Salzburg

Sharp mountains scratch the belly of Azure Sky, and she laughs crisp and fresh on our faces. Church bells ring and chatter, sharing the news--Hast du das gehört? Hast du das gehört?
The fortress is nesting down for the winter, white and stark on the mountainside. I wander through her innards on a leash, aching to fly.
Coffee tinges the purple afternoon soft and sweet.

Munich

Sun shines blinding on steeples and museum tops and niche department stores. I seriously consider switching to photosynthesis. Bells, bells, bells, and silent churches. Silent museums. Silent courtyards.
We wander through crowded streets and empty rooms; we lie on our backs in a time capsule and dream about ballgowns.
Jack Frost came in the night and blew softly on every black bough, dusting the rooftops and steeples with magic. The only ones out are catholics and tourists.
I amble alone and look for Narnia.

Bruges

The church is never as close as I think it is. I chase steeples through winding streets, cobbled and uneven. A light rain dusts my eyelids. I catch the scent of gluhwein and waffles, I think, 'this is what heaven smells like.'
Horses clop on side streets, swans shelter under canal bridges, a friendly cat graces my fingertips with his presence. Why are there no birds?
All the churches ask for money and play music to make us feel small.
The comic shop goes back and back and up and out; why can't I read Dutch? I take refuge from the cold in book shops and libraries. I still can't read Dutch.
I drink tea and mulled wine and cherry beer and hot chocolate with cream and strong coffee. I eat when I'm hungry and sleep too deeply to dream in bunks tattooed with the lives of people I will never meet.
A church bell sounds, and the sun has come out at last.

Amsterdam

Gables and crisp gingerbread windows crowd around to see -- what's the show Amsterdam?
Bikes clatter briskly, up and down, over brick and bridge and byway. Learn to dodge or die, city girl.
Sometimes it rains, and we scamper beneath awnings to consult the stars. They are blotted out by the redlights. Not sure if we are lost, or if the streets change beneath our feet -- why lead us astray, Amsterdam?
Sudden whiffs of coffee and cannabis.
Red lights and green lights and blue lights beckon, or warn, or advertise, or excuse. The city is never dark, the city never sleeps.
Aren't you tired, Amsterdam?

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.

London Town

London is hot, hot, so very hot, muggy and bustling, full to the brim with people and buses and taxis. The people are every race, every religion, every age. They move about their business quickly and efficiently, as is the way of people in big cities.

The buildings are grand and old, but they bear their age with grace. The trees do not, and hunch together or alone, achingly, impossibly ancient in their vigil.

Everything is hazy with smog and cigarette smoke.