Germany
Mönchengladbach

Here you’ll find travel reports about Mönchengladbach. Discover travel destinations in Germany of travelers writing a travel blog on FindPenguins.

13 travelers at this place:

  • Day1

    Vorbereitung

    June 19, 2015 in Germany

    Wir haben die Vorbereitung beendet, indem wir darueber gesprochen was so in der Vorbereitung passiert ist und was wir daraus gelernt haben. Danach begann "Phase 2", der eigentliche Haik. Als erstes sind wir in einen Raum gegangen, in dem viele Bilder lagen. Jeder sollte sich ein Bild aussuchen, das sein aktuelle Gefuelslage beschreibt. Natuerlich haben wir dann auch darueber gesprochen, warum wir diese Bilder ausgewaelt haben.
    - MaxP.
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  • Day2

    Im Zelt im Wald

    April 25, 2015 in Germany

    Nachdem wir gekocht haben und das Zelt mehrmals auf und abgebaut haben, sitzten wir hier nun zusammen im Zelt. Natuerlich haben wir auch schon eine Feadback Runde gemacht. Alle sind begeistert, doch das Spuelen lief heute nicht so gut. Fuer alle ist es das erste mal, dass wir im Wald uebernachten. Unser Wasser ist leider schneller aufgebraucht als gedacht. Wir hoffen alle das es nicht gleich voll anfaengt zu schuetten und wir dann das Zelt anders aufbauen muessen.Read more

  • Day46

    Mönchengladbach

    May 31, 2015 in Germany

    At 8am this morning, grey clouds hung low over Rotterdam. Now, at 10pm in
    Mönchengladbach, it is dark and wet. Over the course of the day I've been in Delft, 's-Hertogenbosch and now Mönchengladbach. Yet no matter where I was, it was either grey, drizzly or torrential. Luckily, I experienced the worst of the rain whilst driving, but what has happened to the sun that was shinning so bright just yesterday? I'm beginning to think it was just a fluke, and that from now on I will experience nothing but bad weather. Why? Because I've long suspected that, just like Rob McKenna, I'm a Rain God:

    "Rob McKenna was a miserable bastard and he knew it because he'd had a lot of people point it out to him over the years and he saw no reason to disagree with them except the obvious one which was that he liked disagreeing with people, particularly people he disliked, which included, at the last count, everybody.

    He heaved a sigh and shoved down a gear.

    The hill was beginning to steepen and his lorry was heavy with Danish thermostatic radiator controls.

    It wasn't that he was naturally predisposed to be so surly, at least he hoped not. It was just the rain that got him down, always the rain.

    It was raining now, just for a change.

    It was a particular type of rain that he particularly disliked, particularly when he was driving. He had a number for it. It was rain type 17.

    He had read somewhere that the Eskimos had over two hundred different words for snow, without which their conversation would probably have got very monotonous. So they would distinguish between thin snow and thick snow, light snow and heavy snow, sludgy snow, brittle snow, snow that came in flurries, snow that came in drifts, snow that came in on the bottom of your neighbor's boots all over your nice clean igloo floor, the snows of winter, the snows of spring, the snows you remember from your childhood that were so much better than any of your modern snow, fine snow, feathery snow, hill snow, valley snow, snow that falls in the morning, snow that falls at night, snow that falls all of a sudden just when you were going out fishing, and snow that despite all your efforts to train them, the huskies have pissed on.

    Rob McKenna had two hundred and thirty-one different types of rain entered in his little book, and he didn't like any of them.

    He shifted down another gear and the lorry heaved its revs up. It grumbled in a comfortable sort of way about all the Danish thermostatic radiator controls it was carrying.

    Since he had left Denmark the previous afternoon, he had been through types 33 (light pricking drizzle which made the roads slippery), 39 (heavy spotting), 47 to 51 (vertical light drizzle through to sharply slanting light to moderate drizzle freshening), 87 and 88 (two finely distinguished varieties of vertical torrential downpour), 100 (postdownpour squalling, cold), all the sea-storm types between 192 and 213 at once, 123, 124, 126, 127 (mild and intermediate cold gusting, regular and syncopated cab-drumming), 11 (breezy droplets), and now his least favorite of all, 17.

    Rain type 17 was a dirty blatter battering against his windshield so hard that it didn't make much odds whether he had his wipers on or off.

    He tested this theory by turning them off briefly, but as it turned out the visibility did get quite a lot worse. It just failed to get better again when he turned them back on.

    In fact one of the wiper blades began to flap off.

    Swish swish swish flop swish swish flop swish swish flop swish flop swish flop flop flap scrape.

    He pounded his steering wheel, kicked the floor, thumped his cassette player until it suddenly started playing Barry Manilow, thumped it until it stopped again, and swore and swore and swore and swore and swore.

