil, fuel, the table? - I have no idea.

Come the roughly indicated point (from the cosmetics man) I try to rejoin the Rhine route, the Euro15 cycleway, but I get goofed up a little in my tacking. Oops. Soon enough, though, I'm righted by the ubiquitous older German couple on e-bikes, shortly later feeling confident again when the river that should be to my left in traveling north along it in Germany is just that. The big berms I'm riding on aren't terribly exciting, unfortunately, but an actual worry comes in noticing that there's quite a nasty wobble in my rear wheel. Could this be the hub? Will my bike suddenly collapse? I have no idea, but I do know that I'd better deal with this pronto. But what a place for this to happen: I'm in the absolute middle of nowhere (no cosmetics factory - duh!), my also being on a landmark, famous river and all notwithstanding. In fact, rarely am I noticing any other cyclists at this point in time, and I'm sure that if I did they wouldn't be much help as they'd be similarly loaded down with panniers and following Euro15. So I'm limping along for a good while before noticing a car with local plates that's just pulled over on the side of the road, He's paused, I assume, to take in the beauty of what is now a nature preserve area we're in, but more importantly he cheerfully gives me detailed directions to a bikeshop in Schwarzach - less than 10km away - and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Even if the bike falls to pieces, I know where I'm headed, and that's very comforting in itself.

I locate the indicated Dorf (village) easily enough, merely following marked cycleways most of the way, but I arrive to find it closing in perhaps 20 minutes. Worse, the woman running the place seems a stern type, immediately putting me into humble charm mode. Soon one of the mechs is willing to come back on his lunch break, returning after 1 hour instead of the usual 2. Then, with the ice now melting, the woman joins in with the helpfulness, now even smiling as she's soon pointing out a place where I might get a coffee in this absolutely tiny, deserted town. She insists that she'll call me - not to just come back - to which I can only agree while thinking okay, sure, I'm returning within 2 hours regardless. Off I head to the cafe, then stopping at a patio area of a closed Gasthaus on the way - oh, if ever there was a time for a hefeweizen in the blazing sun of midday!... - which I use a useful place to eat more out of the food bag. This elicits a couple of prolonged stares from one if not both of the two people who manage to walk by in the interim, as I guess sitting down at a closed business's picnic table outside is trespassing at some high level and strictly VERBOTEN. Seems so.

So, okay, where's the coffee place? Turns out... it's closed, and it's part of a retirement/rehabilitation home/complex, as best as I can tell. But somehow I'm nevertheless able to just wander about the place, walking through this cafe where the counter shelves are all completely barren of anything whatsoever and all the chairs are tucked away. I find a couple of careworkers after heading out through its back door, and, although surprised to see me, tell me that indeed it's closed for an extended holiday break. Damn! Still... wasn't that a nice piano I spotted in the middle of the cafe?... and might I not use it? It turns out that yes is the answer, and so I manage a second piano moment of the trip (There was one in Offenbach, too, over a brief chat with the young trombonist of my hosting) - here in Schwarzach. It's quite a nice piano, actually, a Europa, and I plinkplunk away at Linus&Lucy and BlueRondoALaTurk with a little abandon to an empty cafe. A few people come by, to smile and nod approval, to which I can on;y sum up: What a score!

From the cafe I wander over to a small cluster of historical buildings in what I guess is what is a city center. Outside the one church of note, I notice a dozen cycles parked, apparently all for a group on some kind of pilgrimmage (each bike has some kind of Christian flag, I think they are). I don't wander inside to see what the fuss is, instead choosing to find a spot on low a wall just out of the sun to soon be napping. My religion, I guess. When I undaze myself to rouse, I decide to walk about all there could possibly be of Schwarzach - which isn't much - and then head down the main drag to see if a beer might be in the offing. Only exactly one place is actually open, a sweaty kebab place, and there's only a bottle of Heiniken available. I'm actually surprised that it even is, actually, being a kebab place (and I assume observing muslim protocol possibly in the alcohol sense), happily buying it to take a seat on some steps not far away. I slowly sip it down, watching the rare car go by in the unwavering heat beyond my shade, then return the bottle to the shop so I can return to see what's going on with the bike.

It turns out that it was 3 spokes that needed replacing. And a new hub. But 50Euros certainly seems a good deal any way that I can think of cutting it. As by now the manager is on my side, she's soon asking plenty of questions about my touring in Germany, wishing me luck on the rest of my way. I thank the mechanic who did the work, then out I go, back into the mild furnace that's been this day. From Schwarzach I now make a beeline back to the Rhine, actually even seemingly illogically heading South for a short while, then manage to catch a ferry (free, surprisingly) almost exactly as it's departing to France. Two cyclists I've passed all of a couple minutes before don't make it.) Finally something's executed correctly i.e., efficiently) on this day! Drusenheim, just across the river, will forever be a mirage to me of name only, entered ever so cursorily to leave it northward immediately.

Given such a big pause in the riding that's just occurred, I now try to make up for it by making a determined push to garner over 30km on the French side of the river. North, north, north, I go. There are a few quiet villages that come and go, many cornfields, as I mostly move on a cyclepath alongside a quiet road. I only make 2 brief stops, first at a pharmacy to buy a tube of suncream - where the real impact of the place is the blessed A/C it offers - and then at a small Carrefour grocery to pick up the usual fruit, vege, and a baguette.

One thing this heat and distance are truly affecting, meanwhile, is my rear. The unexpectedly long day's ride, using my lousier cycle pants, equates to a bit of suffering and a lot of shifting in the saddle when I come to realize that I'd better start spreading the discomfort around. Raw rubbed areas seem a given. In any event, I'm finally again right next to the river and then entering the outskirts of Lauterbourg. This is the last French town for this tack possible, I'm aware, literally a northeast corner embedded a bit into Germany's side, a fine place to call it a day. After asking a man walking by with, as usual, no one else about, I locate the local campground without much trouble. It seems like it might be one of those resort places, though, even on a lake, but it'll work out just fine when I find it's only to be all of 10Euros to pitch a tent with a bicycle. I do this amidst some permanent teepees that are rented out; most of the places are small, temporary-like buildings/abodes that I'm guessing folks spend weeks on end in. Of these, there are a few groups having parties of sorts, or at least blasting music and drinking. Otherwise there will only be two groups of two cyclists each that'll will join me in the tent area. With rain threatening - and soon to be quite real - it's all about hunkering down, so we all pass in saying hi to each other. Sure enough, the heavy rain begins not long after I'm inside the tent.

WEDNESDAY (31 August 2022): Lauterbourg (F) to Karlsruhe to Wörth to Leimersheim to 6km shy of Germersheim, 57km (cumulative: 866)

The tent's a bit wet, what with the sideways slamming it receives overnight. Naturally I forgot about some drying clothes left out in the downpour... which'll need to start drying from scratch, but only after a solid wringing. Usual camp stuff. The sky above, however threatening, is nonetheless meanwhile permitting riding to happen. And, since that's so, I'll take a small chance to first do an obligatory curl in Lauterbourg to see what it might offer. Yeah, some random nice buildings, but nothing particularly grabbing. Check, I guess. In a bakery cafe, however, I won't pass up the opportunity to grab a final taste of France for the foodbag in the form of a small quiche and a baguette. Vive La France! Et - this time I mean it - Au revoir! Yeah, this has been a slice all too small of L'Hexagone (one name for mainland territorial France in Europe, because of its rough shape), just the narrowest of slivers in its corner at that, but so it goes sometimes.

Upon leaving town, I Immediately head to the river and, just upon reaching it, I find myself riding just a jot alongside a lone woman astride a cycletouring rig. She's civilly friendly to the couple questions I ask, then away I speed off when it seems she's prefer riding alone. Soon, however, first I and then she both run into a spot along the river where we have to turn inland: a tiny waterway blocks our continuing up the Rhine. The track has gotten a bit rough, too, so we're both independently heading along this little stream for a short distance to soon be pushing our bikes up together to negotiate a steep embankment... which turns out to be the real cyclepathway. We both equally somehow missed it just a short ways back somewhere.

Our mutual aid, meanwhile, has broken the ice, so soon a conversation begins... and we'll end up riding the next few hours together chatting almost nonstop. Kristel is from somewhere between Karlsruhe and Stuttgart, yet another teacher of French and Math (in a Realschule high school; Three in one week? Really? Should I start teaching French somewhere? Is this a thing?) Moving north up the Rhin(/Rhein/Rhine), meanwhile, we're soon getting aboard a ferry back across the river - now for a second time in as many days, and again at just about the last second before departing. For some reason this trip'll cost something, all of 2,40E, which'll undoubtedly change all of my plans for the entire day (of course). On the other side now, we continue making our way toward Karlsruhe, going through one village after another while always also keeping an eye on the sky. The distance isn't so great, but we're not exactly flying as we gab away, either, even as we're also not entirely trusting the cycle signs as we mutually question why we're not hugging the Rhine more. Oh well.

It is rain, of course, that forces a stop - perhaps halfway to the big city. We take cover in a conditorei, a refuge from quickly developing squall where Kristel treats me to a pastry and a coffee. It's a pleasant place and a nice treat of a break, but as we look out the window we can't help but wonder just how long we might sit out what has turned into a downpour. For the time being we're content to stay throughout the rain nibbling pastries and such, true, but eventually the place needs to close - the shelves are oddly mostly vacant of treats, anyway, to keep up this tete-a-tete forever - and the rain accommodates in pulling up a bit. So out and onward we go, this time in more raingear to again find ourselves mistrusting the cycling signs. Eventually, though, we need only fully trust the steady increase in traffic which grows as does the size of the road we're following. As we close in on Karlsruhe, meanwhile, I find myself guessing that it's a much larger place than the one I remember from 1985 or so. That's when I think I last came here, to pick up brother Jack after he got lost in a Monsters of Rock concert (with Van Halen, I think). Brother Joe and I located him after some searching along the festival grounds, sitting on top of a mountain of (empty, I assume) beer kegs.

We soon are asking for directions a few times for the city center from passersby, next making our way to a palace that is apparently one of the largest in the world - and one that Kristel assumes I must want to gawk at. So I oblige and we each take a couple of photos. Nice building, I guess, but it's not until we decide to leave it - by going around it - that we realize we were looking at its rear end. Coming around to the front allows us properly appreciate the place, mutually agreeing that, yeah, that's a pretty damn big, ornate structure. So... a few more photos. That box checked, we now can make a beeline for the true city center, ready to experience the heart and soul of whatever oldtown Karlsruhe has left since WWII. Well, it does have a massive central square, that's for sure, but oddly it's one with a long line snaking through it in leading to one of the buildings fronting the square. Huh. To this I ask and learn that, what with the 9Euro train fare coming to an end in a day or so, the government is coming up with some other farecard plan that's to go into effect the next day. So this is the line for those wanting to get their full month's (or months') worth out of it.

For us two, it's much more importantly time to have lunch. We find a traditional German pub, also on the square, and that seems the right place. No, outside eating doesn't seem terribly wise giving the threatening sky, but we somehow manage our Schnitzel and Käsesp¶auml;tzle with hefeweizens without mishap. We chat quite a bit about what CoViD's longterm effects will be on our students of different ages, agreeing that perhaps it'll just be a lost year altogether and that'll be that. What will this mean in the work world, and how might this loss be held to account somewhere if virtually everyone went through it? Dunno.

Kristel, meanwhile, tells me that she's been having an eyeopening experience with this being her first cycletour alone. It's not her first, though, as she has a husband and sons who've been with her for some other short jaunts, but this one has gotten her very curious about wildcamping and she's eager to hear my thoughts. I extoll the wonders of it as best I can. She later divulges that it turns out that she used to live in Colombia for a few years - her husband is from there - so another entire avenue of conversation opens up thanks to that. So no wonder we don't part ways until the late afternoon. It's been a nice, brief friendship for a half day plus, and one generally can't ask for more when rolling the cyclepaths of the wide world with no set plan or timetable. We hug goodbye, promising and hoping to stay in touch.

Now on my way out of the central city area, I follow the main road from the square that's been turned into a massive pedestrian zone for the moment. Then I'm asking a fellow cyclist for the best way back to the Rhine and beyond, which leads to him accompanying me for a ways before indicating where I should turn off to follow a cycleway that should get me there. Almost immediately, though, the sun's come out as I now find myself on a quaint little river sporting park benches... and seemingly no civilization too nearby to be bothered by... a trumpet. Sure, there's a busy road not too far off, but otherwise there's only the random jogger to contend with in accepting the odd glance in my direction as I blast away. Eventually, though, a guy seems to be approaching with a dog, and even at a distance he seems none too happy with this German shepherd that could really mean business. (Here let me note how happy I am that Germans are by and large really good about using leashes.) Sensing upcoming conflict while only now wondering if there is indeed a house or houses nearby that I can't see through some brush, I decide to pack up and roll before he can yap at me in an unfriendly way. It just seems like that that's what's gonna happen. I'm convinced of it. And soon. So glad I have packing up down so pat.

So back to riding it is, soon heading west directly toward and then over a massive bridge to cross the Rhine again. This puts me into greater Wörth, but I won't see it for the most part as quickly I'm tacking North again, back into unending countryside. Yep, back to the berms, always near the river while virtually never in view of it. Argh. But this time it's cool and smooth, anyway, and after such a slothful morning I'm now racking up the afternoon klicks just like the day before. I only break once, to finish off the Lauterbourg quiche that I really don't need to eat (see: Schnitzel, Hefeweizen), done here mostly because I figure I should. Quiche ain't the ideal thing to cart around in a foodbag for long, but in my defense I didn't expect to have a riding partner for so much of the day. One suffers for a cause, sometimes, even if the cause is pathetic and unnecessary.

Darkness, of course, is soon the only question on my mind. I've been hoping for another hefeweizen stop, of course, but here there's absolutely nothing on the pathway outside of forest, field, and grass strips. Indeed, there's literally only a small tennis facility, where I'm cheerfully given water, and here I'm given only the barest hope for a restaurant supposedly up the river a ways. Said place, it turns out, isn't open, nor is it even showing any signs of life when I approach it supposedly all of a few minutes past its closing time. Drats.

So that's that, and now I'm looking left and right for where I can tuck off into the woods between the main cycleway and the river. A couple of test jags are unsuccessful, the sky gets ever darker, then I find a short path which'll put me directly onto the Rhine.. and where I find a tuckout as darkness fully drops. But I get the tent up in no time, and with no lights, and I soon find myself sitting on the great river's embankment for a very long time to watch stars gather. This is a blissful warmth and calm, so I spend many a minute watching the odd ship pass by into the night. Some - most - are barges moving material like rock or coal (that I can tell), but a number of them are these luxury cruise barges which are fully lit up and I can make out their passengers sipping wine in their rooms or on decks. Still, I think I've got it better. Why, there aren't even any bugs... or seemingly any threat of someone telling me to scoot. One of the best wildcamps, ever.

