Karlsruhe Audiotour: Innovation, Biere & Versteckte Juwelen der Oststadt

Look straight ahead to spot the long, rectangular building defined by its prominent horizontal bands of windows, punctuated by a taller, blocky tower section bearing a small green logo near the roofline.

This is the Fraunhofer Institute of Optronics, System Technologies and Image Exploitation, though thankfully everyone just calls it the IOSB. Today, it stands as a fortress of high-tech innovation, but this institute did not arrive in Karlsruhe quietly. It moved here in 1968, right into the teeth of a massive political firestorm.

During the late nineteen sixties, fierce student protests swept across the country, with young people passionately pushing back against the establishment and aggressively targeting any academic institutions involved in defense and military research. The Fraunhofer Society, deeply intertwined with government defense contracts, found itself directly in the crosshairs.

When the institute relocated to Karlsruhe with forty-five employees, the climate was incredibly tense. Across the nation, anti-war students were attempting to physically occupy Fraunhofer facilities, and in many places, only heavy police intervention kept the laboratory doors open. To make matters worse, 1968 was also the year of the infamous Petras Case. An employee from a different Fraunhofer institute abruptly defected to East Germany, where he commanded the media's attention to accuse his former employer of secretly preparing for atomic, biological, and chemical warfare. Not exactly the welcome wagon you hope for when setting up a new research center.

Despite that incredibly chaotic beginning, the scientists dug in. They transitioned from their early, somewhat quirky origins of studying mechanical vibrations and how animals process biological signals, into the sharp edge of the digital age. They began pioneering what are known as dual-use technologies. This is a polite engineering term for systems developed for civilian industries that also happen to be highly effective for military operations.

Today, the institute is deeply involved in machine vision, autonomous systems, and advanced military reconnaissance. They are developing radical concepts like non-line-of-sight imaging, which uses scattered light to literally see around corners. They also experiment with public surveillance. Recently, they tested an artificial intelligence camera system in a nearby city, designed to automatically detect criminal behavior by analyzing people as simplified digital skeletons. The rollout had a few hiccups. The complex algorithm reportedly had a very hard time distinguishing between a violent attack and two friends giving each other a warm hug.

From dodging student barricades in the sixties to training algorithms to understand human behavior today, this place perfectly maps the local shift toward complex digital networks. If you happen to be a brilliant engineer looking for work, the building is generally open Monday through Friday from seven in the morning until eight at night.

Now, let us continue tracking this digital evolution with a short four minute walk over to the Telecooperation Office.

