on the second day of this year we landed in Munich; the uneventful trip from Bogotá left us haggardly tired; we had a connection on the next day to Rome, to spend a couple of weeks in Italy and we didn’t really expect too much from the German city, the stopover…
I had almost completely forgotten that cold, cold day in that white white city – the food was lousy (Bavarian dinner in the center of the city, of course too heavy; good sausage and mustard but who wants to eat more than a bite of such kind of food?), the breakfast good (Germans know about that) and then the Englischer Garten in winter. The trip to Europe, that part, was so abruptly cut short by the death of my father, that I had managed to completely erase Munich from my memory.
It felt like all too many battles had been fought on Odeonsplatz, it reminded me of John Berger’s novel G. and of course in the immateriality of a jet-lagged morning one could feel traces of Magris’s not too distant Danube there. It also felt a bit harsh as a city, not quite the Italianate city some Germans like to evoke when they mention Munich.
Later that day, the flight to Rome, crossing the Alps, entering life.