Old and New Blend Well in Beethoven Birthplace

Some politicos like to call this a civil service town, but that is like dismissing Boston as a city that likes beans. It is a Rhine River town, which gives it a certain romance, and it is the birthplace of Beethoven, which gives it musical eminence.

Long before it was thought of as the capital of West Germany, it was the site of a Roman encampment, later to be fortified in the 13th Century as the home of the electors of Cologne 15 miles away. Unlike Brasilia, which was hacked out of the Brazilian jungle, and Washington, D.C., which was lifted out of the muddy banks of the Potomac, Bonn was long ago a city of substance and personality.

Its old town, badly battered in World War II, has been restored in the traditional style, and the cobbled square in front of the splendid baroque rathaus, or city hall, is ringed with the facades of buildings that follow the ancient gabled patterns with dormer windows overlooking the square.

Marvelous Produce

All day long the square is a market of marvelous produce imported from the countryside and from far places--tomatoes from Israel, pineapples from the Canary Islands, melons from Chile. When the counters and canopies are folded at day’s end, the ground level of these redone ancient buildings reveal a commercial mix--a sign beckons to an outpost of Wendy’s. Ernst of Cologne sells shirts at $50, ties at $22, corduroy slacks at $85. Nothing is cheap with the mark pegged at 2 for $1. The charge for changing currency at the Dresden bank is a flat $4, no matter how much is exchanged.

Not only has Wendy’s established a foothold, but if one looks up through the spiked grille of the old city gate one sees a big golden-arched M. Still, there are vestiges of the true German world. A shop sells Thuringer bratwurst, paprikawurst, Rheinische bratwurst, currywurst, Ziguenerwurst and more.

Niederegger dispenses heavenly marzipan, and Weinkruger’s, with its gingham red-checkered brauhaus tablecloths, does succulent wonders with potato pancakes with ham and cheese, saftiges kelterhaussteak (juicy pork shoulder) and warmed zweibelkuchen, onion tart to be washed down with a dry trochen of Rhine wine from the vineyards along the shore.

Bread is a baker’s glory hereabouts, and a Bonn bakery displays schwarzbrot, landbackerbrot, hefebrot, eiferbrot, dreikornbrot, waldbrot and oldenburgerbrot. Not a loaf of mushy white in view.

The cathedral square, or Munsterplatz, is dominated by a statue of Ludwig von Beethoven who was born, baptized and lived here for 22 years before finding musical immortality in Vienna. His birthplace on the Bonngasse, just off bustling Oxfordstrasse, is next door to Peking City, a Chinese restaurant, which in turn is next to Gasthaus Im Stiefel and across from, yes, McDonald’s.

Beethoven’s bust rests among trees in the garden of his birthplace. In one of the small rooms inside the house with their low ceilings is a viola he played in the late 1700s. He was playing the organ at 10, but of that mighty instrument only the keyboard remains. A shadow picture of him at 16 shows him with his hair pinned back with a ribbon, a revolutionary mode perhaps akin to a punk hairdo today.

A bust of him in 1812, said to be his best likeness, shows him with turned-down mouth, as if in sadness, perhaps because of his oncoming deafness.

A Beethoven hall for concerts was destroyed in the war, but a rakish new Beethovenhalle overlooking the river has replaced it. It is the home of Beethoven festivals and houses two restaurants, a formal one upstairs and a popular one on the ground floor that serves an interesting menu that includes Mozartpastechen --chicken with ham and asparagus swathed in curry sauce.

Across from an ornate fountain of horns set on the river bank stands the Hotel Beethoven, a vintage establishment, and nearby such inroads to classicism as the Crazy Corner which offers tanz topmusik and a videothek.

Hotels are a problem in bustling Bonn. One tries for rooms at the Steigenberger, which has hotel quarters in an office high-rise, or in the Novotel, a spare, no-frills shelter hardly handy to town. Cabs will prove a shock to any statesider: The fare to almost anywhere seems never less than $7 or $8.

On the other hand, the Novotel will open for breakfast in the dark hours, which the over-glorified Kempinski in Berlin will not, and a cab will take you to the railroad station to catch Lufthansa’s 7 a.m. train that skims along the Rhine to get you to the Frankfurt plane on time. They’ll check your baggage on this train-to-plane and then give you a breakfast at your seat. Civilized and sensible. Are you listening, FAA?