THURSDAY (1 September 2022): 8km shy into Germersheim to Speyer to Neustadt an der Weinstrasse to 3km shy of Lambrecht, 67km (cumulative: 933)

I wake up early, already eager to while away further moments of idly taking in ever more ships quietly sliding by, but this'll briefly wait until after I hastily pack up the tent and thus before anyone can discover my tuckaway. Who the hell would be up and about at sunup, though? Indeed, there had only been the odd person across the river the previous night as darkness fell, each easily given away by a headlight or flashlight. As for this side not a soul. That I know of. A little later on, I do finally spy an older guy fishing on my side down a ways, but it's pretty obvious he's completely oblivious to my presence -and I highly doubt he'd care. I'm not even completely sure on the illegality of my action, doing what I did on what I assume is public land. But a German Waldmeister can be an officious reality to deal with, of that I'm sure, and Germans and their rules can a thing to be admired and/or feared, depending on the circumstance, but never trifled with. Once the tent's packed, of course, nothing really matters anyway since everything's suddenly deniable. So might as well enjoy the rising sun for a bit, nibble some breakfast, and play some horn with a view for a while. What an idyllic overnight, only up there on this trip with my similar stealth camp situated similarly so directly on the Danube.

Soon enough, of course, I'm back on the path, and before long the path has me rolling right alongside the river. I'm still only surrounded by nature, except for passing a few riverside restaurant/bar establishments that are, unfortunately, all closed. Nevertheless this is a much better view all around than the berm paths of last night, and now I even have the opportunity to race a barge (successfully!) over a number of number of killometers. Said momentous challenge only comes to an end when I arrive at Germersheim's waterside edge, where I immediately decide to head into the town proper for the customary lookaround and obligatory coffee. As for the looksee, it's very quickly obvious that this is or has been some kind of official, probably military town with numerous large and imposed hulks of buildings. I'll learn later on wikipedia that it indeed has an illustrious and lengthy history as a military garrison, plus showed up in numerous Franco-German conflicts while also changing hands some. As for the present, though, I don't notice anyone in uniform at all. Instead, there are a lot of... sculptures? Sounds like an upgrade.

The real item of interest, of course, is a proper cafe, and after I've sufficiently rolled all of the older streets and mini plazas - of which there are a decent number, if none all that old-seeming (was this place flattenened and rebuilt?) - I find a suitable cafe on the edge of a plaza. It's got particularly good coffee, notably, undoubtedly the result of grinding and roasting their own, and the staff consisting of a couple of middle-aged women is quite friendly. But this pleasant matin will have do for Germersheim: Speyer is the *real* first place on the day's agenda, and it's not a great number of kilometers to get there, either (about 25). I'll more than ready to arrive there pronto, especially knowing that by then I'll already have done something mildly substantial for the day when adding on the 8 it took to get into Germersheim. That should earn a hefe, and that's especially so when i find that, after G-town, the path suddenly moves inland from the river again. So it looks to be a last dike berm traveral where I run at speed amidst grass strips, farmer fields, and forest. Lots of headwinds. A little trumpet by a random building in the middle of nowhere is about the only thing to break up the snore. At least it's not hot.

Speyer, fortunately, is a beaut, and I note to myself how it's rather surprising that I never made it here with it being so close to Kaiserslautern (where I lived the greater part of 6 years). Certainly I knew its name in the ether, but I knew then absolutely nothing that was specifically associated with it. I will now, as from the end of town in which I arrive I suddenly spy both an impressive church but also a massive Lufthansa plane perched on a stand. Huh. Apparently there's some kind of amusement park or museum here, loaded with examples of trains, planes, buses, and more from the transportation world. (Technik Museum Speyer, opened in 1991, so I have an excuse to not have heard of it.) Pretty cool stuff, so I peer at a number of the interesting vehicles through a chainlink fence. All, however, are definitely dwarfed and surpassed by that mongo plane seen up close... but I don't think I'll be heading in, regardless.

Instead I head on in toward the city center, and in just a few more minutes I enter a very large square. On one end, to my right, is Speyer's Dom (Cathedral) which I've now heard of for a few days. The rest of the show lies before it, and leading out of the plaza, a long main drag with very grand buildings on it. This naturally prompts me to get off the bike to take it all in at a nice, leisurely pace. An ancient tower, practically at the end of this grand avenue, is the obvious other super highlight of the city, but there are really quite a few handsome examples of architecture that afford this place its very lovely reputation as something to see. Glancing to notice the info center, I make my typical stop there to see if there are any interesting maps to peruse, of course, but... I'm also asking for another bike shop. Seems like the bike has developed another little wobble in that rear wheel. I don't feel good about this one, either, although it's not as pronounced as the previous one. Arggh. The bike is telling me something: love me or leave me, I think.

Heading to the one bike shop I'm recommended, not far beyond the tower, unfortunately doesn't prove helpful: the owner and sole employee is on a 2 hour lunch break. Sigh. So I'm immediately doing the same myself, finding a Viet place to then later return and find that he only sells bikes, anyway. Tarnation! But, and perhaps almost only as a afterthought in seeing me leaving so dejected, he does mention that just several blocks down the way is someone else who might do repairs... ah, his competition! *That* man starts off similarly unhelpful, it seems, and he's certainly busy, but in trying to work out his grumpiness with ingratiating comments on how I've really screwed up with neglecting my bike, etc., penitent and willing to pay for my indiscretions, he suddenly decides to go ahead and fix it on the spot after all.

It turns out that it'll be another spoke needing replacement, plus some truing of the wheel, plus he'll insist that my one wiped-out set of brakepads be replaced. I earn a minimal grunt of approval in showing him that I've been intending to do just that very thing. Why, here are the new shoes! I've passed muster, I feel, and he finishes up in asking for cash while giving a "Freundschaft Preis". I'm not actually sure he's necessarily given me that much of a deal, to be honest, but neither do I care since the important thing is that he's removed my concern with the bike for the moment. He's certainly happy to accept the small pile of cycling maps that I offer him.

From the bike shop and now with an eased mind I can now finish my tour of Speyer, alternately walking or very slow-riding through its older areas on both sides of its main drag. I let the surprises come to me, like finding a pleasant park hosting a little outdoor cafe/beergarden where I can quaff a hefeweizen (Eichbaum, worthy) that I assuredly deserve greatly. It has a gorgeous view of a blooming flower garden, this replete with a backdrop of a small, ancient castle. Another postcard. With the beer in hand and the bike fixed, I'm in the rarest moods of happiness. Or that's the only way to explain that I decide to actually check out the Dom from the inside. I almost never bother entering churches anymore, but since this one is so notable, why not? Okay, I'll soon know why: cuz they're all generally kind of the same, big or not. It does have a very high dome above the altar, though, and the 5 confessionals in a row are quite elaborate constructions of ornate wood. The perfect, cozy places, I imagine, for priests to solicit young boys or chastise women for their indiscretions... and this over hundreds of years, I imagine. If their walls could talk, I suspect they'd scream.

Post Dom, I do a final curl to roll the last bit of the unseen tourist area on the map, effectively ending my half-assed tour of Speyer. Now it's time for a beeline toward Neustadt an der Weinstrasse, the only town of note between Speyer and Kaiserslautern. I have no idea idea of what to expect in Neustadt - outside of wine, of course, given the rest of its name - but I also have no idea how far I'll get before darkness hits and the succeeding imperative of figuring out my hideaway. After getting slightly offtrack in leaving Speyer - I lose the cyclesigns somewhere, oops - a couple of locals indicate that there's a forested path which I can take all the way to my destination. Now how about that? That it's going to be about 30km or so of such pathways, though, is something of a surprise. It's just one forest path after another, at times with the odd sign generally being no more than an arrow. Some do say Neustadt as well, fortunately, plus I keep an eye on where the sun roughly is (I know that I should be heading about dead west for this stretch), so I'm feeling sufficiently confident to keep rolling, rolling, rolling, though the whisper quiet woods.

It is a lonely stretch, though, and I do wonder if this is where I might meet a German version of Robinhood or something. At times I do run across the other random cyclist or jogger, but by and large it's just me quietly running over singletrack and listening to the brush that my ties are quietly flinging into the air behind me. Might some crazed person kidnap a gimp a la Pulp Fiction out here? Should I be leaving breadcrumbs, wary of any huts I might spy with fired-up ovens and a hag scampering about? Good questions, all, but soon enough I'm following a stream and then shortly emerging from the woods and onto semi or completely paved cyclepaths alongside vineyards. Thus Neustadt is soon entered, and about the only foraging or pillaging in mind will come in the form of an Indian restaurant's offerings. This'll be a perfect day's-end meal with darkness starting to become an issue as I look above me. Fortunately there's only one other table filled at the place, so I'm served quickly. The nearby bar, meanwhile, seems to be doing a good business. In fact, that's likely where the lone guy at another table - passed out sitting upright - came from.

I hate to think I'm shortchanging Neustadt by not having some kind of looksee, so with belly full of my favorite kind of grub I do so in a hurry. There are indeed some nice old streets to wander down, but already the lighting is such that I doubt even a picture will turn out well. Yeah, it's time to get the hell out of here and find shelter. I figure out which direction to leave town in, heading directly toward Kaiserslautern, and out of town I now rather quickly head. I do this in following a main road, fortunately not with much traffic, but already there's enough darkness that I'm trying to stay on any kind of sidewalk if possible. This won't last long, I'm grateful to find, when, just a little out of town, I spy a kind of logging road heading off from the cyclepath I've begun following. Hell or highwater, this has got to be home. The road seems to head to some kind of lumber mill after only a short distance, but another turnoff shortly before that leads a bit down and toward what seems to be an old brick factory long out of use. Yup, home sweet home. A couple of turns, down more pathways, should put me fully out of site as I erect the tent practically in the dark. It's a level-ish spot in some shorter grass, so I count this a grand success. Wildcamping to a T, this is.

FRIDAY (2 September 2022): Lambrecht to Hochspeyer to Kaiserslautern, 33km (cumulative: 966)

Overnight I experience some pretty whack, indefinable sounds. I hear something howl at a passing train, but it isn't a dog, I'm pretty sure. But it's the signs of life that eventually come from the lumber mill just above - a saw, is that? - that gets me up and going come morning, though. At least the chainsaw sound isn't approaching... and, I'm happy to say, the mosquitoes haven't been really biting, either, a surprising theme to a trip spent so much outdoors. I'll take it. But of course what I'll really take is a morning coffee, and this I'll I get after only a little bit of shuffling further up the bikepath and into Lambrecht - which turns out to be a larger town than expected. This, I've been noticing, is almost always the case in Germany, a more densely populated country than perhaps all of its neighbors.

Thanks to that size, undoubtedly, I'm able to find a grocery store open at 7a.m. or so, a Netto, where a lady in the parking lot points me to a cafe further in town that she's sure should also be open. It's basically a bakery - cha-ching! - so there'll be more poppyseeds headed my way, that's for sure. Then, putting a bow on it, a boy enters the empty place in full 1.FCK soccer kit, proving that yes indeedy Kaiserslautern is very close at hand. I feel a bit creepy taking his picture from behind (from my vantage point across the cafe), but this is memory lane stuff... so I'll put up with the arched eyebrow from the other customer in the place, an old man sitting to his coffee. I briefly feel it necessary to explain about the K-Town kit and my mild giddiness in returning to my old hometown, but I'm only 50% sure he's buying it. But, really, is there a market for a slightly blurred photo of a fully dressed kid in soccer garb? I guess I shouldn't even guess.

From Lambrecht it's a slow, steady ascent toward Hochspeyer - which in name alone I wonder if it is to be supposed that it's any reference to the grand city of Speyer in any way whatsoever. To get there, but not to that tidbit of important information, I'm again mostly on bikepaths, moving almost aways along road thoroughly surrounded by forest. There are a few villages, like Weiderthal and Frankenstein - how did I never know there was a village with that name so close to K-Town, with an old castle ruin above it to boot? - but they are pretty sleepy affairs and generally traffic is very, very light. I'm increasingly seeing KL plates and the odd 1.FCK regalia (like a flag in Frankenstein) or road sign to Kaiserslautern, plus barsigns advertising familiar beers like Eichbaum, Bischoff, and Parkbräu (but no BBK yet), so I do feel the excitement build as I finally make it to the last village before K-Town, Hochspeyer.

This town's appropriately situated at the top of the rise, with hoch in its name, but at it's a town I knew the name of back when. However, and just like Speyer or Neustadt, similarly closeby, I never went to it before. Weird. I make up for my previous indiscretion, perhaps, by stopping near Hochspeyer's main junction for a coffee and a nice, short conversation with the owner in German about my return to the city after so long. I mention a number of places I expect to go by; she pleasantly humors my walk down memory lane. Here I find myself suddenly realizing that it was almost exactly 40 years ago when I/we first moved to West Germany, back in August 1982, now almost to the day when I started that senior (and only) year at K-Town High. This is a nice coincidence that I'm surprised I didn't notice earlier. 40 effing years. Criminy.

Post Hochspeyer, it's still morning as I make the easy descent into Greater Kaiserslautern, now on B-37 (changed from B-39 outta Neustadt) and arriving from the the city's east. This entails cutting through the old caserns/Kasernen of Panzer, Kleber, Dänner, and the Depot as well. I worked a very short while at a couple of them, but then it was over a year as a forklift driver that I worked at the Depot. Forklift driver was perhaps the most fun job I ever had, actually, a daily dose of puzzling-solving in loading/unloading mostly trucks. It put me through all my few years at Florida State, and I never minded doing the workload of virtually the entire group of forklift drivers as the days passed quickly that way (as they complained how theirs took forever). In front of Panzer Kaserne I have a nice conversation with a local woman for a good while, glancing over at the disused entry gate while talking about the changes since the 80s, the current war in Ukraine, and how the latter will affect gas supplies for Germany. Many of the installations, I learn, drastically upgraded their fencing - obvious here - and limited their entry points after 9/11. Makes sense. As for the actual contingent of solders, I'm told that K-Town is perhaps as filled as ever with Americans. Many bases around the country closed to only consolidate their troops and other personnel here.

From the Kaserne area I now follow the route - I'm pretty sure - that I used to take by car (or bike, in summer), all the way to our old home apartment atop the hill on Fliegerstrasse. The bike was a Raleigh 10-speed, which I rode always in jeans. No helmets then, nor bikepaths. (And then we'd go to the malt shop by the five and dime where the soda jerk would take our order lickety split. Sorry.) Ah, the sheer fun of diesel exhaust from the odd Mercedes sedan or an ever impatient truck! Along with the helmets and dedicated bike paths, there was no bicycle respect then, either. In my literal movement down lanes formed by memory, I'm guessing on a couple of the turns I take. But they all seem pretty correct, and their logic as the shortest path makes sense as well, as I otherwise notice from the looks of the buildings that I don't think they've changed in this part of town much at all. I soon recognize my sister Jeanne's first apartment building, to this one of only 2 high rises in town!

