Not Taking the Waters in Wiesbaden

Except for the part where I screwed up my train ticket, this day went much more smoothly.  For one thing it was much cooler although still humid.  I needed an easy day out, and most museums are closed on Monday, so I chose to visit the spa town of Wiesbaden.  That element "baden" indicates a thermal spring or bath, and many towns in this area bear it.  Indeed one town on my itinerary bears it twice.

Moreover, Wiesbaden is the capital of the State of Hesse--much to Darmstadt's disgust.  Frankfurt merely shrugs its financial shoulders.  Since Frankfurt is the headquarters of nearly everything, the city can afford to be generous.

So I got my ticket from the machine and got right on the S Bahn and had a nice trip to Wiesbaden, and as we pulled into town I noticed signs of the historic center in a particular direction.  I was determined not to be fooled again.  I need not have worried. A Tourist Information Office sat right out in front of the station, but in fact Wiesbaden is so well sign posted, I seldom had to consult my city map. Needing to stretch my legs I took the twenty minute walk into the city center along tree lined avenues and handsome nineteenth century buildings.
Like many places that welcome visitors so graciously and genteely, Wiesbaden was built on vice. Most spa towns also feature casinos, and Dostoyevsky famously lost his shirt there.  The spas catered to those who needed to be put back together after prolonged and riotous self indulgence.  Today European doctors can proscribe spa treatment for a variety of ailments, and the national health insurance will pay for it.  Tourists need to shell out.  I did not, but I might have had I not been alone. Many spas forbid clothing, and some segregate the sexes.  The treatments sound lovely, but I do not fancy being naked and alone.

I strolled through the town to the main square and then down to peek inside the casino.  I had a lovely walk through the enchanting Kurpark communing with ducks and fountains.

I visited the "hot fountain," but it looked so steamy I did not have the nerve to try to drink any of the water.  All in all it was a very pleasant time walking around admiring the city.
Some general observations.  Germans appear always to be eating.  Indeed on trains, buses, and trams it seems to be a social convention.  One settles in the seat and then pulls out a bag--usually it's pastry. Yesterday I watched as a S Bahn rider sucked down beer after beer.  T shirts featuring some stylized version of the Stars and Stripes are quite popular among Germans.  I, being an actual American, take care to display no obvious signs of my nationality.
What about this screwed up ticket?   Clearly you got there and back again.
I bought my day pass from a machine, and the passenger is supposed to indicate the date of use.  I thought I'd indicated today's date, but I did not look very closely, and in fact my ticket read Gute am Aug. 1, and I didn't notice.  Yesterday I rode around, and no one ever checked my ticket.  On my trip out today on the S Bahn no one checked my ticket.  In Wiesbaden I took the bus back from the market square to the train station.  Ticket checking?  Nope.
After a short wait, I got on one of the regional trains back to Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof.  Almost immediately the conductor came around.  One can never tell when tickets will be checked, and by far most people play fair.  Being caught without a valid ticket results in a forty euro fine on the spot. But I had no worries.  I handed the conductor my ticket.
He looked at it.  Frowned.  Looked again.  He spoke to me in German.  I gathered there was some problem, but I explained that I spoke very little German and did not understand him.
Oh!  A foreigner.  No wonder.  Very likely to do something innocently but idiotic by accident.  He smiled and said, "It's ok."  Then he wrote something on my ticket. When he gave it back to me I discovered that he'd written today's date, and by being nice, he saved me forty euro!
For dinner I had the rest of the Maultaushen this time dressed with some left over grune soss for a real German experience.  The sharp, herby sauce was perfect with the pasta, and I guess that it would be great over anything starchy including non-starchy eggs.  This all got washed down with German rose.
Yeah, Pil that's my problem.  What's up with the wine?  Didn't you teach us last summer that German = beer?
That was Bavaria, meine Freuden.  This part of Germany is wine country.  I passed a lot of vineyards on the way to Wiesbaden.  But truth to tell, Germans love their beer.  Let's try some tomorrow.