In the spring of this year we live in a white apartment building that looks across the rail tracks to the cemetery. In spring the leaves grow large and fill the trees and hide the cemetery. The trains bring cars and oil and other goods and people too. Though the cemetery is now hidden, the trains are not, and nor is the noise that they bring. The trains also bring dust and it settles on the road and on the portico and in the trees. The portico is covered from above and so the rain can never wash away the dust.
The old buildings are painted in red and blue and yellow and pink. The trams ring their bells and control the traffic lights. The chestnut trees in the gardens keep the kegs of beer below cold on hot summer days. On the warm summer days, the people gather on the banks of the river, with the water clear and clean from the mountains above. The chestnut trees are green and the water looks blue and the sky above it as well.
The bar smells of fresh wood and Italian coffee, black, bitter, and hot. On cold days the cappuccino warms the blood, and on all days it sharpens the mind. The women speak Italian, and German, but no English. The smell of beer and sausages really does float throughout the walkways and the streets of the city. The spring breeze pushes it urgently towards your senses and you become hungry.
Munich is no Paris; but it has its moments.
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