The streets are narrow, almost shy, as if they were trying to hide from the world. And yet, they open again and again—into small squares, into light, into moments that linger. In Gargano, somewhere between

Celle – Ein Spiel aus Zeit und Anmut (Deutsch) Manche Orte wirken nicht alt, sondern aus der Zeit gefallen. Das Hotel Fürstenhof in Celle gehört dazu. Schon beim Eintreten wird klar: Hier geht es nicht

Rellingen is a place of calm. No theatrical beauty, no tourist noise—just the quiet certainty that time is stored differently here. Walking through the village, one senses that history is not put on display;

In the grey-on-grey of a German winter, memory becomes a form of warmth. We remind ourselves of sun, of heat, of dolce vita. Italy is a place of longing—and few cities unite architecture and history as

Regensburg – When Rain Outshines the Riviera Dream (English) This time, Regensburg lives up to its name—drenched and dripping. People pull their heads down into their collars and hurry through the narrow

Oberstaufen feels like a place shaped by tourism, yet not consumed by it. People are friendly, though with a slight reserve, as if to say: “We’re happy you’re here—but we still belong to ourselves.” It’s

Erfurt meets me in the glow of the cathedral night. The Catholic cathedral rises above the city like a guardian from another age, its grand staircase a declaration of presence, of height, of history. Below

My relationship with this city is complicated. Berlin challenges me every time—loud, brash, dirty, and yet so irresistibly alive. It’s not a city one loves for its beauty; it’s a city one submits to because

Mainz greets me with grandeur—not the fleeting kind, but the heavy, stonebound majesty of centuries past. The cathedral looms like a monument to permanence, every pillar carved with faith and power. In

Here, everything is wide. The sky stretches endlessly over dunes, and the wind clears the mind like a broom through thought. St. Peter-Ording is a place of distance – between person and sea, between now

Sometimes, a city offers only a glimpse – a trace, a whisper, a “nearly.” That was Schwerin. The business trip left no room for discovery. I arrived after dark, and before dawn, I was gone again. Between

The path to Hohenstein feels like a stage set. The Malerweg winds through sandstone gorges that look sculpted for a film—light falling in careful strokes, silence echoing softly from stone to stone. It’s

If Oskarshausen is a cross-section of society, then it is a sobering sight. Here, perhaps, is everyone—unfiltered, uncurated, unposed. And yet: too many faces look weary, empty, frowning. Too many bodies,

Kerpen does not greet me with beauty. Everywhere the eye turns: the hard edges of 1970s planning, grey and careless. Only two things stand out: the kart track that produced world champions, and Burg

Finningen is little more than a breath of a village, tiny, close to the Danube, still just within Bavaria before Württemberg begins. A threshold, a border—and yet so unmistakably itself. At the “Hirsch,”

Kleinmachnow feels like a place where space was made for life, and life never quite arrived. Wide streets, but hardly any people. The air is tidy, almost sterile, and those you do see are craftsmen and

In Freiberg, everything breathes history. Where elsewhere the dates on houses begin in the 1700s or 1800s, here they reach back into the 1200s—so far removed that they feel more like legend than record.

It’s easy to forget that these crooked timbered houses belong to Frankfurt—a city that crowns itself in steel and glass. Here in Sachsenhausen, along cobblestone alleys and under tilted roofs, life feels