Rest by the Rhine

When we arrived at Logan for our flight home, we were asked if we wanted to take the following day's flight, for US$800's compensation. Work due the day after my return meant we declined, of course - not my first work-related adjustment, and not my last I suspect. Mary, never one for long rides in enclosed spaces, dreaded the 36-hour journey home. This mercifully included a 17-hour layover at Frankfurt-Hahn, where we got out to the city of Mainz by the Rhine River.

Below: Simply having a wonderful Christmas time, at the Mainz Christmas market.

Overcoming jet-lag flying halfway around the way from the west was always going to be a struggle. We hardly slept on the Boston leg, and barely completed the marathon between our gate and the airport exit at Frankfurt-Hahn with leaden eyelids. A wrong train in the right direction landed us briefly at a dark suburban station where a hooded figure, reeking of weed, stared menacingly at us. 

Mainz had always been a hub. The Romans enforced their watch on the Rhine from here. St Boniface, patron saint of Germany to whose tireless efforts the subsequent conversion of many German tribes can be attributed, was once bishop of Mainz. As the diocese grew, the Archbishop of Mainz eventually became from medieval times a key elector with a say in the nomination of the Holy Roman Emperor. From Mainz, Johannes Gutenberg helped usher modernity into Europe by inventing mechanical movable-type printing. Today the city remains an important port between Central Europe and the North Sea.

Below: St Boniface looks benevolently over the market square. His martyrdom is alluded to in the sword-pierced Bible which he holds. Attacked by the pagan Frisians on his final mission to what is today the Dutch coast, he strode forth with a Bible to meet his assailants and was promptly struck down.

Our start to the day was as uninspiring as the city's history was the polar opposite. An icy drizzle and empty streets in that lacklustre limbo between dark and day lent to the city a post-apocalyptic calm. As the city warmed up to what at first looked very much like a stillborn Saturday, we ducked into the MacDonald's right next to the city square for breakfast. We were easily the youngest patrons in a geriatric crowd of silver crowns. Breakfast exacerbated our drowsiness, however, and we dozed there unabashedly for a bit, cradling our heads uncomfortably in our own arms.

Below: Mainz wakes up to the weekend; the bottom-most picture shows the Proviant-Magazin, a military storehouse for the troops garrisoned in the city.

At ten, the vanguard of the weekend crowd started streaming into the square. We wearily shook off what sleep remained and followed the gathering throng to an adjacent Christmas market. There, amidst the clinking of beer mugs and aroma of burnt sausages (it was ten in the morning), Mary was revitalized. At least, until exhaustion overtook excitement as morning waned.

Below: Photo opportunities at the Christmas market before we were crowded out.

In between currywurst, mulled wine and handicraft stalls we found time to explore the city centre. This was dominated by the distinct sandstone spires of St Martin's Cathedral, where medieval German monarchs were once crowned by the Archbishop of Mainz. The easy accessibility of Mainz meant photographers seemed to outnumber penitents in its cathedral, unlike many others we visited earlier in the trip.

Above: St Martin's Cathedral, where medieval German kings were once crowned.

Below: St Quintin's Church, site of Mainz's oldest documented parish.

As noon came and went, going nearly twenty-four hours without sleep took its toll. Settling on the pews of a Carmelite church on the northern edge of the city centre, we clasped our hands and dipped our heads together, falling serenely into prayer as deep as the slumber which succeeded it. It was a true Carmelite sanctuary, for nothing until our own subsequent embarrassment disturbed our contemplation.

Below: Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, Jesus said, and I will give you rest. We obeyed, and slept prayerfully on the pews in this peaceful Carmelite church for an hour.

When we waded back into the weekend which was gathering pace outside our cloistered cerebration, we found the crowd augmented by football fans. Decked in the rival red and white of both 1. FSV Mainz 05 and VfB Stuttgart, both sets of fans exchanged tribal anthems in between liberal swills of beer. One Mainz fan, when we asked what his prediction for the match outcome, replied without a second thought, I'll be drunk by half-time. Seems nobody keeps score here.

