+49° 19' 2.38", +8° 26' 23.76"

So I gotta admit I feel a little bit tense as Bruno, Lambert and I emerge from the big front doors of Dom zu Speyer and walk down Maximillianstraße, which is sort of like the town square or main plaza of Speyer. I've picked up a vibe from the two monks—it would be hard to miss—that they aren't exactly eager to meet the Imperial family. Or at least they don't want to meet Henry, which shouldn't be too surprising, because they've both trashed him in their annales.

The plan was to get together with Henry, Bertha and Conrad in a sidewalk café, not too far from the Cathedral, which sounded plenty specific in the email, but now that I'm out here, looking at the solid row of sidewalk cafés on either side of the straße, I realize that I've set myself up for a major faux-pas: what if I walk right past them? I mean, yeah, they said they'd be in modern clothes, but I also got the impression that they expected to be recognized. Not hounded like celebrities, maybe, but, well, noticed, or at least whispered about.

Luckily, it's kind of cool today, so not too many people are out in the cafés—basically just the smokers.

"There! That's him!" says Bruno, out of the corner of his mouth. Then he does this little maneuver where he points in one direction, while quickly stepping around to the opposite side of me. When I figure out which way he's actually pointing, I see a guy sitting alone outside this funky café. He's a tallish, bearded guy, maybe late twenties, a black leather motorcycle jacket, scruffy designer jeans and black army boots.

"That's Henry?" I say. "Where's Bertha? Where's Conrad?"

"They're shopping," says Bruno.

"Shopping?" says Lambert.

"How do you know?" I say.

"Look at him," says Bruno. "Look at his posture. That's a husband having a smoke while his wife and kid are shopping."

Lambert shakes his head. "Casuistry," he mutters. "Utter casuistry."

Henry pulls another cigarette out of his jacket and lights it. The monks and I watch him from across the street. It's like we're bird-watchers or something.

"What's that T-shirt he's wearing?" I say.

"Unheilig," says Lambert, "Unholy." He makes the sign of the cross.

"Cut the sanctimony, it's just a band," says Bruno. "Wait a minute. Here they come." He turns and looks down the street.

"Ahh," says Lambert. "The consort and heir approach..."

Bertha turns out to be a slim woman, about the same age as Henry, but with a much more sophisticated style. She wears chic jeans, a double breasted yellow leather jacket over a cashmere sweater, and her hair pulled smartly back. In one hand she holds several shopping bags; with the other she pulls a little boy, maybe three years old—he's wearing a black and white soccer jersey—Juventus FC, I think—that hangs down to his knees, and he seems to making a case for going back to the store.

"See! See!" says Bruno. "They were shopping!"

Despite the boy, the bags, and the challenges of wearing high heels on a cobblestone street, Bertha still manages to convey an air of elegant composure. As she gets closer, I see a tiny jeweled cross dancing lightly on her otherwise bare throat.

By this time, Bruno has stepped forward and offered to carry the shopping bags for her. Bertha lets him do so, a little too blandly for my taste. Would it be too much for her to smile at the guy? Sure he looks like a hippie but he's being kind of gallant. Anyway, the three of them sit down at a table—not the same table with Henry—in fact, Bertha's table belongs to the café next door—a more upscale place than the kind of punk joint where Henry sits, his long legs sprawled out across a rough wood bench.

Lambert, meanwhile, has found a table for one at a café across the street.

I wonder what's going on with Bertha and Henry. Are they speaking to each other? And if not, why is she making this journey with him? Why does she stay with him at all? Why is she bringing Conrad?

Anyway, I introduce myself to Henry, and offer to bring the minivan around. There's place on a side street where I can load everybody in.

"No, no," says Henry. "Go to our hotel first. Get the directions from that one."

Without actually looking at her, he indicates his wife with a little nod. "Load the luggage there, then come back here and pick up those two."

"Okay... " I say, "but... what about... you? The minivan—it has plenty of room for five adults and one child—and all our luggage. It's an Opel Zafira." Boy do I sound lame.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'll meet you in Canossa."

What's wrong? Why won't he ride with us? Is it the Opel Zafira? Did I rent the wrong vehicle? Is Henry the sort of guy who refuses to ride in a minivan? Shit, there was some sort of Mercedes SUV at the airport—I could have rented that—but it didn't have as much interior room...

"Give me two hundred euros," says Henry.

"What?" I say.

"Two hundred euros." His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, not like he's asking for a loan, but as if it were the natural order of things that he should need some cash and I should give it to him.

How should I react to this demand? Should I tell him that I am not his vassal, that I am a twenty-first century American, a Democrat, an empiricist, a blogger? But without Henry, what would I have to blog about? My breakfast? My moods? The latest comment from Rush Limbaugh?

Let's face it—just how many excommunicated Holy Roman Emperors do I know?

So eventually, I break down and give him the cash. Luckily, I've got just enough in my wallet—I stopped at an ATM in the Mannheim City Airport, just to be sure, even though I plan to use plastic for nearly everything on this trip—you know, to get the best exchange rates.

Henry counts the 200 euros, and then gives me back twenty, and tells me to take Conrad to the Technik Museum—we'll pass it on the way to the autobahn. He tells me to make sure the kid knows it's a present from his father.

I look over to Bertha's table at the next café. Bertha is sitting quietly, reading a fashion magazine. Or is that some kind of Catholic woman's magazine? Conrad is climbing around the neighboring tables, and Bruno is watching the kid, kind of protectively—actually, more like he's hoping that Bertha notices.

"So..." I say to Henry. "How... how are you going to get to Canossa?"

He shrugs his shoulders and glances down a side street. His eyes settle on a motorcycle—I recognize the BMW logo—but it's smaller and sportier than the BMW bikes we see in the U.S.

"Nice," I say. "Is it yours?"

"It will be," he says, "very soon."