Köln

The morning begins misty; boxy, utilitarian post-war buildings peer through the fog asking, wer bist du? Wer bist du?
We bombed the city to the ground, but not the church. The church can be seen from every angle, every corner. The church is the heart of Köln, and inside the vaulted ceiling bounces sound from heaven back to earth. Saturn is in the stained glass. 
At noon the mist has a lunch date and clears out quick. I stand in the street and soak up sunshine. 
At night the streets come alive, and the church pumps arteries of tourists and bicycles, clogged in the market squares with Gluhwein and bratwurst. A political parade marches past my hostel window. Everything glitters at night.
I am becoming enamored with Germany.