    It was at the very moment that his fury was peaking that there loomed swimmingly in his headlights, hardly visible through the blatter, a figure by the roadside.

    A poor bedraggled figure, strangely attired, wetter than an otter in a washing machine, and hitching.

    "Poor miserable sod," thought Rob McKenna to himself, realizing that here was somebody with a better right to feel hard done by than himself, "must be chilled to the bone. Stupid to be out hitching on a filthy night like this. All you get is cold, wet, and lorries driving through puddles at you."

    He shook his head grimly, heaved another sigh, gave the wheel a turn, and hit a large sheet of water square on.

    "See what I mean?" he thought to himself as he plowed swiftly through it; "you get some right bastards on the road."

    Splattered in his rearview mirror a couple of seconds later was the reflection of the hitchhiker, drenched by the roadside.

    For a moment he felt good about this. A moment or two later he felt bad about feeling good about it. Then he felt good about feeling bad about feeling good about it and, satisfied, drove on into the night.

    At least it made up for finally having been overtaken by that Porsche he had been diligently blocking for the last twenty miles.

    And as he drove on, the rain clouds dragged down the sky after him for, though he did not know it, Rob McKenna was a Rain God. All he knew was that his working days were miserable and he had a succession of lousy holidays. All the clouds knew was that they loved him and wanted to be near him, to cherish him and to water him."
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  • Day5

    Rheydt, Mönchengladbach

    June 8, 2015 in Germany

    Rheydt was, at one point, a town in its own right. But overtime it grew. Eventually, its borders merged with Gladbach's, and the two became indistinguishable from one another.

    I work in Rheydt on a street called the Stockholtweg, which runs parallel along the perimeter of the densely wooded Zoppenbroicher park. From the first floor office, there are great views of the park. Calling it a park though, I think, is somewhat misleading; the tress are so densely packed together as to make the area impenetrable.

    I've taken to catching the train to work instead of driving. I find the whole 'driving on the other side of the road' thing quite easy. But Düsseldorf is a whole different kettle of fish.

    The train is great, though. 80 Euros for a months pass. And I can go anywhere within the region and take a friend, for free, on any train, tram or bus during the weekend. The views, too, on the commute from Düsseldorf to Mönchengladbach are spectacular. The terrain is uncannily flat, there are old windmills everywhere, there are miles of dense pine forest, and clearings of farmland and allotments. We are, after all, 15 to 20 miles from the Dutch border. The flatness and windmills shouldn't come as too much of a surprise.

    When I get off the train at Rheydt, I have a ten minute walk from the Hauptbahnhof -- through the Mönchengladbach suburbs -- to the Stockholtweg. I brought my camera along with me today and took some pictures. For there is something I find fascinating about working class Germany.

    There is a eerie stillness, like there is less going on than there should be, a slight brooding. I think its because of the buildings. They look so ornate, with facades more suited to a Baroque palace somewhere east, in the old Habsburg lands. Imperial looking buildings built for the working class? A working class -- much like in Britain -- no longer needed, surplus to requirement? As I walk through the suburbs of working class Mönchengladbach, I can't help but feel there is, lurking behind the still walls, a Rosa Luxemburg or a Christopher Isherwood.
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  • Day10

    Joseph Goebbels' Geburtshaus

    August 19, 2015 in Germany

    I work in Rheydt, a suburb of Mönchengladbach. It’s something of a backwater - small, working class neighbourhoods, surrounded by thick, dense woodland. The pace of life is slow, almost too slow. There is a slight brooding in the air, but nothing sinister.

    I was surprised, then, when I found out yesterday that Rheydt was the birthplace of Joseph Goebbels. The only man even more frightening, more anti-semitic, more committed to the destruction of European Jewry than Adolf Hitler, was born in this town? I didn’t believe it so I searched online, and sure enough these nonoffensive streets are the ones he once roamed.

    After a bit more searching, I located his childhood house to be number 202 on the Odenkirchener Straße. Spooky, really spooky. The house is less than a mile from my office, and I’ve spent the last two months walking past it whilst on the way to and from the train station.

    Germany goes to great lengths to recognise the crimes committed during the Nazi period, and there are reminders -- deliberate reminders -- everywhere you turn (see the Stolpersteins). Nethertheless, it comes as a surprise that a house once occupied by one of the fiercest men of the 20th century could remain intact and occupied. I would have thought the temptation to demolish it, eradicate it would’ve been all too great. But there it stands, the house Joseph Goebels grew up in, right in the centre of Rheydt, Mönchengladbach.
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  • Day1

    Let's go!

    July 7, 2017 in Germany

    Wir sehen schon aus wie richtige Wanderer. Ich merke wie der Wandergeist sich über meine faule Seele streckt und es tut gut. Dabei sind wir gerade erst auf den Weg zum Zug.

You might also know this place by the following names:

Mönchengladbach, Moenchengladbach

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