Tag: The Willows

A huge group of us had just produced an unscripted experimental opera in Berlin, Germany. People from the rafts, Mardi Gras in New Orleans and just different artists that Lisers had met and vibed with. It was over now and we had a couple of days in Frankfurt-am-Main before we would be flying back to the United States.

Alexis had managed to rent a car, an adult flavored magic trick I’ve never been able to pull off personally, much less drive one. Drew came along of course. Alexis, Drew and I had been the core imagineers behind the opera segment entitled KoboldsGeschenkladen or Goblin Gift Shop. We grabbed Jacki and failed to grab Popsicle for reasons that would become apparent later.

We stopped in some sort of picturesque rustic village with narrow slanted cobblestone streets for gas, directions or some other thing that wasn’t my responsibility. Then we ended up swimming in the Rhine. I want to say that we were in view of the famous Loreley but I may be transposing that detail because I’m a fan of the statue and that’s my favorite Pogues song.

Jacki got excited and started singing “Never thought I’d be in the Rhine” to the tune of Andy Samberg’s smash hit I’m on a Boat. This was evidently viewed as a transgression, or at least a serious lapse in decorum, by the primeval River Deity of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows. [Note: I guess that’s technically the Danube but you get the idea] A hefty bough from a representative of the species was launched toward, and only narrowly missed, her head.

We started driving uphill toward the first of the castles. On the way we passed an older middle aged man in some kind of boxy all terrain vehicle that looked like it came from the Second World War or a mid-budget ‘80s sci-fi movie. He looked like the kind of European man that gets cast to play a sex tourist or serial killer.

The first castle had been allowed to rest in a state of advanced disrepair with only a modicum of modern signage. The moment we arrived a pair of white goats with long shaggy hair and impressive horns ran out to greet us. They seemed to be indicating that they wanted to give us “the tour”.

The goats led us around to the front of the ruins where there was an aluminum sign in the particular shade of brown used the world over to indicate “minimally maintained nature and historic landmark stuff”. The sign displayed the rough isomorphs for four human heads surrounded by arrows that were pointing at them. We realized then why it had been impossible to bring a fifth companion. Clearly it was a rule; that vital part of the German National Identity.

Our guides led us the rest of the way around the castle walls until we came to a small detached structure that seemed to serve as their dormitory. When Drew moved to step inside the goats’ accommodating posture was replaced with reserved yet urgent bleating. They seemed to be trying to say:

“We really weren’t expecting company and we’ve kind of got urine and feces all over the floor because nobody has swept it out yet.“

We allowed the goats to return to the relative comfort of having just concluded an impromptu and obligatory house tour. A second sign was labeled Waldgrab and pointed to a small footpath between the trees. As advertised it led to an understated gravestone that reminded me of a Castlevania game or the cover to Burzum’s Hliðskjálf.

On the way back down the mountain we spotted the same ATV guy and decided to follow him in case he was heading to an even cooler and more secret castle. We ended up at an isolated archery range that filled a clearing with targets and images of wild animals on stacked up hay bales. I said something about how cool it would be to shoot bows and arrows in my limited and often weaponized German. With a pointed glance he conveyed to me that simply tailing him through the forest had been both uncool and more than enough American Imposition for a single day.

The next castle had been converted into a luxury destination hotel called Schloss Rheinfels. Someone near the entrance recited a practiced speech about the reason that the Rhineland Valley had an average of one castle for every small amount of square kilometers. It was something about how anyone who had the wherewithal to stack a few rocks and levy tariffs from passing merchants had done exactly that.

The dungeon had been converted into whatever the opposite of a torture chamber is. There was a circle of the kind of black leather upholstered chairs you find at an airport or state fair that accept coins in exchange for a mechanized back massage. Behind a set of iron bars a plastic skeleton was guarding a chest full of treasure that looked like it had come from Oriental Trading Company beneath red and green mood lighting. I leveraged my slim physique to squeeze between the bars and pilfer an ornate cross medallion that I hoped would be cursed as a result of its unique provenance.

There was also an indoor swimming pool but it seemed that we had arrived too late in the evening and the doors were locked. Drew shifted into a hidden superpower that I had never seen before or after. Stripping to his underwear he threw on one of the monogrammed white bathrobes and accosted a hapless desk clerk with a perfect imitation of an unamenable and vaguely European tourist:

“Hallo, I just took a constitutional swim in the Rhine and I was hoping to have a dip in your magnificent pool but it seems I’ve come too late and unfortunately my flight is just ridiculously early in the morning…”

As Drew droned on the unlucky man looked around nervously and with no salvation in sight he capitulated and leaned in close for a confidential tone:

“I can let you in the pool but you won’t be able to use the Finnish sauna. The time machine is off.”

We floated lazily under fluted spouts next to tables stocked with wellness products under the red and white striped pavilion tents of medieval jousting tourneys. We were all thinking the same thing.

If this is what the castle is like without a time machine it must be nothing short of miraculous when they actually turn it on.