The mountains beckon.
No, wait. Not just them. Green blades of grass pressing flat with bounding wind beckon. Meadows shimmering with flecks of dandelion seed beckon. Hundred-karat crystal blue skies strung with gentle wisps of clouds and free-flowing sunshine floods the countryside with an ocean of light.
Germany has beckoned, and here I am, on the cusp of a dream, dancing in the wind of a fairy-tale land. My father is with me. This is his homeland, and it is his daughter’s dreamland. In the soft, rolling hills of Bavaria I find myself plumb-full with peace, the mountains a soothing embrace around my shoulders.
A gorgeous drive, cruising along the road at high-speed. A half-hour later I find myself on a ski lift next to my uncle, who lives here in Bavaria. We talk about skiing, food, and which I colleges I like, but here my real life seems in a different dimension. I laugh at something he says and turn around as we bob further into the German sky, carried by a string. I wave at my Dad, a jolly pinprick set against a stunning background, and I see myself in his smile.
We wade in the clouds until it is our turn to ride, and I step into the bobsled, hand gripping the brake. Suddenly I am flying around a curve, my hair whipping back behind me. I reach for the brake but then let go, my heart leaping as I slide down a hill, and then my eyes are opening wide. The mountains bloom before me, kneeling at the base of a glittering lake, golden light splinters and I realize that I have plunged feet-first into a painting, surrounded by the most vivid acrylic there is. No brakes.
I have never felt so alive.
There is much more in store for me as I step off of the bobsled, face flushed with wind. There are my grandparents to embrace, ice cream to sweeten my tongue, Baden-Baden unfurling below from the top of a castle, vineyards to run through with my arms spread eagle, France with arm’s length, sepia photo albums to press dust onto my fingertips. With me I carry the memories of the stillness and awe of stepping into the Theatiner Kirche in Munich, the breaking open of a wonderfully thick German pretzel, listening to a pianist play on a white piano in the Diana Pavilion, listening to the sounds of an incredible blend of culture around me–a Spanish tour guide in one ear, a Middle Eastern family in the other, a Japanese couple snapping a photo in front of me–my German father on my arm as we take the final step onto the top of the tower to see, Munich, the city emblazoned with light, the city with rich history compounded into the beautiful brick and mortar.
Yes, there are many memories I carry with me, and there are many more in store for me. But for now, I am still throttling down a mountain, plunging into a 20/20 blur of emerald landscape and sapphire sky, floating with the dandelion seed, dancing in an everlasting German dream. And there, upon the glimmering horizon—
The mountains beckon.
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