When you join the army, they cut your hair. I imagine the razor takes more than just your looks, perhaps something closer to your individuality sheered off and into homogeny. I'm so far from the worlds I've lived, and yet freedom comes in different lengths.
Next to us Amis, the punctual Deutsche live in accommodated vivaciousness. Logically, I reckon Bavaria likes to keep the rough edges orderly. You can see it before the rooster crows and between the tongs of those employed to cull the close-cut cobbles for litter. It is along "Scheiße-Straße", where cows moo us along to work; that somehow a town can exist with a building full of cows half a block from a military compound full of wanderlust-ers, and a block in the other direction from a stumble-friendly main-street where you can buy Glühwein at any corner. This is how I've come to know Garmisch. The life of this town flows down from the mountains and the street follows the fish-laden stream. It is rather lovely, even if my ears are cold.
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