It seems that one relaxed day was enough to restore my energy! I woke up at 9:00 AM today thinking that it was much later; although the room was torrid and my allergies were bad, I had slept soundly and felt rested. I had leftovers from yesterday's dinner (a pasta dish with gorgonzola, tomato-based sauce, and the first spinach that I have had in ages - 2 meals' worth for 8.50 Euros) for breakfast and was going to buy lunch from a deli across the street when I saw the number 5 tram, the one that I was supposed to take, pull up to the nearby tramway stop. I hopped on the tram, said that I wanted to get off at the main train station, and was off.
Two locals helped me get to the train station, the first explaining that it would be faster to take the number 3 tram from an upcoming stop and the second telling when to get off of the number 3 (she was headed in the same direction). The first of those locals, a gregarious old man, engaged me in my first-ever real conversation in German. He asked me where I was from, if I was travelling alone, where else I was going, and what my lodgings were like, and, with the help of the dictionary in my phrasebook, I was able to answer each of his questions more or less coherently. One trick for speaking in a language with which one is barely familiar is to simplify one's syntax and to stick with words that one knows. For example, instead of asking for a table at a restaurant, I always say, "I want to eat here," which is understood; if I were asked whether or not I wanted to be in the non-smoking section (which no longer really exists - smoking seems to be banned, surprisingly, indoors), I would simply say, "No cigarettes, please," which would also be understood. Once one gets used to parsing the words that one already knows from a stream of foreign syllables, one can understand more words than one can produce; while I struggle mightily to say numbers, I can understand almost any price that is mentioned to me now, and I can more or less understand directions that I could never hope to give another person. With these tricks in hand, I was able to explain my style of travel to my interlocutor and impress upon him that I loved the German countryside. We parted ways amiably, and, a few minutes later, the woman who was helping to guide me told me that we had reached the main train station.
I got a great deal on my rail ticket to Colmar, again by talking to the railway personnel rather than trying to buy a ticket on my own, though I checked in advance to see if it would be easy to get a ticket from one of the machines. The train ride to a German border town, the name of which I have already forgotten, was mostly anticlimactic, as it took me away from the Black Forest into flatter land that looked decent for farming. It was when I stepped onto the bus that was to take me to Colmar that the world around me changed: the bus driver was bilingual, and, within a few stops, everyone was already speaking French. We passed through little towns much like the ones in the German countryside (so much for my world's changing) near Dinkelsbuhl - many of them had attractive houses, statues (including one of a pair of storks), and churches, but all of them were miniscule. Papery-thin mountains showed blue in the distance, but there were none of the hills or tree cover that I had seen the day before. Instead, we passed over rivers that astounded me for their color - turquoise, rather than the brown of every river that I had seen in Germany (Perhaps this has more to do with water depth, speed, and mineral content than pollution.). Soon before reaching Colmar, we passed a great many walls that seemed to have no purpose at all - they looked almost like the foundation of a former city. They were a little like the walls of Seattle's underground passageways: roughly ten feet in height, they ran for hundreds of yards at a time and seemed to do nothing but separate sections of grass from one another and bastion other sections of grass. It might be fanciful to think of them as ancient ruins, yet I do not know what else they can be, as nothing else is built on or around them, and they all rise to the same approximate height.
As usual, I have little to say about the town itself, Colmar, that I saw, except that I walked around and looked at old buildings. Food in Colmar is far too expensive, so the only thing that I bought was a croissant, which was reasonably-priced (one Euro); the churches in Colmar were closed for viewing more often than not; there were too many cars in the city center; the city had some very nice statuary and fountains, and it had a section of canals, called Little Venice, that gave it a little flavor; almost all of the bathrooms cost money, like in Germany, except for one that had half-doors, like in a saloon, and no sink; there was nowhere to get free water (luckily, I had a liter-and-a-half); and it was cooler, to my relief, in Colmar than in Freiburg, though I cannot say why. My hatred of the sun has grown into a burning coal in the pit of my stomach, causing me to heat doubly whenever the weather is hot. I rediscovered the extraordinary beauty of Freiburg's historic city center when I went to buy lunch before leaving for Colmar, but I was unable to explore it for long when I returned from Colmar, as Germany has not yet invented the water fountain. I may return to it tomorrow for a short stroll if I am in the mood, but the heat may dissuade me from going anywhere except back to my hostel once I have seen Baden-Baden.