Zu Ihrer Rechten befindet sich das Telecooperation Office, besser bekannt als TECO. Vor nicht allzu langer Zeit war dieses Viertel geprägt vom ohrenbetäubenden Lärm schwerer Maschinen und dem beißenden Geruch industrieller Abgase. Heute wurden die massiven Stahlpressen durch lautlose Server und unsichtbare Funksignale ersetzt, während sich der Stadtteil von einem Epizentrum der Schwerindustrie in ein modernes Testgelände für digitale Innovationen verwandelte. Das Areal streifte seine traditionelle, starre Vergangenheit ab, um sich dieser Art von technologischem Umbruch zu öffnen. Und TECO treibt diesen Wandel bereits seit 1993 voran. Diese Forschungseinrichtung, die an das Karlsruher Institut für Technologie angebunden ist, spezialisiert sich auf Ubiquitous Computing. Das ist ein akademischer Fachbegriff dafür, einen winzigen Computer in absolut alles hineinzustopfen, was man besitzt. Sie waren ihrer Zeit weit voraus. Im Jahr 1994, noch bevor die breite Öffentlichkeit überhaupt wusste, was eine Internet-Einwahlverbindung war, programmierte TECO PocketWeb für den Apple Newton. Es war der weltweit erste mobile Webbrowser. Sie surften bereits Jahre im mobilen Internet, bevor kommerzielle Netzwerke so weit waren. Aber das genialste Experiment fand 1998 statt und betraf ein Grundnahrungsmittel der Forschung... Kaffee. Die Forscher Hans-W. Gellersen, Michael Beigl und Holger Krull entwickelten den MediaCup. Sie statteten den Boden einer herkömmlichen Kaffeetasse heimlich mit einem Temperatursensor, einem zweiachsigen Beschleunigungsmesser zur Verfolgung von Bewegung und Neigung sowie einem winzigen Mikrochip aus. Betrieben durch eine Standard-Lithium-Batterie, sammelte die Tasse nicht nur Rohdaten. Sie leitete tatsächlich ab, was gerade geschah. Sie wusste, ob sie gerade gefüllt worden war, ob sie abkühlte, ob sie jemand trug oder ob gerade daraus getrunken wurde. Alle zwei Sekunden sendete die Tasse ein Infrarotsignal an einen Empfänger an der Decke. Hier kommt der geniale Teil: Die digitalen Schilder an den Bürotüren waren mit diesem Netzwerk verbunden. Wenn das System bemerkte, dass mehrere heiße, volle Kaffeetassen in denselben Raum gewandert waren, änderten sich die Türschilder automatisch auf „Besprechung läuft“. Niemand drückte einen Knopf. Der Raum hat es einfach selbst gemerkt. Dieser Erfolg floss in eine visionäre europäische Initiative namens „The Disappearing Computer“ ein. TECO entwickelte Smart-Its, streichholzschachtelgroße Geräte, die mit Sensoren für Audio, Druck, Licht und Bewegung bestückt waren. Man konnte sie auf alles kleben, wie eine digitale Post-it-Notiz, und so ein herkömmliches Objekt sofort in ein intelligentes verwandeln. Sie testeten sie an Aktenordnern und sogar an festlichen Tischdecken, wodurch Alltagsgegenstände lokale Funknetzwerke bildeten, um zu kommunizieren und auf ihre Umgebung zu reagieren. Heute verarbeitet TECO immer noch gewaltige, überwältigende Ströme von Big-Data-Rohwerten und verwandelt sie in intelligente, nutzbare Daten, wobei alles vom industriellen Energieverbrauch bis hin zur städtischen Luftqualität modelliert wird. Es ist ein Meisterwerk der digitalen Vernetzung. Aber natürlich gab es Vernetzung schon lange vor den Mikrochips. Kehren wir zurück zu einer viel älteren, etwas archaischeren Form der studentischen Vernetzung. Unser nächster Stopp, das Corps Friso-Cheruskia, ist nur zwei Gehminuten entfernt.

Look for the distinctive emblem representing the fraternity, an elaborate black cursive monogram formed by intertwined looping letters that finishes with a sharp exclamation mark. You are standing before the home of Corps Friso-Cheruskia, a traditional student fraternity with roots stretching back to 1860.

This organization is what Germans call pflichtschlagend, meaning its members are required to participate in academic fencing. It is a highly regimented form of dueling with sharp blades where the participants are essentially rooted to the spot and flinching is strictly forbidden. Relaxing stuff.

But the real fascination of this place is how it has navigated the extreme turbulence of German history. Behind these walls is a masterclass in bureaucratic problem-solving. During the National Socialist era, independent student fraternities were pressured, banned, or absorbed into party organizations, and their properties were routinely confiscated. The members of this fraternity realized they needed a shield, and they found one in corporate law. They transferred the ownership and operation of this building into a standard limited liability company, or GmbH. By legally transforming their fraternity home into a corporate asset, they built an impenetrable administrative firewall. This brilliant legal chess move prevented the regime from seizing the property, making this entity the oldest surviving GmbH in the Baden region today.

The fraternity's history, however, is not without its deep stains. One of its most historically controversial members was an engineer named Wilhelm Keppler. In 1932, at Adolf Hitler's direct request, he formed the Keppler Circle, a group of industrialists meant to advise the economically illiterate dictator. Keppler played a fatal role behind the scenes, brokering the secret meetings that led directly to the handover of power in 1933. He eventually found himself sitting on the defendants bench at the Nuremberg trials.

Decades later, the fraternity experienced a rather different cultural milestone. In 1993, in an environment known for deep-seated conservatism, an engineering student of Turkish descent named Aydin Karaduman was elected as the national chairman of the umbrella organization. He successfully navigated complex internal power struggles, steering the historically rigid institution toward a slightly more adaptable future.

If you are wondering what life inside looks like, a pair of filmmakers asked the same question in the late nineties. They were granted rare access to film a documentary called No Closed Season for Foxes. It followed the new pledges, known as foxes, exposing the brutal peer pressure, the strict rules of conduct, and the intense physical training required for those fencing duels. They learned quickly that conformity here is earned the hard way.

The building is generally accessible to members from eight in the morning to seven fifteen in the evening on weekdays, and remains open twenty four hours a day over the weekend.

Let us keep moving toward another monument shaped by strict traditional demands, as we head to St. Bernard, which is about an eight minute walk from here.

