I remember Hamburg

I remember Hamburg

I remember Hamburg. And I want to write a song, or a story, so that you will remember Hamburg as I do.

The strange woman we kept running into, in her queer dress. It wasn't loud and flamboyant, nor was it anything striking to remember by. It was stark and stern, her face without a smile. We were placing our orders by a roadside cafe, smiling and gesturing to the waitress who didn't speak the same language. The strange woman was tall and alone, marching on with her eyes set on a horizon we couldn't see. I remember her roaming the streets of Hamburg. I remember my backward glance at her as she walked on. I remember Hamburg.

The blue lake with its white boats. The blue sky with its white clouds. We talked and laughed and built castles in the sky. You held my hand and I smiled in secret, dropping a coin on the pavement, making a wish by my own tradition. I close my eyes now and I can feel the German breeze in my face and hear the song of ducks splashing in the water. Small white petals floating in the air, dancing, like fairy dusts, like it was snowing in spring. I remember my fascination and endless questions. I remember you laughing. I remember Hamburg.

The dark, Gothic buildings looming on the opposite shore, beckoning. Landmarks of a strange land. It was a destination, a terminus for tourists on a pilgrimage. It was a long walk around the lake. We stopped for pictures, framing the city as we remember it. The buildings have names and stories, but I don't quite remember them. Yet I remember the pair of friends who walked by as we crossed empty streets to get to the aged cathedrals. I remember being the only ones in the quadrangle, as if Hamburg belonged to us. I remember Hamburg.

The bright orange that decked the streets, people cheering. 11pm and the sky was still bright. It was a nation at war, eleven warriors in black against eleven others. We marveled at the roar of the city. I bought a flag, striped black, orange and yellow, an emblem of my transient loyalty. You holler with the boys, the patriots, the vagabonds and the uniformed men. I remember the old gentleman, with his white hair, black suit and brown walking stick, smiling with a gap in his teeth and wrinkles around his mouth as we gave our seat to him. I remember the Ghanaian on the subway, the loner wayfarer in a foreign land, standing by his homeland. I remember the rest of Hamburg smiling at him, a city celebrating its country's victory, embracing all who have come to Hamburg. I remember Hamburg.

I remember Hamburg. Do you?