At the time we lived in Bäumenheim, a small, industrial village just south of Donauwörth (see map ONE or TWO). By the year 1953, I was given permission by my parents to make my own way to Mondsee where we were going to spend some time during the summer holidays. The distance to Mondsee, via, Augsburg, Munich, and Salzburg, was somewhere in the neighbourhood of 300 kms, or for me, a trip of 3-5 days.

Prior to leaving Bäumenheim, I cleaned, oiled, greased my bicycle and packed my clothes, food, blankets, an alcohol stove and a number of other necessities in my rucksack and saddle bag (See Pic. ONE and TWO).

After having successfully made my way from Bäumenheim to Mondsee and back again, I was allowed, the following year, to leave on a tour of less clearly defined route or proportions. Having lived in Mondsee previously during some five years, that was going to be my first destination. Living in Bäumenheim now, I was anxious to reconnect with Mondsee which I had particularly liked. ( See articles MONDSEE1-8)After that, well, I was free as a bird to follow my own wishes.

Then, once I had arrived there I decided that it would be fun to visit areas I had not previously seen, and Italy was one of those romantically calling destinations. Studying my road map I discovered that to begin with, I would have to go to Innsbruck and from there, to cross the Brenner Pass, the main connection between Austria and Italy (See Map ONE). I headed back toward Salzburg and followed the River Salzach in its valley in the direction of Innsbruck. By this time I had formed the habit of looking for accommodation in the late afternoon. I would select some farm at the side of the road, which for one reason or another appealed to me, and droppped in on the owners. I would introduce myself and ask if I might sleep in their hayloft for the night.

If they were, in a general way, prepared to give me such a permission, there would usually be a test I had to pass before permission was given. It came in the form of two questions.

Was I alone, was the first one. And , did I smoke, was the second.

A positive answer to the first and a negative one to the second, usually got me the permission I needed. On at least one occasion, I discovered that the farmer's daughter, at that very time, was also away on a bicycle tour of her own. And, to my delight, that lead to my being received with open arms. Not only was I given permission to sleep in the hayloft, but I was treated to dinner and breakfast, and when I asked the next morning if could buy some milk from them, I was given the milk, but any payment was strictly refused. If they treated me well, they clearly hoped, someone, out there in the world, would treat their child as nicely as I was being treated.

Sleeping in the hay was comfortable and warm. None of the farmers used to bale their hay in those days, and consequently the hay was soft and comfortable to sleep in or on. If it happened to be a particularly cold night, I could dig a hole and, rolled into my blanket I would crawl into the hole. If, on the other hand, it was warm, I'd lie on top of hay and would stay comfortably cool. How could anyone need anything more than this? Many of the bicycle touring people, seemed to stay in youth hostels for the night. I, however, having tried one once, tended to avoid their crowded sleeping halls.

Staying overnight on a farm, I would get up the next morning, scrub myself down at the freely flowing water trough which usually could be found somewhere in the barn, and got myself ready for the day's journey. Having eaten my breakfast which consisting of raw oat flakes, raisins, sugar and milk, mixed together, I would reload my bike and be ready for another day.

Probably going to be on this tour on the road for some three or four weeks, the weight I carried on the back of the bike was pretty substantial. It was so heavy, in fact, that on several occasions, having lifted the front of the bike to get it up onto a sidewalk, it would rebel, aalmost as though it were alive. Like a wild horse rising on its hind legs and pawing the air with its front hooves, my bike's aft end being weighted down by my luggage, would overpower and raise into the air the front end.

Trying to 'calm down' my bike and getting it back into its 'normal' horizontal position could be quite a struggle. Once it had happened a couple of times, I had learned to avoid 'aggravating' my 'mount'. Rarely did it rebel if all I expected it to do was to carry me from one place to another.

The first portion of my trip to Italy turned out to be surprisingly easy. The road to Innsbruck, I discovered, followed for the most part the courses of rivers, and as a result it tended to be surprisingly level (See Pics. FOUR and FIVE ).

Having arrived in Innsbruck, the one site I needed to visit was "Das Goldene Dachl" (the little golden roof - See Pic. SIX).

Heading south from Innsbruck though the comfortable levelness of the road, however, changed. It did not take very long before the road started to climb the mountain to cross the Brenner Pass. It may well be, as many clever geography books point out, that the Brenner Pass is one of the lowest passes in this area of the Alps. However, when your bike is loaded down as mine was, you could be sure that, instead of comfortably riding it, you would be pushing it up hills for long periods of time.

