Mourning Paris

(14 November 2015)
There is a candlelit vigil in Place Kleber tonight. The statue of Jean Baptiste Kléber is very stern in the flickering light, and the heavy shadows. A woman is crying as she lights her candle. Her hand is shaking a lot; it's making her entire body tremble. She is being rocked back and forth by a woman I assume is her mother. They are the spitting image of each other.

It's very strange here this evening. There are the mourners and there are the people who are always hanging around the statue. They are being very loud, laughing and swearing. They have made the vigil into an absurdity. How funny it sounds to hear French people (very drunk French people, mind you) sing along to Fetty Wap when even babies do not make a sound.

It is not drizzling, because although few, the drops that fall are fat and heavy. For weeks Strasbourg was unseasonably mild, but today it is cold. It may rain. It will rain as children cry, with tears falling to the tune of Trap Queen, which blares irreverently from a battered boom box.

Some of the candles have gone out. Some people relight the ones that have enough wick left, the ones that were blown out by wind, or upset by stomping feet. I burn my finger because the wind blew the flame onto my thumb. I hand the lighter to Anna and set the little tea candle down carefully, pushing it to an open space. 

Still it does not rain. 

It feels wrong to fall back into life's normal patterns; it feels like we ought to stop everything and be quiet and serious, and light candles. But that is not how the world is. The world would have us listen to American rappers insult women and go home, and forget after a while that 129 people died. 

Some people will never forget. We are lucky to forget.

Reflections From the Day After

Paris bleeds again. It was not so long ago that "Je Suis Charlie" posters papered every wall, every light post, every Facebook profile picture. In fact, I saw it from the tram just now, hanging faded in a store window, just past Langstross Grande Rue.

My mother told me to come home. Now. I told her that Hollande had declared "un Etats d'urgence"and closed the borders. And my mother cried. I don't think she misunderstood me, but that she knew my returning home was impossible.

We had heard about the Paris attacks last night at my friend's apartment. We were safe, warm, and happily buzzed. All of a sudden:

"Merde!" Romain said.

We did not pay much attention at first. He repeated himself and said something very quickly in French. I heard only "Paris" "terreur" and "18 morts". That was how we found out about the bombs at the friendly German-French soccer match, a game between two Western giants. The president was there, and we heard first that he was safely evacuated, and then that everyone else was. If they could be evacuated, that is.

We kept refreshing open pages on our devices. We learned that hostages were taken at the Bataclan. Nobody knew exactly how many, then 12, maybe, and then 100s. The death tolls jumped. Shootings, more than one.

"Merde!"

And contained in the word we heard the shock, the anger, and the horror- it was too early yet for fear to permeate his voice. The word had lost its original meaning, floating in the air as some audible representation of not Romain's sentiments, but of all of France. And it became vulgar for a different reason.

We left. The death toll doubled by the time I left my friends and descended onto Gare Central, climbed the escalator, and went home. Everywhere in the streets I heard:

"Paris! Paris!" There were other words too, but they blended together until they became fuzzy, and melted into the background.

There was also echoes of Romain's expletive:

"Merde!" Especially the men smoking by the tram stop.

When I arrived at my door, I shut it behind me like I was afraid to wake up the building. It was not yet 11.

"Here it is different,"Claire told me when she came home. Everyone knows someone in Paris." That is true, even for us; some Syracuse students had gone to the soccer game, and my roommate had gone to see Versailles.

I stayed up very late with Claire, watching the news. Listening to big, important men in expensive suits give speeches. Listening to the silence outside her window.

Nomophobia

To burn
the bridges of your past
is easy.
Just forget to take care.
let die
all the photographs you saved.
no more.
Cry, if you want to,
or rage,
but it doesn't matter.
They're gone.


Last week I went to Morocco. We were mugged. When I got back, I erased the wrong device. The end.

The Sun Child

I thought he was a ghost
with his skin like alabaster
and his hair like corn silk.
He stood in the cold,
outside my door,
when it was still dark,
to remind me of the morning.
"Hello," he said.
And I said it back, for
it was all I knew how to give.
He watched me
while we cut the bread
and drank the coffee with it.
What great, big eyes,
so brilliantly violet, so clear,
as only such a child's eyes can be.
He was as white as snow,
Madame's little Sun Child.

What is Pink?

There is pink, and then there is Pink.

Pink is the color of the wind when the sun sets on the French Riviera and the sky blushes softly at first, and then furiously. You have never seen Pink like this. Not when the all the world is drenched in its light, and the buildings bathe in it.

You cannot know this kind of Pink without having climbed to the Chateau de Nice first, to watch the sky burn. The cool evening air will soon dry the perspiration on your brow, and you will catch your breath after only a little while. No doubt Pink exists in many other forms, but I am not speaking of those pinks. I speak of this one, the Pink of the Bournes', that soft camellia flush.

There is a bottle of rosé in the fridge That, too, is Pink.

My Chucks

 ...climb enough staircases

to reach Heaven

and return with with a snow globe.

...step gingerly around puddles

only to sink unwittingly into mud.

The soil, you see, 

is soft and full of guile

in this part of France.

...collect lime dust,

as their owner 

counts the spirals 

in Jesus' robe.

...are removed with relief

Yonne

"I'll bet you've never seen a French hamlet before," our professor said. There was a rousing chorus of assent as we filed off the bus. My father came from a small village in China that I suppose could also be called a hamlet, but I'm not sure. It wasn't anything like what we saw as we stood in the gray light of Yonne, waiting for everyone to collect their bags from the underbelly of the bus.

Vezelay

After spending the day and most of the afternoon in Vezelay, we came here, to Yonne. What remains of the day is cold, overcast, and gloomy. A little while ago, perhaps at 18:30, it began to drizzle. It's still drizzling without any sign of increasing or decreasing in intensity. It's an earnest, steady addition to our day.

I cannot speak, as I've lost my voice sometime in the night. It's a good excuse. I don't want to talk much, and not having a voice is a very good excuse. When you can't speak above a rasp, no one tries very hard to engage you in conversation.

Yonne is a very small place. Boring, maybe. But it's beautiful. There are apple trees belonging to the street they grow beside. They are far from the orchards and so some of us leaned over the hollows and plucked a few choice fruits. The fields are green-velvety- or brown-freshly tilled. Yesterday was warm, when we were in Dijon, and earlier today in Vezelay, but now it's anything but. It's an exercise in getting acquainted with a dreary kind of beautiful.

