From cliché to Berlin…

and back

1/13/18

Harry Potter and his classmates go through a gate adjacent to mine.

1927, London.

I take the train to Berlin to find if there is a different path Europe, all the countries could take in these extravagant years before the what was considered inevitable horrors of the Second World War.

The enemies – I mean engines propel the huge clangorous arms rhythmically, heroically driving immense forward wheels. White plumes of smoke from the kitchens behind dining cars are lost, melding into coal black silos of sulfurous steam engulfing all. The trains themselves take on their hue of blackness.

I settle into the dining car: a well-done turkey roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, peas, carrots, a subtlety dressed salad, port- tawny port, a hot buttered sourdough roll.

A string quartet is playing Brahms with a wonderful clarinet player, all men in their late 30’s all with trimmed brown beards.

The temperature, a comfortable 67, is just right given my subtly tailored, English tweed- suit and vest. The deep red leather of the seats is cool to my hand. As the meal ends, I become aware of a woman’s perfume. I have honeydew melon for dessert. Its pale chartreuse skin holds succulent fruit. The spoon is cool. The melon is refreshingly cooler on my tongue.

A train slows down, passing in the opposite direction.

Harry Potter waves…

He waves his wand… and is gone…

…cliché.