A Week in Bremen: Love Like a Rose

It was a late, chilly night in Bremen, the kind of night where the air seemed to hum with quiet secrets. As we stepped out of the dance club, the rain was drizzling lightly and the city lights shimmered like reflections on a rippling sea. I reached out my elbow in the gentlemanly way in which I was taught by my parents , and Ana placed her hand delicately into my waiting arm. She smiled up at me, her face glowing in the golden lamplight.

“You are such a gentleman,” she said, her voice soft and melodic.

Her name was Ana von Bulter, a strikingly beautiful woman with an elegance that felt both unattainable and effortless. She carried herself with a grace that matched her eloquence, her words chosen as carefully as an artist selects their colors. That night, she called me le petit prince, the little prince.

“You remind me of him,” she said, laughing gently, “with your stories of far-off places and that dreamy way of seeing the world.”

Ana was enchanted by my Caribbean accent and the stories I shared; of warm sunsets melting into turquoise seas, of coconuts cracking open on sun-soaked beaches, of palm trees swaying like carefree dancers in the tropical breeze. The Caribbean was a world she’d only imagined, in the hues of postcards and travel brochures, but my words brought it to life.

That romance began as most do; unexpectedly. The night had faded into morning, and there we sat at the Bahnhof café, sipping coffee as the first light touched Bremen’s skyline. Over the clink of porcelain cups and the faint hum of trains arriving and departing, our laughter mixed with the aroma of strong, dark coffee. Her curiosity danced around every word I spoke, her eyes wide as I painted her, dreamscapes of sandy shores and the rhythms of calypso, reggae and tassa drumming. 

It was later that same day when we climbed to the chapel lookout, perched high above Bremen. The city sprawled below us in muted colors, its rooftops kissed by morning light. Ana held tightly to my hand as we stood there, overlooking her world, so far from mine.

“You’re a man of the winds,” she said, her voice wistful. “You don’t stay in one place, do you? You’re always chasing the horizon.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say. A man like me; with restless feet and a wandering soul; knows when a love story is destined to be brief.

For that week, Ana and I existed in a little bubble of borrowed time. She taught me the hidden nooks of Bremen, the stories of its narrow cobblestone streets and timeless spires. I told her about the island breeze that never stops and the way moonlight kisses the ocean in ways words could never fully capture.

At night, we danced beneath starlit skies, her laughter soft and intoxicating. By day, we explored Bremen hand in hand, her fascination for my island roots, like a flame, I was reluctant to extinguish. I could see it in her eyes; she was picturing herself on the white sands I described, her toes curling into the warm embrace of golden beaches. I could almost imagine her there too, silhouetted against a fiery Caribbean sunset, the wind playing softly at her long blonde hair.

But love, like a rose, blooms only for a season. When it withers, it leaves behind its perfume; a fleeting reminder of something beautiful and sweet. I was her little prince, and she, my rose. Yet no matter how sweet the memory, no rose can hold back the winds of time.

Our story lasted seven perfect days; just enough for us to dream together. When the week ended, I knew my path lay in another time, another place. I had to go, as I always did, my heart both lighter and heavier with every departure.

As I boarded the train that would take me away from Bremen and Ana, her face appeared in the window’s reflection; wistful but calm. She raised her hand in a delicate wave, as though she knew this was the kind of farewell that carries no promises.

Some loves are not meant to last a lifetime, but that doesn’t make them any less real. Like a rose that blooms in the crisp morning air, my time with Ana was beautiful, memorable, and fleeting.

Even now, when I sip a strong black coffee at a train station and feel the night’s chill upon my face, I remember her. I remember the sweet dreams she dreamed of white sand beaches and coconut palms. I remember the way her voice called me le petit prince. And I smile, knowing that in her story, and mine, we remain forever young, caught in that season where roses bloom.