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It's around eight in the morning and I'm careening through the crowded, bustling hallways of College Park. Drowsed and imperceptive, the people pass me haphazardly and I return the favor to others—others I haven't a clue about. The air is stale and the fluorescent lights are irritating. And then I smell Germany. That scent that hasn't graced my nose for a little under a year returns to me and I am thrown brutally into nostalgia. My mind races: the sights, the people, the smells, the memories, the cities, the trains, the food, the skies, the life. Such a multitude of memories flood into my head that eight is no longer so early, my imperceptibility is eradicated, and my drowse fades. I am still clueless as to the source of the particular scent. Both its origin in the school and its home in Germany. All that really matters, however, is its effect.
“Cologne is for old men, Matt.” Lisa said, mockingly, nonplussed. “Nope...not thinking so. It's cologne. It's for men. Perfume is for women.” I replied, somewhat sourly, as I sat slumped in a leather, perhaps pleather, sofa while she stood adjacent from me, resting her calf on a protrusion from another, smaller sofa. “I think maybe you are wrong? Or maybe we have different meaning? I don't think you want cologne; it is watery and smells like old, smelly men, Matt,” she said, “and I think you don't want to smell like that...Can you describe what you mean?” “It's a liquid. It smells nice, generally, if you buy a decent type. Men wear to to smell nice...It's just...Cologne...” I stuttered, completely confused and not knowing any way to solve the issue. This is the first memory which rushed suddenly into my mind when I received that first whiff of Germany in the corridor. The funny thing was that she held in her hands an English to German dictionary. Perhaps it was just a careless error, perhaps it was a sign of something more. Consequently, this memory spurred on what I believe to be a possible source of the aroma. Cologne. Lisa's mother, the kind, caring, wonderful, woman that she is, supplied me with a few capsules of cologne, so that I wouldn't need to fret about not having any until I bought some, which would be a few days afterward. They were trial-size colognes, hidden among some particular delivery of parcels, like the mysterious gift one can find in a cracker jack box. They smelled damn good, too. Anyhow, I've digressed. Tut mir Leid. I cannot say for certain, but I do believe that the smell which intoxicated me was one of the lovely colognes which Lisa's mother, Ute, gifted to me. This presents me with a question. What is more remarkable: The connection between the rather inconsequential presents? or this memory, instantaneously racing through my mind, only to be followed by many more?
The hall floors were even a reminder: the maroon tiles discarded, the navy tiles, speckled with azure droplets of color, and the white, wish-washed with an almost marble value, brought upon me an instant reminder. The cobblestone-esque pathway bordering the seldom traversed street adjacent to Lisa's home, and the flower petals which lay upon it, fitted into the cracks or settled softly on the stones. The old, and thoroughly frequented, train times hung on the cold, gray stone wall, encased in thin glass, abutted with worn and scarred metal. I had never read from it, but I suppose this is because my German was of no use in those days, for I was rather pretentious of my ability, for the actual truth of the matter was that I was not as avid as I boasted. Every once and awhile Lisa, in the morning or afternoon, would check the listings for the train we needed to be on, and relay the information to me, the bewildered tourist. Above the schedule, by roughly a foot, there was elevated soil, rife with the greenest of grass—nearly emerald. Planted in that turf is, last I checked, a tree. The tree which released its leaves and petals to the stone walkway—the origin of an aforementioned. Panning right, ninety degrees, and back down another foot, lies the ticket machine. Aged and highly trafficked, every weekday morning I would get my daily pass to and from Markkleeberg, for the mere price of about (if I remember correctly) two to four Euro. Or three and a half to six and a half American dollars (at the time). Forget materials. The path alongside the terminal led up to the elevated area, the train station. The stairs which brought one up to the waiting area were smooth, flat concrete, perhaps only four or five inches in height each. They were laden with those beautiful petals and often times hidden here and there was trash, an abrupt betrayal to it's peaceful allure. But isn't everything like the scattered trash? Doesn't everything have it's problems? Surely, in my experience, everything does. And, surely, Germany did—I will choose to declare those memories verboten.
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