Above: our clairvoyant Mainz supporter before the game began, who was very happy to talk to us, and as a result had to be dragged away by his friends to the stadium.

Below: the tedium of a gloomy winter's day replaced by evening's bonhomie.

Our Carmelite interlude only lasted us until dusk, which came early amidst the winter chill. Our flight to Singapore was scheduled for ten, but at ten minutes past six we could not wait to jump on the train for the half-hour nap it offered until we arrived at the airport. We withdrew €80 at the airport before we left in the morning. By the grace of God it was just enough. Every last cent was spent - the left luggage, our train tickets, MacDonald's, currywurst, an acrylic Christmas tree and polar bear, a handful of pretty plates which caught Mary's fancy and three visits to the toilet.

I went twice.

Massachusetts Avenue

Our journey back to Boston was memorably torturous. Mary was gripped by both vomiting and a stomach upset as we transited in Atlanta. Suddenly, the three hours between flights seemed too short as we staggered feebly from one checkpoint to another. Our experience on the connecting flight tore to shreds Delta's confident assertion in its pre-flight video that they are the best in what they do. We were bounced brusquely from Delta's general enquiries desk when we requested for our seats to be closer to the bathrooms. The officer on duty was plainly more interested in her phone. On the Atlanta-Boston leg, however, we were fortunate to meet an attentive stewardess who assisted patiently with our every need. All we remembered of her older colleague next to her was her unprofessional remonstrations when we asked to dispose of our sick bag.

Below: Posing reflectively before the Civil War monument in Cambridge Common.

At the reception desk of Buckminster, I finally returned the bathtub plug which I had carried through half of Central America. I had mistaken it for yet another inconsequential domestic contraption from Daiso, brandishing it triumphantly in El Salvador when Mary asked for a S-hook. No epiphany could have been shinier than when Mary blandly asked how is that an S-hook?

Having finally checked into our room at close to 2 am, we stayed in it until a creeping hunger compelled us to forage outside well after sunset sixteen hours later. It left us with only the next day for sightseeing before we headed home. We were more interested in shopping though. secondhand books in my case and craft materials for Mary's. Google led us north of the Charles River. Both the bookstores and craft shops we wanted to visit were situated along that stretch of road between Porter and Harvard Squares known as Massachusetts Avenue, also where we conveniently did all our sightseeing.

Below: The Manichean duality of steely, snow-laden skies - slate to gaud and God.

A sprinkling of snow added a touch of magic to another gray winter's day when we arrived at Porter Square. There was little to see until we approached Harvard Square, save the brightly painted timber houses on many of the smaller lanes nearby. We took our only steps on the much-vaunted Freedom Trail near Cambridge Common where a certain General Washington took command of the American militia in 1775.

Below: Redcoat responses to Freedom Trail monuments.

And who could omit the agglomeration of almost artificially brilliant intelligence in the vicinity? As an undergraduate, I often found while walking between lessons whole parades of tourists in various statuesque poses. Five years on, camera and shopping in tow, amidst Harvard's domes and spires and scurrying students who paid little heed to us, I crossed a decisive divide. If the campuses were temples of learning, the bookshops scattered around Harvard Square were shrines of popular devotion - nowhere else could I have obtained Fernand Braudel's The Mediterranean World at US$15. My bibliophilic rampage subsequently left us having to balance the books on our return flight, especially with Lufthansa stringently policing their 23 kg per piece of check-in.

Above (top to bottom): A memorial persists in winter; Nerds should pause before heeding the siren's call of Harvard Book Store. Check your wallet, then your luggage allowance.

Below (top to bottom): Celebrating Christmas early with our adopted family; our only views of the Boston skyline were from the airport, on the first and the last days of our trip.

That last evening, we had dinner with Samuel in his room to avoid a repeat embarassment of us being mistaken for his parents. We only wished he was younger. At least I knew I wasn't getting any when I collapsed in a heap on the bed upon returning to Buckminster.

Packing had to wait.