thetravelerspen.com

Even the most pretentious traveler has to admit to losing themselves in comfort. One can only travel the world and experience culture for so long before we seek to set foot on familiar ground again. Or maybe I'm just a bad travel writer.

Mainz was introduced to me by my father-in-law. "You will want to steer clear of Mainz" he'd say. He related a story about a downed bomber crew who were captured and lynched by the townspeople of Mainz. As the story goes, American bomber pilots from then on (to the end of WWII) rallied around the phrase "Save one for Mainz," referring to one bomb for the return journey, to drop on the city.

"They still harbor some anti-American sentiment there." He would tell me.

We had gone on many journeys that summer, my wife and I. We'd experienced incredible culture and tried to assimilate as best we could at every turn. A French translator in Lyon (my brother-in-law); a little bit of German language skill; I think we even managed to speak a bit of Irish. We soaked in this long-fermented Western European stew and now reeked of its essence.

We were approximately fifty days into our travels. I missed eggs and bacon. I missed steak. I was sick of European sodas and soft, fragrant cheeses--I wanted Wisconsin Cheddar and Pepsi made with high fructose corn syrup. We longed for one day of the life we'd left behind. What was once romantic and exotic back home was now--regular and annoying. I even longed for nice, watery, Coors Light over the German Pilseners.

We hopped the train to Mainz. We brought beers with us, ignoring the glares of Germans on their regular commutes. I cared not for how “American” it was to so blatantly utilize the liberal drinking laws. Drinking on a train was a luxury I could experience no where else but on “vacation”.

Looking at those pictures later, it was a real pity to have gone to Mainz at that time. It’s a quiet enough German city with a pleasant and historical atmosphere all around, but I just wanted to have fun. We all did. My brother picked up the bill on everything. Money was no object on this special day. No one was up for working incredibly hard to assimilate.

We walked, talked, and drank for hours. We were searching for a particular wine bar that my brother had found on a previous trip. For all our boisterousness and drinking, we somehow failed to draw that fateful, anti-American ire that my father-in-law spoke of. It's a pity too--I was so ready to pull out the "We kicked your asses in WWII and then saved you from Communism! Get me another beer!"

We found the wine bar. We sampled tons of wine. At one point, I suggested we get “real” German schnapps; everyone laugh as I “shot” the delicate aperitif laid before me. We drank. We solved the world's troubles. I found the strength to ask a dangerous question; one that had bugged me since he came here.

"I'm not going there to be a hero," my brother would answer, "I'm not going to risk not seeing my wife again." I didn’t believe him, but it would have to do.

As the sun set, we glanced at our watches. We then stared at our watches, attempting to make them focus in an effort to actually read the time. Our "day trip" had lasted us over nine hours. The last train—a 20-minute jog away—departed at 11. It was 10. With a full day's alcohol in us--from Chianti, to Schnapps, to Dunkel-Weizen--we began to jog through Mainz. Between the alcohol, the uneven cobblestones, and the pace, it's a miracle that our knees, ankles and skulls survived.

In the midst of our haste, my brother stopped. "I could really go for a barbeque chicken pizza," he said. My senses couldn’t understand what was happening. One instant my body is pumping gallons of adrenaline to navigate cobblestone streets; my eyes saw mostly darkness; my ears being invited to the mild cacophony of rushing night air and evening partiers. One moment my nose detected the subtle hints of concrete oozing the remainder of the day’s business into the cool night air, and the next—garlic.

We had found our way to Pizza Hut.

I thought he was psychotic. We were on the verge of missing the last train home and he was thinking of pizza. It was barbeque chicken pizza he craved; a concoction that was an aberration not only to the pizza world, but an affront to the workings of God himself. I can only remember thinking was here he is a disciplined soldier of over 10 years and he has clearly lost his mind.

Two years later and I’ve only begun to understand the factors that could explain that night. My brother was the one who told me and my wife (then fiancée) that we had to jump feet first out of our comfort zone to really feel alive. Five years had passed since he gave that advice. In that time, he had practice what he preached. His “home” had long since been built on the horizon, forever out of reach. Long had been his time on the road of uncertainty with no destination; now it was headed straight for the desert, with no way to turn.

Barbeque chicken pizza was probably the only sane thing that night; probably the only sane thing in quite some time.

We missed the train that night. He paid for the hotel room. At 6 A.M. he would awaken and tell us to enjoy Mainz, but he had to get back to his wife. We slept away gallons of alcohol. When we awoke, we wandered the city, enjoyed beautiful sculptures and the Rhine River. We ate a delightful breakfast at a place that looked like a castle. With the last of our cash, we boarded the train back to Idar-Oberstein.

It’s been almost 2 years since I’ve successfully failed to see Mainz. Excepting the few lazy days following, I haven’t seen my brother since. He kept his promise, and came back to Germany—and his wife—in one piece. This was for the best; had anything happened, his eulogy would’ve contained the phrase “Who other than he—amidst a dead run—gets a craving for barbeque chicken pizza?”