Once Past The Middle Ages Annabelle Baumann   © Copyright 2026 by Annabelle Baumann

The sweet scent of pine carried me back to childhood drives to Chicago with my mother. We rode with the windows rolled up, sealed inside a thick mixture of Pall Mall smoke, vinyl seats, and the sharp artificial pine of the little green air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror. My mother drove with one hand on the wheel and a cigarette balanced between two fingers, the ash growing dangerously long as the highway unspooled ahead of us. I watched telephone poles flick past the window and willed myself into the passenger seat of family cars with happy kids as I waited for the Chicago skyline to rise in the distance, knowing my cousins were somewhere beyond it.. That memory clung to the present moment, warping it. I closed the window. A shiver crept over my skin, and though the bus heater offered a weak hum, the cold wasn’t just physical. Or maybe it was just the company.

The bus was filled mostly with what I called the forty-niners. Not football fans. These were travelers from a different era most born in 1949 or earlier, survivors of ration cards, rotary phones, and Cold War nerves. They clung to their guidebooks and thermoses like lifelines, whispering strategies at every rest stop about how best to “do” the castles, the towns, to turn back time.

I had tried chatting with a few of them when we boarded at the Strudelbach mall bus stop, but I smiled too much. My German was too casual unable to use the formal Sie properly. My curiosity..too eager. Their responses were curt, polite, and tight as bowstrings. They carried suspicion in the folds of their coats, tucked beside the tissues, hard candy, and emergency receipts. It seemed inherited. An old family caution passed down through generations: never trust an African, never trust an American, and under no circumstances trust anyone smiling with too many teeth.

I was all three.

According to one guidebook, the first warning for travelers in Europe was to beware of overly friendly foreigners. Apparently, friendliness was not a personality trait. It was the opening stage of a financial crime.

A scam began with “Hello.”

Eye contact was reconnaissance.

A compliment meant your credit card was already in another country.

The official advice seemed to be avoid conversation with foreigners, remain emotionally unavailable, and if anyone asks how you are, alert the authorities.

They were a vulnerable population, and they knew it and so like cornered ferrets they were quick to give side eye. They were here to step into the past yet terrified of being in the present moment. Irony clung to them like fog on the glass.

At the next curve, the bus tilted slightly, and I caught a glimpse of something deep between the trees a flash of movement, or perhaps a trick of the light. No one else noticed. They were too busy cross-referencing footnotes and plotting how to survive a roadside lunch, suspecting, I imagine, roadkill on the menu.

But something was watching us. I was sure of it.

This excursion wasn’t my first choice. My husband, Hartman was off exploring Amsterdam, and I was restless, restless enough to sign up for one of Neckargemuend’s day trips, which promised history and charm. Today’s destination was Augsberg while traveling along the picturesque Lech River, a small town celebrated for its Roman military ruins and medieval prestige. Two and a half hours away, it was advertised as a quaint glimpse into the past, where one could imagine life unspoiled by modernity’s rush.

I had not a great love of the past which held the darkness of my early years and the constant struggle our family had with poverty. My own story caused pain and so I never wanted to look back.

However, Augsberg promised to be picturesque, a curated relic of medieval grandeur. But even as the road brought us closer, I wondered: how much of its charm would be real, and how much would be an illusion crafted for modern consumption? The past, in all its allure, can so easily become a prison of our own creation. While the forty-niners around me clung to memories and guidebook warnings, I braced myself for the discomfort of stepping into a history that wasn’t my own, but one I couldn’t entirely escape romanticizing.

The gruff bus driver made an announcement as we came onto the autobahn.

“If you all use the on-board toilet it will not be able to handle the pressure of forty passengers. I will stop in an hour for a ten-minute break. I’ve stocked drinks and I will collect your payments when we stop. Will arrive in Augsberg in a little over two and a half hours. It never failed when someone mentioned the lack of toilet accessibility, I suddenly needed the bathroom. I nestled into my seat and took out my book.

"Do you speak German?" the woman next to me, whose face looked like it had in another life been a candy wrapper asked but it sounded very incriminating almost as if she were questioning how much I had prepared and could get out of such a trip.

I call these people the gatekeepers, they were landmines and I never knew when I was going to run across one. I ignored her with a slight hum as if I were considering what she said. I pulled my shoulders in, making myself small and the distance between us more pronounced. I avoided direct eye contact and pretended to be busy with my book. Anyone aware of body language would have suspected my preparation to jump out the window. As I waited for the moment to pass and for her to see that I was engaged. Undeterred, she touched my arm, her small coral mouth seemed prepared to chew me out.

“They say black skin doesn’t crack. How old are you? Younger than fifty?” she offered, I imagined she had heard that phrase somewhere and decided to use it on me. It was a back-handed compliment at best.