Hill? Did I say "hills?" This was no hill, I discovered. I was crosssing a MOUNTAIN!

Climbing its way to the top, the road wound its serpentine path ever upward, switching back and forth, interminably. One S-curve followed another and the fact that the Brenner Pass was - conveniently - a low one, soon faded from my consciousness. The fact that it was a conveniently low one, was a totally unappreciated fact.

As I was pushing my bike up the mountain, my mind refused to extend its range of vision any further than that of the eye. And it could see no farther then from the end of one S-curve to the beginning of the next. Even if there was the occasional chance to ride down an very rare downhill stretch, it was emotionally spoiled by the fact that not very far ahead, the road would resume its stubborn insistance to climb higher still. The knowledge that all I was doing was giving up meters of altitude which I previously had worked so hard to climb, made me aware that before very long, every meter given up would have to be reconquered one hundred, sweaty and exhausting centimeters at a time. (To get an idea of what such a pass looks like, see Pic. SEVEN)

Eventually though, somewhat to my surprise, I did reach the top of the Brenner Pass. How very different things looked on the Italian side. I doubt that my sense of this difference was based on anything other than the fact that I had been slaving up a mountain all day, and that now, on the Italian side, the road, suddenly had turned down-hill. From Innsbruck at an elevation of 573 meters I had climbed to the summit of the pass at an elevation of 1370 meters. I had not had the energy or the awareness to admire the safety and the thoughtfulness that had gone into the construction of this marvelous road while I was pushing my bike up these 800 meters. It wasn't until I descended on the Italian side that I became vaguely aware of what an amazing road it was.

'Wow' , I thought, as I rode down my bike on the Italian side, 'these guys really do know how to build a road! These Italians must really enjoy driving their cars at top speed!' There were wide shoulders to allow users to pull off to the side of the road without impeding other users. For safety purposes it was wide enough to occasionally allow for an extra lane on one side or the other. The S-curves which existed on this side too, were well laid out and banked so that users could travel at considerable speeds. And so, as I descended, I too could let my bike run at speeds that closely equaled those of cars. With the banked curves, there was little tendency of my bike to want to give in to the centrifugal force as I zoomed around one curve after another. I was impressed! There still was my awareness that I had better not use my coaster brake for extended periods of time. The friction used for braking would heat up the hub; but how hot could I allow it to get before the wheel's rotation would seize up coming to a sudden halt, I shuddered just at the thought of it, or, even worse, start melting inside the hub of the rear wheel.

And so, I either let the bike run as it wished, or, when the speed became too intimidating, brought the bike to a complete stop using the coaster brake and the hand brake which operated by pushing a rubber brake pad down on top of the front tire. But, clearly, using this brake too much or too vigorously, had its dangers as well. I did not want the front tire to suddenly stop turning altogether and for the bike to suddenly buck me off across the handlebars. Having, a few times during the descent , brought the bike to a complete stop, I would rest along the side of the road for long enough to let the brakes cool off sufficiently for me to be able touch the hubs without being burnt.

This being my first descent from one of these Alpine passes, the excellence of the road was not, at the time, totally apparent to me. It is only now in retrospect that I fully appreciate just how excellent that road must have been. While it no doubt helped me to make it to the bottom of the Brenner Pass, it also set me up for a rather scary surprise later on in the tour.

Having finally arrived in in the valley on the Italian side, I encountered some quite unexpected difficulties. Being confused by the Italian signage, I needed some advice on which way to turn. I walked up to a kindly looking 'old gentleman,' who was, probably, all of forty years old, and asked my question in the best Italian I knew.

“Merano?” I smiled at him and shrugged my shoulders in a questioning sort of way.

Well, obviously, I hadn't done that right. The 'kindly old gentleman,' suddenly, changed. His eyebrows contracted, and out of his mouth poured a flood of angry, German words.

“Was ist denn mit dir los? Du sprichst doch deutsch. Warum fragst du mich denn nicht nach dem Weg nach Meran? “Merano,” ist italienisch! Phhht, willst wohl so'n kluger Lümmel sein! Meran ist doch ein guter deutscher Name! Sag doch 'Meran,' nicht 'Merano'!”

