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The next day we check out of the hostel.  The hostel is pretty communal: all the guests have to strip their beds and put their laundry in bins before leaving, and the night before we’d had to bus our dishes and clean the table after dinner.  We’re so high up that we have to take an aerial tramway over the Rhine into Koblenz.  J. says that one of the cars on the tramway has a glass bottom so you can see the river, and on our way back that’s the car we get.  (The trip seems full of these little miracles, the rain holding off while we tour the castle, for example.)  We press on toward Köln, and now J. and Doug visit their favorite tourist site, a music store called, imaginatively, The Music Store.  B. has told me she usually brings a book, so we read while they pound on drums.



Another couple, a woman from Greece and a man from Belgium who met through the Discord server, has come to Köln, and we check into the hotel and then go out to dinner at a restaurant that specializes in schnitzel.  And here we’re introduced to another custom: at this restaurant, if you don’t want another beer, you put your coaster over the glass.  Otherwise they just keep on bringing the beer, one after the other.  It’s Kolsch, of course, which is brewed in Köln.  Then we go back to the hotel and stay up late talking.

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We drive north along the Rhine.  It’s astonishingly beautiful, mountains covered with pale green trees and the river running between them.  And there are other castles high on the mountains, including two enemies facing each other called Katz and Maus.



We pass the Lorelei, a statue at the base of a hill at a sharp turn in the Rhine.  Supposedly she sits there combing her hair and singing, and lures sailors to their deaths.  I’d wanted to see her because of something my father told me, that the Nazis had wanted to ban Heinrich Heine’s poem “Lorelei” because Heine was Jewish (though he had converted) but they couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of it, so they published it as by “Author Unknown.”

I’d liked this account when I first heard it.  I thought it showed something about the power of stories, the way they endure despite everything, even censorship.  Then I grew up and became a writer, and the treatment of Heine pissed me off.  Authors should get credit for their work, dammit.

We stop for lunch at a small town called Bacharach, possibly named after Bacchus.  It’s also quaint, with tall narrow houses and winding streets.  Then we reach Koblenz and our destination for the night, a youth hostel in a former fortress.  The fortress is high on a mountain, and you can only get to it by another funicular.

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