As usual, I have left out a great deal in my account, and I want to go over some finer points of the past few days. My return from Colmar was almost as interesting as my trip there. The bus from Colmar to the German border town was late, and, when we got on, the bus driver said that he would try to make it to the train station in time by driving really fast. This was not good news, as the French are crazy drivers to start out with. The driver gunned it as soon as I sat down, jolting me, and for the rest of the ride we careened towards Germany. We made it to the train station just in time, as it turns out, perhaps in part because of the driver's celerity, but mostly because the train itself was delayed. It is interesting that bus drivers who drive through old towns in the countryside manage not to crash. From the perspective of a passenger, it looks like the bus will hit everything, as one cannot imagine its turning without slamming into objects lying in its general vicinity, and yet bus drivers always seem to miss them, perhaps by inches; they are good at what they do. Driving a bus seems like altogether too stressful a career for me, but I suppose that it suits some people.
Another curious point is that the grocery store across the way from the hostel in which I am staying is full of Russian goods. It has Russian buckwheat, Russian condensed milk, Russian cocoa powder, Russian sour cream, and a wide variety of other Russian goods. When I asked the store owner where he and his daughter were from, he said, "Afghanistan," and he told me that he spoke a little Russian. My trip to the store was profitable, all told, as I got a decent quality of fruit and dairy products for under ten Euros, though they did not have many breadstuffs or anything that one could eat for dinner. I ended up getting a hopeless-looking sandwich from the local deli, as the nearby Turkish place looked abysmal, and have decided to go back to nearby Italian restaurant for dinner tomorrow and breakfast (i.e., leftovers) the day after tomorrow. One boon to staying in residential areas is that one can always find a grocery store and reasonable places to eat nearby. (I did not notice that there was an ordinary grocery store, which I may very well visit before heading to Nancy, as the high prices of food in France may extend to groceries.)
I forgot to give Colmar a rating as a tourist destination. It is vastly less attractive than Strasbourg, all told, as it is much less diverse, has less to offer in total, and does not have a tourist information center that one has a hope in hell of finding. I enjoyed its main sights and liked listening to its songbirds (surprise, surprise), but I found it limited, on the whole. One of its main strong points was its verdure: there were a ton of trees in the city center, like in Freiburg, and the French even play sports and games on the grassy areas, which might give France a leg up over Germany as my favorite country. As much as I enjoy smoking cigarettes, worshipping the Lord, and standing around like a water buffalo as trains clatter past me, I think that I may prefer staying active, which the French do much more proficiently than Germans. My only real knock on Germany, in fact, is the lack of water fountains and free bathrooms and the fact that people smoke like chimney stacks - the Christian propaganda and idiotic behavior in train stations I can put up with. French seems more secular and supportive of physical fitness than Germany, which might make it the more advanced country of the two.
My remaining notes are scattered. There were a lot of beggars in Ulm, which I forgot to mention (and only one that I saw in Colmar). While there were not many flowers between Freiburg and Colmar, the ones that proliferated were poppies, which was curious to me. Though they have become inexorably associated with death (and, thus, life's transience, wistfulness, delicacy, and so on) by the famous war poem "In Flanders' Fields," poppies must actually be incredibly hardy, as they seem to be able to grow almost anywhere. It is curious to me that the very quality that we consider to be ornamentally beautiful is just what makes them (at least, in part; I know nothing of the shape and quantity of their reproductive organs) so competitive: the brightness (and arrangement) of their petals. Petals are not, in fact, ornamental, but serve a very functional purpose: the attraction of seed carriers. This same point can be made of birds and their song: the part of them that is beautiful in what would seem to be an ornamental way is strictly pragmatic from the non-human point of view. I suppose that this is the type of quality that makes men like Richard Feynman state that the beauty of the world lies partly in its science - that is, our understanding of the workings of science gives us a much deeper appreciation for the beauty of the natural world.
I have only three more points to make. One of them is that I saw Wurzburg, like Dinkelsbuhl, at a somewhat unique time: I got there at 4:16, after the horde of tourists had seen most of what they wanted to see (and the heat of the day had passed, and Mass had ended - my timing, spurred by my missing the bus, was good). As a result, the streets were almost preternaturally quiet (like in Oppenheim, only without the sense of a potential threat that accompanied the silence there) as soon as I stepped out of the main tourist areas. I have noticed this quality in one or two other cities, and it was particularly striking in Wurzburg.