Translation: (WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? YOU DO SPEAK GERMAN. WHY DON'T YOU ASK ME FOR DIRECTIONS ON HOW TO GET TO MERAN? "MERANO" IS ITALIAN! BAH, TRYING TO BE A SMART ALEK! MERAN IS A GOOD GERMAN NAME! SAY MERAN, NOT MERANO!)

He grumbled and complained for another minute or two before he finally turned me his back, and walked away.

I was in shock. What was this all about? Then, rather vaguely, I remembered having learned at school that the area I was passing through had been called “Südtirol” and had at one time been a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It now was part of Italy, and clearly, my “kindly old gentleman” was not very happy about that.

After a long day's work across the pass, and this not particularly wecome reception, it was time to find myself a place to sleep. That too, however, after this experience, struck me as a dauntingly hazardous task. What further trouble was I likely to get myself into? Still, there was no choice, I needed a place to sleep. I found a farm on the side of the road and decided to try my luck.

This time, just to play it safe, I spoke German to the farmer who answered my knock at the door. I was answered by the regretful shaking of the head. Clearly, this was an honest-to-goodness Italian. There was no hope at all that I would be able to ask his permission to sleep in his hay loft in Italian. The best I could do was to act out my question as though we were playing 'Charades'. I pointed to his barn, I put my hands to my face as I inclined it to one side and looked at him questioningly. Back and forth we performed for each other in this bilingual version of 'Charades' and I seemed to get nowhere at all. Finally, after one more try, he seemed to catch my drift. “Aah”, he copied my 'sleeping gesture', closed his eyes and began to snore vigorously. He pointed to the barn and grinned at me. Wow, we'd managed to understand each other. But then, a doubt seemed to cross his face. This bilingual 'Charade' wasn't exactly a game! Now, what was the problem?

He took an imaginary cigarette between his fingers and luxuriously took a deep breath. Then with a questioning face he pointed his finger at me. This question I understood! I had been asked it many times before. I shook my head, and suddenly his face brightened again. 'Come with me,' he motioned and led me to barn. In fact, before we separated, I even managed to ask for a glass of milk. Walking past a cow which had been tied to a tree, I had pointed to it and acted out the action of milking followed by drinking from an imaginary glass. He understood. We went back to the farmhouse where he poured a large glass for me.

What would have happened, I could not help wondering, if instead of a cow, the only animal I had had to point at, had been a bull?

The next morning , when I was ready to continue my tour I had decided that continuing still farther south into Italy, was more than I was prepared for. At least, up until crossing the Brenner Pass, I had been able to communicate with people in a language I knew, but having crossed into Italy, not only did I not speak Italian, but even talking German, seemed to present an emotional hazard. I was not quite prepared for that. Looking at my road map I had found another pass, the Reschen Pass, back into Austria. This way, at least, I wasn't turning back, but heading off in a new direction. Without knowing it at the time, the pass I had chosen to head back across the mountains was one that in Roman times had been the main connection to its northern provinces.

Strangely - or perhaps, not so strangely at all - I do not remember much of anything about climbing to the top of this pass or of the descent on the other side. At a height of 1504 meters, it was higher than the Brenner Pass by some 200 meters. All I can recall today, are the generic sort of memories that would apply to taking your bike across any pass. There is the almost physical memory of walking and walking and walking - pushing my heavy bike up the mountain, and then, descending rather speedily, on the other side. Nothing unusual or scary happened, and so this crossing had turned out to be just routine. The next, more memorable crossing of a pass was that of the Arlberg Pass in Austria (between the 'provinces' of Tyrol and Vorarlberg).

Having chickened out on Italy, The least I could do, I decided, would be to add another country or two to to the ' list of my accomplishments'. There was the principality of Liechtenstein with its capital Vaduz, and beyond that, Switzerland. Both of them were, as far as I knew were German-speaking countries. So, the choice was easy, having descended the Reschen Pass I turned left and headed toward Vorarlberg, the westernmost 'Bundesland' of Austria. From the standpoint of getting there, there was only one more pass to be crossed. This one was the highest of those I tackled that summer. The Arlberg Pass required me to climb to a height of 1793 meters. Ten meters higher than the 'big' mountain in Mondsee, the Schafberg.

