Warning: I wrote this essay a long while ago, trying to come to peace. I thought about editing it for the purpose of this journal, but changing it didn't feel right. It gets dark, but it's all honest.
My companion thought I'd made a mistake with the currency. She smiled about it affectionately – she was my german teacher, and this was probably a common error among her pupils. She laughed over the small cardboard boat filled with perfect, lustrous berries and called them “black gold.” I didn't care how much they'd cost. They just looked too good not to buy, not to eat. I bought them from a cart with a red and white striped awning, one of many in the cobbled market square. We had blackberries, and hard crusty rolls, and rich cheese. We took our winnings into the garden, past the marble watchers in every green corner. We found a bench on the long side, against a tall hedge. There would be a concert later; somewhere an orchestra was tuning. I was the lucky one, to be there with her. It was the best meal I've ever tasted.
I was on a tour with my german club, the summer after high school graduation. There was an odd number of students, so I got to pair with the beautiful Karen G. Formally, that only meant we shared hotel rooms, but in practice we were almost always together. We shared long hours in the museums, after the others had spilled out through the gift shops. We walked, just the two of us, through the narrow streets, looking for the perfect shade of burgundy; a bag she wanted. She spoke perfect german with the shopkeepers. I tried, and mostly they indulged me. We discovered we both loved coffee ice cream. We even shared our first name.
Our lunch was in the Mirabel gardens in Salzburg. I saved a shard of purple-stained cardboard for decades after, until I realized I didn't need a physical reminder of the day, or of Miss G. I have a picture of her, also from Mirabel, standing in a sea of red roses. It referenced The Little Prince, as read in german translation over the previous year. Once she leant me, without my asking, her favorite foxtail bracelet for luck. Foxes and roses, things to love.
I never finished college, and that makes it hard to wonder whether I let them down, the ones who believed in me. It makes it hard to remember everything I used to have, hard to wonder whether I still have a right to the memories. Climbing to the highest tower in the Schloss, to see the Bull of Salzburg, one of the oldest pipe organs in the world. Walking around the parapets, explaining the plot of The Magic Flute to my classmates, prior to the marionette theatre production later that evening. Amazing, the perspective of that theater; everything perfectly proportioned, expertly performed, so that we appeared to be sitting far back from a stage filled with dancing and singing living humans (and dragons, and birds). The summer after graduation, and the stuff of fairy tales at my feet.
I remember looking out from the unrepeatable splendor of Neuschwanstein to see poor, beautiful Ludwig's father's castle, gleaming pale yellow from the next peak over. I remember sitting at the swan fountain below, where Miss G took a picture of me. I'm wearing a pendant in silver filagree, containing an eidelweiss blossom behind glass. She bought it for me from the same shop where she bought hers, her first time in Salzburg. I never wanted to take it off; I wore it in water and damaged it. I had to tell her. I think I hurt her. It used to be an amulet: I am loved; I am recognized. What does loss do to what came before? Can a memory retain its magic, with the knowledge of what happens after? I still have the pendant, damaged or no.
I don't know if she's still alive. I tried to email her once, at an address I found through a search engine. I don't know if she received my message, or if she simply never replied. I wonder if the good ones know how much they're needed, especially for bruised souls like myself. I loved her, I love her still, and no matter how many times I thanked her it wasn't enough.
Pictures in a rush: black current nectar and eiderdown. Open windows from our hotel in Munchen, the night of a great football victory; jubilation in streets I couldn't see, but could hear pouring around every twisting corner. A breakfast made entirely of chocolate, served on silver. The toy museum. A torture museum. An ancient lance, beautifully painted. Fountains and train platforms. The clock at Rothenberg. The cathedral at Nurberg, where the stained glass was saved from the bombs. Miss G patiently waiting while I sifted through an entire barrel of miniature rocking horses, to find the perfect gift for my best friend back home. Being recognized in her smile. Being as marvelous to her as she was to me. Maybe I flatter myself, and she didn't remember me, two, five, ten years after I was gone. There would have been hundreds of students in that time. We could never be as memorable to them as they are to us.
I keep flashing on memories from the trip, and taking Miss G as read. Kindness, then, and groundedness, balanced with a sensible love of whimsey. Someone who knew the importance of fairy tales, and saw no use in wasting time pretending they weren't important. Someone who could also arrange train journeys and hotel reservations and tour guides, and thread the loo roll the right way up (trust me, it matters there). A true love of the language and the culture she taught us. A true gratitude to find others with genuine passion. Rare. Rose rare.
I sat down to write an essay on travel, and I wrote about my teacher. If I find a real address and try to write you again, liebe Frau G, I'm sorry this isn't in German. I remember you didn't want to teach me how to say sorry auf Deutsch, because you didn't think I should have to apologize for anything. For letting you slip away because I thought I'd lost my right to know you, es tut mir leid.