My other point is yet another rhapsody on the virtue of the German people. For all of their emphysema and arteriosclerosis, they are incredibly helpful people. Not only have they given me directions multiple times on every day of my trip, but one of them, seeing the Ugandan man and me looking a little lost when we got off of the train in Freiburg's central train station yesterday (I was trying to help the Ugandan man find a payphone.), tried to help us find out where to find a phone and then offered to let the Ugandan man use his. Germans' willingness to help people may be matched only by that of the Polish. For all of my carping about Poland (and, specifically, its infrastructure), the people who live in it are very helpful.
My last anecdote of the day - I have written more than I expected - is one that will interest and surprise many of you. I want to plant the germ of a new stereotype about Russian people that has probably not reached the ears of any North American, non-Russian person - it has nothing to do with bears, vodka, the balalaika, or Vladimir Lenin. A trait of Russians that is unknown to Westerners is their absolute inability to decide on anything if they are in a group of three or more people. Three seems to be the minimum number of people for this inability to kick in (I forget the term in chemistry used for a minimum amount of energy needed for a chemical reaction - the term "critical mass," unrelated, comes to mind.), as a pair of people can often agree on things. When three or more Russians are grouped in one place, though, something very special happens, and I had the pleasure of witnessing it the other day in Augsburg when I sat down to eat near a group of Russians trying to decide when to fly back to Moscow.
The first thing that happens when a group of Russians (hereafter referred to as a "GOR") tries to decide something is, naturally, that someone makes a proposition. This first speaker usually makes a few key arguments that he expects to sway his readers' opinions - he thinks that they are as solid as the supporting columns of the cathedral at Worms. The second speaker in a GOR usually makes a point that shows the problem at hand from a different point of view from the first speaker's, like one of those side streets that joins a neighboring street in one of Germany's many five- or six-street intersections. This point is not so much an attempt to undermine the point of the first speaker as it is an attempt to show its possible shortcomings; it is a modification of the first point, if you will. Once that point is made, it may be rebutted by the first speaker, but, whether or not that happens, a third speaker inevitably makes his voice heard. The third speaker, a maverick, asks something (He rarely makes a new declarative statement.) completely unrelated to the topic of discussion, such as the price of peanuts at the Berlin Zoo, after which all hell breaks loose. The original two speakers forget what they were arguing about and instead start talking about peanuts until one of them realizes that the question at hand has not yet been decided, at which point one of them curtly ends the side discussion and reopens discussion of the original question.
If a fourth person is involved, the situation gets even more complicated, so much so that we would need the world's top graph theorists to help us solve it. A fourth person will usually repudiate outright all of the points made by previous parties and propose a radical new solution, which the first person will reject, leading to further disputation. The process can go on and on, sometimes for more than half of an hour, without any decision's being made until all parties run out of steam and the first person's decision, having been proposed anew, is accepted as the correct one, not having changed one bit since its original formulation. Russians' inability to decide anything whatsoever used to drive me to distraction. When my friends tried to make collective decisions, the only one that I would ever voice is that we should "stand around [wasting time] (and, if it was cold, freezing our asses off) for another thirty minutes," which they would chuckle at before resuming their logomachy. It was only yesterday, when I realized that the inability of GORs to make decisions was just another of their inbred traits, such as their ability to stay goodbye to one another in any less than twenty minutes, which I had to accept as pleasing in its idiosyncrasy. The only alternative, after all, was to continue standing with smoke coming out of my ears every time they tried to decide anything; one does much better to enjoy the show and not let it get to one.
The answer, then, to the question, "How many Russians does it take to decide whether to go to the park or watch a movie?" is "two," as any number greater than that will lead to their arguing until the movie is over and it is already dark out, at which point they will drink vodka, wrestle with bears while playing the balalaika, and write eulogies in honor of Vladimir Lenin. I hope that a new chapter has been added to the book of stereotypes about Russians.
[Edit: I should have highlighted the colorfulness of the language that Russians use when arguing. They always make their points soberly, with a completely straight face, and are either dead-certain that everyone else involved is an idiot or so involved with daydreams about peanuts and the Berlin zoo that they do not care what decision is eventually reached in the debate. They will sometimes laugh at one another's points or say things like, "Are you kidding me?" while making diametrically-opposed points to one another. The fact that this happens every time they try to decide anything at all and that they do not realize that things could be done differently is amusing.]
