The first time I came to Munich was as a tourist, and I viewed the city with a tourist's eyes. Now that I live here - and have for about two and a half years - I have fallen into the trap of not really seeing it. I became starkly aware of that today, on my way home.
With my usual brisk city-stride, I turned down a street - one I've been down before - and was suddenly struck by the beauty of a wooden door.
At first, I kept right on going, but then thought - if I were here as a tourist, I would probably have stopped in front of it. So, a little sheepishly, I retraced my steps and stood in front of the door. I admired it then pulled out my camera and took a snapshot.
Then I carried on, and a few feet later, came to another door.
I stopped again, admired, and took a snap. Then I saw one on the other side of the street. This went on and on. The workmen digging up the street watched me - this funny woman in the wine-coloured coat and teal beret - taking pictures of old doors.
When I looked at the doors, really looked at them, I was blown away by how much craftsmanship and planning and care had been put into making them. Doors. Such banal, day to day things. But not really. There is something quite wonderful about a door, an entrance, a passage. Something magical. A barrier, an obstacle. Keeping things in, and other things out. A keeper of secrets. Protector of realms. An opportunity. An unobtainable dream.
What lies beyond.