Die Kirchenbehörden stellten zunächst einen Architekten namens Franz Jakob Schmitt ein. Doch im Jahr achtzehnhundertzweiundneunzig entließen sie ihn. Seinen Entwürfen fehlte schlicht der monumentale Maßstab, den sie sich wünschten. Also holten sie Max Meckel, den erzbischöflichen Bauinspektor. Meckel entwarf unglaublich ehrgeizige Pläne für ein hoch aufragendes Kirchenschiff, die zentrale Halle der Kirche, in der sich die Gemeinde versammelt. Dem Großherzog gefiel es, aber er griff an einer entscheidenden Stelle ein. Meckel hatte geplant, die Fassade zu verputzen, was Standard und kostengünstig war. Der Großherzog legte sofort sein Veto ein. Er verlangte, dass das Gebäude aus sichtbaren, massiven roten Sandsteinblöcken errichtet wird. Schauen Sie sich das historische Foto in Ihrer App von neunzehnhundertzehn an. Diese nackte, markante Steinfassade ist allein der Einmischung des Monarchen zu verdanken.

The church authorities initially hired an architect named Franz Jakob Schmitt. But by eighteen ninety-two, they fired him. His designs simply lacked the monumental scale they wanted. So, they brought in Max Meckel, the archdiocesan building inspector. Meckel drew up incredibly ambitious plans for a soaring nave, the central hall of the church where the congregation gathers. The Grand Duke loved it, but he had one major intervention. Meckel had planned to cover the exterior in plaster, which was standard and cheap. The Grand Duke vetoed this immediately. He demanded the building be constructed with exposed, massive red sandstone blocks. Look at the historical photo in your app from nineteen ten. That bare, bold stone facade is entirely thanks to royal meddling.

Now, Max Meckel was an architectural genius, but he was also spectacularly bad at office politics. He spent the entire construction period picking fights with church officials and building authorities. Unsurprisingly, his abrasive style caught up with him. In nineteen hundred, after years of constant bickering, he was unceremoniously fired from his post in Freiburg. He did not even get to see the official consecration of his own masterpiece a year later.

The building survived Meckel's drama, but it barely survived the nineteen forties. Allied bombing raids in nineteen forty-four obliterated the roof and the soaring vault. While the congregation managed to patch it up with temporary fixes, completely rebuilding the complex roof structure took nearly three decades, finally wrapping up in nineteen seventy-two.

Saint Bernard is a prime example of dogmatic authority in action. Between the Church demanding monumental scale and the Grand Duke dictating the sightlines and building materials, this skyline was engineered from the top down. It is a striking reminder of a time when rigid traditions and unyielding rulers quite literally shaped the horizon, long before the Oststadt became a playground for technological disruption.

If you want to admire the vaulting interior, the doors are open daily from eight in the morning until six in the evening. Otherwise, let us continue our walk. We are heading toward the modern administrative hub of the city, taking an eight-minute stroll over to BGV Badische Versicherungen.

Look for the striking modern complex right in front of you, characterized by its expansive glass exterior, rigid steel support framework, and warm wooden accents visible from the street.

This is the headquarters of BGV Badische Versicherungen. Back in 1923, eight local cities looked at their municipal buildings, realized fire was a rather expensive problem, and decided to pool their risk. That is the core of mutual insurance: everyone chips in a little, so if one town's city hall burns down, the collective fund pays to rebuild it. It is a highly rational, mathematical approach to chaos.

Over the decades, BGV expanded into everything from legal protection to private coverage. But managing risk is never a smooth ride. In 2008, a massive fire ripped through a hospital in Konstanz. The damage hit thirty million euros. For BGV, their loss ratio, basically the percentage of premium income paid out in claims, spiked to an alarming 172.7 percent. Yet, the system worked. Thanks to heavy financial reinforcements, they absorbed the blow and normalized the numbers by the very next year.

To house this growing operation, they built the structure you see today. Finished in 2011, it is a brilliantly engineered green building. By aggressively recycling construction materials during the build, it saves a hundred tons of carbon dioxide every year. Even the daycare center next door made architectural history as the first in Germany to earn a LEED certification for environmental design.

But let us talk about the messy human element. For years, BGV offered a one-euro accident policy for school kids. The catch was their highly unusual distribution network. The teachers were handing out the forms directly to students in the classrooms. Consumer advocates argued that teachers lacked the legal qualifications to act as insurance brokers, forcing BGV to scrap the whole program in 2018.

