On the Road with Us and the Ordinary Madness
No instruction manual for travel. Just a few stories that still make us smile.
America was never just a travel destination for us. For a while, we lived here. It was everyday life — with thunderstorms, supermarkets, neighbors, and the small misunderstandings that later turned into our best stories.
Today, part of our family lives in California and Maine. Perhaps that is why we keep coming back. Or perhaps because this country has surprised us, confused us, and made us laugh more than once over the years.
What remains? Not just photographs, but stories. Stories that end in an airplane galley, begin in a roadside ditch, or are rescued from the sand with a pair of high heels.
All of them are true. At least the way we like to remember them.
This is where America became everyday life for us — with snowstorms, neighbors, and stories that still linger to this day.
Above the Clouds, Madness Begins
Sometimes a travel adventure does not begin at your destination, but at 35,000 feet.
On a flight from Frankfurt to Los Angeles, the pilot welcomed us with the words: “Welcome aboard our flight to San Francisco.”
I instantly felt hot. San Francisco? Had I gotten lost? Yes, I have been known to board the wrong train and travel halfway across Germany before arriving where I actually intended to go. But the wrong airplane?
Fortunately, a few seconds later the pilot corrected himself. “Of course, we are flying to Los Angeles.” My pulse returned to normal.
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On another occasion, I was once again traveling alone to California. Reinhold had treated me to a first-class ticket. I imagined champagne, gourmet meals, and a restful night in Lufthansa’s very own pajamas.
Then the crab salad I had chosen as an appetizer decided to make a return appearance.
Instead of sleeping in a luxurious bed, I spent hours in the airplane galley, my head over a large container, discreetly hidden behind a drawn curtain.
My very own first-class experience.
Some journeys begin with a view out the window — and end with memories that last a lifetime.
At Home in America
When you live in another country for a while, you do not collect tourist attractions. You collect everyday life. Driveways, neighbors, supermarkets, weather warnings. And sentences that stay with you.
It had been snowing for hours when we returned from grocery shopping. We were almost home. All that remained was the long snow-covered driveway that we shared with our neighbors, CJ and Linda.
Then it happened. With remarkable elegance, we slid off the icy surface and into the ditch.
CJ rushed over with a tow rope. I was behind the wheel. Reinhold shouted instructions, growing louder as his nervousness increased — each one beginning with a bellowed “Schatzi!”
Eventually, I lost my patience.
“Don’t call me Schatzi!”
Later, Linda told me that her husband had looked up the meaning of “Schatzi” in the dictionary. He was absolutely convinced it must be the worst German swear word imaginable.
Ever since then, “Schatzi” has had a very special meaning in Connecticut.
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Another time, we had a long journey behind us: Johannesburg, Frankfurt, New York. We were exhausted, sleep-deprived, and wanted nothing more than to get home.
Suddenly, flashing lights appeared in the rearview mirror. Pull over. Driver’s license. Registration.
The police officer examined our documents, looked at us kindly, and said with emphasis:
“Mr. Wogtmän, this is not the German Autobahn.”
Fortunately, we got off with a warning. But the sentence stayed with us forever.
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Even the weather took its educational duties seriously. For days, radio and television had warned of severe thunderstorms with lightning and hail.
“Stay safe,” they repeated endlessly.
Our personal protector Reinhold was somewhere else in the world, so Lena and I decided to take matters into our own hands.
We packed underwear for five days, water, snacks, two garden chairs, blankets, pillows, and — in retrospect the most questionable decision of the evening — a large citronella candle to keep mosquitoes away.
A narrow staircase led us down to the natural cellar. Boulders, clay floor, low ceiling, no windows. A setting straight out of a movie you would not want to appear in.
After less than an hour, the air was becoming scarce. The citronella candle gave us headaches, and its flickering glow did little to inspire confidence in our survival strategy.
Eventually, Lena and I agreed that it would probably be more pleasant to be surprised by a thunderstorm than to suffocate in our own shelter from mosquito repellent.
So we went back upstairs.
In the end, we survived both.
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And then there was Cape Hatteras.
“It’s just a little hop from Connecticut,” said Tanja, who was spending a few days there. “Why don’t you just come by?”
That “little hop” turned out to be nearly 1,000 kilometers each way.
Before heading home the next day, we felt we had earned a short detour to the beach. Or so we thought.
My hysterical plea not to drive too far into the sand was ignored.
“No problem at all,” said Reinhold.
At that exact moment, our car got stuck.
