A short trip to Vilshofen and Passau in Bavaria
There’s something magical about revisiting the places of our childhood—the sights, the smells, the way the air felt against our skin. For me, returning to Bavaria is like stepping into a storybook, where rolling meadows, half-timbered houses, and the distant chime of church bells bring back memories so vivid they almost ache. As a child, summers in Bavaria stretched endlessly before me, golden and carefree. I remember running barefoot through fields of tall grass, the earth warm underfoot, while the Alps stood like silent guardians in the distance. My grandmother’s kitchen always smelled of fresh yeast and cinnamon, where Kaiserschmarrn and apple strudel cooled on the counter. Even today, the scent of damp soil after rain or the first bite of a warm pretzel floods me with nostalgia.