I never liked Germany much. And it hasn’t got to do with the War. No matter how often Grandma warns me against trusting the Germans, I know they are famously reliable. Perhaps it’s because as kids, Mum and Dad always drove us to Southern-France. As soon as my Sis and I got old enough, we flew to Italy pretty much annually. It’s just, what do you do in Germany? What is there to see? Didn’t the whole country get bombed to rubble only eighty years ago? Perhaps, at second thought, the War was in fact to blame.

Hardset in my ways, I’d only ever really been to Berlin. Berlin, famous for parties and clubbing, also known for its museums and palaces… I’d only seen it in the dead cold of winter, the first year of covid. My old friend Elias and I had absolutely nothing to do. Most of everything was closed, and the rest empty, which made it easier to never return, and to keep my focus on the South of Europe.

But now I live in Groningen. If I bike an hour East, the people no longer speak my language. Together with my mate Marnix, famous from our adventures in Egypt, I’ve already gone to inspect Bourtange, a town-sized fortress nestled right up against the border. And it’s not there to keep the Dutch in. The moats, bulwarks, and windmills are all aimed at Germany.

So believe me when I say it took real bravery and courage, the other week, to board a German-built bus headed for Düsseldorf. Thankfully Indi was there to hold my hand, keep me safe.

But once there, my suspicion started feeling misplaced. The sun warmed the green grid of the city, just exploded into Spring, each tree like a kernel of popcorn, quickly forgetting winter. They seemed eager to tell us no such thing as Winter had ever existed. Only a bad dream, whispered the wind through the canopies, and perhaps we could have a bit of cake by the Rhine River? Thousands of Düsseldorf’s happy inhabitants had already gathered there for cold pints and pretzels.

We spent the next afternoon in Bochum. Up until a few weeks ago, I’d never even heard that placename. But turns out, they organise the largest free-to-enter music festival of Europe every summer. So despite the fact that the place has barely any medieval history, or that the landmarks are nonexistent, we rolled into town, gathering at an unexpected stage, basking in the sun and the blasting of the music. Turns out the festivals aren’t limited to summer. Bochum more or less loves a good night out every night of the year. 

Münster was my contribution to our weekend-trip. Founded as a monastery over a millennium ago, it actually has a very interesting history. I’ve already bored Indi halfway to death talking about the beautiful, cream-coloured Baumberge sandstone of the cathedral, so I will not bother you with such things here. In fact, Münster turned into the highlight of our short visit for a reason of an entirely different nature.

Walking to the sunny botanical garden, Indi and I stumbled upon something very unexpected. Helped by the soft breeze of the early afternoon, a man had filled the air with thousands of gleaming soap bubbles. To the melody of a piano, his bubbles drifted towards us. We picked a spot in the grass and stayed with him for a while. Kids jumped around, laughing and screaming, trying to pop each and every single one.

I visited Germany with lots of misconceptions and prejudices, only to lose most of them in only three days’ time. Indi was happy, I left wanting to come back.