A Visit to My German Grandmother’s Village

I was 9 years old when my parents deemed me mature enough to travel alone to visit my grandmother in Kastel, Germany. Because I lived in Frankfurt am Main, about 40 miles away from that little town, it entailed a train trip--an incredible experience for a young solo traveler.

My mother would take me to the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, that wonderful soot-filled glass and steel structure which was then, and is today, one of the main hubs of the German Federal Railway.

There was always an air of excitement in this station, particularly around the terminals of the “D” Zuge, direct high-speed trains, and I was enchanted by the signs announcing trains to Paris, Geneva and Amsterdam.

There was much fuss over luggage, many men wearing the brass-buttoned shiny blue uniforms of train personnel and a gathering of what seemed to me “famous” travelers, boarding or departing these sleek trains.

For me it was the “local,” made up of 20 green cars, each with eight compartments and each of them with its own heavy door. There was no way of getting from compartment to compartment, probably to the relief of my mother who entrusted me to one such cubicle, which normally held eight passengers. My mother would usually ask an older passenger to make certain I got off the train about nine stops down the road.

If I was lucky, I would get a window seat and immediately try to open the window, which was secured by a heavy leather strap not unlike those around the shoulders of a U.S. mailman. This exercise usually proved futile, so I sat on the hard rattan seat of second-class (the seats in first-class were velvet) and either studied the passing landscape or a faded, framed photograph of the Alps across the aisle.

Friendly Passengers

The atmosphere was friendly. Passengers unwrapped their newspaper-covered sandwiches of blood sausage, cervelat wurst . Everyone shared, and after about an hour and a half, seven passengers made certain that I detrained in Kastel into the loving arms of my grandmother.

She was a bright, spunky lady, and we would cross the plaza to board a small yellow streetcar headed for Wiesbaden. This trip was equally exciting as the jaunty conveyance sailed through waist-high grass, occasionally stopping to pick up some waving farmers. To our left, I could often see the very blue Rhein, occasionally bearing a river steamer, more often a string of self-propelled barges.

Even today Wiesbaden, one of Germany’s prime spas, is called the Garden of Frankfurt. A residential community not unlike Baden Baden, its 225,000 residents not only enjoy a very mild climate but are close to the Taunus Mountains and the river attractions of the Rhein.

Although there are a great number of historic places to visit--the Old Town Hall, dating back to 1690, the Market, the famous hot springs of Kochbrunnen--my grandmother invariably took me to the stately Hotel Nassauer Hof on the Kaiser Friedrich Platz. Here we had tea and an assortment of elegant cookies, scones and cream puffs.

If the weather was pleasant, we ate on the terrace; if not, in one of the colonnaded, high-ceilinged rooms of the hotel. I still recall the gilt and the ornate fabrics, and I was on my very best behavior.

Return to Wiesbaden

It was almost half a century later that I returned to Wiesbaden and the Hotel Nassauer Hof. Gone were the little trains and the merry streetcar. In my rental car it took only 15 minutes from the Rhein-Main Airport to the front door of this five-star hotel. Only its traditional facade outside and the scope of the public rooms inside stirred the nostalgic recesses of my brain.

Although completely renovated, the hotel has kept or surpassed its world-class status all these years. One is reminded of Brenner Park in Baden Baden or the Dolder Grand in Zurich.

Nevertheless, the blue-suited gentleman behind the front desk with his pen and quill has been replaced by a pert, cherubic German lass surrounded by computers, the rooms have been cheerfully refurbished a number of times since my first visit, TV has been added, plus radios and minibars.

Famous for Poultry

Die Ente (the Duck) is the premier restaurant, world-renowned for its poultry and nouvelle cuisine and one of the largest wine cellars in Europe.

But I spent my time strolling Wiesbaden, a lovely small town, green almost the year round. I visited the flower market as I had with my grandmother and hiked the foothills of the Taunus, recalling that sturdy lady with her Alpenstock and jaunty green felt hat festooned with ornaments of hiking societies to which she belonged.

I tried to fashion a paper boat--which had seemed so easy for her--and float it in the fountain on the square, but never succeeded as well as she had, and passed the casino which she said was a place the rich frequented to lose their money.

I did visit the small villages on the Rhein and raised a glass of chilled white wine to her memory before returning to my well-made bed at the Nassauer Hof.