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Finding a full-blown Brigadoon village is best left to a swooner like Gene Kelly, but once in a while, lucky travelers stumble across tiny, magical moments in time as well. Such a find was the last thing I expected when I agreed to accompany my parents to a cancer clinic in southern Germany—my first trip to Europe. The Munich airport bustled with travelers from across the globe, yet the sight of frantic passengers, harried parents with children in tow, and tired travelers felt as familiar as my home airport. After making our way through customs, the delectable aroma of fresh-baked German pretzels, which were definitely not from my home airport, tantalized us even as we consumed the delicious, salted bread. I declined driving the rental car first so I could enjoy soaking in every classical architecture, miniature semitruck, and brazen bicyclist we passed. How was it possible to fit through some of these narrow streets? And people dared to park their cars halfway on the sidewalk? The light waned as we drove south. The city lights faded, but I assumed they would reappear as we approached Brannenburg. Of course a successful cancer clinic at the edge of the Bavarian Alps would have a modern suburb surrounding it, right? Our GPS notified us of “Ausfahrt 58,” and we exited onto a quiet, shadowy street. A grocery store, a bank, another grocery store, then a left turn at the stoplight into darkness. Where was the modern city I was expecting? We stopped at a gorgeous brown and white home with Bavarian murals painted on the sides and a dim light shining on the porch. I decided we must have taken side streets and missed the city. We exited the van to a stench of silage and sewage that assaulted our poor suburban nostrils. How close were these offensive cows? “Are you sure we’re in the right city?” I questioned, beginning to seriously wonder if there was a city anywhere nearby. “Yep.” Our hostess appeared from the darkness and greeted us in German. Mom answered in her perfect high German, of course. She had been an exchange student in Germany in the 60s and still spoke like a native. I managed to sound mostly intelligent, and dad showed off his one German phrase, “Wo ist die Toilette?” Frieda guided us into the darkness with our luggage. Our movement triggered a brighter light on what appeared to be a house...on top of a barn. A barn with open doors from which the gut-wrenching smell emanated. A barn where Frieda cheerfully led us to our upstairs apartment. Somehow, the stench wasn’t nearly as strong inside, and I succumbed to the down mattress for a long night’s sleep. We awoke to a gorgeous fall morning with mist rising from the fields behind our barn, surrounded by Alps. Enchanted by the vista, I realized with fascination that there would be no city here. As we left for the clinic, I gaped out the passenger window trying to process the sight before my eyes. I thought our host had a Bavarian-style exterior for fun. But no, nearly every house in this little town proudly displayed the ancestral brown and white colors with scalloped woodwork, beautiful murals, and red geraniums in the window boxes. Even more unbelievably, in the front field across the street, a man dressed in well-worn, traditional Lederhosen stood next to his cows as another man in Lederhosen walked up to him! And a woman in a Dirndle was throwing out dishwater at a tiny restaurant nearby! I blinked hard. Had I stepped back in time? Where had modern Germany gone? The idyllic setting seemed stuck in another century. I became aware of our noisy car and wondered why we were driving when it looked like the perfect place to walk. The tiny streets seemed to yearn for wagons and footsteps. We rumbled across a cobblestone bridge and rounded a blind corner to find a massive estate with a sign stating “Klinik Marinus am Stein.” I laughed in disbelief at my unrealized expectations of a modern city with a clinic. This was definitely better. I couldn’t wait to explore this darling village on foot.