Hiking Through the Neckar Valley,
Borders Are Left at the Trailhead
By Justin T. Carreño
Justin T. Carreño is a writer who lives in Germany.
The morning mist clung stubbornly to the hills of the Neckar Valley—
the kind of damp, quiet fog that makes everything feel softer, slower.
It was April, and spring was just beginning to stretch out its limbs in
southern Germany. From the medieval village of Hirschhorn, with its
quiet castle perched above the river, our hiking group set out for a
day of fitness, fresh air, and, as it turned out, fellowship—boots
hitting dirt with that shared rhythm only a long trail can create.
We were a colorful mix: Germans, of course, but also people from
further afield. Chu Li, a cheerful Chinese business consultant;
Vladimir, the group leader, a rugged Russian IT manager with a
dry wit; Natalia, a Ukrainian whose smile never quite left her face,
even on the steep inclines. There was Hossam from Egypt, who
carried dates in his pack and offered them freely. Lien, a Vietnamese
pharmacy student with a camera always half-raised. A quiet,
thoughtful man named Sami, who had left Syria to pursue medical
school in Heidelberg, still carried his past in his eyes. And there
were two Indian men, unrelated by blood but quick to bond over
a shared culture and distant home.
Then there was the Jamaican hiker. His story of moving to
Germany for a fresh start caught me off guard. I asked why he
chose Germany over the U.S., which is often a more common
destination for Jamaicans. He shrugged and said the U.S. didn’t feel
like a good place anymore. “Germany is safer,” he added, “and the
work-life balance, the worker protections—they’re better.” He
hadn’t realized I was American until he asked, “Where are you from?”
“The States,” I said.
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