At the beginning of September in 2007, I went to Bronte Creek Park very early one morning when Alex was still asleep. Late summer there shows a bit of the coming fall: the tall grass in the fields was turning brown, the thistle was dry, and the sun was closer to the horizon than before at this time, showing a lovely golden light. That morning, nobody was around. It was perfectly clear, perfectly beautiful, the kind of day that suggested why this park and its fields and trees are part of me.

Three days later, I was standing in front of the Führerbau in Munich, where, in the presence of Hitler and Mussolini, Neville Chamberlain had agreed to carve up Czechoslovakia to stave off a likely war.

It was an abrupt and surreal displacement for me. I stood on the sidewalk opposite the building, looking up at the spot where the Reichs Eagle Hoheitszeichen, the Nazi national symbol of a menacing eagle clutching a bewreathed swastika, was once pinned. The marks in the facade were still clearly evident. Some windows were open, and I could hear piano music drifting out to the street. The building is now a music school, and this turn of events seemed purposeful and fitting.

I’d arrived in Germany earlier that day. As the aircraft descended en route to Munich, I was struck by the prettiness of the German countryside, with its square fields of green and yellow, and the clutches of houses and other buildings all with bright terracotta roofs. The tangibility of history being something I’ve always striven for, I couldn’t help myself wondering what the scene was like down there in the spring of 1945, with the Allies advancing across this countryside, overtaking villages and cities as the conflict wound steadily down.

It was pouring rain in Munich the day I arrived. I’d taken the train from the airport to the Bahnhof, but mistakenly got off only two stops short. I’d been certain I was on the wrong track. It seemed to be taking too long, and the environs around Munich seemed too pastoral. But I managed to ask a couple of people in my uncertain German to confirm my way, and soon, I was waiting in a doorway in the train station for the rain to let up. I eventually got a cab and arrived at my hotel on Uhlandstraße by the Theresienwiese. It was a pretty street with a lot of unusual corners. The room wasn’t quite ready, so I had to go exploring.

The city is like most European cities, and the centre is a ring of criss-crossing streets. It is very easy to get lost, and so I did. I had to take a cab back to the hotel, but not before a somewhat alarming tour of the centre that included many repeated street crossings.

I have a love-hate relationship with travel. I long to see the sights I know from books, and I crave to touch history at every opportunity. But I suffer particularly acutely from jet lag. On that first day, indeed, throughout my entire trip, Alex’ voice at the other end of my cell phone was not just nice to hear; it was critical to arriving safely at the end of a day. I wish for every solitary traveller to have the kind and patient and ever understanding voice of a loved one at the opposite end of a phone.

The first day in Munich was soon over. Alex helped me through the night as well, when I awoke disoriented, exhausted, and still quite jet lagged. When dawn came, I was soon out the door and in the city centre again.

Louis About me, Germany, History Bronte Creek Park, Germany, History, Jet lag, Travel