Then came a truly poetic piece of corporate irony. BGV sells commercial cyber insurance to protect businesses from hackers. In 2022, BGV itself fell victim to a massive cyberattack. Hackers breached a third-party IT provider that BGV used for human resources. The provider refused to pay the ransom, and highly sensitive employee data ended up on the dark web. They recovered, but it is a sharp reminder that nobody is entirely bulletproof.

If you ever need to talk premiums or cyber defense, their offices are open Monday through Thursday from eight to six, and Fridays until five. Now, let us walk about five minutes to Gottesaue Castle, a structure that knows a thing or two about risk, having been destroyed and reborn multiple times over the centuries.

Seinen dunkelsten Moment erlebte es 1944. Ein Luftangriff ließ Brandbomben über der Stadt regnen und brannte das Schloss aus. Die Südtürme waren so instabil geworden, dass sie absichtlich gesprengt werden mussten. Fast vierzig Jahre lang blieb der Ort eine trostlose Ruine, die als düsteres Mahnmal an den Krieg erinnerte.

Doch 1982 übernahm die Architektin Barbara Jakubeit die gewaltige Aufgabe des Wiederaufbaus. Sie stand vor einem klassischen architektonischen Dilemma: Baut man eine gefälschte historische Replik oder schafft man etwas völlig Neues? Ihre Lösung war brillant. Sie rekonstruierte die ursprüngliche Renaissance-Außenfassade des 16. Jahrhunderts, fügte im Inneren jedoch mutig moderne Materialien ein und ließ die Nahtstellen zwischen Alt und Neu vollständig sichtbar. Werfen Sie einen Blick auf das dritte Bild in Ihrer App, um eine Luftaufnahme zu sehen, die zeigt, wie diese gewaltige, facettenreiche Struktur heute das Gelände beherrscht.

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On your left, you will spot a sturdy, symmetrical stone building framed by arched ground-floor windows and topped with an ornate, prominent clock tower.

You might look at that grand facade and think it looks like a respectable municipal hall or a minor baroque palace. That is exactly what the city wanted you to think. Welcome to the Alter Schlachthof, a massive former industrial slaughterhouse complex that has been completely transformed into a vibrant creative park.

Back in the late nineteenth century, city planners decided to build a sprawling meat processing facility right here in the rising, fashionable Oststadt district. The local veterinary councilor, Dr. Lydtin, was panicked. He demanded that the gruesome, disgusting reality of industrial slaughter be hidden behind masterful architecture. So, the city architect designed a brilliant deception. He used elegant red sandstone, decorative masonry, and cast-iron columns to disguise a factory of death as a regal estate. The central layout mirrored a symmetrical seventeenth-century palace, a highly decorative architectural style meant to project wealth and order.

From the street, you would never guess that rivers of blood were flowing just behind the walls.

For over a century, this site was the epicenter of the city's meat production. And things got grim during times of extreme crisis. When standard livestock ran out, pure desperation drove the city to process alternative protein. Historical records show that dogs, cats, and rats were all butchered on these grounds to keep the population fed.

Eventually, the local industry simply could not compete with fully mechanized mega-slaughterhouses elsewhere. In 2006, the facility officially shut down. But instead of tearing it down, the city executed a remarkable feat of urban recycling. They turned the massive seven-hectare site into the Alter Schlachthof, a sprawling creative park.

The transition from heavy industry to digital innovation required some incredibly unpleasant engineering. Take the old pig market hall. The city decided to build a modern startup incubator inside it by stacking nearly seventy massive ocean shipping containers to serve as office pods. Sounds simple enough. Then the engineers looked at the floor. The historic ground was so deeply saturated with a century of pig excrement that the soil was structurally compromised and highly toxic. They had to excavate and entirely replace the foundation before the forklift drivers could begin their millimeter-precise maneuvering of the steel containers through the old doors.

Today, this complex houses an eclectic mix of software developers, designers, and artists. The modern additions deliberately clash with the historic brickwork. And the heritage protection board insisted on keeping the site's morbid charm intact. If you peek into some of the sleek new design agencies or tech startups, you will see heavy steel slaughter hooks still dangling from the ceilings.

Nothing boosts a morning brainstorming session quite like a massive meat hook hanging over your laptop.

Go ahead and wander deeper into the heart of this creative park. Once you have taken in the raw industrial energy, we will head over to our next stop, the Tollhaus Cultural Centre, which is just a four-minute walk away.