Soon enough, then, I'm back on our old street, and here everything *is* completely different. All of those old 3-story, beige buildings? Gone. I think they were formally Nazi quarters, then occupier French ones, before the two streets became filled with American colonels, generals, and the odd civil servant like my Dad (who evidently had a similar rank equivalent). What's replaced them are somewhat smaller buildings, of about the same spacing, and each is now seemingly the home of a single professional family. A couple of buildings are mildly larger, by what was Flieger Field, containing apartments, but a glance at GoogleMaps (as I can't see it otherwise through the buildings) confirms that Flieger Field's no more, either. In fact, the only (tenuous) link to that past is a tiny road/path in the middle of the street, which might've perhaps led to where the AYA building was, now called Glenn-Miller-Weg. (GoogleMaps informs me that the street cutting into what was Flieger Field is now Ella-Fitzgerald-Weg.) I roll down all of Fliegerstrasse and then Blutakerstrasse before going barely uphill and ending up on Alex-Muller-Strasse. Yep, the farmer fields are gone as they were similarly so in 2004 and my last visit, but it seems that the area is even a little more completely developed now. Sudwest Funk Radio station, back on the end of where the U.S. presence was on Fliegerstrasse, is still exactly where it was, anyway.

Time to head downtown, which I do via Auf Dem Sess, which we always called Snake Hill. Now *that* hasn't changed one iota, I'm pleased to see. Naturally it seemed so much longer in distance when coming back up it somewhat inebriated, which happened a bit back in the day (evenings), but it really is exactly the same. I stop for a couple of pictures to prove this, I suppose, then a Dutch woman walking uphill offers to take a couple with me in them. She's lived here only a short while, she tells me, but she thinks the town's seen better days even from just a few years ago. Hmm. Guess I'll find out, and to do so I wander into downtown proper next, immediately seeing that the ruins of Barbarossa's castle actually seem a little better displayed than I remember by the Rathaus/city hall. Here I spy a tourist office (which never was there before) for future reference, walking beyond it and into Schiller Platz... where there's a stage for a jazz festival called Swingin' Lautern... but no longer an Eis Cafe where we usually would start an evening of drinking in a "quieter place". Neither is there the music store where I bought my slide trumpet (oh, that I never sold that thing!!!) or, across the main road and still fronting the plaza, the place where I bought my first magical CDs. They were mostly classical CDs at first, often conducted by Herbert van Karajan, and I'd play them at home on my Aiwa stereo for hours when not otherwise feeding vinyl into its cool double-side-reading turntable. Hours and hours and hours listening to those up in my attic room! From Schillerplatz, anyway, I wander on and into the pedestrian zone, finding a few more performance stages on the way... and shortly become lost. How is that possible?

It takes some more wandering around the area where Karstadt before it dawns on me that there's a new building in town, K In Lautern, which I'll learn is a full-on mall (it's more than just a mere "building") that's been plopped smack dab in the heart(-ish) of the Fussgängerzone. Ahhh! When I make my way around the entire monstrosity, quite the detour, I only now can finally make out Hotel Zepp, where I hope to stay. But a piece of paper on its door says it's no longer a hotel, or at least it's not taking customers. Huh. Around the corner, though, I thankfully spy that the Alte Munz still where I expect it to be, precisely the place where I know I'll be getting a beer later. That's comforting, anyway, as I decide to put such joy off until I can find a replacement lodging from the tourist office. Around the corner, meanwhile, I do believe that I see the electronic products shop where I bought my solar calculator. At the time, no such thing had previously existed - and I still have it! And it works.

Back in the tourism office, I find a very friendly woman who hands me a tourist map of town moments after I arrive. I don't think those were ever available back when. From it I can at least see how K In Lautern makes sense now on at least paper, if not in concept. Soon I'm being recommended a nearby hotel, meanwhile, a place called Alcatraz, where I'm told that I can occupy a cell. Huh? It turns out that the old, small prison on Morlauternstrasse, slightly back uphill and on one way toward our old home - and which I only barely remember - is now a hotel. And, minutes later, it's there where I find myself checking in. Once in my room I immedaitely wash some clothes to hang-dry, unpacking literally everything I have in the process in order to get an overdue and full airing out of this entire pile of stuff I'm traveling with. It looks like a bomb went off in the room.

Returning to town now only thinking of food, I can't but pause to listen to some of the jazz acts - one is an Air Force band, another called Jazz Polizei, both very accomplished - before making my way to the Alte Munz. It's just so weird how it's now blocked off from the rest of downtown by that thin wall of a shopping mall. Inside the bar, I park myself right up against the taps and guess that the man I'm looking at is Martin, the owner of the place. I don't remember him from back in the day, but my friend Eric has kept up with him for years since his mother still lives nearby and he has reason to regularly visit from Oregon. Martin doens't remember me, either, but he definitely remembers plenty of the gang of drunk American kids from the 80s. This is recalled both with a laugh and a sense of what an annoyance we undoubtedly were back then. He remembers Ingmar, various Manions, and particularly my brother's good friend Trevor (not mentioning to me that he actually dated Trevor's sister back when, which I learn from my brother John later). He tells me that, even though it seems Ingmar has fallen off of the map, he actually stopped by the 'Munz just some months ago, another sporatic visitor like Eric.

Quickly we churn through my entire mental list of about any place I remember, most now of course long gone like the Eis Cafe on Schillerplatz, which lasted for a good while past the 80s, surprisingly, or the always sweaty dance club FlashPalast - which didn't last quite as long. As for the hippie, early Green Party hangout Das Ding with its cable spool tables? Long, long gone. Same with Tilly's Tacos, which was just around the corner and a place that stayed open into the night when us drunks got hungry, but that died, too, about in the late 80s. Martin laughs in telling me how he just saw the redhead dude (not named Tilly) the other day... and he still looks angry. As for Hotel Zepp, around the same spot as Tilly's, the reason for that note on the door is that it has long been turned into a lucrative refugee center for the (newer) owner. First this was done with Syrians, now it's Ukrainians. Martin has a rather cynical view of the entire thing, but by now this isn't new to me as I've heard that kind of stuff all around Germany about folks trying to find ways to profit from the Ukrainian war. But it does give me further pause in considering giving my bike away to a refugee center as it may not really end up in refugee hands.

I also learn more particulars about the Alte Munz. For one thing, although my family came in '82, and a number of us were almost immediately frequenting Alte Munz, Martin himself actually started working there in '84. He later bought the place, in '92, and has been running the show here ever since - although the American presence pretty much disappeared by the end of the 80s or so. Indeed, nowadays our former roost upstairs has been long closed, almost never opened except for perhaps a rare scheduled event. I see a table and chairs stacked up against the staircase. I learn some other random date-related things, such as the fact that the Alte Munz was actually created from something very different in this location not long before us punkass military royalty kids started showing up. So it never was some kind of ancient pub in the least, in spite of its classic, heavy wood interior strongly suggesting such a deep history. Well done, in other words. I also learn that I wasn't crazy back in 2004, when I came by to find myself shocked that the Alte Munz actually served food - which I didn't remember at all. Apparently I wasn't nuts then after all, as Martin tells me that proper meals didn't start until some time after that. So... no Alzheimer's... yet. It actually took him some years to slowly establish a menu, starting from the drinks-(&snacks?)-only place that he bought and bringing more (literally) to the table over time. A hefeweizen (Paulaner, always perfect) now properly drained over this long conversation, I promise to come back for dinner.

To which I go back to wandering the streets, not passing up any opportunity to spend some time at each of the jazz stages I pass by, listening to the generally standards-driven set lists ranging from ragtime, swing, be-bop, bossa nova, blues, and even a little post-bop. It's all generally very well done - the musicianship is definitely there, something one should never be surprised of in Germany. Things are just not done half-assed here, like ever. Although the tunes are virtually all familiar, there are random moments where I'm happy to hear a musician stretch out a solo in an interesting way, proof that this isn't by the numbers in any sense. Almost all of the musicians are German, I note, although there are the random ones who (by and large) I guess are American - mainly since they're black, fair or not. Perhaps they're lived here a long time to be integrated into this groups with Germans? Dunno, but they're the only ones not speaking in German to the audience, so I'm guessing not.

Continuing to walking around the shopping district to the greatest extent possible, I see that familiar, old touchstones such as the churches St. Martinskirche and Stiftkirche or the old Spinnrädl restaurant still exist, of course - not that I ever entered any of them. Also, if with a little effort, I find the club store for 1.FCK - but its offerings are surprisingly few, unsurprisingly quite expensive to boot, probably in no small part because this is the only place in the country to get such stuff. How weird. I know I'll pick up a shirt back in the States on the internet somewhere. What I will get is a currywurst a couple times, each accompanied by brotchen, and also a Schwenksteak of pork. Pretzels, too, will have their moment, and I'm happy to find them better than expected although far from the items of perfection from back in the day. Then, a mere Deutsche Mark (25-55 cents or so, depending on the year, cheap even then) would buy a massive pretzel from an old lady pushing around a little glass cart, the latter virtually always filled with bees. She'd reach in there with them swirling around her arm, pulling out the magic. But that era's long, long gone, and very, very sadly so, Martin has already confirmed. One place I won't be going to is the Waschmülle in Morlautern, what we used to call the Morlautern Pool, but the thought's definitely there and the weather would certainly be suitable enough. But somehow it just doesn't time out. I remember that they made their pommes prites from some kind of potato mush, consistently excellent on those hot summer days which brought a group of us over to dare what were invariably really cold waters. None of us ever knew that it was and is the largest pool in Europe, though.

Such wanderings, followed by a return to Alcatraz for a nap, bring me back to the AM a little too late for dinner, unfortunately. But another hefeweizen and conversation follow regardless. Returning to memory lane, I learn about what happened to the Delphi, a Greek restaurant that a number of us loved going to when the dollar was riding high against the mark. Apparently it and another establishment - owned at different times by the same family - both suspiciously burned to the ground not too many years apart from each other - although they were around for a good while after I last lived in K-Town. The Delphi's location now hosts an Irish pub, one of a few in the area - and something which didn't exist back in the 80s, prior to Ireland joining the EU and kicking off the explosion of Irish pubs that occurred first in Europe and then the world. As for Adam & Eva, that sex toy shop around the corner from Delphi that we all found so novel and bold back in the 80s, sitting there right on a busy street advertising its wares - and where I took a very cute, posed picture of 6-year-old sister Elizabeth standing in front of it, looking wide-eyed with mouth covered - it died waaay back when... like right about when the internet could start to move enough bits to make a decent image for viewing.

As for the American presence, I don't notice it... unless I listen sometimes. Then there's that random Southern accent. There's also the unavoidable buzzcut here and there, of course, but I'll only see exactly one person in uniform over the entire 24+ hours in town. I think that message went out rather clearly after 9/11. Nowadays there aren't any more USA car plates since 9/11 or so, just normal KL ones, but Martin insists it's pretty obvious to tell who's American as they actually have American cars. They also are lousy drivers, he insists, plus even when living in non-U.S.-housing they keep their shades drawn in their houses, apparently.

One particularly different thing I'm noticing all during these random memories is who's walking the streets. There are numerous people who frankly never were among the Germans of the 80s, that's for sure. Back then it seemed there were only the prototypical Germans you'd expect and, of course, many Turks who generally occupied the lower socioeconomic rung of society and were only semi-accepted if one was being honest. But the look is quite different now, or at least here, and I'm guessing immigration changes or refugee admissions over the decades have been the reason. I'm certainly noticing black, asian, middle eastern, etc., folks like never before, some randomly with a headscarf or wearing other non-local garb while speaking a different tongue than German (or English). Admittedly, I don't like seeing any headscarves on account of the repression and suppression of women I feel that they promote, but I can also say they add to different-ness I'm seeing which definitely feels more cosmopolitan than I remember. Go figure. The folks attending the jazz concert areas are definitely more traditional-looking, true enough, but they're also consistently older in genereal - so that goes together. As for the night scene just outside of the jazz areas, consisting of much younger people and particularly out and about hanging out by the Barbarossa ruins, well, that's completely of a different, varied, and often ethnically diverse look. What I can say as well is that there are now a b-unch(!) more ethnic food options (sushi, thai, chinese, italian, greek, etc.) than we had back in the day, and this includes the ubiquitous but now plentiful kebap places. Notably, the McDonald's of old, in its very prominent place, is gone. It's been replaced by a very frequented and new looking... burger place. The burgers actually look pretty huge and good.

As for this festival scene, it's really pretty great; too bad there was no such thing back in the day (it started up not too many years prior to CoViD). Then again, would I have attended it then, fully only in the two worlds of rock or classical music? Probably not, but so wraps up a very fine evening, oddly capped by the one (and only) group which will be kind of playing decidedly non-jazz tunes. The closing night act, on the biggest stage in Schillerplatz, is fronted by two blondes who alternately sing away in German or English. (The more flamboyant, star-like one I'm guessing is an American who's long ago went native.) They do so with a lot of energy and couragement from the crowd, and along with a pork steak from a massive grill suspended over open fire - they seem an appropritate way to end the night. I feel the old codger as I cut through the boozing young crowds over by the Rathaus to make my way just a few blocks beyond to the complete quiet of Alcatraz. Wouldn't you know it, but there're a number of the jazz musicians from the festival staying there as well. I say hi and thanks for their music earlier in the day.

SATURDAY (3 September 2022): Kaiserslautern to Vogelweh to Einsiedlerhof to Landstuhl to Ramstein-Miesenbach to Mackenbach, 27km (cumulative: 993)

Two nights and perhaps 36-ish hours for K-Town will have to do. After another properly varied and quality breakfast at Alcatraz, I pack up the bike and take maximum advantage of my only hotel room of the entire trip before checking out. I catch up on writings, pictures, stretching my back, playing some trumpet lip callesthetics, and repacking my bags optimally-ish. The room - or cell/Zelle - has worked out quite well, although it is rather odd to have a (secured) feed slot in the door and toilet not in any enclosed space within the room. The shower's down the hall in a very large room. Crazy clean, well-appointed and comfortable, even if it'll nevertheless be another squeeze in using the elevate for a second time. I have to take the front bags off of the bike before jacking it up completely vertically with the other bags still on to fit into the small , confined space... but such are the things one has to deal with in cycletouring at times. Beats the stairs, in any event.

