After receiving my orders, I learned that Rilda, had been given permission to travel concurrently with me. We drove from Louisville, Kentucky, to Charleston, South Carolina, and shipped our car by ship at army expense to Bremerhaven in the northwestern portion of West Germany, a seaport on the North Sea. From there it would be delivered to Landstuhl, my ultimate duty station. The following day we sat nervously and impatiently beside each other in the waiting lounge at the Charleston International Airport in South Carolina. We were about to depart company with the United States for the next three years. I flinched when I heard, “Colonel Seletz,” over the loudspeaker. Rilda and I jumped up and marched smartly to the Jetway. A pleasant blue-uniformed airlines agent handed us our boarding passes. “Here you go, sir. You and Missus Seletz are first in line and have been assigned the front two bulkhead seats. Enjoy the overnight flight to Frankfort, West Germany.”

Bleary-eyed the following morning, Rilda and I were in dire need to rest and overcome six hours of jet lag. My sponsor had dropped us off at the Zum Zuckerbäker Gasthaus in Landstuhl, seventy-five miles southwest of Frankfort. Dragging suitcases, we entered the Gasthaus, “German hotel,” and I tried out my Bahnhof Deutsch, “Train Station German.”

“Guten Tag,” I said as I approached a pleasant appearing middle-aged man standing behind the reception desk. “Mein Name ist Seletz, Jules Seletz.” I hoped they had a reservation and more important, that the proprietor understood my pitiful German.

“Guten Tag, Herr Seletz,” the gentleman replied. “Ja, wir erwarten Sie.”

I sighed. At least we're expected. Then I asked for the key, explaining that we were extremely tired.

“Natürlich, Herr Seletz,” the man smiled. Then the proprietor explained that he required payment in advance.

I frowned thinking, Pay in advance? I had a few hundred Deutsch marks in my wallet that we had purchased from a commercial bank in Kentucky, but at a hundred Deutsch marks a day at Zum Zuckerbaker Gasthaus would rapidly deplete my cash. Do I asked hopefully, “Benutze ich, krempelt ein Kredit?” I held my breath, hoping he'd take a credit card.

“Natürlich,” the German responded. Then he asked in perfect English, “Visa, MasterCard or American Express?” He added in perfect German, “Willkommen nach Deutschland!”

I sighed inwardly. Yes. Welcome to Germany!

An hour later, I glanced at Rilda. “You awake?”

She whimpered, “Who can sleep with all that racket out there?”

I smiled knowingly and reassured her, “It's children. It's Sunday. No school. Shouldn't be this noisy tomorrow.”

“But Jules,” she whined. “I'm tired ... today.” Then she laughed and said facetiously, “Willkommen nach Deutschland!”

I glanced at my watch, reset to German time. “It's five o'clock.” I raised an eyebrow and asked Rilda expectantly, “Shall we explore Landstuhl?”

Rilda's face brightened. She put her fatigue aside and said excitedly, “You bet. And find us a good old German Bratwurst.”

I smiled and asked hopefully, “How about the famous German beer we've heard so much about?”

Rilda nodded, her eyes dancing, and said enthusiastically, “I'll settle for a glass of well-known Rhein Wine. And thanks to Herr Zuckerbäker taking Visa, we've still got our Deutschmarks from the States.”

We slipped off the bed, dressed and scurried down the staircase to the first floor. From Zum Zuckerbäker, we turned left on Kaiserslautern Strasse and one block down, crossed Einbahn Strasse. After two more blocks, we crossed Einbahn Strasse again. I took it for granted that Einbahn Strasse was a U-shaped street. As we strolled along, we looked up to our left and recognized the remains of Nanstein Castle overlooking the small village. There was evidently no shortage of German castles in West Germany. Since they had no military importance, they were spared the ravages of Allied bombing runs during WWII.

An elevated open plaza suddenly materialized on our left where we immediately heard oompah music. A large, green-and-white striped tent loomed on our left, the aroma of Bratwurst beckoning us. We glanced sideways at each other, grinned, and sauntered up a set of concrete steps and strode across the square to witness a typical German Fest, “Party.”

Inside the tent, numerous men and women, with huge tan Great Danes or black Labrador Retrievers lying peacefully at their owner's feet, were chatting noisily. A thick veil of cigarette smoke hung in the air. All the customers wore western-type clothing. To me, except for the language, and the dogs, they could easily have been Americans.

I approached the bartender, a portly man with a beefy face and again tried my newfound language. “Entschuldigung Sie, "excuse me." Kann Ich wir Getränke hier kaufen?” I held my breath, hoping to buy drinks.

The bright-eyed bartender replied, “Aber natürlich, wenn Sie Geld haben zahlen. Sind Sie Amerikaner?”

I nodded, thinking, We've got money. And we're obviously Americans. Then I said in German, “Beer for me and white wine for my wife.”

The bartender pursed his lips, nodded and replied in perfect English. “Coming right up, Herr Amerikanische.” He put a stein under the spigot and grabbed a bottle of white wine from the table behind him. He filled a stemmed glass up to an etched line, conforming to German law. It seemed forever, however, for the stein to fill, because the bartender kept scraping off the foam and refilling the stein from the tap. I soon learned if I wanted cold beer, a draught, I had to exhibit patience. If not, I could get a bottle of warm beer from a case sitting on the floor. When the bartender finally handed us our drinks, he said with a broad smile, “Prosit!”

Soon Rilda and I were chatting, laughing, and answering numerous questions from the Germans at the bar. People sitting around at the tables kept lifting their steins and glasses toward us and smiled happily while also exclaiming, “Prosit!” Sometimes we heard, “Zum Vohl!” instead. Rilda and I learned both meant, “Cheers!” We also learned it took only the slightest of excuses to instigate a fest in Germany.

When I asked about a good restaurant that served typical German food, all the customers instantly argued loudly with each other. Everyone talked and no one listened. So I finally accepted directions to the nearest one. When we left the oompah music behind, it was as if we were waving good-bye to lifelong friends.

We walked two blocks, at angles to Kaiserslautern Strasse, and came upon Einbahn Strasse once again. I said to Rilda, “Einbahn Strasse must be the longest street in Landstuhl. After being seated in the restaurant, I mentioned to the waiter that I had seen Einbahn Strasse a number of times in Landstuhl. The German responded with, “Jawohl, mein Herr. Es gibt vielem Einbahn Straßen in Landstuhl.” I felt my face flush when I learned there were many one-way streets in Landstuhl.

The following day, after reporting to the Personnel Office to sign in, I had the remainder of the day off. So we headed down Kaiserslautern Strasse to Autobahn 6 and drove east to Heidelberg, where there was an ancient Schloss, “castle” high on a hill overlooking an ancient Brucke, “bridge” that crossed the Nekar Fluss, “River.” Before visiting the Schloss, with nowhere to park on the street, I drove into an underground parking garage. The garage attendant ran toward us, waving his hands wildly in the air and excitedly shouting in German while pointing to a sign on the wall : Einbahn Strasse.