Look to your right to spot the Tollhaus Cultural Centre, distinguished by its sturdy red brick foundation, the sleek modern architectural extension flanking the side, and the prominent Tollhaus logo mounted permanently on the exterior. This building stands as the cultural anchor of the Alter Schlachthof, the repurposed slaughterhouse grounds we walked through a few minutes ago. The shift from rigid industrial meat processing to avant-garde acrobatics and political cabaret perfectly captures how this district trades old dogmas for creative disruption.

But that disruption does not just happen on stage. It happens backstage. Picture the scene in the spring of 2026. The prominent German musician and podcaster Olli Schulz was booked for a completely sold-out show in the main hall. Tensions were already running high as the crew prepared for a massive crowd. Then, exactly one hour before the doors were supposed to open, the artist's management dropped a bomb. They imposed an absolute, immediate press ban. No photographers. No journalists. No exceptions.

The newly appointed director, Maíra Wiener, was abruptly thrust onto the front lines of a public relations disaster. Accredited journalists were already arriving, cameras in hand, and she had to personally stand at the door and turn them away. The management's official reasoning was that Schulz wanted a private and intimate setting. A truly fascinating excuse for a man who co-hosts a massively popular podcast and had happily welcomed reporters at every previous stop on his tour. This sudden clash between an erratic artist and scrambling management feels like a modern echo of the fierce labor strikes that once rattled these industrial grounds. A different kind of rebellion, perhaps, but just as chaotic.

Think about being the director handed a sudden media blackout sixty minutes before the house opens. Do you fight the artist, or do you protect the show?

Wiener handled it with the grit this institution demands. She had inherited a legacy built on stubborn endurance. The original founders worked purely on passion in the early nineteen eighties, taking zero pay, a choice that literally gutted their future pensions just to keep the arts alive in Karlsruhe. They once survived a disastrous outdoor festival where their tents sank so deeply into the mud that it required a passing platoon of French soldiers to physically drag their gear out of the muck. By comparison, turning away a few angry reporters was just another day at the Tollhaus.

If you need to speak with the staff, they operate Monday through Friday from noon to six pm, and remain closed on weekends. Let us leave the cultural stage behind and head toward the open fairgrounds, making our way to the Measuring station, which is about a six-minute walk away.

Halten Sie Ausschau nach der riesigen trapezförmigen Asphaltfläche, die von massiven Betonwänden begrenzt wird, welche wiederum dicht mit farbenfrohen, völlig legalen Graffitis überzogen sind. Wenn Sie auf Ihren Bildschirm blicken, sehen Sie eine aktuelle Ansicht dieses markanten geometrischen Grundrisses in seiner alltäglichen Funktion als gewaltiger Parkplatz.

Yes, it looks like a simple stretch of pavement, but this ground perfectly captures how this district transformed from a place of rigid obedience into a playground for creative chaos. And it started, quite literally, with garbage. Back in 1889, the city used this exact spot as a municipal dump. They piled up household trash until it formed a massive hill, which they later leveled out to engineer this very plaza.

In 1912, the city moved its traditional fair, the Karlsruher Mess, to this newly flattened terrain. Why here? Pure logistical efficiency. It sat directly between two major tram lines. The move was an instant financial success.

But the story of this space mirrors the darker turns of the twentieth century as well. In 1933, the Nazi-dominated city council systematically banned Jewish exhibitors from the fairgrounds. During the Second World War, the fair was moved or canceled entirely. The massive gas works operating right next door made this area an incredibly dangerous target for incoming bombers.

Following the war, the city built the Oststadthalle here, an arena holding up to five thousand people. This is where the local culture took a sharp turn toward the eccentric. The hall hosted wild, multi-week professional wrestling tournaments. In 1971, the electronic music pioneers Kraftwerk performed here, using custom-built synthesizers to completely disrupt the traditional music scene. In 1985, the punk band Die Toten Hosen turned the arena into an absolute madhouse, leading hundreds of spiky-haired punks in roaring sing-alongs of traditional German folk tunes. The building eventually fell into disrepair and was demolished in 1997, but the city officially handed the perimeter walls over to graffiti artists, ensuring the rebellious spirit stuck around.

That instinct for clever disruption showed up again during the COVID-19 pandemic. When indoor theaters went dark, a local director invested a quarter of a million euros to build a drive-in cinema right on this asphalt. They engineered a sixteen-meter-high podium with a massive screen and broadcast the audio directly to car radios via a local FM frequency. It was a massive hit that financially saved the theater.

