I've always found it impossible to walk past a bookstore, even if there's nothing in it I can read apart from the imported pornography (don't ask unless you have serious cash-money in hand).
But anyone who cares to explain this, seen eariler today in a bookshop in Cologne, will have my eternal gratitude. (There is a law of tourism that you can only do two museums and one department store, or three cathedrals and six department stores in a single day without mental gridlock.) Perhaps.
Yes, I should be feeling a patriotic glow of some description but the woman giggling softly beside me over another of Frau Lark's roman, Im Schatten des Kauribaums (I shit you not), one is not optimistic.
Could any of our German readers enlighten us -- is it hot throbbing Mandingo down under action, or a sensitive work of historical ethnography with a plea for tolerance and understanding on the side? Failing all else, and Public Address being what it is, the most imaginative and/or disgusting confection will get you a vaguely smutty postcard from Amsterdam (where we're off to around 8pm tonight, New Zealand time).
And if you don't I will post ever damn photo of every church I've been in between here and Hong Kong. Your life is not that long.
