A little while ago, LSB and I were cycling through a forest. The sun was glistening through the leaves. The air was sweet. All you could hear was the crunch of tyres on the path. Somewhere along the way, we took a wrong turn and found ourselves at a lake. Up a little hill, a young and bare-skinned couple was embracing. Unmoving and perfectly entwined, they reminded me of a Renaissance painting. A few months ago, I was writing a news story about nudist bathing spots in Munich.
He scoffed. Poor man, I thought. Imagine his horror when he realises not every woman looks like the Alpine farm girls. Or that men get old and have saggy flesh and that someday, he will too. So you can sell breasts, but you cannot wear breasts, in America.
It is okay to post naked pictures of women on the internet, as long as it generates clicks and income for your website. It is not okay to meet one in real life. Even though I have promised myself I will, I have reservations about going nudist bathing at Teufelsee.
I dread the idea of meeting someone I know, or alarming somebody with my less-than-perfect body. Because in spite β or maybe because of β of all the education I have had; the material comfort and political freedom I enjoy, somewhere along the way, I failed to learn that my body has to please nobody but myself. The train journey to Familienfest was hot and sticky. I got a seat in the bicycle carriage opposite a large dog with a sad, deformed paw. My mother met me at the platform in Regensburg.
In just a few hours, Familienfest would officially open and there would be no excuse for tumbling over words or singing off-key. My father had been due to arrive any minute.
