Musings on travel #5: Family, friends & Frankfurt

A posy of images and words

Accommodation in Berg. Image: Monique Mulligan

Dear Creative Souls,

My father’s family immigrated to Australia on the Castel Felice when he was nine; my mother’s parents were part of a government assisted migrant scheme in the early 1950s - she was born a few months after their arrival at Villawood Migrant Hostel. But although my German ancestry has always been important to me, I only visited for the first time in December 2023.

Back in the ‘70s, when German relatives visited us in Sydney, Australia, it was a big deal for our extended family. We would show them the sights - Taronga Zoo, Featherdale Wildlife Park, Koala Park; Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge; the Blue Mountains and Warragamba Dam. We would gather for feasts: Oma’s buttery, crispy-skinned roast chicken and “famous” potato salad, green bean and cucumber salads, obsttorte (fruit flan) with sweet whipped cream, big scoops of Neapolitan ice-cream. After lunch, we children would play outdoors, oblivious to the momentousness of the occasion and the underlying sadness of the adults who felt the inevitable farewells long before they happened. And when we all went to the airport to say goodbye, when we watched the huge planes take off (you could do that then), when we watched our grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles wipe away tears as they hugged loved ones, all we thought was “They’re so lucky to go on a plane.”

Fast forward. We spent Christmas 2023 with a German friend of the family - we always called him Onkel (uncle), my dad calls him a cousin, but really he’s my dad’s godmother’s son. R has always kept in touch with the family and has visited Australia several times - if his wife had agreed, he would have moved here years ago. It was one of his greatest wishes that would we visit him and his wife in Singhofen, the small country town where they live in a tiny cottage. Imagine my reaction when he played a short film of his 1979 visit - a compilation set to “Walzing Matilda”, which featured my parents, my grandparents, my sister and cousins, and seven-year-old me. So many of the people in that video are now gone and oh, how the tears streamed down my cheeks as I watched them brought to life on his PC. How I smiled to see my uncertain little sister (with the unfortunate haircut I gave her) grab my mini-skirted mother’s legs, to see my father’s curly hair and flared pants. My sister and I wore the matching pink-and-blue striped dresses that my grandmother knitted; I loved that dress until it was holey. Watching that video for the first time was one of the stand-out memories of my recent German travels.

And the other is equally poignant. We spent New Years in Frankfurt with my second cousin and her family. M and I have been penpals since I was 12 and she was 13, but had never met in person until now. Over the years, we had shared news of our careers, loves, babies, moves; we wrote about books and gardens and wanting someday to travel. M has kept all of the letters I wrote - and reading them on the last day of 2023 was hilarious, embarrassing and heartwarming … and also fascinating, to see the girl I once was, and the parts of her that remain.

As I write, a cup of TWG Moroccan Mint tea is steaming on my desk. The house smells of freshly-baked baguettes and roasted vegetables. French lentils are cooling in a bowl on the kitchen bench; in another bowl, freekeh. Later, after a swim at the beach, I will make an Ancient Grain Salad with Roasted Vegetables and Persian Feta. But for now, while my cat snores on my bed, and my husband relaxes after a busy morning, I will sit with the memories of other places - Singhofen, Wiesbaden, Frankfurt.

Travel Bouquet

The taxi drops us off at Strasbourg station. We pause out the front, say goodbye, before being swallowed up inside the belly of this pulsing transport hub. Waiting to board the Stuttgart-bound train, we are held up by a well-dressed couple who has more than six bulky suitcases between them. They hop off and on, apologising all the while for the hold-up. We have twelve minutes when we arrive in Stuttgart to catch our connecting train to Koblenz; that train is cancelled en route, leaving us scrambling to find another train, to message R, who has been waiting for us to arrive for almost two years. We have four minutes to get from one platform to another. We run, dragging our suitcases for the ride. Thanks DB, your reputation has been upheld!

Berg. Image: Monique Mulligan

We are met at Koblenz Hauptbahnhof by R, who drives us to our next destination: Singhofen, a small town of less than 2000 people, known for cycling and hiking. He is excited to show off the stunning region he lives in: romantic castles high atop hills, vast terraced vineyards sloping down impossible hills, dormant volcanos, wild forests, and the jewel at its heart, the Rhine River, full to bursting from snow melt. Our road takes us along the equally full Lahn River, past the sophisticated spa town of Bad Ems, and smaller Nassau on the mouth of the Mühlbach; at Singhofen, we drive up and around narrow streets, past houses where Christmas lights are starting to shine, and we think our travel day has come to an end. It has not - unknown to us, accommodation has been booked at the nearby hamlet of Berg.