There was only one bit of information of which I was unaware. In fact, I only discovered it when I sat down to write this account. When I started researching details about the Arlberg Pass, I happened across these two paragraphs:

"The old pass route was known since the 14th century in the form of a narrow mule track when people began to trade salt in this region. However, because the Arlberg was very poorly developed, for centuries people avoided the route and took detours over the Fern Pass or Immenstadt for trading. The development of the textile industry and of the postal service, however, led to the road's being surfaced in 1824. With the rise of motor traffic in the 20th century, however, this became inadequate.

"It was decided that a 14 km long Arlberg street tunnel would be built between Langen and St. Anton. On July 5, 1974 the work began and the passage was opened to traffic on December 1, 1978."

Or, in other words, some 24 years after the time when I had needed a good, safe road to make my way to the other side of the mountain, they had built the tunnel. Still, being realistic, I very much doubt that having had that information, would have made very much of a difference. As far as I was concerned, a pass is a pass is a pass. The fact that I had crossed two passes already, would have meant to me that I knew all about them and that to tackle a third one was going to be - only more of the same - hard work.

And before very long, I reached the Arlberg Mountains Range. Once more - I walked and pushed my bike up the mountain.

This road, unlike the one up the Brenner Pass, did not follow a reasonably gradual valley up to the col which it crossed. The road bed, often had been dynamited into the side of a steep rocky mountain slope. On one side, usually mine, there tended to be a rock wall, which, vertically, seemed to rise as high as the sky; and on the other side – seemingly almost as vertical as the rock which rose on my side, the cliff dropped off equally steeply. Down, down, it fell off toward a - it seemed - bottomless valley.

Once more, I climbed and climbed, endlessly. The road followed the configuration of the mountain. It twisted and turned, hugging, it seemed, the contours of the mountain's near-vertical mountain slope. Occasionally, I would see the road up ahead for some small distance before it curved off to one side, giving me a view of my next destination. Between where I was and where the road disappeared from view, there was often no more than an empty expanse of air.

Still, the fact that the road disappeared up ahead, allowed for the possibility that after hours and hours of pushing my bike, I had finally reached the point where it again headed downward toward the valley. Surely, this time, I had reached the place where I would be able to quit pushing my bike. But no matter how certain I was that having rounded that next curve would show me the high point of the pass, I ended up dissappointed again and again, for, ahead of me there would be yet another, lengthy stretch of the highway - ever climbing upwards toward the sky. On and on I climbed - from one disappointment to another.

But – eventually - I did reach the top.

Did I stop for a rest? Did I have something to eat and to drink? Did I, in awe, look around me? Or, did I just mount my bike, glad that the next stretch would be 'piece of cake'? I cannot remember just what my reactions were - for, in comparison to what was about to happen, such mundane details as these were no longer of any importance.

I do remember riding my bike down the road, as it snaked its way down in much the same way as it had worked its way up. On the right side, it hugged the vertical rock wall and on the left, beyond a largely symbolic fence there was nothing but air for as far as I could see. Having been lulled into a false sense of security by the relative 'friendliness' of the Brenner and the Reschen Passes which I had crossed without any particular difficulties, I was totally unprepared for what I was about to face

Within just a moment or two, I was hurtling down the road at a frightening speed. Not only was the highway much narrower than those which I had used to cross the other passes, but even beyond that, here there were weren't the steeply banked curves which had made the other passes so safe and comfortable. Within no time at all, the bike was moving so fast that I found it difficult in the curves to stay on my side of the road. The centrifugal forces created by the speed with which I rounded the curves, quickly began pushing the bike into the up bound lane.

What if I met a vehicle making its way up the pass? I don't think that it was even the impact which concerned me, but instead, in my mind, there was this picture of me being launched - flying – like a missile - over that symbolic fence and heading out and down into that emptiness beyond. To let the imagination go any further was just too horrifying to bear.

I had to bring the bike's mad descent to a halt. But how? How - without having the bike start skidding and crashing, how - without either melting the insides of my coaster brake or wearing down the tread of the front tire until it blew, went flat, and I lost whatever tenuous control I still had, could I do to stop the bike? Down the road I hurtled. For minutes? For hours? For an eternity!

Time ceased to have any meaning. Logically, looked at from the perspective of today, it could not have been more than a few, short minutes. But, emotionally this epic struggle lasted an eternity.

