A Werthy Pilgrimage

Hello Everyone,

Over the past year or two, I have been thinking a lot about the difference between being a pilgrim and being a nomad. On the surface, they might not seem that disparate. Both are travelers and so have to adapt constantly to new situations and environments. Both become accustomed to staying in a place for short periods of time before moving on. But there are at least two crucial distinctions between the two. The first has to do with the kind of the journey each makes. A pilgrim’s journey is linear; she is always heading toward a single destination. A nomad, however, wanders from place to place; her journey resembles the path of a pinball. The second main difference deals with the nature of home. A pilgrim travels either to establish a home in a new place or to return home having been changed. A nomad, however, according to the New Oxford American Dictionary has “no permanent abode.” I’ve been asking myself whether the travel I’ve been doing in Germany and France the last two weeks is more like a pilgrim’s or a nomad’s. I think I have been doing a bit of both, and in this letter, I will focus on a particular pilgrimage I was able to make. Next time, I’ll talk about the nomadic nature of my recent travels.

Many of you know of my undying love for Werther’s Originals, a butterscotch candy with a gold wrapping. To me, they are the epitome of a candy: they are small enough to fit in your mouth comfortably and yet large enough to need just one (at a time!). I share them with friends and strangers alike. In a single taste, I think they sum up all the things I love best about life. Werther’s are sweet and rich and yet also unpretentious. They are readily accessible all over the world (except -- alas! -- in South Africa). They are adaptable -- I’d even go so far as to say democratic -- you could just as easily find them in a shady gas station as an upscale grocery store. With the help of TV advertisements showing a grandfather giving his grandchild a Werther’s, they also cross age barriers. In short, if you could somehow capture a snippet of sunshine and wrap it in gold foil, what you’d have is a Werther’s Original.

All pilgrimages require a personal investment in visiting a place or an object. I suppose you could say that mine began several years ago, when I first read on the back of a Werther’s package that the candies are named after the “small European village” where they were first made. I decided that I wanted to visit this village in Germany if I ever had the chance. I wanted to see for myself the town that had inspired the confectionary love of my life. Pilgrims generally don’t rush into their journeys straight away. It takes time to foster an interest in the place, to save up resources and to make the necessary preparations. You have to determine the best route to your destination. And once you begin, there are usually challenges that you have to overcome. For me, the main challenge came in finding a route to Werther. I ended up staying in Leipzig, the closest big city, but I then had to take three train trips before I arrived in Werther. Part of the charm of the destination was how difficult it was to get there.

When I finally got off the train in Werther, I was alone at the station and I felt a bit like one of those British orphans who are sent off to the country to be cared for by a surly but redeemable-in-approximately-150-pages relation. Fortunately, no cantankerous marm came to fetch me in a buggy, so I set out on my own. It is at times like this that I am glad I am 24 years old. Also that I don’t live in a Victorian novel.

I had no real agenda other than exploring the village and if possible, finding a good spot to sit and draw it. So I began walking. It is a tiny agricultural place with some houses, a church and a fair number of chickens. Any businesses were closed, I’m sure because it is more efficient to step outside and call the electrician’s name than to actually have someone in the shop. I was lucky enough to be there during both the mail delivery and the garbage collection. Other than these highlights, I don’t think I’m entirely vain in thinking that my arrival was the only out-of-the-ordinary thing that happened that day. After I’d gone down every street and had even gathered some dirt to paint with later, I decided to head out of town so I could get a better view of the village. I turned up a street that looked promising and after setting off every dog in the area, I continued into a ditch and over the train tracks. I climbed up into a field and was settling down when I noticed that a lady was looking out of her window at me. I realized I was probably trespassing, so I smiled cheerily and tried to mime me sketching. I doubt the message got across but she left the window. Her husband was in the backyard and he too looked up at me. I grinned again and waived. Dumbfounded, he stared at me and returned the waive vaguely. I figured that as long as they didn’t say anything and didn’t call the police, I could stay.

I was grateful on this occasion for what seems to be the German way of responding to foreigners: they will observe you, judge you, but not interfere with what you are doing. On the way back from Werther, though, I was less grateful for this trend. I had found the platform where the train to Halle was due to arrive. As the train came in, there was an announcement in German, which I figured was indicating its arrival. I boarded and found a spot alone in an upper compartment. As the train took off from the station, I took out a book and began to read. A few minutes later, I realized that we had stopped, but I thought nothing of it as trains sometimes encounter construction on the tracks. Maybe 15 minutes later, I realized that we were still stopped. I then noticed that I heard no other voices on the train. I did some quick reconnaissance work and discovered that there was no once else on board. I looked out the window and saw that the train was nowhere near a station.

After briefly wondering how many people die of suffocation on abandoned trains in rural Germany, I made my way to the front. I knocked on the door to the conductor’s compartment. A young blonde woman opened the door and I don’t think she would have been more surprised if I had been a wombat offering her a crocheted toilet seat cover for her birthday. She spoke about as much English as I spoke German, so it took a while to learn that this was the next train to Halle and it must have passed through the station simply because it was lonely or something. I ascertained that I could just wait and eventually we’d actually go somewhere. It all turned out fine, but I would have appreciated a little redirection from one of the dozens of Germans who were with me on the platform and just watched as the girl with the portly backpack got on the exact train they’d just been told not to board.

But as I said, all pilgrimages have challenges of one kind or another and this in no way detracted from my trip to Werther. Here are some pictures of the village. I hope they give you a sense of what it is like there.









I could write about how it is the quintessential picturesque German village where life is romantically simple. I could embellish my descriptions as writers are wont to do. I could use fancy words like “embellish” and “wont.” But that would give a false impression of the place. It is beautiful and rather rustic, yes, but it is a real place, where real life happens for real people. A pilgrim is eager to come away from the pilgrimage changed and I think that this is what I got most out of my journey to Werther. Just like the candy, the town is both charming and familiar, both quaint and quotidian. I was reminded that my favorite things are almost always simple and commonplace.

Werther was a definite highlight of the last few weeks, but in the next day or so, I will write more about the other places I was able to visit. I have now arrived in Lacoste and have connected with the SCAD group. I will write more about this as well, but for now know that it is gorgeous and a lot of fun.

I hope you are all well and that you have a great week,
Sarah/Mouse