Two locals helped me get to the train station, the first explaining that it would be faster to take the number 3 tram from an upcoming stop and the second telling when to get off of the number 3 (she was headed in the same direction). The first of those locals, a gregarious old man, engaged me in my first-ever real conversation in German. He asked me where I was from, if I was travelling alone, where else I was going, and what my lodgings were like, and, with the help of the dictionary in my phrasebook, I was able to answer each of his questions more or less coherently. One trick for speaking in a language with which one is barely familiar is to simplify one's syntax and to stick with words that one knows. For example, instead of asking for a table at a restaurant, I always say, "I want to eat here," which is understood; if I were asked whether or not I wanted to be in the non-smoking section (which no longer really exists - smoking seems to be banned, surprisingly, indoors), I would simply say, "No cigarettes, please," which would also be understood. Once one gets used to parsing the words that one already knows from a stream of foreign syllables, one can understand more words than one can produce; while I struggle mightily to say numbers, I can understand almost any price that is mentioned to me now, and I can more or less understand directions that I could never hope to give another person. With these tricks in hand, I was able to explain my style of travel to my interlocutor and impress upon him that I loved the German countryside. We parted ways amiably, and, a few minutes later, the woman who was helping to guide me told me that we had reached the main train station.
I got a great deal on my rail ticket to Colmar, again by talking to the railway personnel rather than trying to buy a ticket on my own, though I checked in advance to see if it would be easy to get a ticket from one of the machines. The train ride to a German border town, the name of which I have already forgotten, was mostly anticlimactic, as it took me away from the Black Forest into flatter land that looked decent for farming. It was when I stepped onto the bus that was to take me to Colmar that the world around me changed: the bus driver was bilingual, and, within a few stops, everyone was already speaking French. We passed through little towns much like the ones in the German countryside (so much for my world's changing) near Dinkelsbuhl - many of them had attractive houses, statues (including one of a pair of storks), and churches, but all of them were miniscule. Papery-thin mountains showed blue in the distance, but there were none of the hills or tree cover that I had seen the day before. Instead, we passed over rivers that astounded me for their color - turquoise, rather than the brown of every river that I had seen in Germany (Perhaps this has more to do with water depth, speed, and mineral content than pollution.). Soon before reaching Colmar, we passed a great many walls that seemed to have no purpose at all - they looked almost like the foundation of a former city. They were a little like the walls of Seattle's underground passageways: roughly ten feet in height, they ran for hundreds of yards at a time and seemed to do nothing but separate sections of grass from one another and bastion other sections of grass. It might be fanciful to think of them as ancient ruins, yet I do not know what else they can be, as nothing else is built on or around them, and they all rise to the same approximate height.
As usual, I have little to say about the town itself, Colmar, that I saw, except that I walked around and looked at old buildings. Food in Colmar is far too expensive, so the only thing that I bought was a croissant, which was reasonably-priced (one Euro); the churches in Colmar were closed for viewing more often than not; there were too many cars in the city center; the city had some very nice statuary and fountains, and it had a section of canals, called Little Venice, that gave it a little flavor; almost all of the bathrooms cost money, like in Germany, except for one that had half-doors, like in a saloon, and no sink; there was nowhere to get free water (luckily, I had a liter-and-a-half); and it was cooler, to my relief, in Colmar than in Freiburg, though I cannot say why. My hatred of the sun has grown into a burning coal in the pit of my stomach, causing me to heat doubly whenever the weather is hot. I rediscovered the extraordinary beauty of Freiburg's historic city center when I went to buy lunch before leaving for Colmar, but I was unable to explore it for long when I returned from Colmar, as Germany has not yet invented the water fountain. I may return to it tomorrow for a short stroll if I am in the mood, but the heat may dissuade me from going anywhere except back to my hostel once I have seen Baden-Baden.
