We headed east from Luxembourg Cityat around 5:30 PM toward Remich, a town on the German border River just this side of the Moselle River. When we got there, the bridge across the river was closed for renovation. Taking this sign as merely a minor setback and not a looming omen, we followed the river south to the next crossing, at Schengen in the southeast corner of Luxembourg. From there we successfully made into Germany. Things were still looking good. Our trip would likely only be three hours.
For those of you who haven’t driven in Europe, the major freeways are designated with the letter “A”. Hence, having made it onto the A8 freeway, we thought our detours were behind us. As Peter Pan might have directed us, “Second star to the right and straight on till morning.” Or at least straight on till Heidelberg.
We were flying along at the 130 kph speed limit for only a few minutes when the freeway ended. Actually, that isn’t quite true. ALL lanes in both directions were blockaded, for no visible reason. Since our only alternative was to sit on the A8 until hell froze over (or the German highway workers showed up to finish the construction job), we opted to follow the other cars up the exit ramp and into an involuntary tour of the German countryside.
Copilot Cammy whipped out the Deutschland road map. Thank goodness we had that, or we wouldn’t know where we weren’t or where we couldn’t get to. I was doing 90 down the country roads, calling out village names as we flew past them. Cammy finally said, “I found where we are, but you don’t want to know that. You REALLY don’t want to know how far we have to go to get back to the freeway, and how long it’s going to take.”
I took her word for it. The countryside was beautiful and we weren’t in that great of a hurry. In most of the fields farmers were busy with hay bailers, getting ready for autumn. The setting sun cast a gorgeous golden glow on everything. We still had plenty of time to get to our hotel in Heidelberg. Then it happened. I was approaching the Merzig village limit, where the speed drops from 90 kph to 50 kph, so I took my foot off the gas and started coasting. As I passed the town limits, there was a bright red flash from the roadside. Seconds later, around a sharp curve, a handful of police officers motioned me to pull over.
The kind (and thankfully fluent in English) officer told me that I was doing 59 in a 50. It was hard to argue against his logic (and his presumed evidence). I’ve had worse tickets. This one set me back 15 Euros, and maybe a red mark against my European driving record somewhere. Maybe. I hope that is the only shoe to fall. Our two-and-a-half hours was now looking like four.
We finally made it back to the A8 after our pastoral detour. We saw scenery that we would have missed had we not gone through the rabbit hole, or through the back door. And it only cost us 15 Euros. Eat your heart out, Rick Steves.
We finally pulled into Heidelberg. As is par for the course, we didn’t have a city map yet, and only the vaguest online directions. It didn’t take long for us to fall back on our strategy of circling vainly through town, looking for landmarks or familiar sounding streets. We hadn’t found our hotel yet, but I was tempted to pull over at a restaurant called “Hemingway’s”. It wasn’t so much that I was hungry or needing a break, but that I had a hunch that I might never find it again. (And that turned out to be true). The real draw was that Hemingway’s address was #1 Fahrtgasse. That’s right, readers: it was number one on Fahrtgasse Street. That’s a lot to be proud of, and I wanted to share in that pride. Or at least to get a picture of the street sign.
Unfortunately, I didn’t stop. I just kept driving, giggling strangely. Cammy stared at me strangely. Eventually I stopped to ask two idle taxi drivers where we were and where our hotel was. One of them told me to go left, left, and right all the way to the end of that street, then up a hill and around the castle and there I would be. I couldn’t miss it. The other driver said that when we had done that, we could then drive back around and ask them again. All three of us got a hearty laugh at that. If I’d only thought to stow a sixpack of beer in the car, we could have become great friends. (Men, see how asking directions is not so bad? It lets you bond with strangers. Give it a try some time).
We found the hotel, mostly by accident, after we had gone left, right, right, left and to the end, around what might have been a castle (who could tell in the gathering dark?), down a steep twisty road, through a tunnel, left and finally another right. It is almost a miracle we found the hotel. It was after nine, and long past the time the kids needed to be in bed.
