BY SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

One morning in March, I decided to walk from Mary's apartment to the Rhine, to check out Cologne's zoo, botanical garden and sculpture park.

Then, I thought, I'd take the Strassenbahn to the middle of the city to shop. But once I began walking, in spite of a cold breeze and partly cloudy skies, I hated the thought of descending beneath the earth to catch a train, and opted to walk just a few blocks further. The Zoobršcke, where it crosses the river in Cologne's northern suburbs, frames the unmistakable profile of the central city, with its triple-arched railroad bridge, Romanesque churches, the filigreed glass and iron roof of the train station, and the cathedral looming over it all.

I passed marker 690, which indicates the number of navigable kilometers from Basel, the uppermost major port on the mighty Rhine. I shared the promenade with strolling families, cyclists, skaters, even a fisherman or two.

That last is noteworthy. Bank-fishing is not the passion in Europe that it is in the American South, so I was surprised to see fishermen with rods propped and lines tugged by the current. I'm happy to report that international environmental efforts have cleaned up the once-toxic Rhine to such an extent that fish taken from it may now be eaten, and the water itself is now considered “almost swimmable” at Cologne.

My attention was riveted by the river and the ship traffic it bore. This is not the romantic, castle-lined Rhine, but a brawny working torrent. The passing vessels included gigantic commercial barges, oil tankers, container ships with as many as 100 tractor-trailer-sized boxes stacked four or five deep on double-wide barges.

Much of the freight, however, is carried by family-owned rigs. The tug (better called a pusher) is large enough to accommodate the owner's home, often with traditional white lace curtains and flower boxes at the windows, always with one, sometimes two, cars on the roof. I saw one go by with a tiny playground on the top of the barge itself. My binoculars revealed a sliding board and swing surrounded by a chain-link fence inside which a tot could play securely on a nice day.

KÙln-Dšsseldorf Line tour boats lined the banks nearer the center of the city, monsters able to carry hundreds of evening diners or conventioneers on cruises of the river. Tours didn't begin until April 1 or I'd have been out there

But back to my stroll. Approaching downtown Cologne, bright beds of flowers appear, packed with primroses in vibrant colors. The architecture of the city ranges from medieval to strikingly modern, often in the same building. Spiral stairs give pedestrians access to the bridges crossing the river to the right bank's mammoth convention arenas.

I stop to admire a huge bird — a veritable pterodactyl — made of odds and ends of twisted metal, his wings hinged so the wind lifts them gently. And I study for some time a simple, traditional tower where the water's depth is measured and reported electronically up and down the stream. Indicators hint at the height the river has occasionally reached.

When last I overflew the Rhine, heading home in 1996, it was swollen beyond recognition, spreading through city streets and parks.

Started the day with an insufficient breakfast — I'm hungry. There ahead: a fellow with a pushcart full of thick, soft pretzels. Between his sparse English and my sparser German, I determine that the ones in the middle are cheese-filled, and I'm ready to ignore cholesterol counts and order one — when the vender's cell phone rings. He excuses himself, and chats with great animation for awhile, apologizing when he hangs up.

Cell phones — “handis,” Germans call them — are everywhere. Everywhere! I'm sure more people have them than don't. I saw a man trying to conduct a conversation on the street near the cathedral while the evening bells were reverberating through the cobble streets — impossible! People use them on trains, in shops, in museums, the library, to such an extent that, just before curtain time at the opera, a phone may be heard ringing over the PA system, followed by a lady's gentle voice reminding patrons to turn off their handis.

Food never tastes better than outside in a river breeze, and I continue my walk, invigorated. I stop under Hohenzollernbršcke, the mammoth arched iron railroad bridge now six tracks wide, originally built by Kaiser Wilhelm to run directly toward the cathedral in the heart of the city. The roar of trains passing overhead, the clatter of wheels over rails — the noise is palpable.

A few steps farther, and the view to the right is almost as spectacular as that of the river to the left. Wide stairs beckon a walker toward the cathedral, its Gothic magnificence contrasting with the ultramodern vertical arches of the Roman Germanic Museum and Symphony Hall below it. I cross the river by the railroad bridge and walk through the landscaped grounds of the KÙlnMesse, the mammoth trade fair center with a past.

Originally built in 1928, the Messe was turned into an outpost of Buchenwald in 1942 and became the point from which Cologne's Jews were deported to the east.

The park lands on the gently sloping right bank coaxed me back almost to my starting point. Never did stop and catch a train that March day — there was always something else toward which I wanted to walk, enchanted by a river.

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