As usual, I have left out a great deal in my account, and I want to go over some finer points of the past few days. My return from Colmar was almost as interesting as my trip there. The bus from Colmar to the German border town was late, and, when we got on, the bus driver said that he would try to make it to the train station in time by driving really fast. This was not good news, as the French are crazy drivers to start out with. The driver gunned it as soon as I sat down, jolting me, and for the rest of the ride we careened towards Germany. We made it to the train station just in time, as it turns out, perhaps in part because of the driver's celerity, but mostly because the train itself was delayed. It is interesting that bus drivers who drive through old towns in the countryside manage not to crash. From the perspective of a passenger, it looks like the bus will hit everything, as one cannot imagine its turning without slamming into objects lying in its general vicinity, and yet bus drivers always seem to miss them, perhaps by inches; they are good at what they do. Driving a bus seems like altogether too stressful a career for me, but I suppose that it suits some people.
Another curious point is that the grocery store across the way from the hostel in which I am staying is full of Russian goods. It has Russian buckwheat, Russian condensed milk, Russian cocoa powder, Russian sour cream, and a wide variety of other Russian goods. When I asked the store owner where he and his daughter were from, he said, "Afghanistan," and he told me that he spoke a little Russian. My trip to the store was profitable, all told, as I got a decent quality of fruit and dairy products for under ten Euros, though they did not have many breadstuffs or anything that one could eat for dinner. I ended up getting a hopeless-looking sandwich from the local deli, as the nearby Turkish place looked abysmal, and have decided to go back to nearby Italian restaurant for dinner tomorrow and breakfast (i.e., leftovers) the day after tomorrow. One boon to staying in residential areas is that one can always find a grocery store and reasonable places to eat nearby. (I did not notice that there was an ordinary grocery store, which I may very well visit before heading to Nancy, as the high prices of food in France may extend to groceries.)
I forgot to give Colmar a rating as a tourist destination. It is vastly less attractive than Strasbourg, all told, as it is much less diverse, has less to offer in total, and does not have a tourist information center that one has a hope in hell of finding. I enjoyed its main sights and liked listening to its songbirds (surprise, surprise), but I found it limited, on the whole. One of its main strong points was its verdure: there were a ton of trees in the city center, like in Freiburg, and the French even play sports and games on the grassy areas, which might give France a leg up over Germany as my favorite country. As much as I enjoy smoking cigarettes, worshipping the Lord, and standing around like a water buffalo as trains clatter past me, I think that I may prefer staying active, which the French do much more proficiently than Germans. My only real knock on Germany, in fact, is the lack of water fountains and free bathrooms and the fact that people smoke like chimney stacks - the Christian propaganda and idiotic behavior in train stations I can put up with. French seems more secular and supportive of physical fitness than Germany, which might make it the more advanced country of the two.
My remaining notes are scattered. There were a lot of beggars in Ulm, which I forgot to mention (and only one that I saw in Colmar). While there were not many flowers between Freiburg and Colmar, the ones that proliferated were poppies, which was curious to me. Though they have become inexorably associated with death (and, thus, life's transience, wistfulness, delicacy, and so on) by the famous war poem "In Flanders' Fields," poppies must actually be incredibly hardy, as they seem to be able to grow almost anywhere. It is curious to me that the very quality that we consider to be ornamentally beautiful is just what makes them (at least, in part; I know nothing of the shape and quantity of their reproductive organs) so competitive: the brightness (and arrangement) of their petals. Petals are not, in fact, ornamental, but serve a very functional purpose: the attraction of seed carriers. This same point can be made of birds and their song: the part of them that is beautiful in what would seem to be an ornamental way is strictly pragmatic from the non-human point of view. I suppose that this is the type of quality that makes men like Richard Feynman state that the beauty of the world lies partly in its science - that is, our understanding of the workings of science gives us a much deeper appreciation for the beauty of the natural world.
I have only three more points to make. One of them is that I saw Wurzburg, like Dinkelsbuhl, at a somewhat unique time: I got there at 4:16, after the horde of tourists had seen most of what they wanted to see (and the heat of the day had passed, and Mass had ended - my timing, spurred by my missing the bus, was good). As a result, the streets were almost preternaturally quiet (like in Oppenheim, only without the sense of a potential threat that accompanied the silence there) as soon as I stepped out of the main tourist areas. I have noticed this quality in one or two other cities, and it was particularly striking in Wurzburg.
