Mar 19, 2006
Apr 16, 2006
During our week in Germany, we stayed in a rented farmhouse with Nancy's family. Early Thursday morning, we were all buzzing around the windows in eager anticipation for...drum roll...the return of the bread truck. The previous day, we were alarmed to hear the blare of a vehicle horn outside on the road. We all went to the window to see a small truck stop on the road, open up the side like an ice cream or cotton candy vendor, and set up rows of glossy buns, fruity pastries, floured bread, and salted pretzels. Now to our North American audience, this event would be exciting in and of itself, but add to your mouth-watering image the following contextual details. First of all, this farmhouse was located in a "village" called Hohenholz. Now I know villages: I grew up outside the village of Morpeth in Southwestern Ontario with a humble population of about 200 people. But in Germany, the villages were located only a couple kilometres apart and this one had only about 8 houses in it. In addition, the road to the village was closed for construction (which included a big chunk of the road being absent in one direction). Yet still, the bread truck faithfully came on Wednesday. Unfortunately we were all too busy gawking at it to take any pictures or buy any breads, and the driver promptly packed it up and continued on her journey to the next village. To our disappointment, the truck didn't return on Thursday. Similar to a market, the bread truck only comes on Wednesday and Saturday.