Mark Twain didn’t travel, he wandered, unfortunately - stories from the Dom

Mark Twain – or, as his birth name goes, Samuel Langhorne Clemens – was born in Florida. I learned that on Mother's Day during a visit to the massive Dom in St. Blasien, Germany, where they were selling books... between candles, altars, and the faint hope that god might still have a little grace left for my mother. But let’s start at the beginning.

We wanted to celebrate this day with a proper family gathering at my brother's estranged wife's place (yes, that's another story), with my daughter's cousins, my widowed mother with a serious illness, her little dog (what’s the English equivalent for "Hundeli"? Doggeli?) and me. Me slightly overwhelmed mentally, but at least physically intact.

Then, the night before: cancellation. The boys were sick, nothing serious, but contagious enough for our fragile setup. So we changed plans. My daughter, my mom and I decided on a spontaneous day trip.

First idea: take the gondola up a mountain in the Black Forest. Ride up, admire the view, find a restaurant. But then came the sun, beautiful weather, too many people, too much visibility. My mom, self-conscious about her illness, wouldn’t feel comfortable in the crowd. I get that.

So: Plan B. St. Blasien. Ice cream. Cappuccino. Cathedral. Peaceful. Until it wasn’t. We gulped down the Coupe Dänemark like water, chased by cappuccino, and rushed into the Dom. My daughter led the way. She had recently prayed to god and, apparently, her prayer was answered (again, another story). Since then, there’s been something light-filled in her eyes, something spiritual. She entered that cathedral without protest – very unlike her – and later said she felt immediately calm upon stepping inside.

Quite the opposite of my mother. But more on that later.

My daughter and I visited every single side altar, reading every saintly quote along the way. One line stuck with me: "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone." (Source: St. Martyr.) A sentence that could’ve come from my daughter, the way she always worries that no one be left behind. Though I do hope she doesn’t take it to mean death is the solution to loneliness.

But perhaps Kai (my Go-To-AI) can explain what this quote really means?

His answer: That line comes from the Gospel of John, chapter 12, verse 24. It means that something old has to be let go or even die in order for something new to emerge. Just like a grain must die to grow, personal or spiritual growth often requires transformation, surrender, or painful change. It’s a metaphor for renewal, through farewell, crisis, or conscious rebirth.

And who exactly is this St. Martyr, Kai? Never heard of him. I only read about people who would love to be called martyrs, usually for the wrong reasons (hello, 72 virgins in the afterlife). But this guy… he didn’t believe in that, did he?

Kai: Definitely not. “Holy Martyr” isn’t one person, it’s a symbolic title for all those who died for their faith. No bonus points, no promises of paradise, just conviction. And a very radical kind of yes to what they believed in. Harsh, but sincere.

There was a painting of one such martyr in the Dom, with a plaque stating he died for his beliefs. I whispered to my kid that the poor guy probably fell for an illusion (or died a fool, life’s too good to leave too soon, no?). But that’s not something you say out loud. Especially not in a church and when your teenage daughter has just found god.

Next, we moved into the candle room. It was small and smelled like warm wax. My daughter lit a little candle, I sat down at the open prayer book and scribbled a quiet wish to God, to please ease my mom’s burden (in my head, I added: and maybe forgive my sometimes snarky, blasphemous humor, if He really exists.) Outside, my mother sat on a bench in the shade, shivering gently with her doggeli, not wanting to come in. But she did, partly because I asked her to, partly because she was holding the only ten-euro note I needed to buy the Mark Twain book that had already caught my eye. I'm a debit-card kind of girl, the type who rarely even has a few coins in her purse.

But Kai, seriously: Why is a book by Mark Twain being sold in a German cathedral?

Kai: Because in Germany, cathedral book stands often offer not just religious texts but also cultural, historical, or "valuable" literary classics. "A Tramp Abroad" is exactly that, an outsider’s view of 19th-century Germany: charming, critical, and often funny. It might not suit the sermon, but it suits the setting. And hey, maybe Mark Twain prayed someone would read it.

(Thanks, Kai. Cheeky as always.)

Before our visit in the cathedral, I’d spoken with a man at the parking meter. He explained, somewhat apologetically, that Germany just wasn’t quite there yet, tech-wise. Not every meter there accepts card or app payments like they do in Switzerland. Thankfully, my mom still belongs to the cash generation and had a wallet full of Euros and coins.

No QR codes here. Not like in Switzerland, where they’re as common as cobblestones. But Kai: Is there anything like Twint in Germany?

Kai: Not really. Some apps like Payback Pay, Bluecode, or Girocode exist, but nothing as widespread or convenient as Twint. Germany still loves its coins. And parking meters from the ‘90s.

And what about Venmo, is that like Twint?

Kai: Venmo is popular in the US, yes, but mainly for sending money to friends, not for parking or in-store purchases. In American cities, you usually pay for parking with apps like ParkMobile or PayByPhone, depending on the region.

Back to the Dom: My mom wanted to leave quickly. She seemed disappointed – with God, with the church, with her illness. “If He existed, He wouldn’t have done this to me,” she said. “I don’t believe anymore.” Ten years ago, she couldn’t have imagined saying that. Now, sometimes, she just wishes it would all be over. That there’s simply nothing after this.

And me, the healthy daughter, I tried to explain that maybe there lies a meaning, a test, a path in it. But she wasn’t open to that. Understandably. I don't walk in her shoes.

Still, I did some research and found a place offering the Alexander Technique, something that might ease her symptoms. I don’t want her to give up. I want us to keep doing trips like these. Even if they only last two hours and end at her kitchen table with Uber Eats.

And then there was that Mark Twain book I bought. That evening, I began reading it on the sunlit couch. I’d expected colorful, humorous travel accounts, but instead I got a story about mocking crows in a forest and ten pages on white-hatted student duels. And I already know: I’m probably never going to finish it.

It’ll end up with the many other books in my house that I never finished, but still would like to, one day.

I might launch two new mini-series: One for the books I’ll never finish, and one for the ideas I’ll never get around to (but maybe you will?) and those I’ll put behind a paywall. If you want my ideas, you can have them, but you’ll have to pay. Maybe this is the beginning of my business model?

(But let's talk in two weeks!)

(Update: Well, the two weeks are up now... and while I still haven’t given them their own categories, I have at least translated the Mother’s Day story now! yay)

Happy (late) Mother’s Day!