My other point is yet another rhapsody on the virtue of the German people. For all of their emphysema and arteriosclerosis, they are incredibly helpful people. Not only have they given me directions multiple times on every day of my trip, but one of them, seeing the Ugandan man and me looking a little lost when we got off of the train in Freiburg's central train station yesterday (I was trying to help the Ugandan man find a payphone.), tried to help us find out where to find a phone and then offered to let the Ugandan man use his. Germans' willingness to help people may be matched only by that of the Polish. For all of my carping about Poland (and, specifically, its infrastructure), the people who live in it are very helpful.
My last anecdote of the day - I have written more than I expected - is one that will interest and surprise many of you. I want to plant the germ of a new stereotype about Russian people that has probably not reached the ears of any North American, non-Russian person - it has nothing to do with bears, vodka, the balalaika, or Vladimir Lenin. A trait of Russians that is unknown to Westerners is their absolute inability to decide on anything if they are in a group of three or more people. Three seems to be the minimum number of people for this inability to kick in (I forget the term in chemistry used for a minimum amount of energy needed for a chemical reaction - the term "critical mass," unrelated, comes to mind.), as a pair of people can often agree on things. When three or more Russians are grouped in one place, though, something very special happens, and I had the pleasure of witnessing it the other day in Augsburg when I sat down to eat near a group of Russians trying to decide when to fly back to Moscow.
The first thing that happens when a group of Russians (hereafter referred to as a "GOR") tries to decide something is, naturally, that someone makes a proposition. This first speaker usually makes a few key arguments that he expects to sway his readers' opinions - he thinks that they are as solid as the supporting columns of the cathedral at Worms. The second speaker in a GOR usually makes a point that shows the problem at hand from a different point of view from the first speaker's, like one of those side streets that joins a neighboring street in one of Germany's many five- or six-street intersections. This point is not so much an attempt to undermine the point of the first speaker as it is an attempt to show its possible shortcomings; it is a modification of the first point, if you will. Once that point is made, it may be rebutted by the first speaker, but, whether or not that happens, a third speaker inevitably makes his voice heard. The third speaker, a maverick, asks something (He rarely makes a new declarative statement.) completely unrelated to the topic of discussion, such as the price of peanuts at the Berlin Zoo, after which all hell breaks loose. The original two speakers forget what they were arguing about and instead start talking about peanuts until one of them realizes that the question at hand has not yet been decided, at which point one of them curtly ends the side discussion and reopens discussion of the original question.
If a fourth person is involved, the situation gets even more complicated, so much so that we would need the world's top graph theorists to help us solve it. A fourth person will usually repudiate outright all of the points made by previous parties and propose a radical new solution, which the first person will reject, leading to further disputation. The process can go on and on, sometimes for more than half of an hour, without any decision's being made until all parties run out of steam and the first person's decision, having been proposed anew, is accepted as the correct one, not having changed one bit since its original formulation. Russians' inability to decide anything whatsoever used to drive me to distraction. When my friends tried to make collective decisions, the only one that I would ever voice is that we should "stand around [wasting time] (and, if it was cold, freezing our asses off) for another thirty minutes," which they would chuckle at before resuming their logomachy. It was only yesterday, when I realized that the inability of GORs to make decisions was just another of their inbred traits, such as their ability to stay goodbye to one another in any less than twenty minutes, which I had to accept as pleasing in its idiosyncrasy. The only alternative, after all, was to continue standing with smoke coming out of my ears every time they tried to decide anything; one does much better to enjoy the show and not let it get to one.
The answer, then, to the question, "How many Russians does it take to decide whether to go to the park or watch a movie?" is "two," as any number greater than that will lead to their arguing until the movie is over and it is already dark out, at which point they will drink vodka, wrestle with bears while playing the balalaika, and write eulogies in honor of Vladimir Lenin. I hope that a new chapter has been added to the book of stereotypes about Russians.
[Edit: I should have highlighted the colorfulness of the language that Russians use when arguing. They always make their points soberly, with a completely straight face, and are either dead-certain that everyone else involved is an idiot or so involved with daydreams about peanuts and the Berlin zoo that they do not care what decision is eventually reached in the debate. They will sometimes laugh at one another's points or say things like, "Are you kidding me?" while making diametrically-opposed points to one another. The fact that this happens every time they try to decide anything at all and that they do not realize that things could be done differently is amusing.]
This is one of Colmar's winding, touristy streets.
This is a view of a church from a tram stop in Freiburg.
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