We arrive in München late
on Friday afternoon
cloudy and cool, we look for lodging in
darkening gloom
thumbing maps and pamphlets
scores of tourists on Marienplatz stare
at Rathaus puppets stubbornly stuck
though city spires proclaim the hour.
The first few inns are full
or too dear
finally we find the Seibel pension
just above a shoe shop, lots
of left boots on display
unpack, hit the town – it’s getting dark
and the children are hungry.
We pass many bars and little windows, people crowd inside
the pamphlets in our pockets pulse
(discovering a new city, oh the possibilities!)
across Frauenstrasse the market
empties, closes down. Suddenly
everyone seems to hurry, huddle, collar up
rain threatens.
A trio of teenage junkies lean on a table,
the girl is crying
head buried in ink black hair,
tattoo scraped into a wrist
a vision too terrifying
to contain
spills from her punctured vein
down the tiny alley
We hurry along
(not wishing to see what she can’t face)
still we can’t find a place
to eat, the children are hungry.
Retrace our steps across the Markt, now abandoned
mull about confused,
shiver a little
maybe we’ll have to go to bed
without food, or worse still:
eat MacDonalds
again down the tiny alley now deserted
yet I feel a presence
footsteps echo on cobbles
glimpse a shade of someone
cast out onto an empty square seeking
refuge that can’t be -
probably a trick of this
lamplit wet in the dark
so we pick up pace
you see, the children….
Some drunk young louts fall about outside a Subway-cafe
we order toasted loaves
the girl behind the counter smiles brightly as she serves bland fare. it warms the kid’s hands and gets us off the streets
where Sabbath is descending.
On Saturday the disembowelled submarine in the Deutches Museum explodes my mind
(how did they get it IN here?) so does
the dissected space lab pod,
(the real thing!) and a ship that could
take settlers to the new world
if it weren’t cut in half
My back aches in museums.
No parking, so Dwight waits
for us outside
two older women, joggers
scold him for the idling engine:
‘the atmosphere, you see’
The river seems sad and slow
there’s a weeping willow on the bank
clothed in spring
yet it’s early March
ledges and statues wrapped in netting and spikes
keep doves from rest
Forgot the pamphlets with pictures of that wrought-iron gate: “Arbeit Mach Frei”
in the room (not wanting to upset the children)
so I drag my family
to Rothko’s retrospective in the country
where he would not be seen in ‘live’.
I trace
his journey to a single sound:
howl of sky upon a tongue of earth
spirits seep through canvas portals
I greet the tall black woman
cleaning the rest room
much too jovially - she’s not from Africa
Lunch is wurst und sauerkraut at the Hofbrauhaus
the music is a trumpet’s wail
makes me want to cry
our serving Fraulein must be fifty and lovely
when she was young
she speaks a spread of tongues:
Polish, French, Italian, Dutch… whatever you want
my son will be throwing up all night
but in the short sunlit afternoon we stroll
with the locals
babies in prams and dogs on leashes: mainly mongrels happy to have masters
flocks of tourists snap and pose, pose and snap
Sometimes my camera gets heavy ‘round my neck.
By Sunday I can’t stand the ghosts
seeping through the cobbles
weeping down the double glaze
throbbing from the streetlamps
whispering in the small alleys of the old town
any longer
so we drive
to Neuschwanstein castle
revel in primordial Disney
the landscape there’s patchwork farms with sheds and dams against a misty wall
of rising Alps, you see
it snowed last night,
and all seem soft – a clean white sheet.
It’s quite a drive, we speed
but what‘s the Autobahn for
if not for that
Thus, if you keep your head down
and to the left
in the rush towards the airport
you can easily miss
the turnoff to Dachau
- just a split second -
It’s close to town, really
not far at all.
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