I’m in Heidelberg. Not Melbourne’s Heidelberg, home of The Greenery which taunts me on every long run along the Yarra Flats and whose fence I became entangled in when I was resting an knee injury by substituting some inexpertly executed cycling for running. They say you never forget how to ride a bike. I’m here to tell you that you can.
No, the German Heidelberg.
A work trip deposited me in the home of sausage and strudel. It was an uneventful trip, blessed as I was to enjoy the hospitality of Emirates business class. In these times, where zealots can turn even your most luxurious flat-bed, Bulgari-in-flight-accessorised aircraft into a weapon of destruction, there are several moments of relief to be enjoyed.
1 – when your plane lands safely.
2- when your luggage has made it through the myriad possible points of failure and arrives on the baggage carousel.
3 – when the person who is picking you up after a 24-hour journey is there with his little sign.
Clearly, I breathed out too deeply, too early. I’d not travelled on a German Autobahn since my 1993 Contiki tour, and for reasons not confined to the passage of time I don’t remember one moment of that.
My driver relished the left lane and applied himself to winning the autobahn with all the verve of vintage Schumacher. I’m routinely predisposed to passing unsolicited advisory commentary on my husband’s driving when I feel like he’s applying himself more aggressively than required on Nepean Highway on the way home from Sunday golf, notwithstanding we are barely peaking 70kmh.
I’ll never do that again.
Seated as I am in the Euro back-passenger-side I’m unfortunately in prime position to observe my driver’s intent to maintain an average autobahn speed of 170kmh. Now these are excellent roads with wide lanes and very focused drivers. My driver is in his 60s, which suggests he’s been navigating these roads skilfully and safely almost to retirement age (unless he’s a high powered financier who is indulging a late in life career change) I do feel like he is pretty loose with his calculations on the braking distance required when one travels at 170kmh, but who am I to argue. I’m in a large German-built car, whose every anti-skid-braking, side-airbag, crumple-zone molecule would surely strain towards keeping its passenger safe, purely from the perspective of nationalistic pride. Nevertheless, I Google the road toll stats.
I make it to the hotel, more woozy from the white-knuckle-clenching that has re-distributed my bloodflow in abnormal patterns than I was as a result of travelling more than 16,000 kilometres and numerous time zones in 24 hours.
From there it gets better and I invest my Sunday recovery time ahead of the working week in exploring the lovely town of Heidelberg, and lovely it is.
I exercise off some jet lag and in-flight Veuve Cliquot with a stroll on the Philosophenweg which apparently back in the day was the path trod by students and philosophers in the backblocks behind Heidelberg’s universities. Today it is the path trod by Instagrammers who have seen this trail in the top 10 must-do’s on Trip Advisor. It’s also popular with serious runners who are using the fairly epic hill to do the training I SHOULD be doing in preparation for an imminent half-marathon but seems a little out of reach given my jet lag and a solid winter of over-indulgence.
From the top of the hill are epic views of the old bridge and old town, which in my case are best enjoyed by standing still instead of trying to simultaneously sight-see and navigate cobblestones downwards in leisure shoes that lack suitable grip, imperiled as I am by motor skills that have let me down since high school.
I then embarked on a tour of Heidelberg Castle. I love a castle, and given Australia lacks anything castle-ish beyond about 100 years old, I’m all over a European Castle tour like white on rice. This may have been triggered by my parents’ early efforts to instil a sense of history into my interests, hampered as they were by the only local offering being Kryal Castle. Looking back now, it’s fine if you want your castle constructed in Western Districts’ bluestone, positioned ready to aggressively defend vulnerable sheep paddocks near Ballarat, with staff wearing loosely accurate historical garb, relishing the opportunity to use the term ‘wench’ at will. But it’s got nothing on Heidelberg Castle, sporting as it does an impressive gallery of statues of former rulers, vintage ballrooms, solid staircases – and the highlight – a wine barrel capable of holding 220,000 litres of vino. Despite no shortage of real estate, the top of the wine barrel does double duty by providing a large dance floor space which appeals to that part of me that will never hit a dancefloor without some proximity to alcohol. It was built to hold the tax collected from local winegrowers who paid in the currency of wine, but somewhat loses its cachet when you realise they co-mingled the wine regardless of grape variety, colour or vintage, resulting an almost undrinkable brew that just reinforces everything I’ve always believed about cask wine.
Having ticked the key Trip Advisor boxes, I strolled the delightful old-town precinct. I managed to walk on past take-away joint Mr Currywurst despite the obvious charms of a corporation that had the creativity to put curry sauce on German sausages.
I settled into a café in a quiet corner of the old town for some traditional European café people watching.
Here’s a rapid-fire list of my observations:
Wine is cheap and good. I will eternally cherish any geography that serves up a very nice chardonnay for the equivalent of $6. Best chance of a similar price point at home is the subsidised bar at the local kids’ footy club and even then for that money you are probably going to be drinking Yellow Tail.
Dogs are stylish. Dogs of all shapes and sizes happily stroll the streets in bandanas, coats and ponchos. Even Bondy, the most metrosexual of my pair of Australian Terriers, and who always gains a little extra swagger when venturing out in a new item of apparel would probably come over a little sheepish if he took to the streets in a dog poncho.
Americans have still not moved on from Seinfeld. Look I’m all about comfort when it comes to being a tourist out for a big day of walking in a new town. But sneakers with jeans are just not OK and could NEVER EVER be OK anywhere in Europe. By comparison, a chap looking a lot more local strolls past in a linen jacket and crisp white shirt toting a pink notebook, a citrus gelato and a scooter.
Boots on cobblestones. Having made several references in this blog to my challenged motor skills and general co-ordination, you’d be unsurprised to find me in rapt admiration of a lady who is commanding the cobblestones in spiky heeled boots of impressive height. Every part of me wants to rush over and express this admiration with all the fervour of those late night bestie ‘Oi Love Yous’ that are generally sparked by overconsumption of Ouzo. I resist.
Smoking is still a thing. Having not been in Europe for a few years I had forgotten about the proportion of Europeans that still love a cigarette. From the smoking room at the airport through to the cigarette-company ashtray on my table, its clear that its still a thing.
RHOH There should totally be a Real Housewives of Heidelberg. I could have cast it from my café table in the space of two hours. Boots-on-cobblestones lady would be first on the list. Second on the list is a 60-ish year old lady who appears to be an uncanny merger of one of my close friends and I, fast-forwarded by a decade or so. I’ve long maintained my position that I won’t be cutting my long hair short in any kind of deference to older age until Elle MacPherson does (long hair and an obsession with aviator sunglasses being the ONLY area where our worlds collide) My close friend has an equally fierce commitment to an animal print. This lady was rocking both long locks and a leopard-print. Had there been any way to do it surreptitiously I would have taken a pic and ‘grammed it for keeps.
European street entertainment is serene. Somewhere nearby, a violin was quietly serenading the courtyard with classical music. If this were Southbank in Melbourne, the peace would be interrupted by parkour enthusiasts and that rowdy fire-eater with an obsession for crowd participation.
Violin and chardonnay on cobblestone streets – a perfect antidote to jetlag and autobahn angst.