I walked very slowly along the dirt roads, smiling to acknowledge my friends as they skipped gaily by. I would that I were alone in this place. It's peaceful, but not the kind that comes from roaring waves- the peace that I know. The silence is profoundly startling. And it magnifies whatever sound erupts from whatever source.

I think this is a nice place to be tired in. The idea of an idyllic farm life is inviting. I do not think that I need to tell you that this is a dream of Yonne that we see. I cannot know what such an existence is really like, and all I've got, really, is generalization and fantasy. Perhaps I'd hate it here. Perhaps what seems peaceful now will grow monotonous, for I think I need the roar of waves. Perhaps the dogs that come barking to greet us will grow less charming in time.

But it seems unlikely. And for now, the dream tastes real and I will leave and remember the lingering sweetness.

 

 

Dijon Stone

What is dirty here

is soiled from passing years.

And what is water-stained

has withstood tears.

What is whole 

fears

what is broken

and crumbling

and grand.

The stones of Dijon house 

what bleeds prayer.

Lindau By Night

One thinks Heidelberg by day-with its surroundings-is the last possibility of the beautiful; but when he sees Heidelberg by night, a fallen Milky way, with that glittering railway constellation pinned to the border, he requires time to consider upon the verdict.

-Mark Twain, "A Tramp Abroad"

We came to Lindau off the vast expanse of water that touched the soil of four different countries. We came as tourists have always come, in droves, beneath the blaze of Summer sun. My first impression of Lindau was favorable, if lukewarm. It seemed a nice little city, situated on a nice little bit of rock, with some delightful winding roads and such.

We made our way on cobblestone roads, and peered into brightly decorated shop windows. I grew more fond of it the longer we walked. I was altogether charmed by the way the city looked in the afternoon light, the buildings all painted colors I’d never seen back home. Even on the shores of Del Mar the bungalows dim beneath the faded brilliance of the hues seen in Lindau.

There is a main street, and several little alleyways and quaint little detours that beckon with the alluring promise of getting you lost. Don’t be fooled; getting lost in a place like Lindau is a feat of superhuman proportions.

I remember the art museum. A humble collection, it displayed the works of Emil Nolde, a German expressionist painter. I hadn’t heard of him before, but liked his paintings immensely. I do love expressionism, and I was thinking of bold strokes and outlandish colors when I stepped back into the the sunny square.

If I liked Lindau in daylight, I liked it more the lower the sun sank in the sky, and I liked it still more when it left altogether. How the lights of the city sparkled on inky waves in the harbor, how the strains of street musicians drifted- I imagined- even to the great stone lion we had paid our respects to, when the day was still here. By day Lindau was very pretty and by night she was all grown up, with a diamond lariat at her throat and diamond bobs in her ears.

After a fashion we walked back into the heart of Lindau, knowing that the pretty stores were all closed. If you don’t know the feeling of buying ice cream from a store on wheels and eating it as you walk along darkened shop windows, then I pity you. You do not know Summer. We came upon a little cafe and we went in, for one of our party was very much drawn to that elusive pixie, wifi. So we followed the bars on our phones, and entered, casting sheepish smiles at the hostess, who knew we wouldn’t be buying anything. I remember that there was a man with a little french horn who got of his bicycle to play for us. Back home I don’t think it would have been the same, but here, under the cover of a thousand stars, charmed as we were by a little German island, we stood and smiled and swayed to his song.

“I’m hungry,” Hannah said. And when she said that, we felt its truth in our own bellies. It was such a wonderful thing, to be young and hungry in a city that was like a young lady who dances in a yellow silk dress with cobwebby lace, and rouges her cheeks, and scrubs it off again. It’s only like this at night; in the daytime, no one ever remember that they are young and immortal. Those are thoughts that come with the sinking of the sun. In the day, we think only of the tiredness in our legs, the heat even in the shade of the Rathaus. There is no room for divinity.

Treat Yo Self

Nudity is a funny thing. In America, it's very in vogue right now to celebrate our bodies. We make grandiose statements about loving ourselves, or whatever. Yet when it comes to taking a good, hard look, how many do?

Let me give you an example. In some schools, girls are not to wear leggings, because heaven forbid a sweet young thing expose the line of her shapely leg and drive a gentleman to distraction. The underlying premise is that there is something inherently shameful about her body, something taboo.

What about when Grandpa digs out his old speedo to go for a nice stroll at the beach? Who celebrates that?

Caracalla is the building that's cut off on the left. 

I bring this up because yesterday we went to the German city of Baden Baden, about thirty minutes away from Kehl. "Baden" means "bath" in German, and Baden Baden is one of the many cities in the Black Forest known for its mineral baths. So we betook ourselves to Kehl and boarded a trailer of a train to Baden Baden.

Baden Baden has a great many spas that attract Germans and foreigners alike, but it was Caracalla we were bound for. I understand that Caracalla isn't as "authentic" of a spa experience as Friedrichbad, according to my host mother, and according to the Australians we ran into outside the train station in Baden Baden, but the thought of complete mandatory nudity is a bit intimidating, you understand.

Not that we didn't go nude.

No way to take pictures inside, so here's Caracalla from
outside, up, and to the left

The Germans have a magnificent attitude toward nudity: they simply don't give a damn. In Caracalla, the ground floor is a series of mineral baths constructed in some Romanesque bathhouse manner, complete with a marble statue of a full breasted Venus leaning over the pool. Here we shielded ourselves with bathing suits. We explored the indoor pool, which was very warm, and then moved outdoors, which had one very warm pool and one slightly cooler one. It was a mild day but compared to the heat of the mineral water, it was cold.

The pools are equipped with all kinds of jets and and fountains and clever little ramps and platforms for relaxing in. The water had none of the chlorine stench I had come to associate with swimming pools, nor did it give off the briny smell of the sea, which threw me off for a while.

After some stalling, we padded on bare feet back to the locker rooms and removed our suits as though removing armor before entering battle. It was a funny feeling. The way to the saunas was a winding staircase, and that second floor may as
well have been a nudist commune.