I leave Alcatraz for good to get in some last wanderings around downtown, now with no more jazz, then make my way for a last lunch at the Alte Munz. There I wrap up my fun back-in-the-day styled conversations with Martin. We go through a final salvo of how kids these days are missing out on so much because of the internet, remembering how one used to go out for an evening with friends, perhaps hanging out in a bar for 6-8 hours whereas now that'd be perhaps only 1 or 2. We rue how, nowadays, experiences aren't often ventured any more without foreknowledge and digital research. This is all gabbed away over a decidedly non-Gasthaus-ish meal of curried turkey over rice with salad, certainly tasty enough, but admittedly I kinda was hoping to end this jaunt down memory lane with something more seemingly approriate - like a traditional schnitzel. In any event, one more Paulaner heffie will put the necessary exclamation mark for this ol' hometown visit. That's followed by a couple of pictures outside in front of the building as Martin parts with the comment that, upon my next return, he sure hopes that damned K In Lautern mall will be torn down. He knows that that's very unlikely, of course, but he'll be the first to grab a shovel or pickaxe should the opportunity arise...

Leaving K-Town means I'll be merely following what used to be B-40 toward Landstuhl - but now I think it's an extension of B-37. Whatever, it should be easy enough, just following what I think used to be the old bus route to school... although in no time I miss an unexpected turn in Kaiserslautern's main street layout spaghetti. A map makes abuntantly clear how unclear it all is. A pedestrian sets me straight, though, and soon I'm passing the Porsche dealership Rittersbacher and even that gas station where I remember Ingmar sliding his autobianchi over snow to just come to a halt - barely - in front of the gas pump. Hooey, that earned us some outraged glares from the folks working there, although Ingmar almost dared them to stop him from buying gas. Ballsy.

From that area I further roll down some long straightaways, eventually arriving at the corner of Vogelweh - a formerly almost ghetto-ish place of PX/commissary shopping and housing as I'm sure I'm unfairly remembering. Now at least the commercial/official areas that I knew so well are all surrounded by a reasonably high chainlink wire fence. It's been filled so you really can't see through it, so biking up to where the high school was is not very terribly illuminating - although the building is still there (which I'll learn later isn't the high school anymore, anyway). It's access has been completely closed off by the aforementioned fencing now, and it seems that there really is only about one entry point into the entire Vogelweh area, period. More post-9/11 changes, I'm sure, although I can make out over the fence that numerous buildings I would expect to see have evidently been replaced with much nicer, modern ones. To all this, I take a couple of perhaps ill-advised pictures. And to that, perhaps, an MP jeep comes near the main entrance to Vogelweh when my passing by minutes later. I would guess that my ridiculous rig should alleviate any concerns, but their just up and stopping there is slightly unnerving and I don't feel like dealing with any questioning.

My moving on past Vogelweh means that I've bailed on any thought of stopping by the castle at Hohnecken (not much of a ruin; it was always only used as a partying place) or the "lake" by Massa. Both would serve to further reminisce about my learning how to drink rather late (it seemed then, perhaps still?) as a senior. Senior skip day was at the ruined castle, I remember, an odd reenactment of a scene out of Fast Times At Ridgemont High that somehow ended up getting snow/hailed on in May as we wore t-shirts n shorts... and shortly became sick as a result; Massa is where we'd buy gawdawful cheap wine and push derelict shopping carts into the lake (pond) as apparently needed doing. It'd take a lot longer than that year to learn how to drink properly, but hey. I remember all I need to about this places as it, really.

So on I go, then, looking to the sky yet again (as of later), wondering about an impending rain that should hit with a fury about 3 p.m. But it doesn't seem so imminent yet, anyway, plus I won't exactly be covering a great distance for the day in only trying to make it to a hosting a little past Ramstein Air Base. From Vogelweh, then, I plow straight down the road to Einsiedlerhof. This is a slightly sketchy section of fast-moving cars with no bike lane or sidewalk, yuck, but I'm mostly thinking about how the woods to my right used to be where the prostitutes used to conduct business: Cars would be parked with a red interior light. Of course I have no idea how long ago Mortuary Mary - who used to walk over to the morgue in nearby Pulaski Barracks at times to warm up - passed away, but, since the road no longer seems to be B-40, it would appear the former moniker "40-Mark Strasse" wouldn't make much sense anymore, anyway. Further down the way, closer to Einsiedlerhof, is where I think the Cold Storage facility where I worked for a year was, but if so it's been torn down. I do see some exposed foundations through the trees, but I can't exactly remember were the facility was located. A brief peek online reveals that a state-of-the-art facility must've come some time later, but I have no idea if it occupies the same space.

That's about where I pass on by the turnoff toward Ramstein Air Base, anyway, now continuing on the same road toward Kindsbach and Landstuhl beyond. A bikepath appears for a good chunk of this, thankfully, as I pass by a number of businesses offering services for soldiers like car dealerships including conversions and shipping for the U.S. I don't particularly remember there being any such number of places like that back when. More interestingly, I notice that Pension Schuff is still around when I get to Kindsbach - but of course the "schnitzel factory" of old memory is way long gone. It seems that there is a pizzeria there now; what a comedown! A schnitzel so large it lipped over all sides of the plate... and that sauce!

Come Landstuhl, I briefly come to a stop outside of a building where I see a couple of guys having a coffee, asking for directions to Mackenbach. The two guys there - one in his 20s the other in his 50s or 60s - turn out to be Americans who have been around the area for a long time. It's to that end, too, that they seem a bit smug, talking to an American who doesn't live in Germany and thus isn't with it - whatever it is. They contradict each other repeatedly in offering me directions, almost trying to outdo each other with the wiseness of their chosen routes, all the while making repeated mention of how long they've been in the area. Sigh. At least they're ultimately helpful in giving me directions on both how to get around the airbase and then to get to the small town of Mackenbach. To the older guy's dismay and disapproval I'll follow the younger guy's directions, and it's this route which'll have me cutting through the train station and then by the McDonald's. There I'll pick up a Radweg near what turns out to be - I believe - the very same Das Kino we used to go to for movies back when. Huh! That was such a thing then, being able to order food from your theater seat!

Thus do I go soon go through Ramstein-Miesenbach village, maing my way along some fences of the airbase with an airstrip or two in view. I take what could be another ill-advised picture, but what the hey - and I'll toss it later as uninteresting, anyway. From the airbase it's a mess of signs to finally arrive in Mackenbach, and even when I get there it's a further bit of confusion to curl through the small village's streets in trying to find my host. The layout of the town, actually, in some ways reminds me of a modern American subdivision, what with all of its looping and cul-de-sac-ish spots. The good news is that I do locate the hosting house and that I've done so before the witching hour of 3 p.m. and any hellish rain. So I get to meet my host Sonya without having to arrive soaking wet, and the rain'll hold off for some hours, anyway - when it will indeed do so in a fury.

What follows next will prove to be one of my more interesting hosting stays, and this not coincidentally because I'll have the unlikeliest of cycling hosts for all my trips. Sonya, the only person home (her husband should come later), is (formerly) Bulgarian. More importantly, I'll learn, she's a former athlete who's always been dabbling in the extremes of running, hiking, and weights - which we'll spend a lot of time talking about. She has many ribbons and trophies to suggest that she's done a lot, too, but it's her physique which is now suffering to limit her from nabbing some more. That's all probably a consequence of asking so much of her body for so long, I imagine, as she otherwise continually extolls the virtues of Bulgaria. Our chat moves on to talking a bit about Bulgaria's unusual language aspects and its place in history, far more interesting territory to me. As for the rest of the necessary story, she informs me that she's been a naturalized American for some years now, married to Graham, and both are former military working in tech areas such as computers (Sonya) and analog radar systems (Graham). These were logical extensions of their work when still in uniform, not an uncommon pattern for former military personnel. When Graham comes home, both assure me that, contrary to how military folks might seem, they're generally pretty middle of the road. For my part I'm sure that they are quite conservative politically, even as they take pains to insist otherwise (unasked for) on numerous occasions. Not a problem for me either way, but... hmm. It'll be a night of careful conversation on both sides, that much I can tell, especially as Trump's legal morass gets ever deeper, wider, and smellier.

As to these suspected right-leaning credentials denied, their WIFI is called BuildTheWall45, for one thing - but I won't bring up that point. They also both have motorcycles, a Harley and an Indian (the house has many knickknacks related to motorcycles) that they've taken to places like Sturgis in the Dakotas - where the CoViD scare recently happened after its annual massive rally. And on the checkboxes of stereotypical conservative Republican interests will go even as nevertheless we'll manage to get along pretty well. This'll be the happy result, not coincidentally, of carefully choosing our wording of things. It's clear that they don't like Biden at all, while I of course abhor Trump, to both of which we all express mild surprise at how the other could like their chosen president. But things will stay very civil and calm, perhaps especially so over a Turkish mezze of olives, cheese, etc., with beer.

We actually do seem to agree over *some* things, surprisingly, like guns (pro licensing and limits to types of weapons) and abortion (allowed within reason). We're also of like mind that the way the news is presented is important. It's necessary to maintain a tone that allows folks to work together without malice, not this sensational mocking style we see on so many channels. So there's hope for conservatives and liberals after all... right? Before calling it a night, meanwhile, we'll watch the last quarter of the Michigan vs. Colorado State football game on their large TV. It turns out that Graham is originally from Michigan (Saginaw, but they have a house in Savannah, GA, which they expect to return to someday although they've now been here renting for 4 years), so there's that commonality, too. Although he mighta winced when I mention that I used to live in (snobby) Grosse Pointe...

SUNDAY (4 September 2022): Mackenbach to Steinwenden to Niedermohr to Rehweiler To Krottelbach to St. Wendel to Tholey, 59km (cumulative: 1052)

Up at 8:30, Graham's already gone to his radar site or such. Sonya, however, has the coffee going, so we continue our gab about her hikes and runs, athletic gear, Bulgaria, etc. In between such details, Sonya's keeps up her constantly smiling as she also mixes in tales and opinions of what's going wrong in the world. At times she's uncorking some generalizations, like about gypsies, that feel a bit unfair, and I struggle to not wince. In general, she sums up these troubles as coming down to folks just not willing to work. I.e., if you work, you have value. Although my host is being unflaggingly friendly and nice, my liberal-ish worldview can't help but shrink back from simple solutions to complex problems - the usual conservative-liberal conflict. Meanwhile it looks pretty nice outside, finally: the heavy fog's lifted.

With the bike ready to go, even with freshly pumped tires (I always try to remember this when hosted), off I now go for however far I'm going to go. All I know is that it's gonna be west, west, west. Apparently, to get me properly started - or at least my heart rate up - a small dog chases me out of Mackenbach just after finding my way onto the cycling trail toward Ramstein-Miesenbach. Sigh. It's always the small ones that are extra nasty, it seems, and this one in particular gives a looooong chase as the owner futilely yells away back in the distance. So much for Germans being great about dogs on leashes! (This is actually is an exception, but in the moment I only have curses. For the most part Germans have been really good about keeping dogs on leashes and I don't once hear the trope about a dog being friendly and not biting - always easy for the master/hand-that-feeds to say!)

An increased pace puts me in R-M quickly, anyway, although I'm immediately a bit confused as to how I want to proceed... until I ask a passing cyclist his opinion. He's headed my way, fortunately, so we continue together on a cyclepath which he soon locates for us as we conversing away in German. Such foreign-tongued conversations can be informative, even, as for example I learn the right way to say "short-sleeved shirt" (kurze vs. lange arm Hemd) while we go at a clip along generally flat terrain through a few villages. Eventually, we make a sharp turn off of the track we've been following. This happens come Rehweiler, where we deviate from this run of villages to now cut into the countryside... and soon into Stefan's village. He decides to accompany me for the hill that comes next, which briefly winds me at our pace, but then it's finally time for him to turn back, but only after indicating what's to come down the road - which we can quite easily at this top-out in the middle of a field with a sweeping view.

It's plenty sunny now, meanwhile, and hilly as well. Perhaps unsurprisingly, water's become a small issue when one finds oneself with such conditions in the middle of nowhere and no real villages of note or life to access more. Oh well. I'm nevertheless rolling well, immeasurably helped by regular roads in good shape. Plus there's practically no traffic whatsoever. After a short while amidst fields, next comes a goodly spell in thick forest - where I decide it's time to blast away on the trumpet with no one around. (I've long been of the opinion that no one wants to hear a lip trill at full volume.) With that duly accomplished, and with gusto, I'm now ready to finish my roll through the obscurity of the Pfalz countryside... to now have entered the Saarland proper.

My first taste of the Saarland comes in the form of the historic town of Sankt Wendel. It takes a little circling, though, before I properly find its old center- where I get off as soon as the bike's tires touch cobblestone. Those chunks of rock have long declared themselves to be my mortal frenemy on these tours, equally blessed for its pedestrian zones while cursed for its footing. Fortunately there's not a ton of it here, and I walk a circle of the old church on its hilly perch as I decide what to do. The pretty edifice is made a focal point here, particularly in how it is surrounded on its lower side by restaurants and cafes. These are followed by more cobblestone, leading both a little downhill while also curling away to the rest of the city center.

That's where I go, then, shortly determining that a very large, historic establishment with a few contiguous chunks of seating areas in front of it (Le Journal, the French name a giveaway for the area's history) will make a proper stable for my mechanical steed. It has a commanding position for the entire historic area, and boasts a classic interior, sure, but it's the sign for Benediktiner Weissbier that has me at hello. This weizen's a good one, too, and the Rahmschnitzel I order - accompanied by a proper, old school potato salad - is the shit. Ahhh! It helps that there's some atmosphere here, too, the first town of the day showing any signs of life. So I, of course, do just the opposite after my fine repast. I locate a convenient bench by the less standout-looking church, across the main drag (Bahnhofstrasse), and settle in for a lights-out schnitzelbier nap. Zonk. Now that's how Sunday should be!

Waking, meanwhile, only means that I should follow up my impressive StW endeavors with a mango-strawberry Eis. I deem this the perfect thing to cap off my St. W. visit -while simultaneously debating the best way forward out of here from my online map. Yeah, I've found another helpful tourist office for WIFI, and even though this one's closed (Sunday), it looks like these places always leave the WIFI on nowadays. Progress! Efficient! Very German. Even better, meanwhile, is that my staring intently at my map elicits a local man - lugging his toddler daughter - to come my way and ask if I need any help. I indicate where I'm headed, and fortunately an idea comes to him immediately as he suggests something called the Bahnstrasse. Huh. This wasn't even among my possibilities, yet it sounds perfect: an old, rail-to-trail cyclepath, exactly headed where I'd like to go... essentially flat... and it makes a pretty good beeline west, too! Yay!

I find the Bahnstrasse behind the train station (naturally!), so off I'm soon rolling along on the easiest of climbs possible. Is it even 1%? Dunno, but I do know that it's an awfully smooth track, the perfect thing here in the shade of 6 p.m. Only the other random jogger or cyclist is on it, too, so it's peacefully quiet the entire way. The only downside, really, is that it ends... at Tholey. Which it precisely does in the form of a sharp but steep climb out of it. At the top of this incline, I find a man in full cycling garb. He's about ready to enter the trail from the top, but I waylay him as he happily answers any questions about camping nearby. He points one out that's nearby, warning that it will include some proper climbing, to which I can only thank him and begin climbing away. Yeah, that's a bit steep.

