du hast mich

Hier ist das Ende der welt. 

In this outpost at the end of the world, you see only frozen untilled land and this one lonely tree on the horizon. There is a bench under the tree that you can sit on and face the heavy old sun as it traces its winter afternoon path in the far tired north of the northern hemisphere. Then you walk further, and you realize that you are in some sort of recreational area for old German couples wearing matching 3-in-1 technical jackets, speedwalking with hiking poles. But for a long minute, you can believe yourself to be alone on this frontier at the end of the world.

Here is the Bayerische Wald, which is an entirely different story. It is secret and safe and quiet and soft. You can walk all day on a wide, combed path and find yourself still on the backside of a small Alpine foothill.  You sit in the snow off the path and drink a Winter Traum beer with your lover, who puts the unfinished bottle into his coat for sipping during the rest of the walk, have some caraway seed bread and chocolate, and watch the shadows move left to right in the slow hour you spend sitting almost perfectly still. Just across a political boundary you will find the Bohemian forest, but the trees don't know the difference. 

These are two landscapes I saw during my nine days and eight nights in Bavaria. You can probably find in them some metaphor for emotional terrain or landscapes of the heart, etc., but it's 5:44 a.m. on a Tuesday and I will let you draw those illiterate sentimentalist comparisons yourself. 

I'm in a way, folks. My time in Germany was phenomenal, but it was secret, safe, quiet, soft, frozen, untilled, and lonely. I left Harry's house before dawn on Friday to start the arduous trip back to Cleaver Street, thinking I was in love with him. I still think I am in love with him. I'm almost sure I've lost my mind.