I mean it. Everyone was naked. Shamelessly, defiantly unclothed. I thought it would be uncomfortable to be naked in front of strangers but to my surprise, it was odd to be covered. So off came our towels. Soon we were as shameless as they. Perhaps you will think badly of me, but I enjoyed the sensation of being naked in a room of naked strangers. Although if you keep an open mind, you'll see that there's really nothing wrong with that at all. It's the most natural thing in the world.

The first sauna we went into smelled of something woody and musky that I couldn't quite place. It was so hot in there the air burned my nostrils when I inhaled. I laid down my towels, crossed my legs, and meditated. After a while (one shouldn't stay too long), I lifted my eyelids and peered into the darkened room through my lashes. I became aware of a man looking at me, yet there seemed nothing wrong in that. In what must have been another life, I would have been uncomfortable, but right then I was undisturbed. I simply closed my eyes again and forgot about him. After all, it is none of your business what people think of you.

The deluge of cold water that followed was excruciating, then refreshing. Alternating hot and cold temperatures is very good for you, you know. It stimulates the lymph system and really revs up the metabolism.

Then we hung our towels up outside of another room, and entered to a blast of steam. The last room was a kind of dry heat, but this one was so steamy that at times you couldn't see five feet in front of you. There are hoses that you must use to rinse yourself and the ledge off before you sit, presumably for reasons of hygiene. It was hard to breathe in there too, but unlike a hot and humid day, there was no worrying about sweat stains or sweating off your makeup. You are free to let your body sweat as much as it pleases, not that it waits for your permission. It really is a very liberating experience.

Then back to frigid water. My favorite part was the Waldsauna, or the Woodland Sauna, which is a log cabin outside a ways. It was 85 degrees. Celsius.

I still remember how it smelled in there, like oak and sandalwood and musk. My God, if I could bottle it, I would drench everything I own, every part of my body, in the stuff. Maybe I'll burn incense so that I can fall asleep smelling sandalwood, and let scent can perfume my hair.

There was an old lady exiting as we were entering and she smiled conspiratorially at me as she slipped past me. Her hand grazed my side from breast to waist and she didn't apologize. This wasn't a place for apologizing.

I paid thirty-two euros for a twenty-five minute massage (nineteen for the whole three hour session). Why? Read the title.

It was really weird at first, to have some German lady with winged eyeliner on point, massage me naked. As a general rule, though, if nobody makes a fuss, the issue goes away. It really isn't a big deal at all. She didn't care, I didn't care, my parents didn't care. I mean, they weren't there, but I'm sure it wouldn't have bothered them. (And now it's too late for them to care, if they were going to, haha! I love college)

Now that we know how to be naked, we plan to return to Baden Baden when the weather is colder, to try out Friedrichsbad.

Baden Baden, on the stretch of road between Caracalla and Friedrichsbad

Don't Be a Girl if You Can Help It

So shone the lamp
to pierce the midnight-morning
as truth lurked in hallowed alleys
and spirits took wing.

So whistled the wind
amongst the petal'd arches
danced it did, like promise,
like the rats of human persuasion.

So clicked the boot
on frozen pavement.

So glittered the eye,
small and beady and clouded.

So raised the hand,

So flinched the girl.

So.

Do not stand quietly
in darkness kept at bay
by only lamps.

An Espresso Comes With Uninterrupted Wifi in France

I feel like Hemingway, sitting outside a small cafe with an espresso by my wrist. Granted, it is an espresso, and not a gin martini. Ah, but it is only one in the afternoon...

It's a marvel how much attention the French pay to their drinks. They start with their aperitif, to be poured gracefully into long stemmed glasses. I don't know what good, practically speaking, having a drink before a meal does, if it aids in digestion or prepares the palette, or what, but it's an enjoyable thing to do. Therefore, the point of drinking becomes unimportant; only the act itself matters. It serves to accompany pre-meal conversation as the violin does the piano. Pleasure for pleasure's sake, delight in simple joys.

Let us not forget the wine that comes with lunch or dinner. (As far as I know, the French don't make a habit of drinking at breakfast) It is always carefully matched to the entree, the main course, the cheese and dessert. I take my meals with my host mother and another student who rooms with me, and we dine quite simply. I understand, however, that in restaurants, it is a common thing to have a different wine with each course. But then, that is not surprising because it is often like that in the states as well, in upscale places.

Yet it's different here. Each Riesling d'Alsace, every Pinot Noir, is as much a part of the company as the lady with pearls, or her brother the businessman. The swirl of the glasses- raise them delicately to inquiring nostrils- belong, have a place with the things spoken, and even more with things unspoken. That is why there is no rush. They do not, as we often do, eat hastily, for there is nothing so abhorrent here as rushing. How can one appreciate without pause?

After the meal, there is another drink. I don't know the difference between an aperitif and a digestif, except that one is before and the other follows the meal. I don't think they actually have anything to do with digestion.

Alsace is chilly this time of year (actually that's an understatement). It's barely September yet it's already too cold for t shirts and jeans. I mention the weather because I am inappropriately dressed for it. Regrettably, I finished my espresso some time ago, which means my last defense against the wind is gone.

The thing is that the weather here changes the way you or I change socks. At the drop of a hat the sun comes out and you're sweltering, or else it retreats among the clouds and your fingers freeze. I don't mind when it rains, but not while we sit here at the Bistrot et Chocolat.

Coffee is drunk so often that it's a wonder anybody can sleep at night. I've yet to have a bad cup, and I'm not convinced the concept even exists here. But really, one drinks a cup at breakfast, perhaps an espresso after the morning class, perhaps another with lunch, perhaps with the family after dinner. After the digestif, of course.

I must get to my reading now. Au Revoir.

Good Morning

I have decided that it will be impossible for me to write every time I visit a new place, because we do that so often here that I simply cannot keep up. I will write the important ones by and by, when I'm ready to. Apologies.

It's cold again in Strasbourg. After the unseasonable heat that swept through, the stickiness, the air is crisp again. Before yesterday, the city had an air of languidness and slowness, because the students were not home, and because of the heat. Now Strasbourg is filled again with the bustle of school children and their parents and college kids while the skies are gray. Now there is speed, and I mourn the way it was before. But there are many good things that come with briskness, and Summer always comes.

I sat in meditation this morning, with the lights off and the curtains drawn. Still through the curtains I can see the dim white square, glowing, from behind which the city lives. I can see shadowy figures even though my eyes are shut. They change the light, block it out for heartbeats at a time, and then are lost to me.