But I won't chug upward long, fortunately, as, midway up, I get a text from a shot-in-the-dark WarmShowers appeal I made for Tholey all of only an hour or so ago. Sure didn't expect a reply, and certainly not "Kein Problem!" Talk about timing! (Well, it would have been better about 5 minutes before, before I started climbing and sweating those bullets, but that'd be splitting hairs.) I happily curl back downhill, this time taking the turnoff I'd just passed toward Tholey. Almost immediately I pass my host-to-be's house, actually, but it's only in asking some elderly residents, just a bit further down the road, where I can find this certain street that I learn that I'm already on it. I flip about and make my way back about 20 houses.

So it's to be hello to Nadine, Oliver, and their very young child, 2yr-old Lina - who I quickly find likes the trumpet. In like Flynn! Their house is relative new, with a sweeping view of the valley below, and soon we're chatting away about the Saarland and cycletouring, then about the Ukraine war and how it'll eventually more strongly affect Germany what with the gas question, etc. Unfortunately, they tell me, they actually won't be much help with the routing (which is not usually the case for hosts, who usually know their area intimately). I'm told that they only go on tours a good ways away from here. Kind of like the Parisian who's never been up the Eiffel Tower or the Seattlite who can't tell what the view from the Space Needle is like.

But who cares, really, when pizza and beer is in the offing? Plus there's this glorious walk-in shower, worth mentioning only because one its large walls is a huge sheet of one-way glass to the hallway. That is admittedly offputting, an odd choice in my book, but who knows? I guess you'll never be surprised by a knock at the door, anyway. Now returned to conversation in a much cleaner edition of myself, we continue our interesting conversation. One story worth noting is when Nadine relates how she and her friends were mistreated as kids when playing once near Ramstein Airbase. It was bad enough, actually, that the word "airbase" is a nasty word for her to even hear in thinking of the harshness and arrogance that she had to deal with then. Apparently some MPs were completely and unnecessarily rude and mean, not hard for me to imagine at all given my views on folks in positions of authority who are all too typically drawn to such for all the wrong reasons.

On a more positive note, I do my helpful best in suggesting rivers that would make for some pretty perfect family cycletours, like here on the Danube or the Canal du Midi. Maybe when Lina's 4? They think that sounds perfect. Finally, and before calling it a night, Nadine mentions that it's been a relief to be a host for once only speaking German (instead of English). It has really worn them out on previous hostings. I've been more than happy to oblige, I tell them, relating for my part the funny other side of how hard it used to be to try a conversation in German years ago. Back then I learned to avoid starting German converastions with anyone young. Almost inevitably they were learning English in school, both wanting to practice on me while also typically being better speakers of the foreign language. I learned to look for old people if I wanted to actually speak the tongue.

MONDAY (5 September 2022): Tholey to Theley to Primstal to Wadern to Nunkirchen to Mettlach to Saarburg to Konz, 84km (cumulative: 1136)

Nadine's already gone when I get ready to leave on the early side: Lina's daycare begins at an early hour. Oliver catches me, however, just as I'm rolling my bike around their house( so as not to awaken anyone). I thus get to say goodbye and thanks again, which is of course a better way to leave. Meanwhile, and as thankful as I am to have had such a pleasant hosting, my detour back downhill to their lovely home equates to now having to start the day's ride with the very hill it seemed I'd gotten out of when receiving Nadine's timely-ish text. Oof. I'm pumping my way up to Schaumberg, then, where I screw up a little in my navigating, but then soon I'm cutting into what is the very still and dead quiet town of Theley. Hmm.

A consultation of the map prompts a hard turn after a short retreat down the town's main drag. This now has me following a nice long downhill... which'll continue all the way to Primstal - where I'll stop for a pastry and coffee while deciding (with the help of the staff) which way I might proceed forward toward the town of Wadern. Signs I've just passed indicate two different ways I can go, but the seemingly better one has a sign advertising construction and that I'll be forced to stop. To this, I'm assured that I won't have to turn around if I go that way, so this reassures me sufficiently even as I wonder if some climbing is soon in store what with that long downhill I just had. Mostly, though, I'm reflecting on the Saarisch dialect these women have been speaking in. It's something is a bit more pleasant to the ear, methinks, what with its French lilt.

Off I next continue, anyway, on this the more traditional route west. At least it's one with cyclepaths, and these safe paths'll take me through a number of small, unremarkable, and very quiet villages. The construction zone, which I do eventually hit, turns out to be not a problem at all. No surprise there, really, as such usually are not problematic for cyclists (who usually are just given a pass as the most modest of annoyance if one at all). I thus make my way onward, to Krettnich and then Nunkirchen - where I take a turn to begin blazing away on only one same road all the way to Mettlach. It's *the* major road to get there, with some traffic moving at good speed, but at least the shoulder's goodsized and I feel safe enough on account of that width. On the way, meanwhile, a plan to take a looksee of the lake and town of Losheim am See - perhaps getting an ice cream - proves to be a dud. I take the turnoff to loop through town (not very interesting), then curl onward toward the lake (no ice cream, damn it!), but I might as well have just stayed on the main road. I only get the view of the lake when I'm back on the way. Mildly disappointing, but it does prick up my interest in getting to Mettlach sooner, anyway.

Post Losheim, there's a forced turn (even if the route is the same) that puts me on another busy and hilly road. This'll be such, too, all the way to Mettlach, unfortunately, a smaller road with less shoulder that's similarly busy and fast. Yuck. After a spell of this fun, then, I take a reprieve from the traffic to play some trumpet in the woods. Perhaps I annoy some hikers out there - no idea - but this short break'll prove just the tonic to now fly all the way down to this mysterious city which I have set such high hopes for... which'll at first be dashed. Yeah, I'm expecting something more grand, but this small oldtown I eventually encounter - quaint enough, sure - is seemingly over with almost as soon as I've started with it. And, to boot - and for a first time - the woman (I've yet to meet a single male in one of them) at the tourist office is pretty grumpy. She's barely even helpful about where I might get the city's free WIFI. So... to the river! And this indeed is where Mettlach begins to look up.

For one thing, I learn that this place used to be something of a famous company town for making ceramics/porcelain. This was done under the auspices of Villeroy & Boch Co., who have an absolutely massive building fronting the river. Huh. Never heard of it. But evidently someone did at some time or other as there are some very grand estates across the river from the factory. Plus there's an ancient tower, too. So there's something here after all. Soon sitting on the wall fronting the river, eating my sandwich bought back in Primstal along with some cheese, I watch the odd river barge or pleasure boat go by. Yeah, this IS a picturesque bend of the river, surrounded by hills, and it's growing on me after all (even if I have no plans to stay). "Bucolic" will be the term best used to describe this town in the end, I decide, but also "isolated". I deem it not a bad place to work on a book or some music, perhaps, without wanting any distractions. You'd certainly get none here. In fact, it's almost impossible to imagine any crowds assembling here for anything, like ever. It's just so... isolated and bucolic feeling.

The river, meanwhile, is quite swollen, I notice, just like these cycling paths which I only realize lie to both sides of it - with seniors traveling in groups of various sizes on e-bikes. This prompts my consulting a map, only now learning that this is the Saar River... and that bikepaths follow its entire length... and those bikepaths lead to Trier. Which is where I'm heading. Perfect. Here in Mettlach, too, I get another distinct feeling of how Fall's on the way as I see all about me leaves starting to turn. The heat, too, seems to now be dialing it back some while still being pleasantly warm. Nice stuff, and I'll even get to enjoy perfect shade as I leave town, too. That'll last about half of the way to Saarburg, the next town of note up the river, only changing up the program when I have to make a crossover back into the sun for the second half of this leg. This start segment starts at what looks to be a huge gravel or earth-moving facility. It looks like an old operation, still going by the looks of it, but it scars the hillside behind it a deep red - the result of scraping it silly over (likely) many generations.

Saarburg, which comes next, is a very pleasant surprise. I didn't expect this gem of a town at all, a tidy place looming over the river in the form of both its castle and an oldtown that's situated on a small perch as well. I've never even heard of this place before, but it's quite obvious from the get-go that I'm the only person so ignorant. There's a winetasting going on, which I wander through, and that seems like just the place to load up on roasted potatoes smothered in mushrooms. And another porksteak sandwich (Winzensteak here), too. The festival makes for a nice scene by the river, running alongside the old walls, with numerous tents and stands that include live music and a good number of people mulling about to sip what appears to be only white wine.

To get the full lay of the town, though, I'll need to walk/push my bike up some (at times) steep cobblestone. This'll allow me to check out the oldtown, which is more than a just a little picturesque. For starters, it has a waterway running through it that's walled by boxed flowers. These drop away, cutting through ancient buildings to allow the water to come to a waterwheel which only adds (of course) to the ambiance. Naturally there are numerous places to eat and drink with such a backdrop, undoubtedly an easy place to just chill for a day or three with no plan. But that won't be me, for better or worse, as I want to continue this stab north and west for a bit more with time running out on the calendar to do so.

So off I go when I've wandered about enough, leaving Saarburg to soon endure some confusing signs. These come my way as I'm heading north at the locks (Schleusse), where a confluence of conflicting signs on how to get to Konz - where I know there is a campground or two - lead to a couple of false starts in wrong directions. I head first one way, then another, before consulting first a person or two (no help) and then my map to realize how the river has been split and channeled here a bit. Okay, fine, but still the signs coulda helped a lot more! The good news is that all this mess has been performed over a paved and flat section, so this makes for some very easy sledding even in correcting a mistake.

I recross the locks, then, to next make my way to Konz. I quickly find the campground, and I'm pleased to know that I'm not so far from Trier, my next destination to check out (if only for a few hours). The next night I should be hosted somewhere in Luxembourg, so passing on a wildcamp for once and using this place seems the thing. Granted, I'm one of only two tents in this campground - directly on the river and stuffed to the gills with RVs - but it'll work. Helpfully, a Swiss guy in the RV next to me offers to help with my tent setup - but I'm guessing it's been so long that he's been in one that he doesn't know that they practically set themselves up now. So he retreats to immediately immerse himself in videos, watching one after another from a chair behind his pickup truck with a canopy (which I somehow find very un-Swiss).

As for the only other guy in a tent, he seems to want to keep to himself in our corner by the main, busy entrance. He's got a number of empty beer cans already discarded onto the table next to him, I don't see any bike near his tent, so I guess he's some kinda through-hiker/backbacker. Or a vagrant. What do I know? I decide not to ask, although often I'd do precisely that. Just as cities tend to be a bit alienating, a campground just outside of one is - or can be allowed to be - as well. Goes with the territory, I guess. Before long, I'm inside the tent. A hard rain's a-falling shortly thereafter.

TUESDAY (6 September 2022): Konz to Trier to Wasserbillig to Etternach to Gründhof to Christnach to Ermsdorf to Eppeldorf, 75km (cumulative: 1211)

Morning doesn't see me waking up crazy early, but it's still early enough to have a decent morning visit in Trier, I'm sure. First, though, I'll need to clean off the impressive amount of dirt spatter from the rain that hit overnight. As for the other tenter, the hiker's already long gone, it seems. I bet he's got a lot of wet stuffed into his backpack right about now. My tent, however, is sufficiently dried/cleaned to be packed up after a rather lackadaisical start. I'm ready to leave this uninviting, urban-ish campground behind ASAP, so I feel good as soon as I'm astride my bike again and rolling the 8km or so up the eastern bank of what is now the Mosel(le) River to Trier. (Konz is where the two rivers merge.)

The barge traffic here is now a bit heavier, I notice, but I suppose that's to be expected in the forming of a larger river that results from having come from its smaller tributary. As for the barges themselves, I'm quite impressed with how they just ever so barely manage to glide underneath the low bridges spanning the rivers. Almost in tribute of the same, perhaps, do I stop for a trumpet on a bench. This gives me the proper excuse for taking in these graceful misses for a nice while, amazed each time that one of the low beasts manages to have just enough clearance to dodge catastrophe. I wonder how much higher from its already-engorged state the river can get to still allow this ballet. As for here on land, it seems that virtually no one is on the path on this side of the river. I can, however, see plenty more cyclists on the other (sunnier) side. I guess that makes sense with a fog only slowly lifting to allow the sun to evaporate the rain covering the sidewalks and roads.

Trier, where I arrive soon enough later, is as usual (by now) a much larger and busier place than expected. That's become a common theme to this trip in the Fatherland, a modern refrain, perhaps, to the complaining about crowdedness (Lebensraum) that got things going in a disastrous way all the way back in the 30s. Trier's claim to fame, of course, is its Roman ruins. Technically it's the oldest city in Germany thanks to this Roman connection and, although I've already seen my first Roman ruins in arriving on the river - an ancient bridge, modified some over the years and still very much in use - I know that I'll need some kind of map to see all there is to see in this town with such ancient roots. My lack of proper direction is confirmed, too, as I zigzag my way about, trying to guess where the city center must lie.

On the way toward this inevitable center, however, I'll first hit a major plaza with a farmer's market. SLAM! I screetch to a halt. Pastry, bread, fruit, cheese? Each being sold out of multiple trucks? Yep, yep, yep. Usefully, too, one of the cheese men confirms my need for a map: the sights are really spread out here, he says, as we soon have a nice conversation about cycle touring. He also does this type of traveling, and he'll increasingly so with retirement just around the corner. Like the million of other gray nomads on e-bikes I've been witnessing. That'll eventually be me, too, I suppose, but for now I'll follow this good market fortune with a cafe that looks to be on the high-end, dedicated side. They roast their own, with perhaps half of the establishment dedicated to selling coffee in bulk and in all kinds of variety. A serious take, here... and I'm in love. This day is having a nicely auspicious start to it.

Trier, however, must eventually be fully (more or less) explored. Somewhere I've picked up a map, so from this I now capably head first to the most notable of the ruins, the Black Gate. Yeah, there are definitely shades of the Colliseum and Rome here, and here, too, are to be found the tourists in greatest number. But I've already been seeing them for a while in just approaching this the most famous of the ruins. There are plenty of other very old and imposing buildings and plazas to be had here. Fountains, architectural flourishes, churches, etc. This is all very, very beautiful stuff, but what's extra shocking is that I've actually been to Trier before and remember none of it. I think it was a trip to sample wine or something, but... how could I not remember any of this? Did I stay on the outskirts, at wineries? My mind is completely blank. I'll never know, but with the map I nevertheless complete my rounds, impressed particularly by the facade of the main cathedral and its dome, plus a very long - and ancient, of course - wall. There's some kind of other structure that I think is the local version of the Colliseum, surrounding by fences, and for all the above I mark Trier as another place worth spending a spell in. But not in the present, and not on a cycletour.

