A pilgrimage in West Germany

Birten! This should be right near Georg's old stomping grounds.

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Chester: Derek and I have a wonderful friend.  His name is Steve Eichhorst.  Steve has a father.  His name is Georg.  Georg was born in Birten, Germany.  If anyone knows Georg, clearly they would know that this is impetus enough to embark on a pilgrimage to his hometown, a village a little less than an hour by train outside of Dusseldorf.

We knew only a couple things about this town (this did not include how to spell it).  We knew that the closest large city was Dusseldorf, so we took the train from Frankfurt in the morning.  From there was asked about "Birten" but apparently the fame Georg had brought to the village had since worn off.  Eventually, we decided to wake-up our pal Steve from his beauty sleep to try to get some more information.  Charged with this help from a great looking German, and a bit of Wikipedia magic, we were able to explain our situation to the information desk at the Dusseldorf station.

Werner! Georg...we found him!

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As is turns out, Birten had become incorporated into the area of Xanten, which is comprised of 5 villages like Birten.  We hopped on the train to Xanten and took to the German countryside.  The main village of Xanten was rather picturesque.  A fine lady explained to us that Birten was just over the hill, about 4kms away.  There was the possibility of taking the bus, but that wouldn´t have been any fun!

Titus: A half hour trek through a paved but tranquille country road brought us across a troop of white haired day hikers from what seemed like a retirement home day trip and a turnip patch ready for harvest.  On the edge of Birten lay an amphitheater constructed by Roman legions and still in use today.  One bit of pre-trip information Georg provide us with was that his former backyard bordered onto the amphitheater.  Not knowing exactly which house was his, Luke and myself are now in possession of numerous photos of well maintained homes in Birten. 

This was the feast that was kindly offered to us.

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Next and more importantly, we had been charged to seek out one of Georg´s old school friends, Werner...

We were told that the bar Werner owned was across the street from the church.  Vague instructions it originally seemed until we hiked into the village.  Birten`s one church was located on the hill in the centre and with the exception of a small tribute to the villages Roman past and a small memorial dissecting the road, the bar was exactly where it was said to be.   Inside we met Werner who lived upstairs and with the help of a friendly waitress who spoke "Ein Bißchen English" (a little) we conversed with Werner intermittently while she attended to a large group of seniors in the dining room.  We gave Werner and his lovely waitress some of the Canadian souvenirs we brought with us and in turn he bestowed upon us a huge and wonderful lunch of Schnitzel, salad, and fries.  And the local Pilsner completed the meal.  So we thank Werner and Georg of course.  Our pilgrimage in the Rhineland has been the highlight of our travels thus far.