4 o'clock on a Tuesday. And a Wednesday. And a Thursday. At 4 o'clock in Munich something happens to me. I need a glass of wine (or two, lets be serious) and a slice of cheesecake. But not any cheesecake. German cheesecake. German chocolate cake is a fraud covered in suffocating paste. I never liked cheesecake until Germany. It's at the same time lighter, creamier, full of spirit to leave you skipping through the platz.
After fully embracing the tourist spirit and meticulously examining the preserved history in the Bavarian capital, my feet hurt. My brain hurt. Die Residenz was beautiful but my shoulder ached from holding the audio guide to my ear while wandering the endless reconstructed corridors. I needed a break and a bathroom. Marienplatz was close to my U-bahn stop, plenty of sidewalk cafés, good as any. The french prend une verre at just about any time, so can I.
I sat toute seule at the first café I walked by with a decent sideways view of the glockenspiel. Almost at the hour, maybe I'd see it play, but who knew when it really would, and the square was too full of life to actually hear.
Having only arrived in Germany, my brain was still in French mode. When the waitress came by the only german words I could muster were 'red wine' and 'cake'. Quite confused by the fact that I wasn't concerned with what type of cake (I had been too intimidated by the language and culture barrier earlier in the day to stop and attempt the feat in which I was now engaged, so I hadn't eaten and just needed something so the wine wouldn't go straight to my head, I didn't care what type of cake, just calories bitte) she was about to walk away when I mustered up the only type of cake I could remember: käsekuche. Ein stück käsekuche bitte.
After spending a day alone wandering a foreign city, there's an unmatched camaraderie at european cafés. It's okay to be alone here, because you're not really alone. Fellow wanderers gather. Some in groups, big and small. Some residents. Some tourists. Students. Enthusiasts. Lovers. Artists. Fonnctionaires. Lycéens. Businessmen. Mères au foyer. But all in the same place for a short time. In the museums, pressed to the walls by the crowds, I felt alone. At my delicately minuscule table, with the convenient blanket because goddamn it the sun is out and it may only be 5°C but you will eat outside and like it, in the chairs all facing the rue because why would you want to look at the people you know when there are so many unknown strangers walking past whose faces need exploring, surrounded by others taking the same pause in their day, I was not alone. I had been wandering the city all day, seeing the necessary sights, but I hadn't really seen the city. The city was at the café.
So that's what I had. Cheesecake and red wine and a three pronged fork. I thought it might have been the fatigue or the hunger that made the puzzle pieces fit, but they were just as perfect for each other, alone but not alone, the next day, and the next, at 4 o'clock.
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