Leaving town around noon, then, I know that I have some distance to cover still for the day. But virtually all of it should be accomplished along rivers - so it should prove a generally flat affair, and thus reasonably efficient landspeedwise. There's a lot of sun, meanwhile, as I make my way now upriver on the Mosel - but this time on the side where I saw everyone in the morning. I'd say that it's the more trafficked side now as well, but soon enough I'm passing what I was able to see earlier, rounding the point where the two rivers merge to continue now on the Mosel upriver to Wasserbillig. "Cheap water", indeed, seems an appropriate town name when altogether 3 rivers converge in such a small area.

The 3rd'll be the Sauer, which empties into the Mosel at Wasserbillig. I'll now follow it upstream a ways, but only after first peering momentarily at the small city. Uh... nope, not a whole hell of a lot going on there. I briefly debate an ice cream, but I shockingly can't even summon the will for that. Up the Sauer, then!, and in moments I'll deem the Sauer definitely a step up, too, in my mind. Such happens mainly because it's smaller - thus more picturesque when adding in its vineyards and green park spaces. Where I decide to slow down, there are swans, geese, ducks, and birds galore, all generally congregating in areas where I can watch the water trickle over rocks. Very idyllic stuff. As a random throw-in, too, there's even one spot where a major highway cuts over all this, a real incongruity. But it's so high up, connecting two hills, that you can't even hear it. I imagine the cars way up there, flying by with no idea that there's this magical cove of nature below. I stop for a long nibble to take in all this beauty, snapping the obligatory photo or two. It's tempting to try and find a place for a swim hereabouts, but with the Mosel currently rated/prohibited as unswimmable (because of an algae problem), I don't dare.

Instead I continue making my way upriver on this natural boundary separating Germany and Luxembourg. Come Etternach, however, I'm ready for a pause, and that's both due to my nature - it's a pretty spot - but also because my upcoming host has recommended it. Indeed, as if advertising this appeal, in just this short distance I've been rolling the Sauer I've already seen a few campgrounds. They're all on the other - German - side of the river, it seems, and at each there are a number of folks in the water - not swimming, necessarily - as others are standing in fishing gear with rod in hand. The campgrounds all look too full to my liking, happy to have a final hosting for the night, but there's nothing otherwise obnoxious about them.

Etternach, meanwhile, does indeed have its charms. The first is an ice cream place where I stop for 2 absolutely huge scoops (Kügeln) of Eis. These come in the form of Zitrone and Framboise as the proprietor - who I quickly guess is Portuguese - first looks at me rather strangely when I ask for 3 scoops. Her surprised look has me sheepishly back down to 2, but when she hands over the cone I know why. Am I in America?, I'm wondering, speculating on whether the little scoop balls I've invariably been receiving until now are a German thing. They've been consistent that way, anyway. As for Etternach - the point of this stop, I suppose - I find its charm complete when I walk into its town square, properly taking in its architecture. Very quaint, to be sure, although one building on the corner of the plaza - almost completely gutted, except for one formerly grandiose but utterly dilapidated side - suggests that a lot of this was rebuilt. Well, that's Etternach, anyway, known for being... cute.

Onward, then, and again I'm accompanied or crossed at times by herds of 4 or 12 seniors on e-bikes. Not that I can blame them: this is some truly beautiful (and easy) riding. Plus the weather's right, too, which leads me to make a final pitstop of the day when I spy a very convenient - and long - wooden fence. This oughta be perfect to dry out all of my gear properly from the previous night! This I done shortly before reaching Gründhof, where I've been strongly suggested my host-to-be to take the alternate way. Seeing as I'll be hosted, I don't know how I'd say no if I wanted to. But it should be good, I figure, as the turn puts me onto the Mullerthal river and valley. Yep, another quaint river - if not any more picturesque than what I've just been on. I'm now on a pretty curvy road with no shoulders, however, which means that traffic is closer to me than I'd like... while at the same time being just that kind of place that's attractive for folks who like to speed in fast cars or motorcycles. They like to enjoy their ride, too, I guess, but this makes not a whole hell of a lot of fun for me. Each time, too, they run over the centerline, they pass me with a nasty whoosh where I hear what sounds like car horns of a sort. I'll later determine that it's a noisemaker built into the road, but that in itself is something which suggests that this place sees some accidents. Some signs showing motorcycles toppling over at high speed soon confirm this hypothesis.

Come the first junction, I'm a bit confused as to how to continue up this valley toward Christnach, but a little asking around confims my way forward. This I'm soon at the main local attraction, something called Schliesstümpel. Huh? Ah, it's apparently a small waterfall coming off of a rock in three chutes. Yes, this is pretty indeed, but it's much less an attraction than I would've guessed based on my host's buildup of the route. Down below and under the waterfall, meanwhile, there are a few women doing a photoshoot in bathing suits. Huh. They're very curvy and black, the latter particularly seeming a bit incongruous to where I am in terms of all of the other very white folks about me. They're traipsing about the trails, admiring the evidently and distinctively Luxembourgian red rock formations found here. (Although nice, they don't strike me as particularly unique, but I don't plan on telling any Luxembourgians so.) I have a conversation with a fellow gawker about this odd photoshoot given the location and models, and soon both of us are wondering if this'll end up in ads in Jamaica. Their glittery, gold bathing suits, plus other tropical attire, make this seem like it could be used there. And the actual waterfall and environs certainly look like spots I've seen in Hawaii or Colombia. Who knows? It's something to wonder about, anyway, if only for a minute or three.

From the underwhelming waterfall, then, I continue uphill, thankfully and shortly finding myself off of the busier road and its annoying cars. Siiiigh! Suddenly there's no one about as I cotinue to make my way uphill, still with no idea where Christnach will come as my mapping is no help at this moment. A couple of questions with a local woman in the first village, however, point me in the correct direction. There'll be some turns, which I duly execute, but it's only when I head toward Savelborn and onward - again stopping a woman, this time in a car - that I have full confirmation of this seemingly goofy way to get to the village of Eppeldorf (where my host lives). She points the way to Ermsdorf first, but from there I should soon find where I'll turn steeply uphill to Eppeldorf. And steep will be correct, too, even if only for a kilometer or so. Criminy - what a finish to the day's riding! But I can't complain when my host's WarmShowers profile said as much. So no bitching allowed... even if - of course - his house is practically at the very top of this hill. All in a good day's ride! I need a shower.

Fortunately I receive a very warm welcome from Luca, then his wife, and then his son Vincenzo to be followed by one from his more or less adopted son, Hossein. The latter is a refugee from Iraq; he's been living with the family for a while - several years, I think. Soon enough, too, we're sitting to a fantastic dinner of pasta genovese. Tasty stuff! I learn that that's for good reason, as Luca's roots are in Genoa even though he's been in Luxembourg almost all of his life. We have a nice conversation about languages, conducted mostly in English, but some German and French manage to slip in as well with his wife being from Germany and it being the case that frankly everyone in the Dutchy o' L speaks 4 languages.

After the storm arrives and rages outside (if rather behind schedule), and our dinner and conversation on the deck continues for a good while, I'm later taken by Luca outside and around to the side of the house. Here there's a very large barn/garage, and I soon learn that this is where Luca has a collection of perhaps 40 classic/vintage racing cycles that he's restored or is in the processing of restoring. It's quite a passion of his, he tells me, and he tries as best he can to get original parts to put them in working order. That's of particular interest to him because he actually rides them all, which it's that which makes the entire undertaking pretty cool to me. Maybe someday he'll be able to have some kind of museum, we both muse, thinking of how such items might be presented in an attractive way.

We return to the house to wrap up our conversation as I'm presented a box of fine Belgian chocolates his mother has sent him as a gift and he plainly has seen plenty of over the years. I, on the other hand, have not. Damned fine chocolates! As for the practical side to all this village life, Luca informs me that he's actually a former computer software guy much as myself. He's only recently (re)tired of the industry for good, but he's now undergoing some training to become a teacher of, most likely, computer science in high schools. A familiar transition, I tell him, giving a bit of my similar backstory.

With the evening now getting late, Luca wants to go over my plans, poohpoohing my idea of heading to Bastogne and unsure of how worthwhile even Liege might be. Instead, he suggests, why not pick up the VennBahn in Trois Vierges? It's an old railway line that's been turned into a cycle path to Aachen, a city which he thinks highly of and I've been thinking of hitting on the way, anyway... so for the moment I've got a new plan, just like that! Somewhere along the way, of course, I give him my own sales pitch on cycletouring in general, as only now am I belatedly realizing that he has yet to try such. But he's been thinking of it, he tells me, so maybe I'll be hosting him and his family someday. Who knows? What I do know, however, is that a long day has led to a late night, but it's been a very satisfying one indeed.

WEDNESDAY (7 September 2022): Eppeldorf to Reisdorf to Wallendorf to Roth to Vianden to Stolzenbourg to Clervaux to Trois Vierges, 63km (cumulative: 1274)

One result from the night before, while discussing how my trip might end - and particularly concerning what I might do with the bike - is that I'm welcome to store the bike here in Eppeldorf. Hmm. I don't give the idea much thought... yet. Come morning, meanwhile, only Hossein is around (as expected, the others had to be off early to Luxembourg ("The City"), anyway, so there's no opportunity to perhaps over the topic some more. So instead I find myself having a nice discussion with Hossein about his situation, about how he's here while his family is still back in Iraq for the most part. It's only now that I also realize that his uncle also lives in the house - whom I'll briefly meet as I exit.

To be honest, I feel guilty of the mere fact of being an American. I well know how the situation so drastically changed there, the descent into so much (and so prolonged) violence, even given the obvious fact that Saddam Hussein was an evil dictator. It's all so complicated and nuanced a mess, but to Hossain's credit he takes the high road and I never feel the least taken to task on account of nationality. He seems utterly grounded and practical (and intelligent) about his circumstances, perhaps the ineevitable result of this ugly history now transpiring in Iraq for over two decades. And this is only the current phase of its history, the chapters of which stretch much longer than that. To his credit, I suspect that he's Iraq's bright future somehow, someday. Over the course of our lengthy discussion we also cover religion and life, so it's a substantial-feeling conversation all around. As with the rest of the family, meanwhile, I note that he's got more of a pro-German bias (or an anti-French one, as the two also kind of go hand-in-hand) as regards Duchy. German things work, French things generally don't, I guess. He further makes it clear that everything worth anything in this country is found down in the city, period. As to the present, this slow and yakky breakfast with good company means that it's already 10:45 a.m. when I belatedly feel the need to get a move-on toward - I think - Trois Vierges or so. Coincidentally, Hossein actually spent 4 years there (in T.V.) in temporary refugee housing, so he's able to describe the very town I'm headed to... but it doesn't sound all that exciting, frankly, even if at least he's not railing against it, either.

In any event, off I go, and it at least starts off quite easily. The 1km drop down the steep hill assures that, then there's more descending to reach Reisdorf. From this town I'm able to continue at a decent speed, happily, now following the Sauer river again - downstream this time. That soon puts me in Wallendorf, where I'm crossing over the bridge to enter Germany. Immediately a brief hill takes me away briefly away from the river I'm now to follow - the Our River. The name is actually a bit hard for me to pronounce (I heard Luca say it a few times last night; yikes), but I'll nonetheless be riding alongside it again before long. Shortly thereafter, I get to Roth - where I again cross back into Luxembourg, continuing to follow it. River travel sure is easy! Next of note, then, is the town of Vianden and its castle, a perfect place to have a view and a coffee accompanied by an apple tart. It's small and quaint, lifted right off of a postcard thanks to its ancient wall fronting the river and similarly old bridge. At the same time, it's probably also too small to consider ever having had a place in history - although the castle looming above the place suggests differently, I suppose. Nowadays, however, I can't see it being even be a stop for more than several hours at best, I shouldn't think. Eat, drink, picture, buh-bye.

From Vianden the terrain and the track get a bit hillier, and to that end I go up past some dams on the river to find a good-sized reservoir awaiting my inspection. Pretty! It's all nature in this area, and it's all quite scenic. Soon enough, though, I'm dropping back down to some flats, praying for and then eventually spying a place (the only one) in this section that might offer a bite to eat. It's a campground, a lonely place sitting on the river just past Stolzembourg - a town notable only because its flagpole is oddly flying an American flag. (I'll learn later from Wikipedia that this is where American forces first crossed into Nazi Germany in WWII, on 11 Sep 1944). For me, though, this'll be where I have a dish called Bofferding - with is primarily a boffo crazy amount of mushroom sauce, a slathering that smothers some turkey and biscuit (I think)! With the french fries that come along side it, meanwhile, I'm pretty sure my belly will be my ballast for a while. Wow. A couple of beers - not hefeweizen, but local, anyway - add to this particularly egregious version of bad decision-making that I hope I won't be regretting. Nah. Well, yeah. Only one other table is seated besides me, meanwhile, so I get to listen to a long conversation in Luxembourgish, that melange of a language with its odd combination of German and French (and seemingly Dutch) aspects... while not really being any of them. Closest to German, I guess. Wikipedia agrees, putting it in the western Frankonian family of germanic languages, whatever that means. Well, that's Stolzembourg, and I hope I don't die from heart disease in the next hour or so to regret it.

From S-bourg, I bike-waddle onward, continuing with these flats and the river for just a bit more of easygoin' country riding. At the Dasburg bridge to Germany however, I curl hard back and away from the river. Time to begin the proper climb Luca warned me about, for several kilometers toward Clervaux. Really, it's not terrible, and near the top I even spot an illogically placed bench alongside the road. It's sitting in a patch of grass, and sports some shade to boot: the trumpet will sound, and some cars passing by will shortly honk their horns (I assume) in approval. With an upcoming rain, however, I won't play forever, wisely deciding after 30-40 minutes or so that I probably should get my butt into Clervaux. That'll take only another 7km to do so, mostly easy plowing followed by a steep descent down into the town. Clervaux. woo woo!

By the time I've entered this quaint and mildly regal town, and located the tourist info office to be able to communicate via WIFI (my phone has been crap all along), I've made up my mind: I'm done with the tour! I post a message to Luca about returning to his house and storing my bike there but, as it turns out, my options will be more limited than I've supposed. For one thing, the train back in that direction is not currently returning the way I would like to go (to near Eppelsdorf). For another, the replacement bus service needs advance notice of two days to take a bike. Crap. As for Luca, he quite reasonably doesn't want to drive all the way out to Clervaux to only then immediately turn around with me in tow. (I do offer a nice dinner as some kind of compensation, but I totally get it.) Meanwhile, in the process of checking out the above options, I also do some hunting around on the internet to realize that passing a night or two in Luxembourg City - part of the appeal of the return - isn't as feasible as guessed. It would be quite expensivem, actually, as there no hostel beds that I can find for the nights in question. So, while the offer remains open to return somehow to Eppelsdorf, I close the door on that possibility while thanking Luca repeatedly for the hospitality already shown.

