At the Indian consulate there were only Indians. Germans do need a visa to enter India, but here was a consulate with no visa seekers, only Indians giving passport applications or collecting passports in a small, grey, gloomy room inside a large grey office building. And all this had not changed in the ten years since I last saw it. I put in my application, paid the fee, and left in a hurry.
Outside, across the road, a tree-lined path ran along the river Isar. Joggers and women with small dogs used this path, cyclists rode by on the adjacent track. Beyond the stream was a park that rose up a slope; patches of snow beneath bare trees glinted in the morning sun. I recalled, with relief and delight, all of this from my previous visit. I have several stories about places from my past that have changed beyond recognition; now I can begin another list with this corner, in a large city, unchanged after ten years.