In small towns, life can become very vivid, in all it's simplicity. Here, in Ehrwald, the lifestyle is simply and the surprises are mild (mostly), but it is easy to feel very alive. Every time I step outside, and I do in fact mean every single time, the crisp mountain air brushes against my face and wraps around my shoulders, and I feel the vast presence of the mountain above me. It is impossible to be outside at any hour of the day or night and not feel and see the Zugspitze above you. Sometimes it is a clear, sunlit, blue sky framed image of perfect Alpine postcard beauty. Sometimes, wrapped in fierce storm clouds, it is the ultimate symbol of nature's ominous power. Sometimes, it is the last thing left illuminated after the sun has set, glowing fiery oranges and soft pinks as the rest of the valley falls into deep blue shadows. And sometimes it is a huge dark form surrounded by stars, distinguished from the night sky only by it's slightly darker shade of black than any natural sky. The presence of the mountain is the palpable beating heart of the village, as well as it's loving caretaker. But, in absolute honesty, not many hours of the day are spent in contemplation of the Zugspitze, simply the occaisional glance or minute-long stare, as well as the constant gut-knowledge of it's presence.

So, life in this little town. As someone passing through, it is easy to laugh at the tiny ambitions, hopes and dreams of people whose lives lead to nowhere grander than little Ehrwald, or to marvel at the stubborn habit and apparent small mindedness of people who have lived out all of their lives here. But I am not really someone passing through, or if I am I am here too long to remain aloof and uninvolved with the spirit of the place. Like Thorpe-le-Soken, the world is small here, small and safe and cozy and known. But there are some interesting advantages to that. At the very least, it allows you to see more, and for what you see to be more vivid. Daily interactions, a special moment, a revelation, all take on grander tones when they are framed by so little clutter.

I should add though, that with my appreciation of this place comes a powerful and moving counterpart. And that is a poignant appreciation from where I have come from. For home. Not the same as homesickness, which has long since faded (along with the knowledge that I shall, someday soon, return there), this is a more appreciative kind of nostalgia. It is just love, love for what and where I have come from. These thoughts manifest themselves in various way. For example, there is the city itself: San Francisco. One of the most lovingly cliched and filmed and well-known cities in the world. But what a place it is! How bright and sunny and foggy and green and the bay and the wind and the boats sailing on the water and Alcatraz and the Pyramid Building and the Golden Gate and the parks and the hills and Coit Tower and Lombard Street and the Fillmore. It is all so good, so gloriously unique and wonderful and sought-after. And though I have not spent my time there completely taking it for granted, I have always looked beyond it or past it. But I do love it, and miss it, and can't wait to return to it. Put simply, I am grateful.

And another thing I appreciate (I am aware of how absurd this sounds) is English. The language. Because learning German is a struggle, and German is a language that I do like and find very interesting. But every hour spent struggling with a new tongue makes me grateful for the one I have already (that could sound very strange in different contexts). But I do consider myself a wielder of the English language. Not a master by any means, but certainly someone who knows it and loves it and uses it to my full ability. I really do think it is a wonderful language, and has so much inherent beauty (as well, of course, as complexity and complication).

I know it seems as if I'm rambling (and I am) but that is what living alone in a little village allows the mind to do, and it is not unpleasant. One more example of this newly rekindled sense of appreciation was when I was talking to Nadieh about my home. And each story about the house, the ranch, the vineyard, Marin, Petaluma, was filled with such glowing praise and adamant love, which of course I found perfectly normal. But it was put into sharp contrast by Nadieh's almost indifference to her home. It was simply a demonstration that, though everyone loves home because of it's familiarity, not everyone lives in a place that they consider truly unique or wonderful. Another thing, I suppose, for which I should be grateful.