The car stops at a white building on the edge of a tiny hamlet. Beyond it are fields, small hills, and a road leading into the countryside. R gets out of the car, motions us to follow. He has a surprise for us, he says. Above, a window is flung open: Hallo? A brief conversation, much of which I can’t follow; we exchange confused glances before following R into a foyer, up a narrow, carpeted staircase, and into a small apartment. As we take in the Christmas decorations, the Advent gifts, the chocolates on the table for two, the abundant food, wine and beer in the small kitchen, it dawns on us that we are staying here, not in the garden cottage R sent photos of. We are glad of this when we see the garden cottage - it is tiny and cold, room for one single bed only. How R must have laughed when we sent tentative WhatsApp messages asking if there was a toilet, a bathroom, heating.

St Martin’s Kirche, Bad Ems. Image: Monique Mulligan

Left to our own devices in a place we know nothing about, we don raincoats and boots and explore the tiny village. It takes less than twenty minutes - there are no shops, no cafés - but we read later in a well-thumbed brochure that it’s a base for hikers in summer, autumn and spring. Later, R returns and drives us to Nassau to buy Chinese food; we take this back to Singhofen, and I am finally reunited with his wife G. We communicate in a mixture of German and English and Google translate; we laugh and drink wine and eat home-made waffles. We are not at home but we feel at home.

It is raining heavily and we are walking from Berg to Singhofen. Our raincoats keep our top halves dry, but our clean jeans are soaked and mud-speckled. The rest of our clothes are in the wash, being taken care of by the kindly owner of the holiday let. R takes delight in sharing the German saying - “There is no bad weather, only bad clothes” - but takes pity on us and allows us to shelter in a wooden hut used by hunters. When the rain eases, we move onward, through the forest, along muddy paths and through fields until we reach his home where the fire is warm and a second breakfast - bread, cold meats, cheese and coffee - waits. It rains until Christmas, and the weather is mild at 8-11 degrees, but we are content to spend time with this couple the age of our parents, and experience life as they live it. Simply. Meaningfully. Unhurried. Walk. Talk. Eat.

Limburg Cathedral. Image: Monique Mulligan

We walk in the countryside, in the rain, mist and fog; we drive to castles and fortresses and mythical landmarks; we climb towers and hills, we visit churches and abbeys. One day, we visit Bad Ems and its fancy spas, marvelling at how close the Lahn is to flooding; the next we visit Limburg, with its pretty old town and striking cathedral. On Christmas Eve, we go to Mass in Bad Ems; later, we eat a traditional meal of sausages and potato salad, before exchanging gifts.

There is no snow on Christmas day; I hoped for a miracle, but perhaps the miracle is simply being here. In our little apartment, it is a bittersweet, disconcerting morning - we are far away from our loved ones who have already been celebrating for hours. We are at a loose end and so we walk across the fields into Singhofen, passing walkers who wish us Fröhe Weinachten; here in this house of family-by-choice, vegetable soup and bread awaits. We play Mensch ärgere Dich nicht (Ludo) and Triominoes; we watch and photograph birds - sparrows, robins, tits, woodpeckers - and Eichhörnchen (squirrels), a David-Attenborough-esque documentary playing out before our eyes. At times we long for our independence, the freedom to wander this way and that, but two days later, when we say goodbye and tears flow, we realise we have given this older couple - unable to have children - the best gift of all. We promise to return.

The majestic Köln Cathedral towers above us - another Gothic masterpiece that takes our breath away. The Christmas markets are all but packed down. In front of the cathedral, armed police bar entry; a serious bomb threat has closed the cathedral indefinitely. Twenty, perhaps more, police vans are parked in the square. We wander to the Rhine river - it has broken its banks and water laps over the footpath. We visit the Schokoladen Museum, breathe in the scent of warm, melting chocolate, and when it becomes too crowded, escape to the foreshore park, cross the bridge bejewelled with love locks, and admire the cathedral from a distance.

Wiesbaden - in the in-between of Christmas and New Year, we meander down winding muddy paths in Kurpark, an English-style landscaped garden. The pond fronting the striking Neo-Classical Kurhaus is the heart of the park: here, a couple sits close together on a bench facing a small lake, ducks and Egyptian geese waddling hopefully towards them; there, dedicated carers take their aged and fragile companions for an afternoon constitutional. All around - families, big and small.

