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.