DEUTSCHLAND DUET : To Germany with Mark: A paternal diary of a 2 1/2-week quest for a son’s roots

There would be no music. Not this time. The consumer’s advocate wasn’t going to evade Hollywood Bowl in order to cover flights of Wagnerian fancy in Bayreuth. He had no intention of attending any Straussian exhumation at the Munich Opera. This trip was to be blissfully unprofessional.

This trip was to be mine.

Well, that’s not quite right. This trip was to be ours . Mark’s and mine. Mark happens to be the eldest of the Bernheimer children. Like his three sisters, he isn’t much interested in what his father, the friendly critical fossil, regards as the loftiest muse. Mark prefers rock to Rachmaninoff.

He’s normal.

He also happens to be a bright, sensitive, tough, all-American, gum-chewing young man who just turned 22 and who just graduated from the University of Oregon. In a few weeks he would begin his first job, as an assignment editor for a television station in Eugene. But before Mark faced the rigors of the real world, I had promised him a little escape.

Actually, it was a big escape, a 2 1/2-week quest for his Germanic roots. Mark had never been out of the country before, unless one counted Rosarito Beach. This would be his graduation gift--an indulgence facilitated by two convenient facts: (1) Dad happened to be a frequent flyer, and (2) Pan Am happened to have an attractive save-up-miles-and-get-a-free-ride program called Worldpass.

I sent Mark a German guidebook. He said it looked nice, but he didn’t read it. He could do that on the plane. We agreed on a plan: There would be no plan. All we knew was that we were to arrive in Munich and depart from Frankfurt. Whatever happened in between was left to fate, whim, mood, the wafting of the wind, the strength of the sagging dollar and the state of a precarious traveling exchequer.

We didn’t worry, much, about terrorism. We told each other that we shouldn’t succumb to popular hysteria. People could get killed crossing the street at home. Drowning in one’s own bathtub was a distinct possibility. Europe held no monopoly on danger. At least there wouldn’t be too many other American tourists impeding our progress.

I quoted Henry James: “Live all you can; it’s a mistake not to.”

“Let’s not linger around airports,” Mark suggested.

We swallowed hard, and counted the days.

Getting there wasn’t half the fun. Pan Am lost my Worldpass exchange-coupon request. Then, while a new one was rushed to the East Coast, Pan Am inadvertently canceled our reservation. Then, when the reservation was reinstated, Pan Am canceled its almost-direct flight, sending us to Munich haltingly via New York and London. Then there was the engine trouble at Kennedy. We didn’t mind any of this, much. The price was right.

En route, we weren’t even put off by the flight attendant’s recitation of the dinner menu: “You want pot roast or mystery fish?” I didn’t care that the classical music channel offered a long-playing surface hiss instead of the promised “Turandot.” Mark got his kind of music.

The hours crept on apace. We collaborated on crossword puzzles. We pondered the meaning of life. We watched an edited version of “Murphy’s Romance” and wondered what could have been deleted. Thousands of miles and magazines later, Mark watched “Jewel of the Nile” while the old man resorted to reading the German guide book.

We got there at low noon, bleary, bedraggled and happy. Munich, which happens to be my natal city, loomed gray, cold and wet. The first days were consumed with casual sightseeing, not-so-casual eating and drinking and the solving of some weighty problems:

--How to deal with the Klo-Frau , that elderly and indiscreet attendant who womans public men’s rooms.

--How to get a glass of water in a restaurant.

--How to find a place to stroll on sidewalks, between the cafe tables and the parked cars (yes, Virginia, in Germany they park cars on the sidewalk).

--How to explain that the beloved bologna-like staple, leberkaes , contains neither liver nor cheese.

--How to analyze the difference between light beer, dark beer and, best of all, weissbier (made with wheat malt instead of barley malt for a distinctive champagne flavor).

