My Bavarian Dreamscape . . . and Alone in the Sangre de Cristos
Saturday, June 13, 1964, Füssen, Germany—I woke up this morning relishing Jack’s good-night kisses. So far, he had exceeded my wildest hopes. Item one: He honored my wishes at the door last night with respect and grace. Item two: He knew so much about Europe, history, music. Item three: He made great choices. Where to go? Neuschwanstein, Linderhof, and Füssen. How to make me feel special? A strawberry tart.
A tapping at my door crept into my reverie, followed by a stage whisper. “Fräulein? Sun’s up. It begs you to help light up my world.”
Oh, yes, Item four: He thinks like a poet.—Ann
Saturday, 13 June, 1964, Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range, Colorado—At Valley View Hot Springs last night, Annie’s image blotted out the starry sky. Emptiness closed in like a mummy-style sleeping bag. With her gone, the road to the Peace Corps at summer’s end threatened to be a lonely trek through a bleak desert. With no shoes. No water. And a full pack of stone-heavy yearnings.
I had planned to spend the weekend at Valley View, hike a trail or two, and attempt an assault on 14,300-foot-high Crestone Peak. But Annie’s likeness called me from every boulder and bush. I abandoned Valley View for the comfort of the farm, hot meals, and a soft bed.
And the hope that each new day would bring me a letter from Germany.—Terry