Madame is waiting with breakfast, so good-bye. I wrote only because it has been a while, and I did not want us to be strangers. Maybe tonight I will tell you about the river, or Lindau, or the Black Forest. But I cannot promise.

Strasbourg When it Rains

I must again interrupt the narrative I set out to complete. This demonstrates a regrettable lack of discipline on my part, because had I not waited a month to get around to recording these things, there would be no conflict, and fewer details lost.

But anyways.

I will take up Salzburg where I left off, and hopefully insightful reflection will compensate for the weakened memory that's left. There's no help for it anyway, because now I must write about Strasbourg, where I am to spend the next four months.

I did not like Strasbourg in the beginning. As the train left Switzerland, I watched the skies warm from gray to something sunny. But as the clouds parted, as Basel blurred into Colmar, Mulhouse, others, I felt myself go cold. (I will go back later and tell you about that trip) I felt myself unwelcome in a strange place.

Let me present you with a comparison. If Munich is the girl who smiles at everyone and wears her emotions emblazoned on her sleeve, then Strasbourg is the one who averts her eyes and walks swiftly past those she doesn't know. That is my impression, anyway.

I was very tired, and I regretted leaving home. Not unexpected, I think. But don't worry, first impressions are rarely dependable; I warmed up to Strasbourg soon enough.

I arrived at the gates of the Syracuse Center breathless, watching my taxi drive off like a child abandoned. Then I entered a room full of strangers, most of whom already knew each other, having traveled here together from the states. It was very stuffy in the room, I remember, and I arrived after they'd already begun. Everything was dreamlike, nothing felt real.

And then it began to rain. Gently at first, and then enthusiastically enough to drive some of us beneath the cover of umbrellas. Not I, as you must know. Bareheaded, I walked along a mass of ponchos and umbrellas and coats. It hadn't rained in San Diego for a long time. The water cleansed the air, purified our breaths, soaked my hair.

I hate to sound like a hippie, but that's when things started looking up. It's not that Strasbourg changed how she was, but that I got myself a new attitude about the whole thing. It really is a lovely city, especially when it rains.

Excuse this post, as I'm sitting in a youth hostel in Lindau, Germany, and I'm very tired. Actually I'm tempted to delete this whole thing now (quit while you're ahead, you know), but I don't think I'll ever be able to make it better. I'm already beginning to forget how I felt then, and being exhausted, my narrative is less burdened by any conscious restraints.

A Rainy Night in Salzburg

I'm about to spoil the order of the telling of my trip, but I can't help it. I feel for some reason that this post must be written before others that chronologically came before it. What can you do- the heart wants what it wants, amirite.

Ah...the convenience of snapchat

Our second dinner in Salzburg was right in Mozartplatz, the old town, which boasts the oldest restaurant in Europe. Something like that. But it was a very nice sort of place, and I was dreadfully under dressed. I had taken the minimalist approach to packing, you see, and hadn't packed any nice things to wear.

They had forgotten about us vegetarians, although our tour guide assured us that he'd spoken with them twice about it. It didn't matter; I wasn't in any hurry to eat. When a dish of vegetables and rice was finally placed in front of me, I still wasn't hungry.

There was a show going on outside- a taste of what was to come in the next few weeks during Salzburg's festival of the performing arts. While I was waiting I made myself comfortable on the ledge and watched the actors. Later, when I'd lost interest in picking at my food, I again repaired to this ledge, and hung out the window to watch the crowds disperse.

A bevy of girls tripped gaily by, tossing their bright heads and chattering enthusiastically. Behind them followed their grandmothers. Some of them had covered their hair demurely with scarves. Impulsively, I leaned out a little more and waved. Amused by the friendliness of an American and a tourist, they waved back. I watched them all disappear past the archway.

Some time passed. I must have spent it without thinking of anything of note, because when my name was called, I found myself staring into space. All of a sudden the room was too warm. There was a touch of overripeness and something bloated in there. My friends seemed strange to me, but they weren't. I was the one being strange.

I couldn't stand it. The expressions on the servers' faces were grotesque in their amiability.

I fled.

Left the private dining room we were given, turned left. Then left, after a series of open doors. There was another window and another ledge- a bigger ledge with a heater in front of it. I flung that window open and clambered up beside it, a process made much easier by my sensible clothing (the ledge was pretty high, and some people had changed into dresses). I don't know how long I sat there, leaning wearily against the window frame. Ten minutes, maybe. 

<-- I meant Salzburg (in the video)

The sky was a funny mix of gray and pink, and the light that pierced that glorious gloom wasn't quite golden like it is back home. I blinked and missed the moment when pink began giving way to violet. It began to rain. Slowly, and then in earnest. Fat raindrops hit the cobblestones and drummed against the rooftops. Music to the ears of a drought-weary Californian.

The rain cooled the air, made it breathable. I no longer found myself stifled. Just in the nick of time, too, because I was joined by a girl I'd met on the trip. We sat and talked about something we found very important at the time, and then returned when informed that desert was ready.

Later, our group split. I followed the bigger half to watch some traditional dancing, a story for another time. Before that, we went for drinks on a terrace.

The walk to that terrace was steeply set into the hillside, with uneven cobblestones beneath our feet. It was the very picture of romance, what with the warm cloak that fell with dusk, the old crumbly (but stout still) buildings, the perfume of green things. Just after our breaths became labored-mine, at least- it began to rain again.

Do you not think that there is something of the divine in the first rain drops that fall before the deluge? They are the first to burst through the dam up in the skies while their eager compatriots squirm in cloudy prisons. They fell and kissed our cheeks as they fell. Soon the ground was filled with their falling bodies. We made it to the terrace before the rain really came down, to my consternation.

I was still feeling odd, so after my group found a table beneath some umbrellas, I fled again. I left by way of another terrace, climbed some stairs, hiked up a ways beside the road. I let myself get drenched, let the water cool my feverish cheeks and wash the paint off my face. My mascara is made of blackberries, and their sweet scent floated to me as the stuff ran down my face and was gone.



I liked the way my skin looked by streetlight, a glimmering, greenish bronze. Some others had followed me, and we spoke very seriously for a while. A different madness came upon me, the kind accompanied by mysterious smiles and a wild kind of gladness. Perhaps it was the rain.

When we returned, we found everyone crammed at a table removed from the reaches of water. Pity. We had our schnapps like children tasting cider for the first time.

