I took a late run in the day, when the train from Frankfurt dropped me off earlier than I expected in Köln (Cologne to the Francophiles and Englishmen). The rain had darkened the plaza and the Dom itself, not just the black soot of centuries tarnishing the cathedral’s façade and flying buttresses. Because the rain still fell, my run stayed short: just enough to see the locks of love on the bridge across the Rhein.
My German colleague met me in the bar of the Hilton, and he wanted to know how my trip had been so far, before laying all of his news on me. As his supervisor, I knew his German formality would shortly dissolve to a warm Deutsch directness. We toasted a new contract with a local pilsner…also the local dialect: Kölsch. But he told me that I looked distracted.
Of course. How else do you look when you’ve lost hope and then suddenly gained it back, but can’t tell a soul? My own German quarter wanted to speak plainly, but the only language I knew then was Kölsch. Prost!
Here’s to the beer that’s also a local dialect
The rail bridge now locked with love & view to the Dom