Zinnowitz

Like an idiot bird, I fly North in the winter. To the Baltic sea, in East Germany. I do like the melancholy atmosphere of the winter sea, the empty beaches and the feeling of being in a tourist destination, not just in the off-season, but in the dead season. In the this-shouldn’t-even-be-called-a-season season. The town, which I am sure is bustling with people in the summer months, is surprisingly normal in December. Like a cat, alone at home, doing its own thing, before the humans come back from work and start bugging it.