Climb Every Mountain

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The wheels of my roll-bag made an awful clatter on the paving stones, so I stepped out into the street and walked on, into the quiet neighborhood. It felt like I could walk for blocks without a car challenging me. I passed a cemetery, ringed with evergreens, roses, and intensely green moss. A crow cawed. A teenage girl walked past in black jeans and a skull t-shirt. She was trying hard to look disaffected, but not quite pulling it off—her hair was too well-groomed, her skin too smooth. Suburban.

She glanced at me, at my frizzy hair, nose ring, and black leather jacket, but was too young to know that I could never quite pull it off either.

My rucksack was making my back sweat as the sun tried to come out from behind a high overcast. I stopped to shed my jacket and re-read my directions to Gästehaus K.

“Don’t turn right or left. Go straight up for about 8 minutes until the street ends.”

Straight up, indeed. It had been hard to find cheap rooms in Heidelberg, and I’d realized that this place was not in the city center, but no one told me I’d have to climb a freaking mountain to get there.

I wiped away my sweat moustache, shrugged my pack into place and walked on. Up and up. Every house was perfect, every yard lush and lovingly tended. Ahead I could see craggy cliffs, steep winding streets, and the distinctive red-orange roof tiles of German houses. In the email I’d exchanged with the lady who ran the place, I’d agreed on four nights at 28 Euros a night—but paying at least twice that to be in the city was looking better with every step.

For weeks, I’d spent my days wandering Germany’s old cities with my notebook and camera. By the time I got back to my room at night, I was often dog-tired and footsore. Was I really going to make this climb every night, after wearing myself out every day? For four whole days?

Grimly I repeated to myself The Prime Directive: If it’s not actively unsafe, illegal, or unpleasant, at least give it a try.

Kids were playing a game on the sidewalk in front of me, in front of a tidy house with dark blue roof tiles, white stucco, and the reddest roses I’ve ever seen. An old man with a cane shuffled past and nodded his head to me.

Had it not been eight minutes yet? Would this street never end? As I walked on, I started making plans to get out of the deal I’d made. I’d say my plans had changed, that I was supposed to meet to my friend in Köln on Friday instead of Sunday.

Ahead I saw the street end in a T-intersection. My instructions now told me to take a left, to look for the 3th house before the street ends.

I stopped to catch my breath and look back over the view. Dossemheim lays to the north of Heidelberg, and its newer nicer suburbs creep up forested mountains topped with reddish outcroppings. It was pretty.

And I was really thirsty.

Nearly there. I walked a few more blocks and stopped in front of a large white house with a tiny front garden. A black SUV sat in the flagstone driveway. A discreet sign identified it as my destination.

Frau K answered her doorbell almost immediately. A model-beautiful blonde in her late 40s, she welcomed me and walked me around back to her guesthouse.

My room was a double, with neat twin beds with deep red floral linens, a big pine wardrobe, a neat little sink, a worktable for my laptop, large windows overlooking the back garden, and a private balcony. I could just see myself on the balcony with a cup of coffee, feet up, drinking the silence. I melted into the comfy space, even as my mouth told her the vague lie I’d constructed, that it might not be possible for me to stay the entire four nights.

She smiled, as cool as the flip side of the pillow. She said, “That’s too bad. But even so, I must charge you for the nights agreed on.”

Touché. She had me there. When I nodded and said, “Of course,.” she relented, explaining that the plans of her other guest were also in flux, and that if he decided to stay, she would gladly refund my money if I left early.

Unsure what one had to do with the other, I nodded. I imagined myself knocking on doors in Heidelberg looking for a last-minute room. One that would be easier to get to—and probably more expensive—without this lush green silence, this balcony-oasis.

Frau K explained that no breakfast was provided, but the guest kitchen she showed me was stocked with coffee and tea, a microwave and a fridge, and I was welcome to prepare any food I’d brought.

I’d brought nothing but Korny bars. I was getting really sick of Korny bars.

Suddenly I was hungry as well as thirsty. Hoping for a miracle, I asked whether there were shops or restaurants, perhaps right around a corner? She laughed and said no, this was a residential area.

“Is there any bus that comes closer? One that will bring me up the mountain?”

She laughed again, and told me that the streetcar I’d taken was the closest public transport, and that it wasn’t much of a walk, that I was an American.

My grasp of German is enough for routine interactions, but when it comes to nuance, a lot can evade me. I wasn’t sure whether she meant that because I was a big strong American I could certainly climb that little ole hill—or that the hill only seemed big to me because I was a spoiled lazy American. I smiled and nodded, as foreigners do when they have not quite understood.
After I washed up, I put on a light sweater and walked down the mountain to the grocery store she’d pointed out on the map, to lay in provisions for my mornings and evenings.

Then I walked back up the hill.

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Comments

[david warren]

climb indeed
I am laughing at your story... You should have taken more hikes with me in Big Bend to start training before your trip.