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Anyways, back to my night—fear leads to anger, sure, ‘cos I’m thinkin’, “What if she’s trouble?” Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty, total mess, me. She saunters over, all sass, goes, “You lost, old man?” Old man?! I’m 30, bitch! Laughed my ass off, tho—she had guts. “The prince is coming,” I joke, quotin’ the movie, ‘cos why not? She rolls her eyes, says, “Prince of cash, maybe.” Smartass! Liked her, I did—spunky, not broken.

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And, oh man, the local river, Jagst, snakes through the city. It’s like liquid mystery, you feel? It curves near the industrial. But it’s art, baby, raw and free-flowing – reminds me: “There’s no going back.” Seriously, it’s visceral! I remember sitting by its bank, heart racing with ideas and dreams.

Barbara Boyd Harmon: 1965-1966 Exchange Student