Right in the heart of Frankfurt am Main is the central cemetery, Hauptfriedhof. It is beautifully maintained and I found it interesting to saunter through its pathways and read the inscriptions on the gravestones. There is even an unexpected section devoted to deceased Jews.

If you get out of the cemetery and walk south along Eckenheimer Landstrasse, you will soon come across the nearest subway station. Now you turn left and walk only a few hundred yards, and you will be on Weberstrasse. It is one of many downtown streets and to most people nothing special. To me, however, it is very significant.

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Near the corner of Weberstrasse and Schwarz burgstrasse there is a pintsize apartment building and an especially cozy apartment on the second floor. The apartment belonged to my friend, Adette Schneider. Her name was appropriate, for I am told in German the name connotes both grace and femininity. She came from an affluent family, but chose always to find her own way and follow her own counsel. Characteristically, she did it in a suave, considerate way that ruffled few feathers and, in fact, retained the affection of her friends and siblings.

She loved to visit exotic lands and took a job in the travel industry, planning and organizing packaged tours. That is how I met her in India, as she explored cities with tour potential for European travelers. I encountered her in Jaipur’s Amber Palace, as I was about to enter the gun section, and she said, “I don’t like weapons, but if you want to see the robe section I will join you.” I promptly changed my mind and opted for the royal turbans and gilded jodhpurs. The evening ended with a sumptuous Rajasthan dinner and a long chat over brandy.

Our paths crossed several times after that. We met in the US where I lived and in India which I visited periodically. We met most often in Germany, since the Frankfurt airport was the fulcrum of my innumerable trips across the Atlantic. If I had only a day or two, we would stroll through Städel Museum or go to see the international sculpture collection at the riverside villa Liebighaus, then veer to Romer Pils Brunnen and eat chicken schnitzel with copious Schofferhofer beer. On a weekend, we would spend the morning in the corner bakery, sitting on the tiny terrace when the weather was good, and drinking endless coffee inside with almond croissants when it wasn’t.

When we were lucky to have more time, we travelled, crisscrossing from Berlin to Munich and from Cologne to Dresden. My favorite place was the small, picturesque university town of Konstanz, which retained all its old buildings despite the ravages of war because it fooled the allied bombers into thinking that it was a part of adjacent Switzerland by the simple trick of keeping lights on at night. We stayed at the charming Steigenberger Hotel, made out of a Dominican monastery located on an island in Lake Constance, with a breathtaking view of the lake. You could walk to the opera, theatre or botanical garden. You could also, after a breakfast at the hotel, take a boat over to Switzerland for lunch, and then proceed to Austria for dinner. Best of all, you could stand at your hotel balcony, with a glass of sekt in your hand, and just watch the sun melt slowly, gloriously in the water.

The truth is, if you have a friend like Adette to accompany you, it does not matter where you are, in the middle of a desert or an unforgettably beautiful lake, for the world takes on a brighter hue, every footfall or rustle of a leaf could be the initiation of a Rachmaninov concerto, every conversation a plunge in ripples of imagination and understanding.
Even a cemetery could be your best compass. A plain street and simple apartment your guide to nirvana.