Summer Picnics; English Confessions

"My dear Vivian, don't coop yourself up all day in the library. It is a perfectly lovely afternoon. The air is exquisite. There is a mist upon the woods, like the purple bloom upon plum. Let us go and lie on the grass and smoke cigarettes and enjoy nature." 

So when Oscar Wilde makes a suggestion, it is better to put the book down and confess some sentiments of your own, and then go out to enjoy summer's sunshine. It is time for lazy picnics and beer. And what a better setting than that of München's English Garden. 

It was a very hot August day. The sun was warm against my skin. I put my Oscar Wilde away and opened up my lace-inspired parasol instead. The light that fell through the umbrella seemed to imitate the shadows that the branches of the trees made on earth's floor.   

I spent a wonderful few hours next to a fervent stream, my feet submerged in the cool water. I slowly  started drinking in the beauty of this English Garden in the heart of München. The garden, a peaceful place, informal enough in style to assume the likes of a natural forest. The perfect place to think of light and wondrous things.  

My delight, however, was disturbed when I knocked my very dear sunglasses into the current as I got up. A very sad loss. I was distraught to say the very least. There are few things that can make a sad heart feel better. But luckily I got distracted by the pretty shadows that my parasol made on walls and floors on my way to the city's centre.     

Yet, after a wonderful walk in a summery beautiful city, I realized that my sunglasses are at least replaceable (even though at a cost). It wasn't the end of the world. Minutes later I realized how lively everything was around me. And I saw a beautiful world. At Karlsplatz, Springbrunnen am Stachus, I decided to decorate the sky, for the sky can sometimes become a bit predictable.

I often wonder if clouds sometimes repeat their shapes, because people do not always notice that they're there. But that would be a dull, cheap trick. Or to the contrary: a very difficult pose to reassume - considering all those travelling molecules.  

As I sat in the Frauen Kirche, I let my thoughts run wild for a while. And then: that wholesome stillness. What a wonderful grace: to renew one's mind. Outside, in a new light, I set up a few shots in a "lone traveller" kind of fashion. A couple of elderly gentlemen with their ladies passed me and enjoyed the classic take on sun protection. I got a lot of "classic"s and "schön"s. They were all so appreciative. And at the end of the day I was unburned. Let all the ladies stay cool and carry parasols.   

I settled down next to a stream in the late afternoon. The temperature just perfect. A picnic by myself. And then: that soft light that I remembered from another day, another time. As a distraction, a series of shameless self portraits continued. Then: my book again. Wilde continued in two voices and with one heart:

ERNEST: "Well, while you have been playing, I have been turning over the pages with some amusement, though, as a rule, I dislike modern memoirs. They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories, or have never done anything worth remembering; which, however, is, no doubt, the true explanation of their popularity, as the English public always feels perfectly at ease when a mediocrity is talking to it."

GILBERT: "Yes: the public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius. But I must confess that I like all memoirs. I like them for their form, just as much as for their matter. In literature mere egotism is delightful... Whenever we come across it, and, strangely enough, it is rather rare, we cannot but welcome it, and do not easily forget it."    

After a plump heart of strawberry and lemon ice cream, it was inevitable to be that kid who would twirl on the grass till sunset. 

Forgiving oneself: not that easy. But easier than expected in a garden as beautiful as München's English Garden. 

*t

*Quotations from "The Decay of Lying: An Observation" by the wonderful Oscar Wilde.