Way Home

On the short walk to the taxi I decidedly regretted my choice to bring back beer. Even on wheels, my suitcase weighed down my whole body. I didn’t even like the idea of beer as a gift, but my lack of funds had left me with a lack of creativity as well. Souvenir Beer. Why not?

Though a bit stressful at times, my trip to Munich was ultimately lovely. I stick to the idea that German isn’t a lovely language, but suspect that I could pick it up without too much trouble if I need be. The weather had been cold for what I consider spring, but no place is Texas. The buildings in Munich were newer and lacked the romantic character I have been spoiled by, but no place is like Paris.

The Germans were friendly though, with their thick hands and heavy chins. They smiled and were not dismayed when I didn’t even make an attempt to speak their language. They rode their bikes around the wide streets of their city, forgetting easily that they were Hilter’s sick gift to his marching soldiers despite the daily tour guides past all shadows of swastikas and sadness.

As my high speed train sped out of Germany I was happy that I had not chosen the night train back even though it had cost me an extra twenty euros. I was even sort of happy that I wasn’t flying (but not happy to have lost nearly two hundred euros on the plane ticket), because after the previous days rain the verdant rolling countryside was brilliant in the sun. We passed ancient towns, spared the destruction of war, looking like colorful toy sets arranged by the hand of a busy child. Patches of greens and browns were smattered with grey stucco houses and weathered barns divided by dirt roads. Along the tracks cherry trees bloomed in white.

I changed trains in Stuttgart. I was pleased by the German efficiency to not only place my train directly across from the one I depart, but my car as well. I strolled quickly across the platform, plopping down in a completely full train. I recognize something funny happen as I hear the familiar SNCF chimes and the roll of a French “R”. I am happy to be back in the arms of this chaotic French entity. I can’t - and do not - fight the pleasant sensation that I am going home.