Our goal for the morning was to be at the subway station very early so we could arrive at the hauptbanhoff in time to validate Eurail passes. With those passes, we would leave Berlin and travel to Rothenburg.

At 4:00, Kris was the first one awake. Martin woke Sara up by hollering at 4:15, and by 4:30 the rest of us were also in various stages of wakefulness. Martin came to my bunk to ask me if I had the charger for his MP3 player, and I stuck my tongue out at him because I did not want to get out of bed.

At the hauptbanhoff, we had quite the mix-up when we all split to find breakfast and Kris validated our Eurail passes. Jolene's nose led her to a pasty shop, where she found a large pretzel, Martin made a beeline for Burger King, and Sara and I found ourselves a lovely German bakery.

Apparently, validation of Eurail passes is more involved than we expected, and Kris suddenly needed everybody's passports. So Sharon, the mother hen that she is, searched the main food court of the hauptbanhoff to round us all up again. It took a long time to find Martin since Burger King was closed and he had to go to McDonald's instead, so the ticket lady let Kris get his ticket without the passport.

When we were standing and waiting for the passes, Jolene dropped her pretzel beside a trash can. But her mother's good training came through, and she observed the 10-second rule and finished it anyway.

As we were waiting for our train, a friendly sort of man came up and spoke with us. As usual, he confessed that his English is "nicht so gut," but he was fairly easy to understand anyway. He had only one hand, and the other arm had been cut off at the wrist. He was very chatty and thought perhaps we were from Austria. Kris employed her usual diplomacy, and they became fast friends.

Now, anyone who is 26 or older and wants to get a general pass like ours is required to purchase a first-class ticket for $628 instead of a second-class ticket for $500. Jolene and I were the only candidates for the second-class tickets, and since it is important to stay together, we just bought first-class tickets like all the rest.

In the first train, we agreed that the first-class tickets were well worth the expense. We rode an ICE train, which stands for Inter-City Express. We found a completely unoccupied car and walked down the aisle with wonder in our eyes. The passengers riding second-class has four seats across, but we had only three. There were two tables in our car, and we gratefully settled down at one of them. We reveled in the softness and breadth of the seats. Sharon was the first to discover how to recline the seats, and she sighed with satisfaction. We all felt slightly guilty, having an entire first-class car to ourselves when we don't feel like first-class people, but we discovered that we lurve living in the lap of luxury.

There was a display which told us how fast we were going, and Martin quickly became fascinated with our speed. When it reached 200 km/hr, Martin zoomed in and tooka picture, but this was not the fastest it went. As our speed increased, Martin took picture after picture until the speed maxed out at 250 kph. He kept exclaiming about how smoothly the train took off, and how there was no lurch.

Of course in the middle of our enjoyment hung the gray cloud of Sleepiness and its best friend Grouch. You see, we had only gotten 3.5 hours of sleep the night before. The reclining seats and the tables proved useful, and after eating our various breakfasts, we settled down and slept.

The second train was "nicht so gut" as the first one. Perhaps the reason was simply that we hadn't yet figured out where to wait for a first-class car, and we ended up in second class.

Much like an airplane, trains have overhead baggage compartments. The big difference, though, is that in an airplane, the heavy luggage goes underneath the passengers, and the passengers only have to deal with carry-ons. Whenever we switch trains, we have to load up our sore backs with our large backpacks and either carry our daypacks or put them on in front of us. We run to the next train, find our seats, and swing our heavy backpacks up into the baggage compartments and keep our purses and daypacks close by our sides. My backpack is heavy enough for my scrawniness that I always ask Martin to lift it up into the baggage compartment for me.

We were getting onto the third train. All was well; we were all in the same car, and we were stowing our baggage. Suddenly I looked up, and here brave Jolene, looking like a bodybuilder, was hefting her bag up high over her head and into the compartment. Alas, she lost the balance of the backpack, and it sailed back behind her head and dropped on the floor.

The fourth train was very short and only went to Rothenburg and back again. We rode in the front car, which I guess was also the engine, and the conductor sat right in front of us in a cockpit just like the pilot of airplane. Soon after we started out, a man and his four little children moved to the front of our car so the children could watch the conductor through the glass door that separated him from us. They giggled and cheered every time he blew the whistle. The littlest girl was cute as a button, with curly blonde hair and the most adorable dimples. We got out our cameras, which is what we always do when we see something noteworthy. The little darling cocked her head and smiled sweetly for us. She liked the attention and it seemed like maybe she's used to it.

