Peter Kurzeck

In front of the Römer, its old houses, crowds of people, Frankfurt’s citizens, know-it-alls. Frankfurters from the Sachsenhausen part of town, who don’t exactly know how they ended up on this side of the Rhine and when and how they did. Offenbachers who don’t want to admit they’re from Offenbach. Taxi-drivers, tourists, people from the suburbs. From Taunus, Bad Vilbel, Karben, Langen, Darmstadt and Mörfelden. Work in the city, go shopping in the city and live a nice quiet life where it’s greener. And don’t want to go home in the evening. Overtime, pizza, workmates, cinema, missed the train. First an evening meal, then the late show in the cinema and then a kebab and thirsty. In love, a disco, an invitation to a fashion show with champagne and a cold buffet. Culture. The opening night of a Frankfurt art show and then the station district with business friends from Paderborn. Culture is tax-deductible. Are the plays over already? Couples, office workers, and police on the beat. The Frankfurt police with Frankfurt kebabs and their bonuses for overtime and working nights. Monster kebabs with ketchup, mustard and police discount. You have to really open your mouth! Around the Römer area here, patrols are really easy. Peaceful as anything, nights here at Römer. Even the beggars here are polite and educated. Most of Frankfurt’s police force come from Knüll, and from Reinhardswald and the Waldecker hills, and from places people call Hessen’s Siberia. In their first years in Frankfurt they’re always a little afraid people might see that they’re afraid they might get lost on duty in the city. At least they’re well armed. Because if you’re a policeman on duty, who can you ask for directions? Policemen and policewomen, passers-by, a busker with a hat, dog, guitar and harmonica. Edging past. In a hurry. The dog like an accompanying wolf’s shadow. Where are they going? Are the plays over already? The trams’ bells ring on Braubach Strasse. The last sellers of the evening papers, finishing up. Everything already on TV hours ago. And they pack up the headlines, the past day and their gear. A Turk selling pretzels. A Pakistani selling roses. Up from the Main, from the Sachsenhausen bank of the river, and round all the pubs with his roses. Night after night. Up to the stock market, to the Eschenheim Tower and even further. And one from up top, also selling roses, three times every evening starts his rounds near the stock market, then down to the Main and the other side of the river. Or are there more of them? […]

Be sure the night air doesn’t make the pretzels damp and then wouldn’t be as crisp! But as a Frankfurt Turk from Sachsenhausen he knows that, of course. He knows his stuff. Has brought a white cloth for every basket. White or red-and-white checked. Who irons them for him? Sells pretzels fresh from the oven every night here at Römer, each pretzel one mark, and at home he’s as rich as a king? Tourists. Tourists from the Black Forest, from Fulda, from Florence, Rome, the Ruhr valley, from Montana, New York and Texas. Elderly American couples in baseball jackets and evening wear. Dressed in evening wear for the first time. In the afternoon Heidelberg for four hours, that’s another suburb, and now in the evening a free evening. Where to? Now they no longer know where it was where they wanted to remember that they wanted to go back – Sunday morning in Mew-nick, the Hof-brau-house, or the day before yesterday in New-remburg, that nice ol’ cass’le with the grilled brat-worst sausages? Many people from Frankfurt. People from the north of the city and Bornheim, who at the end of each day are always drawn away downhill, but where to? A change of scenery, a deep breath, an evening stroll, fresh air, giving the old limbs a work-out, just a little walk. Ham and sauerkraut, pickled shoulder of pork, frankfurters, the small handkäs cheeses in an onion sauce, boiled knuckle of pork and ribs with sauerkraut. Porn film, peep show and brothel. Counting his money before and afterwards and a VAT receipt. A change of scenery, fresh air, and giving the old limbs a work-out. Henninger shandy, Binding beer, the local äppelwoi cider. No astronomical clock? If there were an astronomical clock at Römer, then everyone would know why they are standing here! An astronomical clock with kings and apostles and when it’s time then you know they’re about to come out! Painted and clothed as if they were real! And they really do come! One after the other! All of them! They come out and greet the people and at the end a cock crows and you can set your watch by it! But there’s no astronomical clock like that here. Nor has there ever been. And yet every evening the people. As if they’re standing here and can’t believe that there’s no astronomical clock! Standing here and can’t go home, because they’ve been waiting ages for summer already. All of them not wrapped up warmly enough and standing impatiently in the dark. Every evening. Have to bring summer in, waiting. First spring and then summer. Standing and taking three paces this way and that. And standing and standing. And even the pigeons still awake at Römer. A night in March, soon be full moon. Like a cathedral, night in front of the Römer.