So now what? Trois Vierges it's a-gonna be, as originally (more-or-less) planned! It'll be a busy road to get there, though, what with no cyclepath and rush hour traffic headed in the same direction with darkness just beginning to fall. Yuck. These are not my typical conditions for riding, nope, not at all. I'm usually I'm already at camp in such a situation, but... oh, well. Thus do I decide plow forward although, fortunately, after coming to a rise on a hill - arriving into farmland some kilometers outside of Clervaux - I'll find both that traffic has lightened and a stop for directions will have me turning onto a much more pleasant road for cycling. This last stretch is mildly roly-poly, true, but before none too long I'm in Trois Vierges and rolling down its main drag. Right away I'm in search of a sign for a campground, of course, but I'm not above noting a grocery store and a possible cafe or bakery for the morning. As for the campground, I quickly discover that it's just to one side of the main drag. There'll be just a bit of descending, and then I'm on top of this tidy campground that's tucked into one corner of what seems to be the area sportsplex.

The campground office, of course, is already closed when I pitch my tent, but I get the lowdown from the guy running the bar-restaurant for the evening on the premises. As for the rain, this disaster that's still impending - I've been lucky with how long it has held out - I quickly get into gear to take care of my shower and do a little clothes washing while having a conversation with a nice couple from London. Adam and Alice are car-tenting these byroads to get in random hikes, happy to chitchat a bit about the royals (which I admit seems a bit odd to me since they are black, unfairly or not). I, as always, am happy to wax lovingly upon the joys of cycletouring - rain excepted. Regarding their skin color, meanwhile, I do find myself noting how their being black seems to have nothing to do with their English accent that I can tell. This is something which is more often than not quite different for many (it seems most) native born black people in the U.S. I have no idea why that is, or if this one example is exceptional in any way. I try to think of British movies but nothing comes to mind one way or the other. I just know that in the U.S. it's quite often obvious if someone (native to the U.S.) is black just from listening. I wonder if the typical Brit can listen to someone without seeing them and guess skin color for those native their entire lives to the UK. No idea.

Overnight, meanwhile, there'll come the (very) hard rain, just as expected, and to that I decide to see what the morning brings. My current thinking is to follow this 125km route called the VennBahn for the next 2 days. It's another rail-to-trail cyclepath, complete with a brochure (which I have), and it runs from Luxembourg through Belgium (only a hair) and on into Germany (by Aachen). Sounds nice, but who knows? Luca made it sound appealing enough, true, but then again he hasn't ridden it yet, and I've often found that those who have experienced an actual route turn out to not know the deal at all. And certainly a brochure is always relatively meaningless, however nice the map might be in outlining attractions such as places to eat/drink. Yep, morning will tell...

THURSDAY (8 September 2022): Trois Vierges to Basbellain to Hautbellain to Gouvy, 13km (cumulative: 1287)

... and morning says to hell with continuing the cycling, especially after that crazy hard rain overnight. But of course it's actually much more on account of there supposedly only being more of the same to come over the next couple of days... and I'm running out of days, anyway. So I might as well enjoy them in cafes, and in interesting cities like Aachen. Now that it's morning, meanwhile, one stroke of luck I have here at the campground is that its office - where I'm to pay for my tentspot for the previous night - also houses the town's tourist info center. Very convenient! The result of this discovery is that a short discussion with the woman handling tourism duties is able to give me a plan and a way out of my situation. She gives directions on how to link up with the train system, the necessary ingredient that'll get me and my bike back to Frankfurt from this backwater. Her idea is to head to Belgium, just a short distance away, and get onto the train in some town called Gouvy. That should get me to Aachen in the same day, although it's likely that I'll have to do so via Liege (Belgium's #3 city, in the French-speaking Wallonia "half" of the country). I'm game.

By coincidence, I'll actually start with the VennBahn after all. That'll be found at the train station, as expected (for a rail-to-trail route, like at Skt. Wendel), but my journey into the wonders of the VennBahn brochure will only last a couple of kilometers at best. At the first junction with a road I turn off of it, actually, and from there I'll make my way toward the villages of Basbellain and then Hautbellain. In the latter I'll have a brief conversation with a woman unloading her car - the only sign of life I'll see in either village - and it'll be this lovely soul who gives me the final routing of the trip. In German, she tells me that I need to "get to the tree wearing pants - you'll recognize it, believe me - and take a left". Suddenly unsure of herself, she decides to yell over her recalcitrant son, who bikes around everywhere, and he confirms this while holding his computer game joystick in his hand. His desire to roll his eyes a full 360 through his skull can barely be restrained.

So I remount the bike and, sure enough, before long there's a tree wearing shorts... amidst a host of other things to be found in the Künstlerhaus (Artist House), as she termed this residence. Soon I'm done with Hautbellain, then, cutting through open fields on a lonely, thin road, and all too soon I'm coming to a sign denoting my entrance to Belgium. A new country! But hold the champagne: some first drizzles finally now begin, and I can see some ominous clouds in more than one direction. Uh oh. In a few minutes, sure enough, this menace has already turned to rain. It'll back off to drizzle, then rain again, then back to drizzle, then back to rain, in a pattern that'll last for the rest of my riding. What a final hurrah. The countryside here is mildly hilly, too, as these random signs indicating Gouvy just seem to accumulate with no sign of the town. This lasts for much longer than expected, even as a cycling group (in matching jerseys) comes from nowhere to pass me by during a particularly goodly rain. I'm wondering just when the hell I'll get to this town that should be only be a little over 10km away from Trois Vierges. Groovy Gouvy (they rhyme), where (the F) are you?

Oh... here you are! Finally I'm undoubtedly in the small city/town, although it'll take rolling through most of it over a kilometer or two to reach its train station. I dismount immediately upon arriving, walking around and to the other side of the building to buy my ticket. Sure, I'll need some help from a train conductor to use the stupid machine - as a few other people seem to be loitering about the station for no particular reason watching me - but I've finally have the official means to end my tour in my hand. I learn that, yes, I will be taking the train to Liege, transferring at some station near there to then go on to Aachen, but this'll only cost all of 24Euro. Even better news is that I won't have to transfer immediately, the conductor assures me, allowing for the possibility of checking out Liege. So I wait for the train from Liege, which of course arrives just after the sun actually comes out for a bit (to allow me to stretch my cycling gear over my bike in the interim). I learn that this is the train that would normally go on to Luxembourg City, but currently it's stopping here because of the tunnel collapse south of Trois Vierges somewhere (which'll take 1-2 years to be repaired). Ah! This is the same train that would've gotten me back to Eppelsdorf (roughly)! Oh well. All I know is that the cycletouring has now officially ended, and such details are suddenly no longer of any interest.

A TRAIN TO LIEGE FOR A WALKABOUT, THEN MORE TRAINS TO DO A MINI-STAY IN AACHEN FOR 2 NIGHTS (THURSDAY, FRIDAY; 8, 9 September 2022)

When the train finally comes, I get on with plenty of space to choose from. That's undoubedly since Gouvy is hardly the point of this train route, an endpoint only for the moment until the collapsed tunnel is repaired. It'll remain mostly spacious onboard for virtually all of the 1h15 to Liege, too, this route's other endpoint and where I decide to have a looksee before heading on to Aachen. The weather's holding out, threatening only some drizzle at times while sporting moments of sun, so I'm keen to do something in a Belgian way given this unexpected opportunity. When will I be here again? So... perhaps a Belgian (white) ale, a waffle, some pommes frites? I'll manage all three in spades soon enough, but it'll all start when I head out of the train station to guess my way to the river nearby. (I do ask someone to confirm my direction, admittedly, for the umpteenth time losing any manly man stripes, but I've long left those behind.) Come the river, it's obvious that I'll be taking a left - toward the bigger buildings and bridges - so I'm immediately rolling along the wide sidewalk promenade all the way to the oldtown city center. This is a river city of bridges, that much is immediately obvious.

When I think I've gone far enough, obviously now on the edge of the oldtown after crossing the river a couple of times for different viewpoints, in I go... to a massive construction mess. This is a pretty extensive urban renewal undertaking of some sort, but I'll ignore this cacophony of jackhammers and heavy trucks momentarily... when a Turkish mezze place catches my eye. Almost instantly I'm sitting at a table, and patting myself on the back in minutes as my selections from the glass counter's offerings prove awesome through and through. Marinated vegetables, spreads, etc., all tasty as hell, and then accompanied by a local Jupiler beer (eh) and coffee (excellent) afterward.

Okay, *now* I'm ready to walk around, moving constantly through the construction that I seem to be running into everywhere. As for architecture, I'm noticing a significant change from my time spent in Germany. Here they use loads of dark brick or exposed stone construction, and row housing is pretty common, too. That's something I was noting also from the train. As for the many daytime inebriates, well, that's a thing in Germany, too. Even during the shortest conversation asking for directions, which elicits typically only a mere sentence or two, brings on a wave of alcohol fumes. Whew. If it's not in the breath then it's coming out of their skin. Reminds me of those two years working with German locals for those U.S. military installations in W. Germany. I knew they were the lower rung of German economic and cultured society there, of course, and the tanked individuals I'm pestering with questions here seem about of the same ilk by and large. Why they are the ones I ask questions of is another question altogether, but they are often the ones who, frankly, are just handily around. I'm not typically loitering by 5-star hotels or the opera house...

That said, I'm not above the boozy call myself, especially when a Belgian white is my kind of beer and here's available aplenty. So I pause from my tourist meanderings to have one and then another Chouffe - a classic - at a bar with a counter fronting the sidewalk. This is the perfect place to peruse some newspapers in French when not doing some people watching. Handily, there are a couple of tour groups that waltz by. So I can listen in on their explanations in German and French - perfect. I'll follow this stop up all too soon with another, in another outdoor bar where a Hoegaarten Rosé will do the trick. In between there'll be a pommes frites (curry gewurz ketchup!) in a massive paper funnel, plus a belgian (pear-infused) waffle (poire guiffre). Yes, I'm really abusing my gut, true, but all of the above is so damn good! In pennance, I suppose, I promise myself starvation for the rest of the day. That should earn a halo, I'm sure... even if it'll have to wait until after I leave Belgium.

Thus my stop goes on for several hours of properly wandering the entire city core. I pass by all of the big churches and plazas of note (I think), trundle down any narrow little lanes with half-timbered buildings that catch my notice, and I even eyeball a statue that I double check isn't the monster Leopold II. That's the former Belgian King (the 2nd, his father was the 1st) who butchered the Congo when he owned the massive hunk of Africa lock, stock, and barrel (by European reasoning, anyway). I can't help but notice, too, that there's a massive EU building here, but it's completely uninteresting outside of its imposing size.

The street life I see here, however, is. That's because this feels like a young town, a university city, one which I can't help but love the feel of despite the reality of how grimy it is. Its case is helped, undoubtedly, when a pretty, dreadlocked cyclist comes up to me with a big smile to chat for a moment. She suggests I join some kind of urban cyclist rally somewhere, but since she hasn't mentioned her personal cult - which I'd happily join as a member in any kind of standing - I won't be making it. And perhaps that's a foolish choice, admittedly, as I'm charmed by this town on first blush. To this, I wonder if it's perhaps precisely because it has no interest in me and my tourist self in the least. Life is being lived here, I'm happy to be easily conversing in French throughout, and no one's bothering to push English. Well, there's the beer I'm consuming, too.

Come late afternoon it's finally time to move on, so I return to the train station to complete the use of my ticket. In minutes, I'm aboard the short train to another station (Vevriers) in greater Liege, there finding myself transferring to another line which'll take to Aachen. It's surprising how, for however good the train systems in Europe are, crossing borders by train still is a bottleneck seemingly everywhere. The trans-border train crossings are really limited. In any event, at least these two trains aren't all that full - always an extra issue when lugging a bike and gear - and soon I'm in Aachen. I beeline it out of the station, following directions toward a hostel that is of the official international youth hostelling kind. But directions are almost superfluous as I near my target: all I really need do is listen. It's an absolute zoo of kids, I'm guessing all of the age of about 14, apparently two school groups doing god-knows-what for a field trip to Aachen. No adults really seem to be in charge, that's for sure, as these kids are flying about the place willynilly, barging through one door to knock on another, peeling off down the hall while shouting behind them that a party is in a third room. At least their rooms of mayhem are identifiable: their doors have pieces of paper taped onto them with first names. What a full-on romper room I've stepped - rolled - into.

My room, however, isn't a part of the "festivities". Instead I enter it to find a sullen college student - and he's evidently not happy with my presence. But tough. His school hasn't been able to help him sufficiently in locating local housing, so he's stuck in this nuthouse for the time being. Okay, I sympathise with that! As for how wary he is about his belongings, keeping our door shut and locked at a heightened level, well that is a bit unnerving at first... but over an hour or two I'll engage with him in conversation and he eventually warms up to my sunny - required, paid for - presence. I learn that this roomie is from Bulgaria, which translates (with my encouragement) to his shortly getting started on the peculiarities of the Bulgarian language (and history, which he's quick to add as well). As usual, there's no turning back when you give a proudly ethnic person a platform. This is only later broken up when we're eventually joined by another college student who's also stuck in our room. He's from Germany (Frankfurt), similarly caught in the city's housing problem, so we alter our discussion to now focus on the theme of living in Germany, and in Aachen specifically, these days. We're all friends (enough) before calling it a night.

Morning brings... Friday (the days of the week do jumble during travel), and I'm up early after a sound enough sleep. Adult authorities did shut the running around the halls down at 9 or 10 or so to allow such slumber, but I'm nevertheless banking on avoiding the schoolkid crush at breakfast. And... nope, but at least they're calmer, and they are interesting to watch in a kind of zoo-like remove (if from within the cage). I watch as each kid fills their tray, pivots, then scans about to see which table they dare sit at and with who. (I note that almost all of the kids just pour some chocolate cereal flakes into a bowl with milk, despite other options like bread, cheese, salami, and fruit being available. Also, unfortunately, lousy coffee.) Happily (to me, anyway), I see that there's a good mixing of students regardless of culture, or color of skin, and there is some variety on display here. Maybe this means that the group is more likely from an urban area than the countryside. Probably so, but I'm eventually joined by my Bulgarian roommate to interrupt my observational study as we resume our discussion about language. Now we're comparing Russian, Serbian, English, and Bulgarian. I throw in a little bit about Japanese just for the hell of it, but it's a checkout time of 10 a.m. that means I'll soon be leaving him to his fate and wishing him the best with his housing. For my part of the local sheltering crisis, I actually have to switch hostels myself. Two nights, two places. What a pain.

My stay for a second Aachen night will be in the hostel closest to the train station. To travel the mere kilometer, however, I'll don some cooler weather gear for a first time: long sleeves! The new hostel, another in the A&O chain (like ones recently used in Nuremburg this year and Graz the last), won't accept my entry until the afternoon, unfortunately, so I'll be relegated to rolling about town with a loaded bike until then. Poopsicles. Fortunately the rain is holding off - still! - but the sky sure doesn't look good. Indeed, there's a bit of a foreboding presence from above as I make my way around the sights - but not until after some proper coffee at an airy, open cafe near the tourist info center. (Some flaky, buttery turkish cookies from the previous day's stop at the mezze in Liege have sadly been reduced to crumbs... that I nevertheless happily consume like a scavenging animal while making a future, non-animal-like note of their poor transportability.)

