And then you come out the other side. You're hundreds of feet above the three rivers, staring out against a skyline boxed by buildings. You're trying desperately to pick your one skinny lane as you careen over the wide bridge, grappling with the hard fact that someone built a metropolis on the other side of this mountain. It's like a scene from Lord of the Rings or Star Wars where somehow there is a whole other civilization where you'd least expect it.
I miss that American roll up. Pittsburgh may be the outlier, but seeing a horizon grow steadily concrete, glass, and lights is like a slow hug, welcoming you in from god-knows-where. I don't know if I really even knew Munich until I swam up a tower to find out just how submersed I was. When you take a train the scenes change slowly, and intermittent towns and tunnels dislodge the wheres from the whats. And when you get off? Every train station looks like a train station, a receiving room for strangers. I have never been to a train station that told me to take my shoes off and relax.
When I came upon Berlin the lights were stars on a map below. A month in southern Bavaria and I forgot what it was like to be small. You descend. What moments before felt so formed and functioning starts to grow unwieldy. A brief hello, and then the cityscape disappears behind a thousand obstacles. It swallows you up faster, and before you know it Berlin dashes off with just too much to do.
But for a moment there it was, spread wide across the canvas, as if just waiting for you to fall out of the sky one day.
But for a moment there it was, spread wide across the canvas, as if just waiting for you to fall out of the sky one day.
