Everything Except the Movie Was Good

Ana and I left in such a rush that morning I forgot both my book and my iPod. It didn’t matter—the train sorted itself out.

Munich was doing that thing where the weather can’t commit: sun, then shadow, then sun again. We got roped into a half-hour Powerade taste survey in the pedestrian zone, rating colors and flavors for a full bag of gummy bears. Then Karstadt was celebrating its 125th anniversary and was apparently just handing out bottles of Sekt, so we walked away with two and drank them outside the Frauenkirche like people who had planned exactly that. Lunch was Pizza Hut, then a pilgrimage to GRAVIS, then two hours at Hugendubel sitting on the floor reading books that addressed genuinely important questions: why do men have nipples, and can a molecule be in two places at once.

The evening fell apart pleasantly. We bought an overpriced, actually disgusting salad from one of those big butcher chain places—the kind where you expect better—and ended up at the Mathäser with nothing worth watching on offer. We sat through Pirates of the Caribbean 2 anyway, which runs about forty minutes longer than it should. Back at mine, we got a little drunk and I put on Lost in Translation, which I’ve probably seen fifteen times and will see fifteen more. Munich. We’ll be back.