April 1995.
I was in Aachen to complete a pilgrimage to the Royal Throne in the Aachen Cathedral.
But there was more to the city that butts up against the borders of Belgium and The Netherlands.
There are still relics from its Roman influence nearly 2,000 years ago, though many, such as a Roman portal arch, are replicas.
Spires dominate the skyline.
Everything that isn’t contemporary seems to be built with heavy stone.
Public art from the centuries can be found on nearly every street.
Feet learn to fold themselves over cobblestone to ease the pressure on tired legs.
There’s something that tickles my soul when I let my fingers drag across stone walls that were built centuries before surnames were ever used.
No German city walk is complete without stopping for some kind of bread or pastry, and I soon find myself before Moss Brot, eyeing pieces of the famous Aachener Printen, mouth watering for the spicy gingerbread that sells for just a couple of Deutschmarks each.
I stop for lunch at an outdoor café, dine on spaghetti carbonara, relish a couple of beers.
By the end of the day, my legs are tired from walking, but I carry on to the Rathausplatz in front of the City Hall.
As the sun sets, the plaza fills with groups of university students drinking bottles of beer, talking, and mellowing out to the sound of acoustic guitars.
I grab a couple of beers myself from a nearby store and wander among the groups until I find one where students are speaking English.
They invite me to join them and I enjoy a pleasant evening talking, singing, and drinking with strangers from all parts of the world.
The night air is warm for April, and it’s nearly morning before the last of us scatter to our dorms and hotels for a few hours sleep.
