Morgan Laidlaw
Unspoken Melodies
The rain fell with new vigor on the north side of the mountains as they barreled toward
Munich. The line ended there, and he would have to pick another train. Allister wasn't sure he was ready to return home yet, but maybe he would continue heading north, by way of Cologne.
Or maybe Paris. It had been awhile since he had written a postcard from Paris, and she had really seemed to like that one. She had admired the photo of the Eiffel tower while the cherry blossoms were in bloom before handing him his mail over the counter.
" Wie schön ," she had said, her fingers lingering on the blossoms.
" Danke ."
He sat back in his seat and listened to the rain hit the window and the rumbling of the train on the track. The older trains had their nostalgic allure, but he much preferred the smooth luxury of the ICE trains. Then again, he couldn't hear the rain as well either, but he remembered the sound well enough in his mind to fill in the gaps of his ears. Of course, Bavarian rain was different than Nord See rain; Northern Germany summer rains smelled like Michigan showers in the autumn, but they felt like warm spring drizzles and sounded like summer downpours. And they last all day. All week. Thunder and lighting were shyer here though, always fidgeting in the distance.
He opened his eyes again when the gentle woman's voice announced they would be arriving at the Munich station in a few minutes. Everyone else shuffled to gather their things, but he waited patiently. After disembarking, he wandered through the train station to find the nearest grocery store, buying a loaf of bread, sliced meat and cheese, and a few bottles of beer. He easily polished off two American sandwiches and a beer and was working on an open-top brot as he

carefully wrapped up his remaining sandwiches, returning to the station with the food safely stored in his bag. He perused the schedule and boarded a double-deck Regional Express to
Frankfurt.
At the last minute, a group of students hopped on the train, giggling as they tried to find a
1 place to sit together. They sent out a few scouts to walk up and down the aisles, but there was nowhere big enough for all of them so they sat on the floor between the two train cars, the boys racing down beers and the girls passing around a liter of Sprite. His ears attuned instantly to the familiar intonations of American accents, and he isolated their voices, playing "place the
American." He heard a resonating male voice that had the flavor of a Southern drawl, but not enough to make him a genuine confederate. He heard another male voice from the East coast, a definite blend of sounds—or a purposeful masking of what sounded like Jersey origins. There were also a pair of girls with distinctly Mid-western accents. He was surprised by the number of
Michigan accents he heard, counting four. There was another loud male voice, confident and oblivious, making no attempt to correct the Colorado twang.
From where he was, he listened to their voices, though not necessarily the words. He didn't need words to recognize testosterone-injected posturing, squealing disgusted pleasure, and amused awareness. Unlike the other muttering couple sitting across from him, he didn't mind the
Americans, but maybe that was because he remembered what it was like to board a train for the sole purpose of drinking all the way from Bremen to Hannover, just to get back on the train and drink all the way from Hannover to Bremen. The girls' laughter reminded him of a summer lover he once had, who matched her underwear to her outfit. He surprised himself by thinking of her now, after so many years. She and her boyfriend had broken up before she flew away to study abroad, but she had every intention of marrying him when she returned home, settling down and

having a family. He tried to imagine himself in the other man's place, married to her, an elementary school teacher, with children of their own. The image wouldn't sharpen in his mind.
2
It would flicker: he could imagine brief sentimental moments, but he couldn't imagine marrying her and living with her. No, a summer romance had been perfect for them. Any longer would have ruined it.
Eventually, he had withdrawn completely, gone back to the city where he had spent a year as an undergrad and where he knew no one. So the conjecture was moot anyway.
But he had forgotten the isolation the loss of one's native environment caused. Like the silence of standing in the middle of an Upper Peninsula evergreen forest in the winter.
Not listening to the voices anymore, he sat back and composed the postcard from Paris in his mind. The young woman at the post office would read it when it arrived before putting it in his post box. He composed them for her.
Dear Allister,
The weather was shit coming through the mountains, so I made the sudden decision to visit Paris on the train to München. I was looking forward to having a glass of wine by the river, but it wouldn't have been the same without company.
I bought a bottle of wine and joined a group of picnickers on the promenade. One played guitar, but it wasn't the same as when we went together. Tomorrow, I will wander around until I don't know which way is home and take the subway back to the hostel. I hope the rain in Oldenburg is nice.
Love Always.