Claire Gebben

We are on our way to Berwartstein, a magnificent castle of many in the Wasgau mountains. My pen bumps and dives along the page as I try to take notes in an Opel going 140 kilometers per hour.

“There is Hambach Castle, we will go there another day,” Matthias nearly shouts above the road noise. “See it on the hill? In 1832, the whole region made a protest, not just Germans, but Poles and Czechs, too, a protest for a parliament with elections, and for a free press.” My cousin Matthias Weber is our guide again today, as he was yesterday when we made the wall walk in Freinsheim.  Dave is in the front passenger seat, his eyes glued to the Autobahn as Matthias barrels us along. “What is that word, for the thing you put the baby in when you put him to sleep at night?”

“A crib?” I shout back.

“That’s right. Gut. A crib. So then, Hambach is called the crib of Democracy.”

I burst into laughter until I have to hold my stomach from the ache. Matthias is mystified. At last I regain enough composure to explain the distinction between a cradle and a crib, and he laughs along.

Later, as we wind along mountain roads, Matthias squeals the car to a stop at the sight of a “Leiterwagen” – a ladder wagon – on display in the middle of a field. It’s special to this region, Matthias tells me, and of very clever design, since it is made up of two ladders and two sets of wheels. Farmers would arrange the lightweight wagon in various ways for different uses. Because it is collapsible, it is easier to store. I am captivated as much by the wagon as I am by the crocuses in the field – in late Autumn! Beautiful purple crocuses sprinkled among the thick green grass – they’re called Herbst-Zeitlose, Matthias tells me. I’ve never seen crocuses that bloom in autumn before. I learn the translation later, back at the house – Timeless Autumn.

Ach ja, the food. The well-set Pfälzer table. Merrily, we feast. On the plate pictured here, the food is cooked to perfection by Manfred’s mother Marliese. We’re enjoying Saumagen (stuffed sow’s stomach), Leberknödel (liver meatballs) and Bratwurst, all served with mashed potatoes and sauerkraut. Und naturlich, Riesling spritzers. The weather has been beautiful. We ate in the courtyard of my cousin Manfred Weber’s home.

In 1857, Michael Harm traveled from Freinsheim, Germany to New York harbor on the packet ship Helvetia with 297 passengers on board. The journey took 46 days. In 2010, Dave and I flew from Seattle to Freinsheim on a Boeing 777, packed to capacity at 440 passengers, in 9 hours and 20 minutes. We flew over the Atlantic under the beacon of a full moon. We arrived at dawn.

My cousin first gave us a walking tour of Freinsheim, and what I’ve written for my thesis so far has instantly eroded to sandstone rubble. Knowing a place through books is like knowing the German language through an on-line computer class — sketchy at best. Along the Freinsheim wall walk, we encountered some narrow passages, one nicknamed “stink alley”. Once upon a time there were only two gates in and out of the village. The one pictured here is the Eisentor.

The wine farmer statue in the picture behind Matthias and me has a Logel on his back, a special barrel backpack for lugging around harvested grapes. Did I mention it is harvest time? I may get to harvest grapes while I’m here — I’m definitely getting to sample the vintages.

In the evening we went to the final day of the Wurstmarkt in Bad Durkheim, the oldest and largest wine festival in the world. I’m told the Wurstmarkt is celebrating its 570th year. (Official mention of the festival dates to 1830.) Back at the start, farmers wheeled casks of wine to the town in wheelbarrows, set up tents and served food and drink. All these tents in the photo shelter thousands of wine drinkers. My cousin tells me the whole point is to cram together, to drink and to laugh and to meet people. Willkommen auf Deutschland.