Godesberg, Bad
The narrow stone steps seemed for
locals only. BETWEEN FOLK TALE HOUSES
to concealed and gilded churches
down to streets no one
bothered to name I walked.
The half walls lining the steps and
guarding many of houses were filled
with pretty flowers which
if you got closer
grew straight up as if at attention
They rose between iron spikes that seemed
to me distinctly German. Not to dissuade the
children from walking the walls, the points
were bent uniformly inward to keep the
foliage in its place and beautiful beneath
the stern wishes of Godesbergians one and
all.
Looking at this I felt I saw defined the
last mysterious trait of this culture, one
that couldn't be described in a travel book,
a university course, or even in conversation
with a seasoned expat.
I wrote down what I saw, in broken words and
pictures, on a scrap of paper and buried
it in one of the planters.
Walking to the U-bahn I knew it
would be discovered soon. Read by
a local it would serve as a pathogen
forcing the next evolutionary
step for Germany. It would not start
in Berlin or Frankfurt, but right here in
little old Bad Godesberg. No one would expect.
At the main train station, ordering an overpriced
cup of coffee, I imagined an elderly woman
reading a dirty slip of paper. Her face. Her
eyes. Her arms and legs a signal box switching
the tracks of the future.
It was the least I could do for this
place so connected to family, to art and to God,
and now to me.
locals only. BETWEEN FOLK TALE HOUSES
to concealed and gilded churches
down to streets no one
bothered to name I walked.
The half walls lining the steps and
guarding many of houses were filled
with pretty flowers which
if you got closer
grew straight up as if at attention
They rose between iron spikes that seemed
to me distinctly German. Not to dissuade the
children from walking the walls, the points
were bent uniformly inward to keep the
foliage in its place and beautiful beneath
the stern wishes of Godesbergians one and
all.
Looking at this I felt I saw defined the
last mysterious trait of this culture, one
that couldn't be described in a travel book,
a university course, or even in conversation
with a seasoned expat.
I wrote down what I saw, in broken words and
pictures, on a scrap of paper and buried
it in one of the planters.
Walking to the U-bahn I knew it
would be discovered soon. Read by
a local it would serve as a pathogen
forcing the next evolutionary
step for Germany. It would not start
in Berlin or Frankfurt, but right here in
little old Bad Godesberg. No one would expect.
At the main train station, ordering an overpriced
cup of coffee, I imagined an elderly woman
reading a dirty slip of paper. Her face. Her
eyes. Her arms and legs a signal box switching
the tracks of the future.
It was the least I could do for this
place so connected to family, to art and to God,
and now to me.