Free Munich Airport by Greg Baxter

did not feel like drinking it.
    Once I got outside, I poured the coffee out and threw the cup in a trash can. I looked up and saw my father and Trish not too far ahead, approaching the main street, across which was the square. They stopped and waited for me. I didn’t rush. I drank my water. I thought, This is the street Miriam lived on, and every day she walked down from her apartment to the square, just as I do now. I almost took some photos with my phone, but after turning this way and that I realized I’d be better off misremembering it. The street was narrow. Some of the buildings, like Miriam’s, seemed derelict, even though they were not. There were trees, and I could imagine that in spring and summer, it would be pleasant. The road at the end was busy, and the square on the other side was crowded, there was a market full of junk. I caught up to them. Trish said, I think we should sit down. Let’s find a place to catch our breath, get coffee or a snack.
    Let’s get away from this square, I said.
    I agree, said Trish. I know a nice street a few stops up on the U-Bahn.
    I’d rather walk, said my father.
    I said, Trish has to get back to work, Dad.
    My father looked at the sky, then back at me. Of course, he said.
    We settled for a place along a bright, treeless street that was full of interesting cafés, bicycle shops, and places selling old cheap furniture. From the outside, it looked like a restaurant, but inside it was clearly something else. It had the dimensions of a railroad car, and it served kebabs and falafels and baked potatoes and slices of pizza and cheeseburgers. We should have turned around and picked another place along the street. We all seemed to be thinking the place was wrong, but nobody said it. My father put on his glasses to read the menu above the man behind the counter, and the man, as my father perused the items on the menu, seemed to grow impatient. All I really want is a coffee, I said. Trish got a slice of pizza. The man asked what she wanted on top, and she said, Oh, you know…He made a suggestion, and she said, That’s fine, some of that. My father got a baked potato. It came out so overcooked and soggy, however, and the toppings seemed so lifeless, that he set it aside. Trish nibbled at her pizza, but only after removing the toppings. Tomorrow, said my father, speaking to his set-aside potato, we should go see the Bundestag or something. Trish said, Oh, definitely, you should book at the café and you can skip the lines. My father said, It’s been such a long time since I’ve been in Berlin. Yes, such a long time, I was a student. I came to Europe quite often for a while, when I started teaching. When I started editing the journal I found I didn’t really have the time to travel, I don’t know, maybe I did, I could have come to Berlin to see Miriam, I never did.
    I said, You came to Scotland, she didn’t make it.
    My father looked distantly at his potato. I could see that he really did not like the potato, and wished it would go away. So I moved it.
    Then Trish said, The Neue Nationalgalerie is also nice.
    I’d like to hear the Philharmonic, said my father.
    Me too, I said.
    I can help you get some tickets, said Trish.
    My father rapped the table with his knuckle—he was showing his approval. He asked Trish if Germany was a US foreign policy priority or a backwater. Something in between, she said. It was her first posting. She’d started late in the State Department because of her army career, but generally people in the Department thought Berlin was a solid posting, because it was a nice place to live and the embassy was busy and moderately important. Still, she would have rather gone to China or the Middle East. Her husband had hoped for London or Sydney, so he could find work. It must be difficult, said my father vaguely. Then he looked at me, and I wasn’t sure if he wanted confirmation, or if he wanted to accuse me