Marktkirche, Wiesbaden. Image: Monique Mulligan

Another day. We stroll through the long park after a breakfast of bircher muesli and berries; we take our time and joggers dressed in activewear pass us, veiled in sweat despite the cold. We pass the ice rink near the State Theatre - at this time of the morning, it is near empty; in a couple of hours, the bordering tents will be jammed with people drinking glühwein and beer, eating sausages and pretzels and spiced biscuits. The ice rink will be framed with hundreds of families, watching children and the brave of heart go round and round and round; others will try their hand at curling, while onlookers cheer.

Sign of the times. Image: Monique Mulligan

We wander through the Altstadt, where Christmas markets are being dismantled and the Marktkirche looms above the square. We drink hot chocolate, window shop in quaint and quirky boutiques. We drink coffee in an Italian café, treat ourselves to almond cookies and a slice of cake. We steer away from the main shopping district, away from shoppers carrying bags from high-street shops and department stores. We eat kebabs in a popular joint, only to find a place that ‘looks better’ half an hour later. We visit Museum Wiesbaden and spend hours looking at exquisite Art Nouveau pieces and natural history exhibits. We are tired of bread so we eat at a Vietnamese restaurant that inevitably reminds of us of home - we fly home in four days.

Music in the air. Image: Monique Mulligan

On our final day in Wiesbaden, we walk from Sonnenberg to Neroberg, up and down hills, past stately homes and winter gardens, past mismatched architecture that one moment awes us and the next has us scratching our heads. The Nerobergbahn is hibernating for winter, so we walk up Neroberg hill, taking a winding muddy path through a leafless forest. There, a panoramic view awaits; we take it in, before heading back down, in search of coffee, passing the gilded domes of the Russian Orthodox Church. On this grey day, even the gold is has lost its shine.

Nature fights back. Image: Monique Mulligan

Russische Kirche, Wiesbaden. Image: Monique Mulligan

We end our German experience in Frankfurt - by this time, we are tired and our minds are angling towards home, nearly 14,000kms away. My second cousin, M, is waiting in her cul-de-sac for us. She throws her arms around me and our connection, built on a foundation of many years as penpals, is sealed. We chatter in a mixture of German and English, filling in the blanks effortlessly - when she needs a word, I have it; when I need a word, she is there.

Later, we catch the U-bahn to the Senckenberg Nature Museum and spend hours wondering around an awe-inspiring world of biodiversity - the largest dinosaur exhibition in Germany, life in its its variety and evolution. Over the next two days, we visit the fascinating Historisches Museum, the superb Palmengarten with its orchids, ferns and palms; we walk in the Altstadt and view the city skyline from across the Mainz; we walk in parks and up hills. We talk. We connect. And on New Years Eve, we watch the sunset from the love-locked Eiserner Steg (iron bridge) - a glorious fire sky - before gathering for an oozy Raclette feast - a new experience of cheesy goodness that leaves us craving fruit the next day. At midnight, we watch fireworks from the balcony; for over an hour, fireworks are set off all over the city - there is no structure, no, it’s a colourful, explosive chaos. Not even “Fireworks Night” of my childhood years comes close. On the first day of 2024, we grab umbrellas and meander through the streets, past a village of half-timbered houses and up to Lohrberg, Frankfurt’s local “mountain”. We are not alone - the sun and rain compete for attention as walkers and cyclists share this urban wine-growing area.

It is pouring rain and for the first time since we arrived in Germany, we are on an autobahn. We are in a taxi, en route to Frankfurt Airport; the driver is chatty and wants to know about Australia - he knows people who have been there, but for him, it’s too far to contemplate. We answer him, happy to talk about home, but when he is quiet, so are we, staring out the rain-streaked windows at this country and season we are leaving behind, where memories have burned into our souls.

The airport, Germany’s biggest, is overwhelming; for a few moments we don’t know where to go, but we soon find our bearings, and the long queue that is our gateway home. We buy chocolates for the kids; many long hours later, in Singapore, I buy the tea that I’m drinking as I write. We land in Perth on a warm summer’s afternoon; the airport seems so small, the sun so glaring, the sky so endlessly blue. Waiting for us in the arrivals lounge is our oldest son, with a warm smile and long-overdue hugs. We smile at each other as we follow him to the car - we are exhausted, we want showers, our bags are heavy, but we are undeniably home.

Frankfurt Altstadt. Image: Monique Mulligan

Frankfurt skyline. Image: Monique Mulligan

Frankfurt’s sleepy city centre on New Years Day. Image: Monique Mulligan

Thank you, dear Creative Soul, for joining me on my travels - I hope you’ve enjoyed the trip, whether it's taken you back to familiar ground or opened up possibilities. Next week, I’ll return to Friday bouquets, comprising a posy of observations each day. Tschüß!