We mastered the efficient, spanking-clean subway system, if not its Byzantine do-your-own-ticketing system. We felt inner pangs when we eyed the long lines at McDonald’s, where the simplest hamburger sells for DM 2.20--roughly $1.10. That seemed cheap compared to the going rate in cafes for a pot of hot water and a tea bag: DM 5.

Mark, who had never quite recovered from the summer he spent working in Reno, developed an eye for the cheerful street-corner gambling dens. Alas, he never quite figured out the secrets of the self-manipulating one-armed bandits called, with obvious justification, “Risiko.”

We had trouble coping with a society where everyone smokes--constantly, inconsiderately, dangerously. We got impatient with a society that never seems in a rush, especially at mealtime. Mark learned that eggs and cereal are not universal breakfast staples. He found comfort in the dampfnudel , an obscene steamed doughnut doused with vanilla sauce. I found comfort in large doses of extra-strong coffee.

On our second day, we decided to do something outrageous. First, over kuchen mit schlagsahne (cake with whipped cream), we watched the changing of the Glockenspiel guard through a sixth-floor window in a restaurant across from ornate city hall. Then, for dessert, I suggested we treat ourselves to a shampoo, a haircut and a shave. It was the height of indulgence; also a mistake.

The two ladies on duty at the elegant friseur salon smiled knowingly, clucked appreciatively and performed deftly when it came to shampooing and haircutting. When it came to shaving, however, a black cloud descended. The younger virtuosa giggled ominously at the straight-edged razor, then disappeared. Her older colleague, brave almost to the end, lathered the junior Bernheimer’s chin, winced, bit her lip, applied the blade and instantly drew blood.

The unwitting butcher of Marienplatz half apologized, dabbed at the gaping wound and retreated to her cash register. Mark pressed a napkin to his face as I joked about the dueling scars that used to be a sign or bravery and honor among the macho students of Heidelberg. For some reason, he didn’t think it was funny.

Wherever we went, music sang its siren song from newspapers and kiosks. Luciano Pavarotti was scheduled for one of his intimate recitals in the 70,000-seat Olympic stadium. Who cared? The folksy Gaertnerplatztheater was offering “Der Troubadour,” a k a “Il Trovatore,” in tandem with Teutonicized versions of “My Fair Lady” and “Oliver.” Amusing, maybe, but resistible. The noble Nationaltheater looked like a haven for misplaced Americans in “La Boheme” and “Cosi fan tutte.” Nice, but no thanks.

Only one attraction looked too good to miss: a German staging of “Otello” in Italian--well, sort-of Italian--with Russian guests as Desdemona (Makvala Kasrashvili) and Iago (Yuri Mazurok). I relented in spite of myself. I shouldn’t have.

While father was weathering the plight of the Verdian Moor of Venice, son lay abed in our borrowed mini-apartment feeling dizzy. Chronically, unaccustomedly dizzy. Was it the air, the vapors, the beer, the mental agitation, the jet lag, the high altitude experienced the day before during a glorious Alpine outing atop the Zugspitze? All or none of the above?

A relative recommended a visit to the friendly neighborhood physician. Dr. Volker Koenecke turned out to be young, casual, kindly, thoughtful, thorough, sporadically bilingual. He exuded calm. “ Ja , ja ,” he purred as he ordered head and chest X-rays followed by blood tests. After a few hours, he came up with an imposing diagnosis: hypotoner kreislaufregulationsstoerung . It sounded fatal. It turned out to be low blood pressure related, somehow, to sinusitis. The good doctor prescribed pills. The good patient made a speedy recovery.

Mark learned some important things about himself.

He liked spezi , which turned out to be a revolting but large and relatively economical (DM 4) drink combining orange soda and Coke. He hated weisswurst , not for the taste but for the contents (calves’ brains). He liked that old German staple pommes frites (French fries) but could live without knoedel (dumplings).

He resented the American tourists who have made a trap of the once lusty and hoary Hofbraeuhaus .

He couldn’t live without his trusty Walkman or a new echt-Deutsch toy: an electronic backgammon game, made, of course, in Japan.

