Olympiaturm

Stand at the foot of the tower and tilt your head back. The grey concrete shaft rises so straight and so far that it seems to lean toward you against the moving clouds. Around you, the paths of the Olympic Park curve over grass and water. Somewhere a cyclist rings a bell, a child shouts by the lake, and the wind carries a faint hum from the city. Up there, near the top, a ring of glass catches the light.

This is the Olympiaturm, Munich's Olympic Tower. At just over 290 metres, it is the tallest structure in the city. Most visitors assume it was built for the 1972 Summer Games, and the name certainly suggests that. Here is the first surprise. The tower was planned and built as a telecommunications tower, and it opened in 1968, four years before the athletes arrived. The Olympic name came later, when the park grew up around it.

In the 1960s, West Germany was building a network of tall towers to carry radio, television and telephone signals across the country. The federal post office, which ran the phone system at the time, needed height above the flat Bavarian plain. A concrete shaft with antennas at the top was the practical answer. Construction began in the mid 1960s. When the tower opened, its viewing platforms were a public attraction from the very first day.

Then Munich won the right to host the 1972 Olympic Games. The city chose this open ground in the north, called Oberwiesenfeld, for the new park. The land had a long history of its own. It was used as a military parade ground and, later, as one of the city's early airfields. The tower was already standing when the planners arrived, so they built the Olympic landscape around it. It became the vertical marker for the whole site.

Look down from the tower, or simply look across the park, and you see the most famous part of that design. The great tent roofs stretch over the stadium, the arena and the swimming hall. They are made of clear acrylic panels held in a net of steel cables. The architecture office of Günter Behnisch designed the park, working with the engineer and architect Frei Otto, a pioneer of light tensile structures. The roof was meant to look open and weightless, the opposite of heavy, monumental stadiums.

That lightness was deliberate. Germany wanted the 1972 Games to show a cheerful, democratic, modern country, very different from the image of the 1936 Berlin Olympics under the Nazi regime. The organisers spoke of the "cheerful Games". Bright colours, soft hills and open views were all part of that message. The tower, plain and functional, stands beside the playful roofs like a quiet older sibling.

The Games themselves carry a painful memory. During the second week, Palestinian militants took members of the Israeli team hostage in the Olympic Village, just north of here. Eleven Israeli athletes and coaches were killed, as well as a West German police officer. A memorial in the park now honours the victims. If you walk the paths later, it is worth pausing there. It is part of the story of this place, and locals do not forget it.

Now, the ride up. The lifts inside the shaft are fast. The trip to the top takes well under a minute, and your ears may pop on the way. The doors open onto the observation level, close to 190 metres above the ground. There is an indoor area behind glass and an open-air deck where the wind pulls at your jacket. On a calm day, it is surprisingly quiet up here.

Here is the second surprise, and it depends on the weather. On a clear day, especially when the warm, dry Alpine wind called the Föhn blows in from the south, the Alps appear on the horizon. The mountains are many kilometres away, yet they can look close enough to touch, a jagged white line above the green countryside. Munich people love these days. The air turns sharp and clear, and the whole mountain chain suddenly seems to stand at the edge of the city.

Turn toward the old town and look for two green onion domes. Those are the twin towers of the Frauenkirche, the city's cathedral. Munich has long kept its historic centre low, so those church towers still read clearly on the skyline. Closer by, just east of the park, you can see BMW's headquarters, a silver tower shaped like four engine cylinders. Next to it sits BMW Welt, a curving glass and steel building where customers collect new cars.

Now look at the green hill rising beside the lake. It is called the Olympiaberg, and it looks entirely natural. It is not. The hill is built largely from rubble cleared from Munich's bombed streets after the Second World War. Broken houses, churches and shops were carted here and piled up. Grass and trees grew over the top. Today people climb it to fly kites, watch sunsets and listen to concerts drifting up from the stadium.

Below the observation level there is a revolving restaurant. It turns slowly, so diners see the whole city pass the window during a single meal, without ever leaving their seat. The movement is so gentle that you mostly notice it when the view changes. For many families in Munich, a meal up here marks a birthday or an anniversary. The tower is not only a sight for visitors; it is part of local life.

When you are back on the ground, take a few minutes to walk around the base. The park stays open and busy in every season. In summer, people swim, row and sunbathe by the lake. In winter, the paths fill with walkers wrapped in scarves, and the concrete shaft stands pale against a low grey sky. Concerts, festivals and sporting events still bring big crowds to the stadium and the arena.

Before you leave, stop and look up once more. The tower that seemed so far away is now familiar. You have stood inside its top and watched the city and the mountains from its windows. Notice the light on the concrete, the people on the paths, the tent roofs shining to the side. Then walk on, and from almost anywhere in Munich, you will see that grey line rising above the trees.