I visited an Arcadian meadow where deeply rooted strawberries were growing on golden vines and symbolized love. I was drinking a Campari and apparently strawberries didn’t go with the drink. I was a tourist, the delights conjured from my imagination. I was told I could only be offered far-removed pickles, this wasn’t Spreewald. But the pickles were not ordinary pickles, once held in your hands, you were banished from Arcadia and told to leave. But before I left, I plucked a flower to remember the smell of the strawberry meadows.