Every day we went for an ice cream at the Italian place, then to Berne’s for a coffee. We ordered the same thing each time: the stracciatella Eis, then two Kaffe normales, a large water with gas. Then we’d sit there people watching remarking isn’t this nice, the weather’s perfect. And then we’d ask for the Zahlen and say Tschüss.

Being in a foreign country but not fluent in the language, you skip off the surface and never fully connect with others. Living abroad full time can feel like being there but not at the same time. Maybe that’s just the way for expats who separate from their home country and never fully integrate with the new language or culture. I wondered if I could live here without speaking the language and while it was possible, I didn’t want to for that reason. It would feel lonesome, isolating, after a time.

Looking down on the village, the Altstadt (or old town), from the vineyards, it was hard to make out which house was my mom’s. They were all twisted at different angles and didn’t look the same from a distance. I’d tried before to place mom’s house in proximity to the others but still couldn’t get it right. And it always felt exotic, her being here and me a part of it too, like something from a dream—at times unreal.

Without many plans to speak of our days slowed to a different pace with little variation and largely centered around where we’d go for lunch. Because the Ratsstüble was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays but reopened Wednesday, we went there. And mom was friends with the owners, as she was with most places. So we got a table and sat there people watching again: the DHL drivers with their hand trucks and tatts, the retired pharmacist who only spoke a thick Schwäbische Dialekte we tried to avoid, the old bookstore owner named Jurgen.

Some woman with a little yapping dog was half in Jurgen’s shop and half out, barking herself in German at the dog: and she was so loud and forceful (as bracing as the dog) everyone could only watch as it continued. And after she’d finally gone Jurgen looked out across the little stone-paved road at mom and me and just shook his head, making a face of disgust only a man in his 80s can.

Then in what must have been a daily ritual now for decades (Jurgen is 84), he began wheeling the metal postcard stands in from the street for the afternoon break when all the shops close for lunch. Jurgen’s partner Petra is in her 80s too but both are well tanned and fit, smartly dressed: she in a red satiny blouse with black leather pants and matching red shoes; he in a green Polo shirt with pressed khakis and brown loafers.

One by one, they flip the brake on the foot of the metal postcard stands and nudge them over the cobblestones through the doorway of the old bookstore. And soon looking down the street all the other shop owners are doing the same, as it’s coming on 1 o’clock. And the little curving road zips shut like this, and goes quiet to where the only sound is the rattle of dishes from the restaurants and the quiet dialogue of Germans over their meals. Jurgen, then Petra ask if they can sit at our table because there are no other seats. And we make small talk with what German we can. When it’s time to go we shake hands; Jurgen’s got a good grip.

Later, at Miriam and Uwe’s house I get the skinny on Jurgen and Petra: she’s not really his wife, though they have some kind of arrangement it seems. And I’m not above gossip I guess because I start nudging Miriam for details about the other townsfolk. She’s 56, lived here all her life.

It seems the restaurant Frank’s isn’t as well liked in the town as I thought, since Frank (the brother of Tanja, who married the Frenchman Claude) squeezed the prior owners out and put in a restaurant that’s deemed overpriced. The real reason I think is that Frank isn’t local, he’s Bavarian. But it doesn’t matter to me, I like having options; I’m more tourist than resident.

Mom gives me more relics she’s set aside from the barn: the Time magazine issue printed on September 11, a hardbound book on witchcraft from the year 1486 called the Malleus Maleficarum, which gives advice for how to put down witches. Each time I come here and leave I take handfuls of things like this back, and pine to be here once again when I’m not. The days drain down in this way, but maybe if we take our time it will last longer.

Categories: Memoir, travel, writing

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, travel