Boo.

Festung Hohensalzburg

Imagine that you stand where I stood, that you feel the breezes move strands of hair like tracing lines on a sheet of music. The light has just begun to fade and the heat has begun to lose its intensity- just a little. It's nearing suppertime, and somehow, empty bellies make for greater views. 

On July the 17th, we crammed ourselves into a funicular bound for the Hohensalzburg Fortress, situated on the crest of the Festungsberg. I remember that I pressed my cheek against the cool metal pole, and wrapped my burning arms about it. I need hardly to describe the animal heat to you. I welcomed it, although I greeted it with considerably less enthusiasm when the funicular began to move and other people's sweat dripped on me.

There was a vague discontented hum brought on by the stuffiness, and here and there were gasps of delight as people looked out through the glass. Louder still were some people's silent awe at the trees that stood stoutly below us, the rock of man meeting that of the mountain. 

           

We burst into the late afternoon gratefully, flinging ourselves away from our neighbors. It was rather like a tin of sardines, remember. We hiked our way to the entrance of the fortress, and were confronted by a formidable staircase. Pause. Regroup. Reconsider. Disperse in search of water. After finding some friendly bartenders who filled our bottles free of charge, we made the trek back to the place at the foot of the stairs.

What a view. Not even at the highest vantage point, either. Salzburg lay below us, spread like a tapestry. There was the old town, from whence we came; there was the new. And splitting them was the river, the mighty Salzach. The bridge above it, by the way, was heavy with locks and the waters swollen with keys. Just like in France, although not nearly as full. 

So we went up that staircase, and halted within the walls. After threading the wires of the audio guides about us, we followed the tour and scrutinized many, many men in red. This one ordered the fortress built, that one spiked the salt trade, that one was an idiot. Many expanded the walls, raised them ever higher. It's funny that they did that, because the Hohensalzburg was never breached. It was that intimidating, I guess. I did hear a funny story about how when besieged by a peasant mob, the prince-Archbishop paraded the same cow painted different colors to dishearten them. It was a ruse to convince the rabble that their stores were so great that cows just rambled about on the battlements. It worked, and the peasants went home discouraged.

How on earth does one go about painting a cow? 

The best part, I think, was climbing to the very top and looking out. Especially since the torture room was essentially a glorified storage room, and never used for torture at all. Alas, our fascination with the abomination remained unsatisfied

We passed through the cemetery on our way back.

Tomorrow I think I will tell you about the rain that night, and St Gilgen another time.

Land, Ho: Salzburg

The day was balmy when we arrived in Salzburg. It was unusually warm, in fact, although the rains still swept through in the evenings and washed the stickiness from the air. By this time I was used to the layer of sweat that clung to me like a second skin, and the disregard for air conditioning. I kind of liked it actually; something about walking and sweating made me feel travel-worn and productive, like when a good pair of boots wear down and become covered in dust.

So the train lurched to a stop, and we lurched with it. Filing off, we congregated in the vaguely cooled station. Our first taste of Salzburg was laced with the salt of sweat and flies and impatience. We took a bus to our hotel, the Castellani Parkhotel. I really did like that hotel. Maybe I'll dedicate a post to it, because it fulfills some forgotten fantasy of mine. I'd like not to forget that.

Mozartplatz part 1

Mozartplatz part 2 

             
We set off in search of lunch, that enticingly simple meal of market fruits to be washed in local fountains and pretzels, in the old town: Altstadt. We followed the path along the Salzach River, whose roar was dimly felt. It was robust and brown and, on the other side, sat the mountains with their whispering trees and laughing brooks. I never thought a river could be beautiful unless is was clear and blue.

It was very hot. Sweat slid between our shoulder blades and those carrying backpacks shifted the weight from shoulder to shoulder, revealing darker patches on their shirts. It was a kind of glory, you understand, to sweat beneath the Austrian sun. To sweat and think about food and feel excited by our ignorance of a new place.

Wolfgang "The Stud" Amadeus Mozart

We found the old quarter, called Mozartplatz after the city's resident darling, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. We were left to our own devices for a while, with languid instructions to meet back at some hour I can't remember for our tour.

My chief interest was not food; while abroad, I didn't have much of an appetite. Although the pretzel was good, although the peaches were plump and sweet, I had to force myself to eat. Perhaps it was the excitement.

Our guide was named Philipp, a mild mannered history teacher who seemed so quiet in comparison to our burly Markus in Munich. Not once did Philipp pound his chest and cry "Salzburg!". I didn't mind, though. I liked him too; something in his voice reminded me of an old grade school teacher, who read to us as we cooled off in the air conditioned room after lunch.

In the cathedral (which we entered gratefully after the heat of the day), we sat somewhat irreverently in the pews and listened to our guide. When he finished, I concluded to myself that Mozart must have been great fun to be friends with. He threw grandiose parties, and spent his money like water. He did not, Philipp assured us, live as an impoverished musician (common misconception), but was at times quite wealthy.

Mozart was a genius, granted, but it was his father who recognized his son's talent, and coaxed it out, cultivated it, presented it to the world. Had little Mo been born in the mountains, where there was no need for something as frivolous as music, perhaps his genius would have remained buried. I liked listening to that part.

Casa Mozart

When we left the cathedral, my skin was cool and dry. The hot air became merely a curiosity after the stone-chill inside. We saw the house Mozart was born in, a yellow structure with a system of wires outside acting as doorbells. We passed a gajillion shops selling the famed Mozartkugel.

Tomorrow I will tell you about the fortress, and maybe St Gilgen. 

The old town, with the formidable Hohensalzburg Fortress towering from above

The Train

So we said our farewells 

to the jewel of the German South

and boarded a charcoal monster

that flew ever lower on the map.

Eyes wide in wonder,

cheek pushed against palm

like a prisoner captured

by sunlight for the first time.

Lieblich. 

I wrote this on the train that took us from Munich to Salzburg. In between bouts of childish imagination and pages of The Immoralist, I watched what flew past the windows.

My friend told me once that the German countryside is the stuff of fairytales. But there is something ever so slightly twisted about the faerie folk, don't you think? Something altogether too dainty and pretty- beautiful, but full of guile. No, the sun-drenched meadows fringed with trees as eyes are with lashes came from gentler stuff. The lullabies sung to sleepy babies, the scent of robustness drifting from wildflowers clutched in chubby fists.

