Frankfurt for a Few Hours
The plane touched down after nine hours of immobilized discomfort spent in the middle seat in row 24. To my right was an early-20s kid who wrapped himself in his complementary blanket like a cocoon and slept, face-first on the tray table, barely moving the entire flight. To my left was a young intellectual German girl who really wanted to connect with me; the grimy denim-clad giant with an unkempt beard and ever more unkempt hair.
But I wasn’t interested in a conversation in which I would have to side-eye her to detect any facial expressions and potentially rock the gestating caterpillar man every time I made a hand gesture. So I plugged myself into the in-flight entertainment, zoned out and slowly felt my tailbone become sorer and sorer as the flight continued.
I had an 11-hour layover in Frankfurt and wasn’t interested in spending it wandering the Twilight-Zone world that is an international airport.
That’s the funny thing about airports. It’s a quarantined world where the general rules of etiquette get skewed into a Bizzaro battle of time, exhaustion and confusion that ultimately breaks apart a few pieces of the civilized human trapped inside this dystopic reality.
Everywhere I go, I see fully-grown adults sprawled out on the floor, broken from exhaustion. It isn’t odd to see a family huddled around a free electric outlet charging their phones and tablets; even when this outlet is directly adjacent to a bathroom entrance. Long black leather benches with polished metal arm rests sectioning off single seats strangle poor, tired souls who wrap themselves like dough being pushed through a chain-link fence just to get some sleep. Old women shove through gangs of wild children screeching at the top of their lungs while their parents desperately search for their boarding passes. A half dozen military police, armed with automatic weapons and hardened scowls charge through the crowd with the subtlety of elephants. And then there’s me. This guy that doesn’t quite belong anywhere, drifting through this chaos like a summer breeze because this is what I know best. The motion, the insanity; it just makes sense.
I’m through immigration and customs in a flash and walk out of the airport with the desire to see Frankfurt. I have a few problems: I don’t speak German and have no idea how to get into the city. A cab would cost $50 each way and I don’t want to spend that kind of money. Plus, it’s too easy. I like a bit of a challenge and I have the time.
The guy at immigration recommended the bus, so I head over to the bus station. I try and read the schedule, but again—I can’t understand German. So I do what I always do and start talking to people.
I walk up to a bus driver filling out his daily mileage log. I wait for him to finish and ask him:
“Do you speak English?”
“No,” he said, “Polski.”
“Ahhhhh,” I said, “Вы говорите по Русский?”
“Да,” he said, and I got my directions.
Thirty minutes later I was walking out of the Frankfurt Main train station. Think Penn Station in New York or Киевский Вокзал in Moscow: old, ornate and packed with travelers. I had Googled German restaurants in the city and made my way toward what I hoped would be some juicy brats and sauerkraut.
The city was packed. it was lunchtime. A slew of ethnicities and economic-statuses poured down the sidewalks and through the walking markets that drew in hungry workers on their break. As I walked through, almost every ethnicity’s food was represented: Vietnamese, Indian, Italian, English, African- heck, there was even an Australian restaurant. And people say immigration is a bad thing.
I made my way down the street and through a few parks when I finally found “Restaurant Klosterhof.” The food was good. I sat in the outdoor biergarten and enjoyed the weather. When I was finishing up, I asked the waitress:
“I have a few hours to kill, what do you recommend I do to enjoy my time here in Frankfurt?”
“My favorite thing to do is to walk alongside the river. It’s beautiful and a short walk from here.”
I paid my tab, tipped the girl for her help and walked the six minutes to the river.
What a sight to see! I have seen many rivers before, but this one was special today. An Ironman triathlon was underway and the scene was pure energy. Athletes were running everywhere. A whole army of support staff was trying to keep things organized, but not completely succeeding. I breezed through the crowd and strolled down the river a way. I eventually found a nice open lawn adjacent to the river with many locals lounging in the warm weather balanced by the cool breeze flowing off the cool Main river.
The Main River
Full of brats and tired from the cramped flight, I laid my messenger bag on the meadowed lawn, rested my head on it and promptly fell asleep to the white noise of the triathlon’s chaos while being gently rocked from the soft German breeze. From off in the distance, the “oom-pa-pa” of traditional German music danced on the breeze and soothed my mind like a lullaby. I felt a moment of zen with the city and my relaxed state, like it knew I was worn and ragged and was helping bring me back to life. I laid dozing there for about four hours before I finally got up and left. I had to get back to the airport and make my way to Africa.
As I was riding the train back, I had a thought about what it is to see a place versus what it is to experience it. Usually we research and find the sights, drinking in history and culture as much as possible. We see everything. I found that walking through a busy city and its markets, coupled with some authentic food and a nap on the side of the river allowed me to experience the city more than all the tours and galleries could ever provide. Slowing down allows you to see the nuances, the tiny little gifts a city is waiting to show you if you would just look.
Thank you, Frankfurt, for a great day.