The fact that I am, actually, writing this account, demonstrates that I did bring the bike to a halt before either a vehicle coming up the mountain launched me into nothingness, or I did so myself. I do not know how I managed to stop the bike, but, stop it – eventually - I did. I remember getting off the bike, dropping it down into a tiny rocky niche which happened to exist between the road and the rising rock , and flinging myself down onto a tiny patch of mountain greenery. Slowly my gasping for air eased and however rough and scratchy and hard this refuge on the side of the road may have been, it felt to me like the princess's bed without even a tiny pea to disturb my comfort.

I was spent; physically drained, emotionally exhausted. In no time at all, I fell asleep. No one disturbed my sleep, no one, probably, even saw me lying there. How did I get down the mountain? I do not know. I must have walked, dragged, like an unwilling dog by its determined master, my bike. And, having reached the first farmhouse near the bottom of the mountain, surely, I must have stopped to ask for the shelter of their hay loft.

Few mental images remain in my memory of events on the rest of that tour. Since I have a postcard of a castle in Feldkirch, I obviously must have bought it when I was there (Pic EIGHT). Little about it, though, seems familiar. Unlike other postcards I had sent home from my tours, this card had not been sent off. On its back there is no writing, no "Hi!" no "I love you" greeting for my parents - nothing! How could I possibly, tell my parents of my latest 'adventure'?

With the approaching dusk, of the following day, I crossed at the “Liechtensteinisch-Schweizerische” border control station into the Principality of Liechtenstein (Pic. NINE). It looked like a cosy and quiet, but well to do place, though I have to admit that I did not stick around long enough to see much of it. The next morning I entered Switzerland proper, by crossing the marked but otherwise unguarded border.

Needing to refresh my supply of food, I went shopping at some likely looking store. And was shocked by what I considered to be astronomical prices. . There was no way I could afford to stay for any lenth of time in a place as expensive as this. I looked at my road map and by a different route than the one by which I had arrived, I headed north to cross the border into Austria. I skirted the eastern end of Lake Constance and re-entered Germany. At some fork of the roads which I passed, I vaguely recall seeing a sign, guiding interested tourists to Oberammergau, where once every ten years, local residents perform the famous Passion plays. After that - nothing. Obviously I must have found my way home, and , I suspect, kept mum about my almost not surviving the Arlberg Pass.

My Last Bicycle Tour - 1955

Then, in the summer of 1955, we were about to move to Hamburg in northern Germany. My father had already rented an apartment in a house in Hamburg-Rahlstedt. Again, here was an opportunity for new destinations, a completely new part of the country.

And so it was that when summer holidays started, I got my stuff together, cleaned, greased and oiled my bike and set out in a new direction.

I visited a friend of my father's whose son I liked in Nuremberg for a short goodbye visit. From there I headed on to Bad Mergentheim and Heidelberg(Pic TEN: Heidelberg), places where my grandfather and my aunt and oncle lived.

Originally I had intended on head west as far as the Rhine River in order to enjoy that to me yet unknown area. But, somehow, something must have changed my direction. I visited Darmstadt and Fulda, towns with considerable history, but, it seems of no great interest to me. All I have to remind me of them are two postcards I sent home (See Pics. TWELVE and THIRTEEN.)

From the point of dramatic things happening, it was a very ordinary trip. There were no wild descents, no language difficulties, only, perhaps the occasional flat tire (SEE MESSAGE from Fulda). Heading into some city, I would occasionally seek out the local swimming pool and there cool off before I continued on. One of these “Badeanstalten” I remember. Having entered the pool area, I discovered that there was not just a single pool, but several. One of these, separate from the other swimming pools was a diving pool with everything from one meter diving boards to five and ten meter diving platforms. Diving, in Donauwörth, had been one of the things I liked doing. Not only did I enjoy the sense of zooming through the air and the sudden entry into the coolness of the water, but it certainly was an effective way of attracting the attention of girls.

I had never before seen a ten meter platform, let alone dived from one into the water. Here though, was my chance! I started out on the lower boards and gradually worked myself up to the five meter platform. Having done that, here was my chance to add yet one more 'accomplishment' to others. I started to climb the ladder and the higher I reached, the more aware I became of just how high a ten meter platform actually is. But now, there was no way I felt, that I could allow myself to turn around and climb back down. After all, there were, I was sure, people who watched me. Finally, I reached the top and looked down onto a pool. It was way, way down there and through some trick of the eye or mind, it had shrunk into little more then a mere puddle. "And into that puddle, you intend to jump?" my mind screamed at me.

