There’s a Dixieland jazz band at the beer garden, which recently reopened after remodeling, and they’re doing covers of what sounds like Sinatra. You can hear them up and down the sunny street and Tuebingen’s big bridge where the buses stop and along the river where the boats go, practicing for Stocherkahn and passing up and down with paddling tourists.
Our neighbors, old Italians, have been out in their garden, working the dirt. The man never wears his shirt. His skin is starting to get leathery and brown, but not like it will be in a few months more, more months of mowing and gardening and soaking in the sun we didn’t see for so long but which now seems not to set, out still at 9, 10, deepening to soft dusk slowly.
Read more about life in Tuebingen @ Because of course.