On 12 September 1967 I met a girl on a train from Lüneburg to Hamburg. The encounter profoundly impressed me. Here's what I wrote at the time:

I got into the train, and blundered blindly down the carriage to where there were not so many people, and ended up sitting down opposite a lone bird, so promptly started looking out the window, until I became aware that she was looking at me. Why do people always have to stare at blokes with long hair and beards? Decided that I might as well look back—in any case, she was not at all bad looking. Not a very unusual face, I suppose: typical german nose, straight and blunt, but the type I rather like—not deformed, like some birds of my recent acquaintance. Her eyes seemed to blend in with her nose to make a T—they were also quite nice, a comparatively uniform amber. Her hair was about the same colour as mine, if anything a little darker, and coming on shoulder length, parted in the middle, with the left hand side half obscuring her face. Her lips were nice; odd lipstick gave them a glistening experience, and I looked at them for a long while, thinking: „How I want your lips—your breasts—your body“. Maybe she sensed what I was thinking, or maybe my appearance gave me away—though I think I kept a pretty good poker face the whole way through—and she made a few involuntary movements with her lips.

Her complexion was her weakest point—she had what looked like an attempt at a big spot on the left side of the bridge of her nose, and elsewhere it was a bit odd, colourwise, in places. Still—nothing to worry about. She had nice breasts under a blue pullover, nice hips, and hairy legs under a black checked woolen skirt. She pulled a book out of her tartan bag—the sort of book one can buy in Karstadt, probably a sloppy Roman, though of about 450 pages, in a stiff cover, and with an index tape. She read about 2 paragraphs, then sat there looking at me while I practiced all the oriental inscrutability I knew. She distended her nostrils slowly and only a little. I felt confident enough to do the same without changing my poker face. This got a repeat from her—several, in fact, though I couldn't face another go.

She looked a little sad at times—because I was so near and yet so far? Because of another bloke? I don't know, but I think it must have been on my account, because these looks got more often as we approached the Hamburg Hbf. Thought of taking a photo, but couldn't face it. Even as it was, I was finding it hard not to smile. There was something plaintive in the way, between Harburg and the Hbf, she was madly distending her nostrils, as if to say „Here, I'm prepared to play—why don't you? We could have some fun together!“

As we finally came into the Bahnhof, she shut her book at last—she was sufficiently distracted no to put the index tag back in the book, though it had been there before. She had nice breasts.... a seam in her pullover horizontally about 3 cm over the nipples.

The train stopped, and everybody got out. She stood up, and started to put her coat on. I helped her, and then we got out and walked outside together. The plaintive looks she was giving me made me feel a real heel. She went into the Wartesaal, giving me a last plaintive look, though without saying „Auf Wiedersehen“, as I went straight on to the Lloyd travel Büro, feeling sheepish, a heel, and like going back and seeing her.

Came back, and saw her sitting by the window, as far as I could see reading her book. She did not look up when I came in, and the look she gave me when I sat down was not the most encouraging. I ordered a breakfast—the first words either of us had said in the presence of the other. Breakfast came, and I cut a roll, putting a lot of expression into it. Dirty great grin from her as I discovered that it didn't meet. Dirty great grin for as I took my first cautious bit, ensuring that I didn't get too many crumbs on my lap. Then she went off to the bog. I had a look at her book—there was no mark on it. She came back, and pulled out a cigarette and matches, but let me light it for her with my lighter. I finished my breakfast—she found my Zwieback eating very funny. I felt about for my wallett [sic]. She looked inquisitive, and gestured toward her pack of cigarettes. I shook my head and pulled my tobacco pouch out of my pocket. Judging the colour temperature of the light, and eventually decided to take a photo, but as soon as I undid the case, she turned her head away. Gestured at my map, which I handed to her. Put that aside, and gestured at my camera, so I handed that to her. No. Opened the case. No. Held it in my hand. OK. Paid the bill, and helped her on with the coat again—I had closed her book (with the index tag) while she was away—and off in the direction of the city. Carried her bag for her—had noticed that it contained books, and that she was a studentin. It was heavy. Notice her looking at the back of the letter I was carrying—it had my address on it. In the Wartesaal, my camera was on this letter—is that why she wanted to move it? Was she memorising my address? I suppose I shall soon know.

We came out of the subway to Spitalerstraße. She pointed to a sign which said „Berlitz Schule“—I have heard about that from Frl. Weber. J [sic] gave up, and said „Wollen Sie endlich etwas sagen?”. She shook her head. Went to the bottom of the stairs, and gave her back her bag, and squeezed her hand at the same time. She was going to put the bag down—I think she wanted to squeeze/hold longer, but I did not respond at the time. She said „Auf Wiedersehen“, and went upstairs. It was 0955. I had known her exactly 1½ hrs. She must be German. Why did she change her attitude towards the end, and not talk with me? Why no plaintive looks the 2nd time? Is she perhaps a foreigner?—it seems unlikely. She looks so German. She didn't sound foreign. She must have taken my address. It is the only explanation which fits. But will I hear from her again? My heart says no; my mind says yes. I went off to the Uni, feeling mixed up. I didn't see her again that day. She had a season ticket, and came on the 0700 from Dannenberg. In all probability, she will be on the same train tomorrow, and the next day, and all next week. I could see here again if I wanted to—but I rather hope I hear from her. Maybe she comes from Lüneburg—certainly any further is a hell of a way to commute. If I were on the platform tomorrow—or better, Thursday morning, would I see her? Why am I having a bout of language girls at the moment?

Che sera, sera. What the hell.

That was the end of the matter. I never saw her again.