Rothenburg was at the end of the train route, and we all piled off once more with our enormous packs. We stowed our large packs in a rental compartment at the train station. It cost 2 euros per compartment, and we rented 2 compartments. We did a little arguing and finally decided to pack the things we needed for the afternoon in Rothenburg in our day packs, stow what we would need for the night in one compartment, and then come back to retrieve our overnight things after walking through the town.

Right beside the train station, we found a little restaurant. It was full of smoke and beer, so we sat outside to eat our food. Also outside sat two young men drinking. I was down to the last bite of the burrito-ish thing with meat and salat (lettuce) and ranch-ish dressing-ish sauce, and it was a bigger bite than I really wanted to eat. But it was so very messy that I just stuffed the huge bite into my mouth. I looked up just in time to see the drinking-men next door watching me with mirth. One of them winked at me, which of course turned my slight sunburn a little darker.

After eating, we walked and whined toward the city, oohing and ahhing over its splendor.

Rothenburg is a midieval city with a wall surrounding it for protection. The wall was very secure for many years, but eventually some army did conquer it. I was surprised to learn that the American army actually had possession it at one point. The city was partially destroyed in World War II, but it has been restored to something very close to original. The largest residence is still occupied by the same family that has owned it for the last 300 years. Very strict building codes keep the city looking the way it always has.

The first thing we did in Rothenburg was to walk along the wall. The wall goes around the entire city and has six gates in it. The oldest gate we saw was built in 1555, but it was called the new gate because the arch it was set in was built in 1360. From the wall, we could see acoss the city. All the houses have red roofs, and through little peepholes in the wall we could look into the back yards of some houses outside the city.

We finally figured out that if we kept walking in one direction on the wall, we would end up walking around the entire city before we got back to our destination. Not wanting to spend our only day in Rothenburg doing nothing but walking the wall, we turned around and trotted back to the city entrance.

A chance of rain loomed, according to Martin, so I purchased a pretty little green-and-white plaid umbrella. For a little bit after I bought it, I tried to be a fine lady with a parasol, but I soon opted to hang it from my fanny pack instead.

Once we got to the town square, it was almost 1:00. On the hour, the bells in a massive clock ring, and in two windows in the bell tower, statues of two men slowly bring glasses of beer to their mouths. The tourists came from all over the city, pausing in their exploring just so they could fish out their cameras to snap photos and videotape the magic clock tower.

We badly needed to find some tourist information so we could navigate the city better, so we hunted that down and got ourselves some guidebooks and maps. But Sara reported feeling ill. She thought she might even need to puke. And nobody else really felt like doing anything, so exerted were we from our walk from the station and our trot along the wall. We sat on the steps of a large building-- perhaps it was a church, we couldn't quite tell-- and watched the people while poor Sara got sicker and sicker. I ran down the steps to a fruit stand and asked for a bag. The nice girl behind the counter gave me one without asking questions and without asking for euros, and I ran back up the steps and gave it to poor sick Sara. She eventually obliged us and puked, and while she was doing so, we formed a wall with our bodies so passersby couldn't see what was happening.

With an ill member, we decided to go back to the station and retrieve our things and move on down to the bed and breakfast. We left Sara there with some of our things and marched all of the 1.2 miles to the station. After we got our things, we marched all the way back to the square, whining more than ever. By the time we got back to Sara, her puke bag was a little fuller than before, but she felt much better.

Martin's GPS and Kris's directions led us out of the city, through a park, and down to our bed and breakfast. We got started along the path, which was fortunately downhill. But for those of us who do very little hiking, even downhill hiking is hard. Along the way, we found leeches and snails on the path. Sara was afraid she would slip on one of the leeches and slide all the way down to the bottom of the hill.

We didn't think the path would ever end, and just about the time we thought it would end, we rounded a corner and saw that it only got steeper, and that it stretched out for a very long distance yet. Martin said, "You know, if I would trip and fall, I wouldn't stop rolling until I hit the bottom!"

We finally reached the bottom of the hill and sighed with relief, but according to Martin's GPS, we still had some distance to travel. We crossed a quaint bridge and walked beside the road on a dirt path for maybe 1/4 mile, and all of the sudden, we saw a sign on a building that read Pension Fuchsmuehle. We all felt our packs getting a little lighter and rejoiced because our pilgrimage was finally over.

Just as we arrived, around the corner of the building came a smiling gentleman. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, but over his jeans he wore a long blue wrap-around apron. His blonde hair reached below his ears, and it curled slightly at the ends. He was stereotypical of the German heartthrob.

