Like Lorca said, “On the waters I have dreamed.”
I once left Los Angeles’ dry chaparrals and cracked creek beds to escape to blue capes, wade shin-deep in ice rivers, and bob in the black lagoon of the Sea of Crete under the moon light, while my family finished their glasses of rocky in the hotel on the hill. It looked not so unlike California on that hill, replace the chaparral for olive trees, coyote scat for goat droppings in the caves, and crickets for cicadas.
I was always going. I was always coming back.
Planning a trip now for Bavaria and Austria. Then, Berlin to see my beloveds. Paris and Provence with my mother and sister.
There is always water. Always a marble fountain, or park, hilltops, caves, ruins, ancient dwellings, or cathedrals.
I am always dreaming. Mountain sheep, thistle and wildflower, dust, lavender, roots, rocks, mist, mirror surfaced lakes, cobble stones, stone homes, pottery, perfume, royalty, revolution, thirsty rivers, canals the color of car coolant, carts and villages, clearings and castles.
30 Days to Berlin 