Don’t go to Koblenz.

But if you do, make sure to see the Deutsche Eck.

That’s why I traveled to Koblenz — hoping to find a place full of history and wine, just like Trier. That didn’t work out. Koblenz is a rather dirty and hastily rebuilt (after WWII) city; not much beauty here. The only wine shop is a branch of a wine-selling company — all the unique, independent wine spots Trier has are closed or have stopped operating.

So, while being disappointed by the city, I went to the Deutsche Eck, hoping to find out why it is of such significance. The Deutsche Eck (i.e. German Corner) is named that way because it’s located where two of Germany’s most important rivers, the Rhein (Rhine) and the Mosel (Moselle), meet. The junction is shaped like a “T”: the upper horizontal bar is the larger Rhine, and the lower vertical bar is the smaller Moselle. The Deutsche Eck is located on the right, where the lower line meets the upper one.

I knew there’d be some kind of memorial, and yet I wasn’t sure what to expect. On my way to the tip of the triangle, I noticed something on my left overshadowing the location — like in Game of Thrones when some kind of dragon has arrived. And there it was: a gigantic pedestal, and on it, an even more gigantic horse and a huge rider on its back. All in all, that’s 44 meters — i.e. 145 feet, or half the length of an American football field. I was appalled. The sheer size of the thing seemed intimidating — almost violent. I barely took any pictures and left, annoyed.

The Deutsche Eck is the result of a development that began in Germany in 1813, when the people of the many different German territories — later known collectively as “Germany” — joined forces to drive out the French and Napoleon, who had occupied the country for years. Here, the idea of “one Germany” was born, a previously unknown patriotism breaking through among the people.

But that wasn’t the end of the story. The revolution of 1848 was also driven by this new patriotism (along with other ideas such as “freedom”) — and it failed. Germany remained a fragmented mix of territories, despite a widespread longing among the people to be one nation. That vision came true when Bismarck united those peoples by luring them into fighting their neighbors — most notably the French — in 1870/71.

Around that time, the liberal nationalism that saw all nations as equal and was based on freedom turned into integral nationalism — the belief that one nation is superior to others. And it is in this spirit that the Deutsche Eck was designed.

The monument does not show the true mastermind behind the unity of 1871. It was not Bismarck who was seen as the victor of 1871, but the Prussian king who became the first German emperor: Wilhelm I. After ruling the newly established German Empire for 17 years, he died in 1888. And immediately after his death, voices were raised calling for a memorial to celebrate the newly achieved German unity, and — much more importantly — to send a message to the French.

What message?

The Rhine had sometimes been a border between the French and the Germans. At times, the French had even taken control of the territories west of the river. In response, the Germans insisted: “Der Rhein ist deutsch” (“The Rhine is German”) — meaning both riverbanks. This led to an omnipresent feeling of aversion — rooted in fear — toward the French. Will they start another war? The response, the reassurance, the supposed cure for that fear was the idea of “die Wacht am Rhein” (“The Watch on the Rhine”) — meaning: take up guard duty on the river, oversee what’s left of it, and make sure the French never get this land.

All of these sentiments were embodied in the massive (44-meter-high) statue of Wilhelm at the Deutsche Eck.
The message of the statue was very simple: deterrence of the enemy and reassurance for its own people. And its aesthetics still work to this day — the context has changed, and yet I shiver at the massiveness of the statue. Its dominance scares me.

But here is the difference: today, people don’t feel the divisive and chauvinistic nationalism that was accepted — almost expected — when the monument was erected. Times have changed. And yet… there are once again 25% of the German electorate willing to vote for a party that preaches nationalism, racism, and chauvinism. Have we truly learned from the past?

Finally, the monument has its own story. In 1945, when the US Army approached Koblenz, it was smashed into pieces by a single shot — an artillery grenade destroyed it. Rumor has it that General Eisenhower himself ordered the shot…

So, traveling to Koblenz might teach a lesson about nationalism.

