Remembering roots on Von Sandt Straβe

Every summer, from the year I turned 3, my mother and I travelled by train to Bonn in Germany to visit my lovely grandmother, my Oma. It was a magical journey, which I have blogged about here, and it ingrained in me a life-long love of train travel. With roots and connections having become this week's unofficial theme, I started thinking of those weeks spent in Oma’s delightful little flat on Von Sandt Straβe, of the memories I still have from that time; and I wonder if part of me isn’t still rooted there.

Throughout the afternoon my thoughts revisit familiar places... the bakery where we would buy Mohnkuchen (moon cake); the butcher’s shop where I got my first taste of Mortadella (yum). Oh, and the ice cream... mmm, the ice cream, the ice cream. German ice cream was the best, it was more like sorbet… not rich and creamy like everywhere else, and as a child with strange and underdeveloped taste buds, it was perfect. I would eat it in great big coupes on the river boats, as we explored the Rhine valley on countless day trips.

I remember riding up Drachenfels on a stubborn donkey that refused to cooperate; buying freshly baked Brötchen from the Italian grocer around the corner, and eating them with plum jam for breakfast; my Oma pointing at people with her cane when we were out walking, infuriating my mother.

My eyes are filling up with tears and I realise I can’t ignore the fact that although it has been more than 20 years since I was last in Bonn, and my Oma has been gone for even longer, I still have roots there. And I’m wondering if it isn’t time for a visit. Maybe I can go on a trip down the river on the whale-shaped Moby Dick, my favourite of the river boats. Maybe I’ll stop at Drachenfels, although I suspect the donkeys will be off limits to me now. But I'll definitely eat ice cream. Lots of it.

Photo from www.meilleurduchef.com