There were little cottages with stone foundations, and neatly plowed fields. And there were streams that glistened as they danced over the rocks and muck. How funny it is that the land should look so different than my desert sands back home, yet the light is the same. The very same.

And lord, those mountains. I have never seen anything half so honest as the giants who bent and grazed the heavens with their spines. It seems to me I've forgotten too many of them, although they cried out to me like old friends. What a jolly group, those mountains are, like old men gathered around a circle of glasses.

I didn't even have a window seat.

I wish I'd realized then, as I held an idle pen, what glory there is in trains. Perhaps when I am older I will not remember this. Perhaps I will forget how carefully I tucked my ticket in my journal, how glad I was to find the car nearly empty. Perhaps I will forget the jovial faces of my companions who sat around me.

But I got a window seat on the train that bore us dizzyingly to Vienna.

How to Embarrass Yourself Abroad (Part 2 of Biergarten Adventures)

unrelated pic of beer with a flashlight under it, because
it "looked trippy"

As promised, I will tell you now about the awful thing I did. It was change your name and move to Santiago awful, not I killed a man awful, so don't worry. 

I may as well call this "Adventures in a biergarten take 2", because clearly I don't know how to handle myself in one. I wasn't drunk this time, but if history has taught us anything, it's that I am selectively and horrifically awkward in social situations. Without further ado, I present "The Worst Thing Ever", by yours truly.

Chinese Tower, Chinesischer Turm

Some of us kids, a mix of Team Pittsburgh and Team San Diego, walked through the Englischer Garten to the Chinese Tower, where the biergarten was, to meet up with the chaperons and tour guide. No humiliation thus far on anyone's part. It was a gorgeous evening, still warm from residual heat but cooling with the help of coastal breezes. Or not, but whenever I feel a cool wind blow, I assume it's a coastal breeze. A San Diego thing, I think.

But that's besides the point. I just wanted to illustrate how nice it all was, to walk as a tiny part of a greater machine, what with the masses of people coming and going, enveloping us in their sameness. To feel the pavement through the soles of your sandals, molding more to your foot with every step...drinking in the violet dusk. 

It was dark by the time we got to the Garten, and we got quite lost. I still have no recollection of getting to the Chinese Tower, having stumbled half blind behind shadowy figures. How sweet the air smelled, carrying the fragrance of sunned grass and trees and something animal. So passed the night, wrapped in this atmospheric cloak.

But I digress. I suppose you really just want to hear how I made a fool out of my fool self, yes?

Anyways, we eventually made it to the biergarten and after leaving a sentinel on a hard-won table, we set off in different directions, in search of different beverages. Warned by my drunkard conscience, I was pleased to find that the half liter was available. I asked for a stein of Weiss, a light wheat beer (come to find out, also my favorite). 

Stop. I want to make sure that you have this image very firmly in your minds. There I was, money clutched in one hand, and a half liter of Weiss beer in the other, walking carefully up to the kiosk to pay. A tall girl who looks older than she is, although she is a legal adult in the US and is therefore a grown woman. Okay, I think you've got it.

There were people in front of me, so I was just standing there, chilling, with my beer and my money and my long ass legs. A man comes to stand behind me. I don't know how old he was; the way I remember it, he could have been thirty-five just as easily as he could have been twenty-five. He's holding a stein filled to slopping with something very dark, smelling yeasty and sharp and sweet. 

"Hallo," he said. I turned instinctively, and squinted upwards at his face. He was very tall, and I was caught off guard.

"Hey," I said. I've noticed that when most other girls are startled, their voices get higher. I have a pretty deep, gravelly voice already and when I'm surprised, I swear it gets deeper. I actually sound like a man, I think. So when you hear my "hey" playing in your head in this scene I've constructed, imagine a man saying it. 

I'm getting carried away.

So we blinked at each other for a moment, then he smiled and lifted his glass. "You are from America?" I must have nodded.

 "Have you tried this?" He made a motion with the beer. 

"No. What is it?" For some reason, the whole thing was making me fidgety. 

He said something that sounded like it ended with "Dock" or "Bock" or something. I asked somebody later, and they said they thought it must have been Doppelbock, a darker, more alcoholic brew. 

"You should try it, drink like a local," he laughed. "May I buy you one?"

If I could, I would erase my memory for the entirety of the next five minutes. As you must have inferred, this is the beginning of the worst thing I ever did. 

"I'm fourteen," I said. 

Fourteen. 

Fourteen.

actually, this was taken in our hotel in
Vienna, but this is basically the position
in which I spent this night

Remember that I have my own beer in one hand and money in the other. Remember that I look old for my age, which is already a very legal 18. Remember that I am in a biergarten, waiting in line to pay for beer. There was no way I was fourteen. 

At this point, a normal, functioning human being with even the barest shred of decency would have said something to salvage the situation. Told a joke, laughed it off, SOMETHING. 

What did I do? None of the above. We blinked at each other
some more and then I fled the scene. By that point, it was thankfully my turn to pay, which I did in a very sweaty manner. I grabbed the Weiss and ran to our table, in typical "fight or flight" style. (In case you hadn't guessed, I chose flight)

"Cynthia, that man is staring at you."

Ah, is he now? Maybe he mistook me for someone else. Maybe he's just staring off into space and I'm in the way. I've never seen him before, nope, not ever, never, never, never. He's probably not looking at me at all. You're mistaken. Yes, you see? There, he's gone off. 

And I spent the rest of the night blushing, twitching uncomfortably, and keeping my head down. 

Ice in the Summertime

A sea of shattered glass
sprawls patiently on the carpet.
Wicked sharp corners dance
on jagged smiles.

An ocean of malice-
taunting, beckoning, waiting.
What moments before was
muscular, a tempest that tore loose
is now glacial and quiet.

Yet it calls,
a wordless, siren wail,
this sea of mine
as it waits at the foot of my bed
knowing
that none dare venture
into its lair and
disturb its blasphemous exultation

The Englischer Garten

It's very late and I'm so tired I don't even feel the fatigue anymore- a dangerous thing. Next thing you know, I'll be singing or dancing or doing something else I have no talent for. But I mention this so that you all understand if this post goes horribly awry. I'm writing it simply as an exercise in self-discipline; if you say you'll write, you write.

