Northern Ireland. When the bus from Dublin to Belfast crosses the Border, it is obvious that we have left the Republic. The environment looks different, even without the British army helicopter that lands right next to us and without the statue of Queen Victoria which makes me look out for a statue of her husband at the most likely place: the other end of the street. It is the first time for me in this part of the United Kingdom, and I don't really know what to think of these little villages which are lacking what foreigners like me think is typically Irish. The cars have English registration plate colours, there are no colourful shop facades - and no Gaelic street names.
Belfast impressions
My first stop is Belfast, it is the day before the annual Apprentice Boys' Parade in Derry, and I am astonished how new everything looks. I catch myself thinking that Belfast could be any city in England, until I realise that there is a reason why the city looks as modern as it does.
The impression of modernity wears off, however, as soon as I see the Falls Road from the windows of a black cab. Poverty and deprivation still dominate the picture, and I get a first glimpse of the hatred and hostility which is so characteristic of the violent conflict that has haunted Northern Ireland for so long. The murals on the Falls Road speak their own language, as does the protective latticework at doors and windows. I pay a visit to Milltown Cemetery, where headstones explain the cause of death and where many of the graves have been neglected.
The man sharing the taxi with me tells me that I have come at the wrong time. "You should have come on the 9th of August to see the bonfires," he says. "It's like a street party and a lot of fun." Anything must be more fun than Belfast on the day before a march. RUC Land Rovers move towards the Catholic part of the city in anticipation of what will happen at the Protestant feeder parade the next day. I decide I have seen enough and get on a bus to Derry.
While I'm having breakfast there next morning, a radio report says there is trouble on Belfast's Lower Ormeau Road. I'm happy to have been warned and prepare myself for the worst. On the streets of Derry, the British army and the RUC do the same; they get in position for whatever or whoever may come. There's not exactly love in the air.
I'm having a look at the city from its ancient walls and see Bogside residents gather at Free Derry corner. They will soon start to walk towards the city walls, carrying posters reading "Traditional Parade, Traditional Terror". The atmosphere is tense, not least because there is always the sound of drums in the background - the local bands are already on their way through the heavily guarded city centre. One of the RUC officers tells me to get off the walls: "I don't want you to be shot in your beautiful face." Flattering.
Anti-Catholic souvenirs
At around 1 p.m. the main parade reaches the Diamond, from where I follow the Apprentice Boys back to the Waterside. There people are having burgers and beer, and anti-Catholic souvenirs are being sold on the street. I find them rather tempting since I am not sure whether people back home will believe me without some kind of proof. I resist, however, and go back to Waterloo Place, where teenagers and adult drunks are rather incompetently attacking the RUC with stones, bottles and the occasional petrol bomb. For most of them it seems to be some kind of training scheme; they obviously haven't done anything like this before - or for a long time.
It's hard for me to understand why the faces of the Apprentice Boys are full of pride and contempt. Don't they know that living in peace and freedom is more important than walking through a city to celebrate history? I don't understand the nationalist rioters either; don't they know that throwing stones is no solution to anything? But then I am German, not Irish, and perhaps we Germans are no easier to understand.
The goes on until Sunday morning, leaving a shop completely burned out and the peace talks in all probability in even deeper stalemate. I leave the city for my last stop: Omagh.
Grief and pain
There, I find myself wishing that those who were either marching or throwing stones in Derry were present to see the grief and pain in the faces of those who lost their loved ones, or who were injured, when the Real IRA's bomb brought terror to this little town today a year ago. Thousands of people fill Omagh's main street as the exact time of the 1998 detonation approaches. The atmosphere is tense, again, but for very different reasons. I know that I am in no position to judge the Northern Irish people for what happened. But I have seen my own country both divided and reunited, and still we experience how difficult it is to force two different cultures to live together. I have learned, however, that there is a way, if only people realise that it is not the politicians who make peace come true. It's them.