Mannheim is often underrated, and I understand why. The city has no picture-postcard old town. It is laid out in squares, orderly and a little sober. Look closer, though, and you find a morning that feels pleasantly precise.
I started at the market square. From a distance I could already smell freshly baked simit and spices. At the Turkish stalls, olives and cheese were piled so high that choosing was hard, and next to them börek, still warm. I bought baklava, far too much of it, and drank freshly pressed pomegranate juice while the vendor pressed a piece of lokum into my hand without asking. Sweet belongs at the start of every good thing, he said. I did not argue.
From there it is only a few minutes on foot to the water tower. It stands on Friedrichsplatz, tall and pale, surrounded by arcades and greenery, and looks like a building that has nothing to prove to anyone. I sat down on a bench with my bag and listened to the fountains. The sound of the water takes away the noise without shutting out the city. I rarely find that.
A city that shows its water this naturally has self-confidence. Mannheim needs no backdrop. I take something sweet home from this morning, and the memory of a bench where one can be comfortably alone. Anyone who knows Mannheim only as a place to drive through should arrive early once and take their time.
Discreetly yours,
Lena