On the third day we were in Munich, we had a bike tour of the city. During this fabulous (and sketchy as hell) tour, we passed through the famous Englischer Garten. Even the nude part. It was shocking, not because of the nudity, but because unlike our local nude beach, there was a variety of age groups. No children, obviously, but men and women of varying ages of adult-esque ages bared all to the sun. I can hardly call myself a regular of Blacks (resident nude beach of SD), but from my experiences there, I was not expecting that much diversity.

I'd forgotten how warm it was that day, exactly. I don't remember the sweat trickling between my shoulder blades, but it was so hot that I know it must have been so. How blue the sky was as we cycled through I can't remember, but there were a fair amount of clouds when we returned to swim in the Isar River. Were there bugs? When exactly did the light change? How did the bike feel between my legs- did my calves cramp? It's a shame I didn't think to write it all down. There were signs but what they read is lost to me now.

I had gained some control over the bike by the time we got to the Englischer Garten, so it was fine to pedal along narrow dirt paths, looking side to side in wonder. The Englischer Garten is huge- bigger, apparently, than Central Park. That doesn't mean anything to me personally, as I've never been, but some others in my group seemed impressed. Having bicycled through, I can tell you that it's quite large.

The name is given because of its relaxed, informal style that I guess is borrowed from England. My knowledge of European art stopped short at landscaping. Most unfortunate.

Vaguely I remember riding past a group of young men with instruments playing a Beatles song. I sang along and one of them waved at me. I waved back and in doing so, lost control of the handles for a hot second and almost crashed into the guy on my right. I hope they were flattered.

We had the next afternoon off, and some of us went back to swim in the river and get rid of some annoying tan lines (they got so bad that eventually at some point in Salzburg, I gave up and resigned myself to being fifty shades of brown). It was satisfying to walk the same paths we had just biked on. We crossed the same little bridge whose bumpy wooden planks had worried my tire treads. It was such a lovely, sunny day. There's something so gorgeous about late afternoon sun weaving through whispering leaves. That's another thing, the trees. Great big trees with thick trunks and proud boughs like divine shoulders, populated thickly with leaves and leaves and leaves. Their shade was pretty welcome too.

When you're artsy af (the Isar River is beyond the path,
under the trees- where you see people disappearing)

We spread our towels at the edge of a grove of such trees, separated from the Isar by the path we had ridden on. The Isar was shaded, so the water was cold, shocking to sun-drenched skin. We were not too far from the permanent wave, so the current was quite strong. It was a struggle to remain standing, and for some reason I no longer know, it was vitally important for me to fight my way upstream, all the way to the little bridge. The river bed was littered with sharp bits of rock and sand and what could have been bone or shells, which didn't help.

There was a young family, with a little girl whose hair looked the way I think spun gold must look. Her father was of the same coloring, her mother dark. The child clung to her father and shrieked with delight as his strong arms dunked her and zoomed her about. He exchanged grins with another man, a foreigner. They didn't share a common language, but the man told me that he was visiting from South Korea. I explained my mission to him, and he graciously got out of my way. He seemed like a nice man.

Something I don't want to forget: the banks were as a sheer face. They did not go gradually into the water, but ended abruptly, with roots sticking out, and rocks acting as steps below the surface. One had to depend on the strength of her arms to lower her in. And her arms were awfully tired.

How green everything was. Also, I seem to recall that we seemed to be surrounded by Munich's most attractive locals. Or maybe everyone in Bavaria is beautiful af.

To get out and feel the sun bake our skin dry, feel the wind stir our wet hair, was splendid. It was the way it was when one emerged, dripping, from the ocean. The very same, but for the taste of salt in the water and in the wind. We hauled ourselves out, tired from fighting the current, and walked self-consciously to our towels, enveloped at one point in a cloud of smoke. Some guys were passing around a joint on a bench. Just like home.

I wasn't homesick, though, and I thought about how strange that was as I surrendered myself to the sun. We took turns playing music for each other, educating each other. Hozier, Loreena Mckennitt, Cage the Elephant, Slipknot, Doris Day, Janis Joplin, Sarah Vaughan. Guess which ones were mine.

No matter where you are in the world, the sun claims you the same. If the clouds allow its rays passage, if the temperatures permit, you burn the same in San Diego as in Munich. But not in Shanghai, because the pollution is so bad the heat is diluted.

Next time I will tell you what happened in the biergarten by the Chinese Tower. Completely sober, I did probably the stupidest, most embarrassing thing in the history of my existence.

On Getting Sleepy in the Augustinier-Keller Biergarten, Munich

Before I tell you what took place that first night in Munich, I would like you to know that I had not slept for 36 hours, had eaten only a pretzel and a peach from the Viktualienmarkt, the local farmer's market. 

So we had gone to the Augustinier Biergarten that night, in search of...well, what you would expect. Beer. Given the outrageous drinking age in America, I was eager to drink for the first time. Well, legally, anyway. 

The Viktualienmarkt, where the produce is cheap because rent is cheap...favors the Mom-and-Pop shops over fast food joints

In keeping with my recent bout of rebellion, I texted my mother: "Going out drinking lol". To my disappointment, her response was: "OK". But I didn't let her obvious lack of concern for my nighttime activities (what fun is teenage rebellion when nobody cares?) dampen my enthusiasm.

It was a lovely, warm evening as we descended into the Sendlinger Tor station, emerged at some other, and walked to where the beer was good and the food cheap. Unlike such establishments back home, the biergarten was welcoming, unassuming in its warmth. Children sat with their parents, or ran about at play. People of all ages mingled, and here and there wisps of cigarette smoke wove smoothly through the air, around people's heads. It was a place of drinking, but nobody was very obnoxiously drunk. There was nothing sloppy about it, or anyone partaking in it. 

I think that the relaxed attitude regarding drinking over there is healthier than ours here. There's nothing taboo or defiant about it, so there's no need to overdo it. Apparently it is the trademark of young American tourists to binge-drink over there, to make up for lost time, I suppose you could call it. It's not a big deal to them, and children grow up watching their elders drink responsibly. 

If the old cemetery is the first thing I think of when I think of Munich, the Augustinier Biergarten is the first I think of when I think of the quintessential beer garden. The floor was one of white pebbles, which apparently is the preferred ground cover in Munich. It was the same as it was in the Alter Südfriedhof, which perhaps is why my exhausted brain bothered to remember it.

