So there it stands, the border post – black, red, and gold, proud as a life-size toy. It says: This far and no further. Even though no one has called "further" here for a long time. No checkpoint, no customs officer, no river rearing up indignantly because someone is changing sides. Only the dike, stretching through the landscape like a calm thought – and the wind, which doesn't ask where Germany ends and Poland begins.
The path is smooth and gently curved, as if it were made specifically for bicycles that want to roll quietly. To the left, a freshly plowed field that looks dusted with cinnamon in the afternoon sun. To the right, a forest that, in late summer, already pretends to be autumn. Between the trees: shadows, stories, perhaps even deer that prefer to remain silent.
It smells of earth, of grass, of an afternoon without haste. The air is expansive. And although you're only a few kilometers from the city, everything seems far away: the pressure of deadlines, the noise, even the idea of news. Out here, the landscape speaks only in still lifes. Even the border post doesn't seem authoritarian, more decorative, like an invitation to reflect on what was – and how little of that is needed today.
And yet something remains – a tickle on the back of your neck when you cycle past this post. Perhaps a hint of history. Perhaps just the wind. But anyone who has cycled here knows: freedom sometimes takes the form of an asphalt dike – and the sound of a wheel humming through no man's land.
Translated by Google •
In the know? Log-in to add a tip for other adventurers!