In the sand.
No four-wheel drive. No help. No equipment.
As the tires spun helplessly and the smell of hot rubber became increasingly alarming, only one option remained: my high heels. Genuine leather. Handcrafted in Italy.
Placed under the tires, they finally set us free.
Unfortunately, I could no longer wear them afterward.
It was the longest little hop of my life.
From a snow-covered driveway, a misunderstood “Schatzi,” and a car with a remarkable talent for getting stuck, a friendship with CJ and Linda was born — one that endures to this day and led us through Bavaria together many years later.
Reinhold vs. the World
Traveling with Reinhold means one thing: there is always a plan. Sometimes a very clear one. And sometimes that plan stands in direct contradiction to reality.
Parking in Manhattan, for example, is expensive. Very expensive. One might also say: so expensive that Reinhold considers it a personal challenge.
One day, we pulled into a parking garage, asked about the price, and received an answer that prompted Reinhold to make an immediate decision.
“Not with me.”
That settled the matter.
In reverse gear, we maneuvered back up the winding ramp, left the garage, and continued our search.
Some people pay for parking.
And then there is Reinhold.
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In Waterville, Reinhold simply wanted a milkshake from Dairy Queen. A straightforward matter, one would think.
The sales clerk smiled and asked, “Extra protein?”
Reinhold looked briefly confused.
“In the old days, they asked whether I wanted an extra scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
Confusion on both sides.
By mistake, he had wandered into a nutrition supplement store. As we drove on, we discovered that Dairy Queen was just a little farther down the road.
Ever since then, “Extra protein, darling?” has been one of our favorite running gags.
New York: Between skyscrapers, traffic chaos, and unforgettable moments.
When Travel Connects People
Not all stories are loud. Some begin with uncertainty and end with a smile.
Lena and I accompanied Reinhold on a business trip to Africa.
A business associate in Harare, Zimbabwe, had invited us to dinner. Lena, then a teenager, was deeply concerned about her braces.
“I’m sure the other girls will be incredibly pretty,” she said. “And I have this enormous contraption in my mouth.”
The welcome was warm, the meal was delicious, and before long, everyone was laughing.
Impossible to miss: both daughters of our hosts were wearing gleaming braces as well.
Sometimes a shared smile connects people faster than any language.
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In Australia, another story began with an invitation.
Once again, I was accompanying Reinhold on a business trip. A business associate had invited us to his home for turkey dinner with his family.
What an honor.
We were warmly welcomed, enjoyed an aperitif, and eagerly awaited the promised feast.
What puzzled me was that nowhere in the house was there the slightest smell of roasting turkey.
Then we heard a soft “Ping.”
The microwave door opened.
And out came our turkey.
In gravy. Bite-sized. All that remained was to peel back the plastic film.
The evening itself was delightful.
Later, in our hotel bed, Reinhold murmured:
“The evening was wonderful. But the food was … let’s say, open to improvement.”
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Many encounters last only a few minutes, yet remain with us longer than many perfect vacation photos.
Once, we were standing at a scenic overlook on Highway One when a friendly woman offered to take our picture.
“Where are you from?” she asked as I handed her my phone.
“Germany.”
She beamed and pointed to her husband.
“My husband is German, too — partially.”
Then she pointed to his belt buckle and slowly traced her finger down to the tip of his shoes.
“From here to here.”
Well.
We all burst out laughing.
The photograph she took of us, by the way, turned out terribly.
But the image in my mind remains crystal clear to this day.
The ordinary madness knows no borders.
Why We Still Love to Travel
America was never just a destination for us. It was everyday life, adventure, and occasionally a small lesson in letting go.
And of course, the ordinary madness did not stop at America’s borders.
Whether in Africa, Australia, or elsewhere, stories are waiting everywhere — stories that cannot be planned.
We have laughed, gotten lost, gotten stuck, and somehow always found our way again.
And perhaps that is exactly why we still love to travel: because of the people we meet, the memories that remain, and the stories that continue to make us smile even many years later.
And sometimes, what remains in the end is simply the feeling that one day, you will return.
More stories about everything that happens between travel, memories, and everyday life:
Life in Between
About Edith: She is 70+ and more curious than ever. On her blog
she writes about travel, memories, and life in between — poetic, honest, and always with a touch of humor.
By her side: Reinhold, tireless navigator, impatient voice of calm, and secret guardian of the picnic bag.
Edith also shares small snapshots from her travels and from life in between on Instagram: @edivo2017.