My father had a rather lax approach toward alcohol himself, so it was hardly the first time I'd tasted beer. That being the case, I had taken it for granted, and never truly believed that it was something that could make me drunk. Having sampled Mao Tai  amongst several Chinese brandies and wines, I underestimated the German brew. 

Kindly recall the state my body was in: sleep deprived and low on fuel. I went and ordered myself a whole liter of Augustinier Edelstoff. That's pretty potent stuff, you know. If you didn't know, you must now realize it. Another funny quirk is that they stop serving half liters after 5 pm, and obviously I wasn't going to miss out on an opportunity to immerse myself in the culture. 

Halfway through I knew I was drunk. I never even felt buzzed. You know, I always thought that I'd be a classier drunk. This, unfortunately, was not the case. My table- two chaperones and a classmate- had a good laugh at me. 

It was the strangest feeling, because I felt that I was faking and that all the swaying was voluntary. I was convinced that I was doing it all for attention, putting on a show to be funny. Then when I went to stop myself, I couldn't. My speech wasn't slurred noticeably, but boy did I have a hard time walking back to our hotel. 

Good times, eh?

And in case you were curious, that was the best beer I'd ever tasted. At that point, anyway, because I had a half liter of Weiss a few days later. Edelstoff is typically sweeter than most other beers, which effectively masks how much stronger it is. It's got this bright, brassy ring to it somehow, like you're drinking something sunny. Yes, that's a good way to put it. It's a sunny drink. 

So, as you'd expect, I had some trouble unlocking my door and navigating my room. My roommate was asleep and I didn't want to wake her. Naturally, that meant I promptly banged into the wall, and fell atop my suitcase. Yes, I woke her up. Yes, she was amused. 

It was an amusing night. 

Alter Südfriedhof, in the Heart of Bavaria

I am finally beginning to come home to San Diego. I miss Germany and Austria, but the patterns of my life here are picking up almost where they left off. In any case, Time passes and we grow up with it.

An outdoor cafe somewhere outside of our hotel, called Carat
 (very early morning, Day 1)

I wish I'd written more while I was over there. Now that I'm back and miss traveling so desperately, I regret not leaving a record of my thoughts and feelings when they were fresh. That's one less thing for me to sift through when I try to recapture whatever mood, whatever emotional state I'd found over there. I didn't even take very many pictures. Or at least, I could have taken more.

But I think it is time now for me to sit and preserve what remains of the trip. I have collected all my train ticket stubs, my receipts, my brochures, and my luggage tags and smoothed them out, placing them in a box for safekeeping. It's so I can look through it later, and remember a little.

I won't be able to tell things exactly as they were, because memory is never completely reliable. I won't know how to describe the way the light looked in the early morning when we woke up that first day. Nor the way it felt to wake so early, to look over and see a strange girl in bed next to me, the feeling of intrusion. I can't make you understand what I myself did only a little while ago, and then forgot.

I think I will write a few posts on specific places and experiences, rather than going day by day, or place by place. If you are interested, my APEC teacher did just that:  http://majesticeurope.blogspot.com/

Today I want to talk about Alter Südfriedhof. The name translates to "Old South Cemetary", and when I think of this trip, and of Munich, that is what comes to mind first. I asked our tour guide about it later, but I can't remember if he was the one to tell me about it. Perhaps not, but I remember asking him all the same.

Alter Südfriedhof

Duke Albrecht V founded it for plague victims in the mid 16th century, which explains its location outside of the city gates, Sendlinger Tor. Apparently a great many notable painters, musicians, muses, and writers are buried here. None of the names jumped out at me, so I never bothered to remember any of them. That's enough background, wouldn't you say? That's all I've got in any case. Either that or I've forgotten the rest.



We'd discovered this cemetary, Alicia and I, on that first morning. I'd woken before her and sat in the inky morning light, refreshed and restless. We were out the door before 6 am. I waved to the young man behind the front desk as we left. I got a bemused look in return.

Side note: I think I've done a pretty terrible job deciding the order of these pictures, but let's pretend like that adds to the charm shall we?

Alter Südfriedhof, on a Northerly path. Or was it Westerly? Neither. It was Southerly. I think. 

I like being out very early and very late, because all the other tourists are in bed and I can be as touristy as I want all by myself. I mean, at 5:45, pretty much everyone else is still in bed. I thought it was pretty weird that their convenience stores didn't open til 8. Here they never seem to close. 8 doesn't seem like a very convenient time to open, if you ask me, but then, I appreciated the refusal to honor the instant gratification principle.

Either way, we were out in search of a convenient store that was open. That was how we came upon the old cemetery. We cut through it as a shortcut to get across town to a gas station. Ali must have looked up directions on her phone, or else how could we have possibly known to go through there? But I seem to recall finding the gas station convenience store with a sense of being lucky, so maybe the traipse through the cemetery was just exploration on a whim.

I love that cemetery. We walked through it every morning, discovering every inch we could. It's very old, almost- but not quite- overgrown. It's not so sanitized as some other graveyards I've seen, with their orderly rows of white markers on manicured grass beds. In Alter Südfriedhof, no two graves were alike. 

It was very peaceful in there, although there was only a wall separating it from the street. There were barely any cars so early in the morning, but even on our way back, or on days when we came later, the sound of engines and people driving was muted. I think it's the ivy on both sides of this wall. It grew so thickly and in such robust clusters and tendrils that it must have muffled the noise. 

There's a playground immediately outside the first half of the Alter. Ali called it creepy and I suppose in a way, it was pretty gruesome to have children play so close to the site of the sleeping dead. But I've noticed that we're the only ones that make such a big fuss about Death. It's as natural as living, you know. Maybe they aren't so afraid of it there.



There's so much more that I can't make clear. How the gravel crunched under my sandals, the individual pebbles finding ways to worry my toes. How the air smelled of leaves and soil and rain. How some of the statues had lost noses and worn so that they looked ghoulish, all discolored and Voldemort-y. How the man in the blue linen shirt looked up at us, surprised to find anyone at all there, but especially foreigners. How the massive sculpture of Jesus on the Cross had turned green in some parts. 

Good thing I have pictures.

You know, for a cemetery, this was a surprisingly charming place. Not exactly welcoming, because there was this sense of disinterest in the coming and going of people. Not foreboding, though. No brooding gloom, no threat of zombies. Very beautiful. I miss it already. 

Not as macabre as it sounds.