He said, "You are the group for the apartment with six beds, yah?" and ushered us into the foyer. He grabbed the keys to the apartment and said with a grin, "You came down, now we go up." And up we went with our aching legs, up two spiraling flights of steps into the entrance of the most delightful three-bed apartment we had ever laid eyes on. Martin sat down on his bed and with worship in his voice, said, "Ooh, it's so soft!"

Each room in the apartment had two single beds, and each bed was clean and white, with soft sheets and a down comforter that enfolded the sleeper with a gentle hug. Each bed had a fluffy pillow on it which gladly molded into the desired shape.

The bathroom was spotless, with a funny removable showerhead that was probably no more than four feet up-- a little short for tallish people. We were provided with towels, a luxury the hostel did not have. Kris and Sharon's room was four steps down from the rest of the apartment, and their window opened right above the stream which powered the mill. The rushing water created an atmosphere for the most restful sleep ever.

After we chose rooms and settled in, we tramped back down the steps to explore the place. Across the street from the mill stood a small museum, and right beside the mill was a charming little café. Alexander Molitor, the owner/heartthrob, asked if we wanted coffee, and when everybody else declined, I said I would love some coffee. Mercy, when a guy that good-looking is practically begging to make me some coffee, I will definitely take him up on the offer. He then said, "Why don't you try the cappuccino?" Of course he charged me like 1.50 euros for the privilege, and the cappuccino was too strong and not sweet enough, but I drank it outside in the garden and felt truly happy.

I asked Alexander if he owns the place, and if he does everything himself. He said yes, he owns it, and he and his wife and two children take care of the place by themselves. We ladies were all very disappointed when he said the word "wife," five hearts sinking, our dreams of living in the Tauber Valley in Germany cruelly crushed.

Soon it was time to return to the city. The walk up the hill looked daunting. Martin said he didn't know if his pudgy little legs would push him up the hill, but we started out anyway. I left before the others did so I could explore beyond the gates we had passed on the way down. I started off with lots of stamina, but soon my legs began to whine. I began panting for breath and feeling sorry for myself. Not only was I going too fast, I couldn't call anyone on my cell phone and tell them about it.

I found several gates along the path and found them unlocked. I wandered down the little paths they unveiled and discovered charming flower gardens hidden among the trees. I also found some ruined sheds, sheds with lovely arched windows and carefully-carved doors. Soon I heard whining from the path, so I left my exploring and ran to join my companions.

Back in town once more, we found an Italian restaurant beside the street. It had reasonable prices and hovering servers. We bravely tried to speak German, and when Martin asked the waiter if he pronounced something right, the waiter replied, "I don't know! I am Italian!"

Before I left Kansas, I expressed to Mom that I wanted to have some wine while I was gone, and she said she thought that would be fine. So at the little streetside café in the lovely midieval Rothenburg, I bought myself some sweet red wine. What it was called, I have no idea. And it was not sweet, or if it was, I would hate to taste wine that is not. One thing it seriously had going for it was that it was beautiful. The waiter served half of it to me in a goblet, and the other half was in a little carafe. Laid out on the table with my salad and the oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper for my salad, it made a stunning picture.

Unfortunately, we were hardly finished with our meal when it was 8:00 and time for the walking tour with the night watchman. I still had not finished my wine, and since I had paid good money for it (only 2 euros, I believe, which is approximately what all the other drinks also cost), I decided to take it along with me. I poured it into my water bottle, and during the night watchman's tour, I slowly sipped wine out of a plastic bottle. Out of the goblet, it lost most of its charm.

We went on the tour with the night watchman. The tour was very informative, and in my usual style, I stayed right up in front with the guide. I have found that if I stay right up under the spout where the oompah comes out, I learn better and listen better and think less about my fellow tourists.

At the end, the guide announced that the price for the tour was four euros for students and six euros for adults. Under the impression that the tour was free/tip-based, we were all very annoyed to have to fork over our precious euros.

And once more, we braved the trail down to the bed and breakfast, this time in the dark. Armed with flashlights, Martin and Jolene went ahead and announced each time they found a leech ("naked snails," according to Alexander). It seemed like the trek down the hill was strangely harder than it was going up. Never before had I felt muscle soreness in the front of my calves-- the back, yes, but never the front.

Back at the bed and breakfast once more, we dragged our weary feet back up the two flights of stairs to our little apartment, and finally, finally, after a long, exhausting day, we tucked our weary bodies into the softest beds in all of Germany.