Northern Germany was not known for heat, most of the time anyway. Perhaps being on the water, humidity and such, made it feel so much past balmy today, except the breeze coming in from the north was cool.
Or maybe it was the long bike ride. . .
Rostock’s port was basically like all others, only older, with the centerpiece—not literally—being the lighthouse. It didn’t have the same old-brick charm as the Campanile in Venice, but in a way was more fun to photograph. The wondering if people were allowed up there so I could take some photos was quickly tempered by my knees shouting for my brain to shut up, so I got back on my bike once I’d had my fill of the tall scenery and made my way to the next destination the gorgeous blonde at the tourism office had recommended.
On the way I looked at the surroundings as much as I could while also keeping an eye on cars and pedestrians, thinking this was a kinda strange city when compared to its Baltic neighbors but not able to say why. Language differences were always fun, and right now as I waited at the red light and perused a billboard, it occurred to me that the double dot accent, which I’d always thought was more Scandinavian, looked a bit funny. In fact, when on the Ö, they kinda looked like eyebrows, making the letter look surprised. . .
The Kröpeliner Straße had a bit of a fairy tale vibe to it, with its tall old skinny buildings that looked like something out of animation. With all the photos I stopped to take—it is my job, after all—it took a lot longer than expected to get to the Fountain of Happiness, or Zest for Life, depending on who was doing the translating, where soon enough other tourists were wondering just how many angles one guy could shoot. This being University Square, in what the beautiful tourism blonde had told me was the oldest university in Northern Europe—take that, Sweden—I indulged my hobby of exploring bastions of higher education, and not for checking out the lovely female students, as vicious tongues have wagged in the past. The red and yellow buildings were the most fun to shoot, nothing like my education stomping grounds at UCLA.
After a while I stopped to examine a wall that the gorgeous tourism blonde had told me about; part of me was wondering if it was the right wall, while the other part thought about going back to the tourism office to thank her. Having photographed every inch of the temples at Khajuraho, I considered myself an expert at walls, so it didn’t take me long to find what she’d been hinting at: while it really wasn’t all that different than most little demons seen carved into buildings all over Europe—helluva lot of them in Paris, for example—this little imp was squatting, arms folded in his lap, head down on his arms, looking remarkably bored with the view. You could almost hear him sighing as I wondered who he’d ticked off to get this guard duty for eternity.