I said, “We just use more moisturizer”. I should have graciously accepted the compliment or at least offered a compliment of my own. I’m sure I appeared taciturn and not nice at all.

“We use lotion!” She left her seat and didn’t return. I saw the back of her head up near the driver and figured he must deserve her as his karma.

Once there the bus stopped, we were told our groups, my group was a pairing with another woman on the bus, whose name was Erma Handel, it was her, again. She looked angry or should I say difficult. I was sure the bus driver knew what he was doing and I couldn’t protest without knowing the language, or I would just look possessed.

Walking to the ruins she began to speak.

“Are you from Ghana?”

I just stared at her wondering if I said I wasn’t from Ghana would she go all through the African lands sure she knew the bones of my face. Africa was a land I had no ties to although I am black. I must have stared too long without answering because she started talking about how long her family had lived in Neckargemuend. She spoke excellent English and her roots were indeed deep. I guess karma or rather the bus driver had put us in the same group because he knew we both spoke English. Half an hour later hunched over and blinking back rain, I rubbed my eyes having walked with Erma through the ruins and there were more. I didn’t want to go down into the mud pits to see the arena the Romans had built for blood sport, but we were bound to one another by the bus driver who had assigned us to be partners.

“This looks interesting. it was called the “Middle Alter” a gift shop. We can go in there first,” I said. She didn’t like being bossed around but the store looked more interesting than the Roman fighting pit. Plus, it would get us out of the drizzle.

Erma wore burgundy lipstick and matching burgundy coat and clothing which made her look like she was bleeding out. Here we were, stuck together. Her dark-colored red hair looked suspiciously fresh from a box, and her loud, performative voice dominated every interaction. She launched into trivia over everything she saw, sparking a sense of doom, I hunkered in my coat and followed her around the gift shop.

The air reeked of lavender sachets, faintly metallic, likely from the arrowheads on display. Frau Edelweiss had stationed herself behind the counter, fiddling with a mannequin dressed in a garish, historically accurate purple gown. Erma was already circling the store touching everything despite numerous signs advising against it.“Oh, look at this!” Erma held up a chipped ceramic mug painted with “Ich liebe Mittelalter.” Her theatrical voice filled the shop. “This is exactly like what they would have used for flowers in the Middle Ages, isn’t it?”

Frau Edelweiss didn’t even glance up. “It’s a modern replica,” she said, her tone dry.

Erma crackled. “Modern replica! I’ll bet someone in 1483 drank their morning goat’s milk from something just like this.” She thrust the mug toward me. “Bee, doesn’t this scream authenticity to you?” I feared her triangulation.

“It screams something,” I muttered, folding my arms against my chest.

Frau Edelweiss bristled. “They’re souvenirs. Not artifacts.”

Unfazed, Erma plowed ahead. “You know, my mother kept her wedding dress in a chest that smelled of mothballs and cedar. It looked just like that!” She pointed at a framed fabric sample.

Frau Edelweiss sighed. “We sell rose oil,” she said abruptly, turning to me as if I might be a lifeline. “Would you like to try it?”

“No, thank you,” I said quickly. I hovered near the door, hoping to escape. I had to wait here for Erma to come out before we could return to the bus. I wasn’t sure should I say something before stepping outside? Or would that simply alert her and cause her to focus more attention on me?

Frau Edelweiss was not what I expected from a tour guide or a shopkeeper. Her punkish black hair flared in defiance, her studded nose glinted as she moved. She had the air of a woman hanging on to 29 with a death grip, refusing to let time define her. Dressed in sharp black with combat boots, she seemed far more comfortable breaking stereotypes than selling Roman arrowheads.

“These for me are remnants of the patriarchy.”  Frau Edelweiss grabbed a pair of pinchers from a log specimen to the case, then went into the back room and left us out front.  Out of my mind with boredom, I wanted to just leave but I still felt somehow we were bound since the bus driver had grouped us. I hovered near the doorway

“Oh, look at this!” Erma called out, holding up yet another poorly painted ceramic mug or pitcher that said Ich liebe Mittelalter. Her voice carried a theatrical lilt, as though she were the star of a one-woman show about medieval life. “They had mugs like these back then, didn’t they? I remember seeing something like this in my grandmother’s house when I was a girl.”

Frau Edelweiss let out a faint sigh, repositioning the mannequin’s headdress with meticulous care. “They might not have as well, the real one was found in the ruins of the rock quarry, they could have been used for urinals.”

“Well, well, then, if you say so,” with that she put the urinal down, “it’s not for a woman to challenge history, but Oh, I know relics, believe me.