Properly fortified now, I take to walking about the heart of town and confirming the presence of some truly handsome buildings - plus loads of tourists - as I nevertheless have a hard time being grabbed by this city I've been told is such a wonder. Yes, I know that this was the seat of Charlemagne, plus there's some Roman stuff, but... I dunno. It's not like I'm not trying* to be a good tourist: I even at one point lock up the bike (and all the bags aboard, more a system based in visual deterrance than reality) to check out the mosaics in the cathedral. These are a universally acclaimed wonder, and there's truly a lot of tiny tile making up quite a few images... but I can't get excited about any of it. Perhaps I'm the first tourist here who finds Aachen a comedown from Liege, it'd be interesting to ask some who've been to both to find out.

When the forever impending rain finally decides to fall for a spell, meanwhile, I have to duck into an arched entryway to escape its charms. It turns out to be the entrance to the old city hall where I'm taking cover, turning vagrant to any spectators who might wander by as I eat a makeshift, huddled meal from what's left in my foodbag. This is a productive sheltering, anyway, since I *am* trying to empty the panniers, but what a gloomy day! At the same time, it's only now that I realize that I'm the only one still wearing shorts, further confirmation that summer's glow is over and fall is officially here if not quite in date. Fortunately, at least I'm not cold - somehow - but that's undoubtedly helped by the three long-sleeved layers I have on for a first time above. Yep, time to break out the jeans!... which'll have to wait until I get back to the hostel and am able to unpack just a hair. I doubt anyone wants to wander in to the old city hall and find a bike bum showing his bum in using this place for a changing room! Eventually the rain lets up, so I'm able to continue my walk to other points of note - like the Rathaus (city hall), where the plaza in front of it is used for pictures for a few wedding parties. Well, that's happy, anyway!

I feel like I've given Aachen it's fair due in returning to the hostel near dinner time, but with the weather so crappy I don't feel like going back out and into the dark to boot. So it'll be more foodbag emptying in the confines of this industrial warehouse of traveling souls, which is again not a bad thing at all. One of roommates this time is a Syrian refugee, but there will be no language comparison as on the previous night. The man almost never leaves his bed, but at least he's laughing quite often, apparently consumed with watching videos of shows one after another from the Middle East (when not on the phone with someone, speaking Arabic). He's not unfriendly, but I get the impression that he's been here for a good while and us random interlocuters that he shares the room with, changing probably daily, are just necessary details to put up with. I do note a number of empty beer cans by his bed, however, so I'm guessing his connection with Islam isn't at any fanatic level, anyway. My connection with hefeweizen of late is, though, so I'm soon draining a couple downstairs in the lobby as I otherwise catch up on notes and news with the wifi there. I'll call it a night when done with that.

TRAINS TO KÖLN TO XXX TO KOBLENZ TO FRANKFURT (2 NIGHTS, SATURDAY AND SUNDAY; 10, 11 September 2022)

6 a.m. is probably the earliest rising of this entire trip, but I've got some trains to catch. This lean toward the early side comes because I don't know how crowded the Zugs will be on a weekend, always extra problematic with getting a bike on. I'd like to blame the crack-o-dawn start on how I make a mess out of getting coffee out of an automatic machine - I only realize way too late that it doesn't automatically dispense the necessary cup, a pile of them stacked to the side of device. Oops. 6 a.m., indeed. I wipe up the mess as best I can before scuttering out the door to catch the 7:18 to Köln. It's nice and spacious, even with WIFI, and in no time I'm arriving there with an hour or so to kill, should I decide to. I so decide, overcast skies be damned.

Mostly I want to see the cathedral, one of which I have such a memory of being flabbergasted by in 1983. It's right next to the train station, an extremely convenient thing, so I can't help but venture outside to execute a very slow roll about it, taking in all its details. Yep, it's still very impressive, but as such things go when the passing years are considered, I'm rather surprised on how it's not as tall in the steeple as I remember. It's not like I have the excuse of being smaller then, either, as I was 17, but I'm guessing in the present that I definitely had never seen such a thing before back then. Also to the present, I see that it's got plenty of black soot on it that needs cleaning, but as the case in so many similar buildings around Europe, it almost seems like a deliberate point to juxtapose cleaned-up parts with filthy ones that are immediately adjacent. I assume this is to show what's possible? Or how bad it really has gotten? Both? All I know is that electric cars can't come soon enough for structures like this. I leave the towering structure behind to roll just a bit further in my remaining handfuls of minutes, making my way to an old town square area with another impressive, interestingly designed building. This is the old city hall (Rathaus), but a lot of it is effectively and unfortunately blocked from view for either allowing its full appreciation or a good photo. I finish up with some more rolling about, restricting myself to just the very heart of the city and never too far from the train station. I guess that'll have to do for this very abbreviated toedip in the big city.

The next train, to Koblenz, is stuffed with bikes, which I could see was going to be a problem even before its arrival. Just by noticing the gathering crowd on the platform - including several others with bikes, the competition! - I know I've got to be on the ball, a survival of the fittest scenario in the making. Crap. I do manage to get on, fortunately, but we indeed have a slight overload of bikes which we are lucky to get away with come the conductor. Nevertheless, an older, nervous German man comes over to us (obvious) cyclists a number of times, making comments about the number of bikes, an irksome commentary that only makes sense when I'm able to ascertain that he only really cares that his friend on an upcoming stop will have space to come onboard with *his* bike. No amount of telling him to chill will satisfy him, a scenario which worsens as he focuses on me as the only German speaker to talk to. Sigh. The other cyclists in our wagon are several ex-military Americans, who I otherwise have a nice long conversation with. They're doing a lengthy cycletour through Europe, chopped into highlight segments and all done with very high end gear and bespoke Koga bikes. Their Germany section will involve some memory lane bits, roll-bys of bases where they served, like in Hanau and Bamberg. With rain starting up outside the train windows, however, it looks like they'll have an interesting start to their riding in Koblenz.

Come Koblenz - a town just a week or two ago I thought I'd be biking into from the south - I'm switching trains again, again relegated to mostly standing up for the entire time like the Kö-Koblenz train. When I finally do sit, I'll only find myself regret it, anyway, starting a smalltalk conversation with a woman who turns out to be a long time filipina transplant to NYC. It'll take her a long while to end a monologue about how amazing Europe is... while being nothing like NYC. Really? Huh. Outside, meanwhile, the train rolls by an impressive section of the Rhine River that I would love to have ridden... and might well have, if I hadn't done my turn toward Kaiserslautern and eventually Belgium. There are numerous castles, vineyards, and cozy towns all found here, all brought into highlight as the river is here hemmed in by hills that make for a great backdrop. So I'm jealous of the cycletourists I see riding just outside of the window, going from beergarden to beergarden in such beauty. It's easy to fully ignore the reality of the rain they're cutting through at this remove.

Finally I'm back in Frankfurt, immediately making tracks to the hostel to waste no time in attacking the bike: I'm taking it apart with allen wrenches, screwdrivers, and wrenches even before a room is ready for me. Soon the bike has been reduced to a naked state, too, outside of the kickstand. To deal with that niggling detail, I put all my gear in a locker and set off to a bike shop I've found on the internet - Donkey Bike - which I'm hoping is both open and willing to possibly buy my bike at any price. The brief idea I've had, of giving the bike to some Ukrainian refugee center, has had a little light shone on it in the form of reported corruption about where such donations actually go. So I might as well sell it somehow, just giving more to refugee relief via established online sites like UNHCR or Doctors Without Borders. Luckily, the bikeshop isn't too far away, in Sachsenhausen across the river, but the proprietor indicates that he's got a stuffed shop with bikes. So no bike purchasing here, Mein Freund. Apparently, the bike scarcity experienced during CoViD times has rebounded completely in the other direction now. At least he's able to give me a wrench to take off the kickstand. He also hands me a freebie city map, indicating a shop just outside of Frankfurt that often buys bikes.

From the one shop I head to the other immediately, wondering if it'll be open on a midday Saturday. No idea - why didn't I ask? - but it seems only a few kilometers down the river, so it seems worth a shot.The path along the river, however, although at first a pleasant roll with a view of ships plying the waters and parkland on both sides, soon turns into a royal mess. Suddenly I'm in an industrial hell while rolling on the recommended side, ultimately having to backtrack a couple times after pulling up a map on googlemaps that is surprisingly not as helpful as one would think. Arrrgh. I wonder if some kind of joke has been played on me, sure, but in any event I finally do make my way into the neighboring suburb of Griesheim... to find that BikePoint closed an hour before. Sigh. The way back, anyway, will at least see me traveling along the correct side river; soon I'm back near the hostel, grabbing some food at a bakery-ish place in Sachsenhausen, debating what to do.

Well, back to the original plan, I guess, playing some horn while the bike advertises itself... although I don't really feel like properly busking. At 4:30 p.m. - perhaps 5 - I'm on a parkbench alongside the river, a cardboard sign's draped over the bike, and the trumpet's out and I'm toodling away. Before too long, a man cycling by even has agreed to my price of 100E - but he'll have to go home to get it in cash. Will I be here in an hour? Uh, maybe? I suggest half of that time, looking at the sky, and off he goes... and all too soon on comes the rain. And not in small amounts. I try to hang about the area some more, hope spring eternal if not in ten minute bursts, eventually cowering under the shelter of the end of a bridge, but it's obvious that this sale has been scotched. Well, tomorrow's another day, I guess, and at least there's shelter and beer - hefeweizen! (Bernardstein) - back at the hostel.

Back in its friendly confines - as soon as the rain as let up enough for me to blaze back before it can start again, which it will, and in a similar fury - I meet Shane from greater Vancouver,B.C.. Over a couple of hours in the communal lounge area, we have a nice conversation about backpacking, cycletouring, gear, etc., the random interactions one gets at a hostel and the primary reason such places exist (although some merely want a cheap bed). He's a young but impressively knowledgeable guy, considered in giving his opinions, while generally of a more conservative bent in some areas than myself while presenting his side of things in a way I have no problem respecting. With the rain howling away outside, meanwhile, I again opt for rummaging near the bottom of my food bag and will call it a night around 9 or so. In my 4-bed hostel room is another seemingly longterm resident from a distant land, this time an older Chinese man who reminds me of the Syrian in Aachen with his nonstop video-watching. There's also a guy with a large number of bags who it looks like never leaves his bed. A conversation of a couple sentences is enough to indicate he's an asshole - which there generally aren't lots of in hostels - so I leave him be. I've got a potentially busy day ahead of me tomorrow.

And here it is, Sunday morning, my last full day on this side of the "pond", and I've got a bike to get rid of. Already I've just about repacked the suitcase which I'd left here for a month. As for the grand sale, I don't get going too fast, waiting until about 10:30 a.m. to find myself on the Main River. There I'm back to playing my horn while simultaneously looking both at the sky and the positioning of my bike and its cardboard sign - now with a price of 85Euro. It turns out that I'll get a lot of trumpet playing in on this day, a good thing brought on by the bad thing of not too many eyeballs lingering on my bike. And that's even as the number of folks walking along the river grows over the day - if not at first, when there's still a threatening sky which'll last until after lunchtime. So I will break at a riverside cafe for coffee and a pretzel for good spell with temporarily low hopes, happy to indulge in the charms of a convenient bathroom while my bike is still prominently displayed. No dice on a sale, still.

The sun arrives eventually, however, and with it comes more folks - potential clients, customers! But also a lot more trumpet, now from a few spots closer to the most touristy bridge which leads over to the rebuilt oldtown. It's only when I change to the that side of the river that I finally get a few queries, but a couple of them are because my changed price of 70E looks like a German 10. I make it more obvious with the black marker in my backpack. Still, the increase in action is encouraging while otherwise at least I'm getting some people-watching in with the swelling numbers of people in the late afternoon. Especially entertaining are the random motorboats on the river, some with bridal parties trying to be as loud as possible. And right at my feet are plenty of cycletourists - usually seniors on e-bikes - humming along on some kind of longer journey, using this river as their route to (I assume) further connect with the Rhine. As evening approaches, a couple of guys from Morocco make it seem that I've got a sale, but when they suddenly change tacks, moving an agreed price next down to 50, seemingly ready to press even further downward while calling me "friend" repeatedly, I bid them adieu with a smile while telling them that they can hunt me down further down the river. It's all a bit much when they're acting as if we're sudden brothers since I went once to their country back in '83. That they suddenly have no cash on them after all, needing to wander off to an ATM to get some money, etc. , is a bit much. To think that most transactions in the world were once done this way, endless haggles and feints, is a tiring proposition.

I return to the other side of the river, then, ready to find a nice bench to play on with the right amount of shade. A couple of older guys on the same bench engage me with friendly conversation in German as, before long, some guy comes by to show great interest in the bike. When he suggests that perhaps I've stolen it and am now fencing it since I don't have a receipt on me, I'll tell him tough luck. Soon enough one trio of people - and then another - approach with more serious interest in the bike. The second of the trios ask the same regarding a receipt, but are only nominally concerned about it and are satisfied that I have no issue with letting them photocopy my ID if they want. As the first trio goes off to get some money and the other hangs in the balance, soon enough the bike is finally sold: it's destined to be a commuter bike along the river for the next chunk of its days and I've unloaded this small burden that I'd be just leaving somewhere regardless by the end of the day.

This allows me to return to the trumpet, playing the random tune in between conversing with my two benchmates. It turns out that one is actually from Kaiserslautern! Furthermore, he's both a jazz fiend and loves the festival in K-Town I've just attended by accident. So what a nice way to end the day, if not the trip, as darkness is soon falling and now I, for once, am faced with the solitary choice of walking back to my hostel. Only a dinner from the Ukrainian refugees at the hostel and a final breakfast remain between now and being on an airplane back home... where I'll be welcomed by a toxic level of wildfire smoke in Leavenworth. Damn! I left Europe too soon! And the smoky hell'll last well more than a month, too, practically without a break, ruining what would otherwise be a late end to summer's warmth. At least there'll be one caveat: the local bars - and the grocery stores - offer tasty, proper hefeweizen from Bavaria!

Books read on this trip: Lake Success (Gary Shteyngart), A Murder Of Quality (John LeCarré), A Carnival Of Snackery (Dave Sedaris), Hurricane Season (Fernanda Melchor), Mrs. Dalloway (Virginia Woolf), Buddenbrooks (Thomas Mann).

Next up? 3 months of cycling for Summer 2023 in Japan.

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Cycletour 2022: Southern Germany with a dot of France, Luxembourg, and Belgium thrown in