He surprised his father by liking ancient churches. The U. of O. had taught him a lot about something called telecommunications, precious little about art and history and architecture. Nevertheless, he was awed by the twin onion domes of the venerable Frauenkirche . He OKd Bavarian Gothic.

In the lovely Michaelskirche, he was fascinated by the flower-bedecked crypt of crazy King Ludwig II--Munich celebrated the 100th anniversary of his mysterious death this summer. Mark approved the Bavarian renaissance.

On a sunny Sunday, we checked out the super-kitschy splendors of Ludwig’s Linderhof Castle and the Disneyesque charms of Neuschwanstein. Mark, bless him, preferred the baroque glories of the Benedictine Abbey in Ettal. I assured myself that it didn’t matter that he didn’t know the difference between Gothic and Renaissance and baroque.

On a dreary Tuesday, we visited the memorial and museum on the site of the concentration camp in Dachau. It was a shattering experience, and a useful reminder of another Germany and another era. Visitors from a variety of foreign lands moved through the exhibition rooms in eerie silence. Germans seemed conspicuously absent. It may have been significant that instructions regarding access to the camp posted at the railroad station were only in English.

Mark liked the fact that there were no speed limits on the autobahn . He insisted I leave the driving to him. Our rented Volkswagen Golf, a k a Rabbit, zoomed along at 170 kilometers an hour. The trusty pocket calculator translated that as something like 105 m.p.h. I clutched the armrest and tried to appear relaxed. Other cars passed us.

We went shopping. We bought souvenirs for the folks at home. We perused the ersatz-American jeans and T-shirts in huge department stores. We surveyed the latest American hits in the ubiquitous record stores. Strictly for scientific enlightenment, we explored one of Beate Uhse’s sexual shopping marts, super-sanitary emporiums situated on the best German streets and staffed by rosy-cheeked hausfrauen .

Reluctantly, Mark abandoned the freeway to trace the curves of the Romantic Road that connects Donauwoerth and Wuerzburg. Picture-book medievalism enveloped us. We stormed the ramparts of Harburg Castle. We climbed the 375 steps of the Daniel Tower at St. George’s in Noerdlingen. He climbed fast.

In enchanted Rothenburg, we walked the ancient wall that circles the city, trod cobblestone streets in the wake of a friendly night watchman, and passed up an opportunity to see the latest John Holmes porno movie.

Grisly curiosity led us to the Criminal Museum of the Middle Ages, which houses a unique collection of torture devices and related bits of sadistic iconography. The music critic found one display especially compelling: a 16th-Century “Shame Flute.” It looked like a tootling instrument, but it turned out to be a painful contrivance that shackled the “player’s” hands and neck. This, an accompanying sign explained, was commonly used to punish bad musicians.

It gave one pause.

Time for the Rhine. A leisurely ship traced the fairy-tale route from Mainz to Cologne. Mark took lots of snapshots of quaint castles, lush vineyards and, of course, the (unimpressive) Lorelei cliff. The accompanying Wagnerian searched the muddy waters for traces of a Rhinemaiden. The most reasonable facsimile took the ungainly form of a passing oil tanker named Flosshild .

In Cologne, we were humbled by the majesty of the cathedral. The next morning, for the trip back to Mainz, we chose a fast hydrofoil. It gave us speed--who wants speed at a time like this?--but little comfort and limited vision. With only three days left in our odyssey before heading for Frankfurt and home, we opted for the lush, green trees of the misnamed Black Forest. These looked especially idyllic from the balcony of our small hotel at the edge of the Titisee. That’s a lake.

We swam. We read. We sunned. We rented boats--nice ones with motors and not-so-nice ones without. We drove nowhere. Mark jogged and I walked. We laughed at “Dallas,” dubbed in German. We even talked.

It was wonderful.

Pan Am served no mystery fish on the flight home. The classical-music channel still malfunctioned. Mark watched “Back to the Future.” I read the guidebook.