Every summer, from the year I turned 3, my mother and I travelled by train to
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
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