What I Don't Know...

About Rothenburg am der Tauber

I don’t know that the little narrow path just beyond the bridge meanders behind the wall to the edge of town and eventually leads into a large garden with a big apple tree and a quaint little cottage. I don’t know that the man, who lives in this cottage, reminiscent of the gingerbread house in the tale Hansel and Gretel, is now retired, that he waits impatiently for Sunday afternoon when his curly haired granddaughter with her big blue eyes and cherry pursed lips and little scuffed black mary janes comes to visit.

I don’t know that she runs up and down the path along the side of the house chasing the mouser who in turn dives under the bushes searching for a quiet refuge. I don’t know that the little girl, once she’s had her fill of fun then flies breathless through the front door, dirt on her knees where Oma feeds her fresh baked cookies and a tall glass of milk. I don’t know that she gobbles it all up greedily and then peers into the china cabinet at grandma’s collection of knickknacks knowing that she mustn’t touch, but wanting to in the worst way.

I don’t know that later that afternoon she saunters lazily hand in hand with her mother down the cobblestone street. I don’t know that when they turn the third corner that there’s a little café that sells ice cream, their most popular flavour being a creamy hazelnut that would be perfect topped with melted chocolate. I don’t know that just a little ways further down this narrow street they reach the city walls where they take time to peer off into the forested countryside and then slowly pass through a gate into a large park with beautiful gardens.

I don’t know that many musicians hang out in this area serenading the lovers who laze about in the grass and on the park benches on sunny summer afternoons. I don’t know. There are many things I just don’t know.

Meet Bob

I’ve been doing a fair amount of work with International students. Here’s a snippet of the conversation that ensued while working with an 11 year old Korean boy the other day:

KB: Caw ra

(I can’t tell you how many times my name has been massacred and not just by Asians either. My luck wasn’t much better while living in Quebec. Who knew it was so difficult to pronounce. Apparently “L’s” and “R’s” present a specific challenge in many languages. And when placed together, well…that warrants a post of its own. Show me what you can do with a bilabial fricative, and perhaps I’ll go there on another day.)

KB: (Looking very intent) How do you call the orange bridge?

Me: (In a matter of fact tone) I don’t think it really has a name.

KB: It looks so like the Golden Gate Bridge.
(Despite their young age, many of these students have traveled extensively)

Me: Hmm…(raising my eyebrow trying to look like I’m really thinking hard about his last statement) it’s really not quite as large or majestic.

KB: (disbelievingly) It doesn’t have a name?

Me: We usually just call it the big orange bridge.

KB: Humph (thinking pensively for a minute)…so we can call it BOB?

Me: Okay, BOB it is.

KB: (looking very satisfied that we’ve come to this final agreement)

Ponte Vecchio

One of the most charming bridges in all of Italy lies across the Arno river in Firenze. The Ponte Vecchio, built in 1345 by Taddeo Gaddi, replaced a wooden crossing that had been washed away by a flood twelve years earlier. The overhanging shops in pale pastel colours add to the bridge’s enduring appeal.

Shop owners first set up businesses on the Ponte in the 12th century. Rumour has it that a tax exemption on the bridge played a large role in the creation of these premises. For centuries food stores monopolized the bridge until Ferdinando I de’ Medici had Giogio Vasari construct a corridor along the top of the bridge to link the Palazzo Veccio with his home. He couldn’t stand the smell of rancid meat emanating from the butcher shops below so he thus promptly expelled all such businesses along with any businesses deemed lower-class. Goldsmiths and jewelers promptly took their places and are still prominent along the bridge today.

The far bank across the bridge is bordered by the backs of picturesque houses, their foundations lightly bathed by the river. Beautiful views are seen looking both up and down the river in part of the oldest area of town.

During the German retreat at the end of World War II, the Ponte Vecchio was the only bridge in Florence not destroyed. This was apparently because of an express order by Hitler. As a result, this bridge is not only the oldest segmental arch bridge in Florence, but in all of Europe.