Now - what was I going to do? This was scary indeed.

Thinking of all the people, who I was sure, were watching me, the very least I could do was to look nonchalant. But, it is very difficult to be nonchalant when you're as frightened and surprised as I was.

I needed to think, and even that was difficult. How could I get myself out of the dilemma I had put myself in?

I had two choices, and neither looked very appealing. I could either jump off the end of that platform and risk, my mind warned me, miss that tiny-looking pool pool at the bottom of the tower, or, I could descend the ladder and admit to everyone watching me, that I was scared. Neither of these options was particularly palatable. What if I jumped and missed? . . . . The consequences of that were only too easy and too dramatically vivid to dwell on. If I . . .. I looked at the people down there on the ground and was convinced that there was hardly anyone whose eyes were not staring up at me.

What now? Declare defeat? Having persuaded myself that "centre-stage" as I was with a huge audience watching me admiringly, how could I, publically admit to being scared? Or, how could I jump off that platform in the hope of actually landing in the pool?

Ah, what a mind we have, or is it only mine? First it had urged me on to to show off, and then, it tried to scare me to stop.

I don't know how long it took me to make up my mind, but something, certainly, had to be done. Just being up here and doing nothing and looking “nonchalantly” around, gave away the game. Finally, more or less logically, I decided that the pool down there could not possibly be as small as it looked to me. If there was any chance of hitting the cement on either side of the pool, or on the far end of it, there'd be a fence around the structure, keeping fools like me off it. Slowly, very slowly I walked to the open end of the tower platform – and gently, very gently - stepped off it. Once or twice I rotated my arms to keep my body vertical as it dropped through the air – and then, like an arrow, I dropped into the pool. As I opened my eyes, white air bubbles rushed upward past me through the water. Wow! I had done it and lived to tell the tale.

Having broken the mental barrier, it became easier every time I committed myself to the plunge into the pool. And by some sort of magic of the mind, it grew in size with every plunge I took.

Still, after what had been intended as a 'relaxing stop at the swimming pool,' I did not travel far before I looked around for a farm where I could stay the night.

There was in those years quite a popularity to go on bicycle tours. Between people who traveled in that way there was an easy camaraderie. All day long you'd meet groups of guys or girls coming by you on the other side of the road. Automatically your left arm would wave its friendly salute.

“Servus,”(your servant)you'd call across the road, and a “Servus”-greeting would echo back, in two or three or ten voices. There were not very many touring bicyclists who traveled alone as I did. What, I wondered at the time, was the reason for that? Was I so very anti-social? A solitary grouch? What? Thinking back to those days now, I would suspect that being one of five brothers, I was rather happy to get away from crowds. This did not mean that if I saw someone, or a group of touring cyclists ahead of me, that I did not work hard to catch up with them. For a while, an hour or two or three I'd travel along with them.

It was a chance to talk to people. “Where are you from? Where are you going? Where are you going to stop for the night,” might have been questions which would start the conversation, but, never, that I can recall did we actually stay at a youth-hostel with them. I had tried one once, and had made up my mind that I did not like them. There were too many people. You had to be careful, I felt, that your stuff did not vanish. Asking a farmer for permission to sleep in the hayloft, on the other hand, often ended up being a very positive experience. Occasionally I was fed, admired for having come as far as I had, and even, perhaps, made to feel that I was a member of the family rather than one of a crowd of people. Why would I want to give that up?

Traveling north through Germany was certainly different from first climbing to the top of a pass, and then, trying to get alive to the bottom of it. In distances, every day, I'd travel in the neighbourhood of 100 to 120 kilometers a day. The longest day's run I had ever accomplished had been 160 kilometers. A distance that probably had taken me ten or eleven hours to cover .

Periodically I'd send postcards home to report on my progress. But nothing of any great importance really happened, and if today I did not actually have two of those cards, the few events recorded there, would, no doubt have, "tragically", been lost to future generations.

My route, as I crossed Germany, took me from Donauwörth to Nürnberg, Heidelberg, Fulda, Kassel, Wolfebüttel, Braunschweig, the city of my birth, Göttingen, Lüneburg and Hamburg.

That tour in 1955 was my last one. On June 8, 1956, I left my family in Hamburg to explore a larger world still. I boarded a liner, the "Arosa Sun" and emigrated to Canada.