Germany: First Contact

Robbing destiny has always been a constant theme with me and I knew that robbing time cheated destiny in the manner of someone rebelling from his station in life in order to buy an experience that those in his class shouldn’t desire or understand.  I suppose my relatives always thought it was just a quirk in me, but discovery is a powerful motivator.  In my travels I have often marveled, as I walked down the lanes, thoroughfares, or back roads of Europe, how money was the only thing that made the journey possible.  I remember the extremes of wealth and poverty and wonder why the rich have so much money when there is so much good to spend it on. 

My journey in 1972 to Europe began May 22nd as the Lufthansa 747 touched down near the pine forests that lie on the outskirts of Frankfurt, West Germany.  They reminded me of the tall pines from my summers in Muskegon, Michigan.  There was an immediate physical exhilaration from the impact of clean fresh air and low humidity.  I had the misfortune to being sandwiched the entire trip between two fat bodies in that awful middle section of coach.  After each meal the lady to my left would steal the silverware – real silver, but I digress.  When I got to Frankfurt, I knew enough to get my traveler's checks cashed into German Marks at the train station in the center of town.  I was impressed by the scaffolds and the construction.  They were getting ready for the 1972 Olympics, but you could still see large WWII shell holes on many of the older buildings. 

A Hippie told me that it was best to stay in the Haus der Jugend (Youth Hostel) many blocks away and that I needed to get a tram to get there.  The only thing on my mind was getting a bed so that I could shake off my jet lag and get to England where I could more easily adjust to backpacking.  The tram I caught was rocking from Hippies singing the “Age of Aquarius.” 

About dusk, the kids at the hostel had hidden a Mideast illegal alien, a Syrian.  They offered him their beds, but he refused and slept on the floor under one of the bunks.  He asked me in broken English about America and what would be the best city to immigrate to.  I told him Denver was my choice because of its cleanliness and scenery.  Much later I had second thoughts about this innocuous transient because I learned that the terrorists who killed the Israeli athletes in Munich at the Olympics were Syrians. 

Next morning I awoke to the sounds of clanking dishes from the kitchen, gurgling water from the fountains outside, and quacking ducks.  It was standard procedure for those who paid less for their beds to do some work like sweeping the floors or doing dishes.  The hostel was like a commune with kids from all over the world. I got dressed and rolled up my K-Mart felt-lined sleeping bag that I always slept in.  Even with a backpack, I could really walk in those days.

On my way to the train station I managed to get sidelined enough to see Goethehaus which has been dismantled during the war for obvious reasons.  Being in the house of the father of Romanticism impressed me little although I believe I’m a Romantic by nature.  Goethe was relatively prosperous having servants and a quaint home for that time.  Everything harked of warmth, friendliness, and comfort.  Out back was a small well-kept courtyard with massive brick fences adorned by broken glass cemented to the tops.  A longing for the infinite and possessing a sad fatalism apparently carried with Germans a just and savage contempt for intruders.