Go to Koblenz.

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The first time I heard about Trier was in the 1980s, during a history class in communist East Germany. Back then, Trier was primarily known to us as the birthplace of Karl Marx—the figurehead of communist ideology, even though he never aspired to that status himself.

Let me say this upfront: the Karl Marx Museum in Trier is an excellent place to learn. However, don’t expect much in terms of original furnishings or personal memorabilia—the house is more about understanding Marx’s ideas through texts than walking down memory lane.

That said, Trier is so much more than the birthplace of Marx, and I strongly recommend visiting this remarkable city.

First, there are wine taverns scattered all over town (this one is my favorite). Trier sits in one of Germany’s premier wine regions, and you can taste the local products right there in the city.

Trier also boasts a wealth of historic landmarks from the Roman era—many of them UNESCO World Heritage Sites. The most famous of these is the Porta Nigra, a spectacular Roman city gate. It only survived the Middle Ages because it was repurposed into a Christian church. Today, it stands proudly once again as a symbol of Roman engineering and power.

Speaking of the Romans: they founded Trier in 16 BC, making it the oldest city in Germany. It later became so significant that it was referred to as “the second Rome.” You can explore this rich Roman heritage at the Rheinisches Landesmuseum Trier (here), a museum that does an outstanding job showcasing the artifacts and history left behind.

And finally, Trier is home to Germany’s oldest cathedral. The Trier Cathedral, built in the 4th century AD, is a stunning Romanesque structure that continues to inspire awe.

All in all, plan to spend at least three days in Trier—it’s absolutely worth the visit.

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In 1848, (only the men!) Germans elected a national assembly to meet in Frankfurt. Before that assembly even came together, many parts of the country had already seen uprisings and revolutions. People were calling for a united Germany where everyone could live in freedom—basically, they were demanding the kind of Germany that exists today.

So the elected members gathered in Frankfurt’s Paulskirche to lay down the rules for this new Germany. The church’s round shape made it possible for everyone to see and hear each other—a perfect setup for debating what would later be called the Paulskirche Constitution. It was the first legal document in German history to guarantee basic human rights that seem obvious now: freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of religion, equality before the law, protection of personal liberty, and the right to own property.

Sure, that bill of rights was never fully put into action. What followed were two world wars—both started by Germany—and the Shoah. But still, the Paulskirche Constitution ended up being the blueprint (sometimes even word for word) for today’s highly successful German constitution.

So when I sat down in the assembly hall today, I couldn’t help but get goosebumps. The architecture is from the post-war reconstruction—the church had been bombed and destroyed during the war, then rebuilt by 1948. But even though it’s a reconstruction, the place still carries a strong sense of history. This is where freedom in Germany got its start.

If you think art can only thrive in free and open societies, think again. In East Germany—the German Democratic Republic—art was actually pretty subversive sometimes. And it wasn’t just about artists openly fighting the dictatorship. Even big names like Werner Tübke and Bernhard Heisig didn’t always paint a rosy picture of communism.

One artist who got more and more critical over time was Wolfgang Mattheuer. His most famous work stands in the yard of the Museum Barberini in Potsdam. You don’t even have to buy a ticket to see it because the yard is open to the public. The bronze sculpture, called Der Jahrhundertschritt (“Step of the Century”), is about sixteen feet tall. It shows a figure with one arm raised in a Nazi salute, while the other ends in a fist—that was the communist salute back in the 1920s. One foot is bare and stepping forward, the other wears a military boot and stays firmly on the ground. The clothes have stripes like uniforms, but there’s no head—just a skull sticking out from a blown-up chest.

There are lots of symbols here, but the message is pretty clear. It’s about the 20th century—Germany torn apart by two big ideologies that justified two dictatorships: the Nazis (1933 to 1945) and the communists (1945 to 1989). And the real victims? The people caught between those two awful regimes—broken, scared, hiding, but still trying to step into the future.

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