Living in Rothenburg is like running into a child’s imagination.
A small train with three compartments shuttled us to the old town. It was noon. The sun stuck-out of the sky like a nose. As I stood in the quiet of the town, I could hear myself breathe. And yet in this quiet, I could feel the merry air dancing around me.
We walked unto the medieval archway, behind which located our hotel. The wheels of the suitcase drummed against the cobblestone street. The faster I walked the louder they drummed. Like a roller coaster ride. It was a long walk and I grew accustomed to its rhythmic sound. And as I grew accustomed, it seemed that the sound was meant to be produced by design – the more I thought of this the more I was convinced – it was I think a personalized welcoming drum for tourists. The passerby smiled as we walked into the town. I wondered whether they smiled at me or at my thoughts or if they were by their own nature smiling regardless of my presence.
I spent two days walking around the streets. Two rows of houses run parallel across the town leaving a narrow passage in between. The town unveils itself artfully. The size of the houses is all the same, hidden one behind the other. Red rooftops. One small chimney. Rectangular windows. A gateway for entrance. A small patio if you please. It reminds me of my art teacher who taught me how to draw a house, filling it up with contrasting crayons.
The town has a long winding bridge. The bridge has a balcony. I take this elevated passage created for panoptic viewing of the town. You can walk for hours at this gallery and look at the cascading roof-tops, the hills overlooking the town, clock towers, river flowing in the distance, multitude of coffee shops, gardens, and empty by lanes. I get down at one such solitary lane and walk further into the town.
I stumble upon an open theatre: long wooden benches; a sheet of fresh leaves covers the stage. There’s a sense of serenity in the place. It makes me sit down on the steps of the theatre. There isn’t a show. I stare at the stage and look at my own hurried life. There’s a calm breeze, placating my thoughts. I sit, until it’s late in the evening, until darkness falls, and it’s time to leave. It’s a long way back to the hotel. I stroll along the narrow lanes of Rothenburg. The night is quiet. The sky is clear. There’s not a soul in sight. Somehow, the emptiness is fulfilling.
Late after mid-night, I lie down on the bed and paint the town behind my eyelids. I think about this magical place and who must have built it. It feels like it’s a child’s imagination. It’s make-believe. Cars look like toys, and toys pop out of a clock, and when the clock strikes, the time slows down the onlookers, who stand and gape at the town: the merry town, the medieval town, the quiet town, the colorful town, and the town which makes you believe in a child’s imagination.
Next morning, we wake up before dawn. The bags are packed. Through the window I look at the view outside for one last brief moment. The town looks like a photograph straight out from a story book. It’s a small wonderland: there are gardens and stone walls and bright houses and flowers pots hanging out from every window and bistros with chocolate balls dressing the entrance.
We climb down the staircases with our luggage. The bills are paid. The hotel door is opened and closed. There is no passerby to smile at us, but the wheels rock against the ground, leaving behind a trail of little complimentary music in the town. It’s how perhaps the tourists say goodbye to Rothenburg.
