Part One: Apple Strudel, Golden Light, and the Ghost of Oskar Barnack.
It began, as all great journeys do, with a slightly absurd sense of purpose and a badly packed car. I had decided—quite reasonably, I thought—that the best way to honour one hundred years of Leica’s indomitable march through photographic history was to drive from Provence, in the gloriously unhurried south of France, to Wetzlar, Germany. This is a town which, to the uninitiated, may sound like the sort of place where vowels go to die. But for Leica enthusiasts, it is nothing short of Mecca with better sausage.
The trip was smooth enough, made better by the curious fact that in Germany, the concept of a “speed limit” is often treated as a suggestion rather than a rule. On the autobahn, I witnessed things that defy aerodynamics, including a man in a Volkswagen Passat driving as if he had recently stolen it from himself. Still, I arrived in Wetzlar the night before the official 100-year celebration of Leica cameras, checked into a charming family-run hotel somewhere in the leafy northern reaches of town, and promptly collapsed into bed without dinner. A romantic late-night wander through cobbled streets was out of the question. I had instead a hot shower, two ibuprofen, and the kind of deep, undisturbed sleep usually reserved for coma patients and cats in sunny windowsills.
The next morning, I awoke with the frisson of anticipation that only comes from knowing you are about to walk through living history. Or possibly from the three espressos I made with the suspiciously complicated hotel coffee machine. Either way, I was ready. Camera bag packed—meticulously, I might add, because nothing says “midlife reinvention” like a perfectly packed Leica Sl3-S, and so on— I headed into Wetzlar’s Altstadt, or old town. If you’ve never been, imagine a place so utterly Germanic in its charm that you half expect to run into the Brothers Grimm drafting fairy tales over schnitzel and Riesling.
Wetzlar, as it turns out, has been around for over a thousand years, which is longer than most European royal families and quite a few misguided diet trends. Perched on the banks of the Lahn River, it was once a free imperial city, home to legal scholars, precision engineers, and, naturally, Leica. Goethe himself came here in 1772, fell in love with the wrong woman, and promptly turned his heartbreak into The Sorrows of Young Werther, thus cementing Wetzlar’s reputation as the perfect backdrop for both romance and unrelenting melancholy.
Today, Wetzlar makes its living through a mix of high-end optics, historical tourism, and producing locals so friendly they could probably talk a bear out of a tree. It is a place where half-timbered buildings lean lovingly into one another like old friends who drank a bit too much Riesling at lunch. There are bakeries that smell like every childhood memory you’ve ever repressed, and cafés where you can sit in the sun and pretend to be writing your next novel when really you're just trying to discreetly photograph someone’s dachshund.
I parked down by the river, in an area so picturesque that I briefly considered changing my entire life and opening a small gallery/bookstore/strudel shop there. With the early morning light draped lazily across the rooftops and my Leica slung over my shoulder like a trusted accomplice, I set off into the cobbled streets.
And what streets they were—narrow, winding, and dotted with churches, stone archways, and houses that seem to have emerged directly from the pages of a medieval pop-up book. For nearly two hours, I wandered in a kind of reverent trance, taking photographs of Wetzlar’s gentle soul before the day could awaken fully. The sun—bless its punctual Germanic heart—cast everything in gold, as if it too was trying to honour Leica’s 100th anniversary with proper lighting.
Eventually, the town began to stir. Doors creaked open, conversations echoed down alleyways, and the smell of yeast and cinnamon wafted out from behind wooden shutters. I followed my nose to what can only be described as a temple of pastry. Inside, tucked behind glass, was a German apple strudel of such architectural ambition and caloric audacity that it could have been designed by Gaudí and sponsored by sugar.
I took it outside, along with a proper German coffee—thick, dark, and morally superior to any beverage I’ve had in Paris—and sat on a bench as the town unfurled before me. The strudel, it must be said, came heavily camouflaged under a mountain of whipped cream. Not the pressurized aerosol nonsense either. This was the real stuff, thick enough to plaster drywall. I took a bite and immediately understood at least four major world philosophies.
There is something deeply satisfying about watching the world wake up while you quietly plot your next photograph. Parents herded children to school, office workers bustled by, and retirees strolled with purpose and orthopedic shoes. Tourists had yet to descend in numbers, so I had the strange privilege of watching Wetzlar simply be, which, in a town of this beauty, is more than enough.
Of course, none of this would be possible without a certain Mr. Oskar Barnack, who in 1914 had the audacity to think that maybe—just maybe—people didn’t want to haul a suitcase-sized box camera up the side of a mountain to take a blurry photograph of a goat. Barnack, working for the Leitz family optical firm, took 35mm cinema film—yes, actual film intended for moving pictures—and built the first prototype of what would become the Leica. It was small, nimble, and revolutionary in the way that all great inventions are: it simply allowed people to do something they hadn’t quite realized they needed to do. Namely, capture life as it happened.
And what a life it was. Leica cameras—beginning with the landmark Leica I in 1925—found their way into the hands of journalists, artists, soldiers, and wanderers. They went to war, to Everest, to civil rights marches and fashion runways. Henri Cartier-Bresson wielded one like a scalpel, slicing truth from chaos. Robert Capa carried one into battle, and Sebastiao Salgado captured entire continents through a Leica lens. In short, this humble piece of German engineering helped us see the 20th century.
And so here I was, a century later, in the town where it all began. I had come to pay my respects—not just to a camera brand, but to a philosophy. Leica is about more than just photography; it’s about presence. About noticing. About the kind of elegant, intentional slowness that modern life so desperately lacks.
This was only the beginning, of course. The true event—the grand celebration, the factory visit, the galleries, and the chance to rub elbows (and camera straps) with fellow Leica lovers and modern-day photography masters—was still ahead. But for now, I was content. Content to sip my coffee in the sun, my strudel long since devoured, and my memory card already humming with the morning’s spoils.
In Wetzlar, history isn’t something you visit. It’s something you walk through, breathe in, and—if you’re lucky enough to be carrying a Leica—capture before it slips quietly away.
I trust that you enjoy some or all of the images to follow, and I do look forward to hearing from you in the comment box below if you have the time in your day.
Live well!
M.