Today, the space still hosts enormous seasonal fairs featuring rides that pull up to five Gs of gravitational force. For the traveling showmen, this lot becomes a temporary village of caravans. It is a raw, communal space, though that intense energy occasionally boils over, like a massive brawl between teenagers that fractured a few noses late last year.

Most days, it is simply a place to leave your car. The lot is open Monday through Saturday from 7 AM to 8 PM, and closed on Sundays. Let us keep moving toward the district's main artery now, and transition to Durlacher Allee, just a four-minute walk from here.

Mit zuverlässigen Transportmitteln kamen die Visionäre und die Fabriken. Im Jahr 1891 ließ sich hier ein lokaler Seifen- und Parfümhersteller namens Wolff & Sohn nieder. Deren berühmte Kosmetiklinie Kaloderma wurde zu einem gewaltigen weltweiten Erfolg. In einer brillanten Ironie der Moderne ist diese ehemalige Parfümfabrik heute das örtliche Finanzamt. Um die Geschichte des Ortes zu ehren, entwarf ein Konzeptkünstler ein spezielles Parfüm für die Lobby des Gebäudes, das exakt wie frisch gedrucktes Geld riecht. Ich schätze, der Duft von Steuern wirkt auf manche ebenso berauschend.

Aber die Durlacher Allee hat auch tiefe Dunkelheit erlebt. 1933 wurde die Straße in Robert-Wagner-Allee umbenannt, nach dem örtlichen Gauleiter der NSDAP. Wagner orchestrierte die brutale Verfolgung politischer Gegner und die Deportation jüdischer Mitbürger. Direkt nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg im Jahr 1945 wurde ihm die Ehrenbürgerwürde aberkannt, und die Straße erhielt ihren historischen Namen zurück. Während desselben Krieges wurde direkt unter dem Asphalt, auf den Sie gerade blicken, ein riesiger Luftschutzbunker errichtet, der als verzweifelte Zuflucht im Untergrund diente, während oben Bomben fielen...

Heute ist diese vierspurige Straße, deren Fahrbahnen durch einen Mittelstreifen getrennt sind, das ultimative Bindegewebe der Oststadt. Sie schlägt die Brücke zwischen alten königlichen Domänen und rasanter städtischer Modernisierung.

Wir sind dieser Schlagader des Fortschritts fast bis an ihr Ende gefolgt. Für unsere letzte Station begeben wir uns an einen Ort, an dem sich schiere Kraft und moderne Energie buchstäblich vereinen. Setzen wir unseren Weg mit einem kurzen, achtminütigen Spaziergang zum Hauptsitz der EnBW Energie Baden-Württemberg fort.

With reliable transport came the visionaries and the factories. In 1891, a local soap and perfume manufacturer called Wolff and Sohn set up shop here. Their famous Kaloderma cosmetics line became a massive global success. In a brilliant piece of modern irony, that former perfume factory is now the local tax office. To honor the site's history, a conceptual artist designed a custom perfume for the building's lobby that smells exactly like freshly printed money. I suppose the scent of taxes is just as intoxicating to some.

But the Durlacher Allee has also seen profound darkness. In 1933, the street was renamed Robert Wagner Allee, after the local Nazi Party leader. Wagner orchestrated the brutal persecution of political opponents and the deportation of local Jewish citizens. Right after the Second World War in 1945, his honorary citizenship was revoked, and the street took back its historic name. During that same war, a massive air raid bunker was constructed directly underneath the asphalt you are looking at, serving as a desperate underground refuge while bombs fell above...

Today, this dual carriageway, a road with two lanes in each direction separated by a central divider, is the ultimate connective tissue of Oststadt. It bridges the gap between old royal domains and rapid urban modernization.

We have followed this artery of progress almost to its conclusion. For our final stop, we are heading to a place where sheer power and modern energy literally unite. Let us continue on a brief eight minute walk to the headquarters of EnBW Energie Baden Württemberg.

Dieses moderne Kraftzentrum des Unternehmens stellt die letzte Stufe der Transformation des Viertels dar. Es hat eine industrielle Vergangenheit aufgenommen, sie konsolidiert und für eine innovative Zukunft neu gestaltet. Wenn Sie einen Blick in die Lobby werfen möchten: Das Gebäude ist von Montag bis Freitag von elf Uhr fünfzehn morgens bis dreizehn Uhr fünfzehn mittags für die Öffentlichkeit zugänglich; am Wochenende ist es geschlossen.

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