As Erma chattered on, Frau Edelweiss set down the mannequin’s headdress with deliberate care and turned to face us, her nose studding catching the dim light. Her eyes burned with conviction, her voice sharp and unwavering.

“You know,” she began, crossing her arms over her chest, “this shop is only part of what I do. When I’m not here educating tourists about the relics of the past, I’m working to dismantle the chains of the present for future women. I belong to Die Freiheit, a revolutionary feminist collective dedicated to liberating women from the lies they’ve been fed by the patriarchy.”

Erma blinked, momentarily stunned into silence.

“Yes, that’s right,” she continued, her voice rising with passion. “We fight against the rules society forces on women—especially older women. You see it everywhere, don’t you? The pressure to stay small, quiet, invisible. To wear bras because ‘gravity demands it.’ To shrink as we age, as if our value depends on how youthful or obedient we look.” Her lips curled into a defiant smile. “I say nein! We hold protests in the streets, and if it takes going naked to remind the world that women’s bodies are not objects for men’s comfort, then we’ll go naked.”

Erma opened her mouth, then shut it again, clearly unsure whether to be offended, impressed, or alarmed.

“I once marched through Stuttgart topless in January,” Frau Edelweiss added, her tone almost smug. “Snow on the ground, cameras flashing, and do you know what? It was liberating. No man has the right to tell me how to dress or what to wear.”

Erma gave a nervous laugh, glancing at me as if expecting me to intervene. “Well, that’s… quite the statement. But don’t you think, dear, that there’s something to be said for modesty?”

Frau Edelweiss snorted. “Modesty is just another word for control. ‘Be modest’ means ‘stay invisible.’ I’d rather be loud, proud, and seen as part of the LGBTQ community”

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing at Erma’s horrified expression. Clearly, she hadn’t expected her attempt at small talk to escalate into feminist philosophy or a recounting of semi-nude protests in the snow.

The bell over the door jingled. A tall, Nordic-looking man entered with a small, curly-haired child clutching his hand. The child immediately began bouncing on the balls of his feet, his wide eyes darting to the feather display near the counter.

“Oh, aren’t you handsome!” Erma exclaimed, her tone cranked up to a grandmotherly coo. She bustled toward them, practically shouldering Frau Edelweiss aside in her eagerness to greet the newcomers. “And what’s your name, little man?”

The child shrank back, pressing closer to his father’s leg. The man smiled politely. “We’re just looking for the restroom.”

“Oh, but you can’t leave without seeing this!” Erma plucked a feather from the display and held it out to the boy like an offering. “This is a genuine medieval quill! People used these to write love letters and royal decrees. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Frau Edelweiss stepped forward, her expression neutral. “It is a replica,” she said firmly.

Erma shot her glare so sharp it could have split logs. “I wasn’t finished.”

“Papa,” the boy whined, tugging on his father’s sleeve. “I want to go!”

“Well,” the man said, his smile tightening, “it seems my boss has spoken. Thank you, ladies. Now where is the restroom?”

“The restroom is three doors down, on the left.” Frau Edelweiss said.

He gently guided the boy toward the door, but not before shooting me a knowing look that said, Good luck surviving these two.

As soon as they left, Erma turned on Frau Edelweiss with the indignation of a wronged historian. “You shouldn’t cut people off like that.” She said.

“It’s my job to entertain,” Frau Edelweiss said. Erma placed a hand on her chest in mock offense.

“I practically lived the Middle Ages! I used an outhouse until I was ten? And we had leaves no newspapers for toilet paper that was too modern.”

Frau Edelweiss sighed, running a hand over her spiked hair to make them pointier I suppose “We sell rosemary oil as well,” she said abruptly, turning to me. “Would you like to try it?”

“No, thank you,” I said quickly, backing away from both. I was beginning to wonder if I should just make a run for it rain or no rain. I didn’t want to get pulled further into the vortex of these two in this shop.

Erma, however, was unstoppable. She leaned closer to Frau Edelweiss, squinting at the fine lines on the shopkeeper’s face. “How old are you, dear? thirty? forty? You look good for your age.”

Frau Edelweiss’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t rush me to get old, I’m 29!”

Erma gave a loud, cackling laugh. “Old! Well, you’ve got some catching up to do, then! When you’ve seen as much history as I have, you’ll know how to appreciate it properly.”

I had to wait here for her to come out of the store before we could get back to the bus. I’d been stationed at the door for at least ten minutes. I pushed the door open, sparking the jingling of the bell over the door, making my escape before either of them could rope me back into joining them in reliving the past.

“Frau..” I heard behind me, Erma was already launching into yet another story about her childhood, her voice steeped in the certainty of nostalgia, while Frau Edelweiss’s measured responses grew increasingly strained, as though she were on the verge of challenging the narrative of how great it was in the past but held herself back.