Twenty-eight plus 19:30
Birthdays are always somewhat surreal. Even more so when one is alone in a strange city.
I woke to find that my TV had stopped producing the three channels to which I have become accustomed. This situation proved so disturbing, that I rang the doorbell of the neighboring apartment that, coincidentally, belongs to the couple that are renting me my tiny place. By eight-thirty, I had two elderly, half-dressed, perplexed Yugoslavians ambling around my closet-sized flat.
It solved nothing. Shortly thereafter, they quit, and I left the flat for work.
For the first time ever, I made every connection in my typically 75 minute trip to the greenhouse where we rehearse, placing me there unnaturally early, therefore risking over an hour of chatting with Guido the technician, who I now officially find strange, without the buffer of other people.
I decided to walk the last half-hour that would normally be traversed by a bus, in order to kill some time.
On the way, I decided to stop at a German megastore…which sort of resembles a cross between a soviet mental hospital and a Wal-Mart. I bought apples, bananas, carrots, Gummi Frogs, dish detergent and facial wash. As in Wal-Marts, there are charmless eateries by the main entrance/exits. I grabbed a coffee at one and sat down.
There I sat, staring into space, enjoying detesting everything around me, through a stupor of exhaustion and mild hangover. The way every noun here ends with the infuriating “li” suffix. Brezel (pretzel) turns into Brezli, Würst (sausage) turns into Würstli and so on. The way doughy-looking Germans wandered with their packed shopping carts, looking like the pale, blank undead. I turned to look over my right shoulder. A very old, gray, German couple sat at an adjacent table.
They were staring and chewing. And staring and chewing. And chewing. And staring. Their gazes didn’t budge from whatever distant point upon which they were fixed, while two sets of hands brought two identical pastries to two sets of lips, behind which two sets of jaws with two sets of bad teeth chewed and chewed and chewed in the garish light of this most constitutionally narcoticized of Wal-Mart knock-offs.
After I had been fixated on this couple for what seemed like hours, I felt a tap on my shoulder. An old, slim, beef-jerky-colored man with huge white fake teeth was bent over my left side. He held the back page of the Bild newspaper out in front of my face. He pointed with wide-eyed interest at the girl pictured on the page. As per tradition for the girls on the back of the Bild, this specimen’s enormous, tanned breasts were exposed, and she was wearing a pair of tiny white shorts which left little doubt regarding the exact dimensions of her labia.
He pointed excitedly at the picture. “It says here, that she has eighty pairs of shoes and no boyfriend…imagine that!”
What I wanted to say was “What in the fuck is wrong with Stuttgarters.” What I actually said was “Wow. That’s really interesting”.
He was encouraged. He gestured toward the short, black text accompanying the photo. “…and, it says she’d throw any man out of bed who objects to her dogs being there!”
At a loss for what to say in order to end the conversation, I said the first thing that came to my mind “Have you heard the good news of our lord, Jesus Christ?”
His smile instantly faded, and he wandered away, muttering. I grabbed my belongings and left, casting a last glance at the chewing couple, who’d apparently missed the entire exchange.
Rehearsal went as normal. Little skirmishes, minor victories. One step closer to the competent reproduction of somebody else’s twelve-year-old work.
I got back to my apartment around five in the afternoon. It was stinking, sticking hot. The TV still wasn’t working. Laundry is simply not something one does on one’s birthday, and I do after all have one last pair of underwear. What to do, then? I decided that my domicile needed mustard and beverages, and went out in search of these items.
The Stalin-memorial supermarket to the south of my building is simply too depressing to bear, so I wandered south in search of an Aldi, Plus, Lidl, Edecka or Kaiser’s…stores most normal Germans view in the category of basic human rights. Nothing. After considerable meandering, I found a BioSupermarkt, and in my desperation, decided to find drinks and mustard there.
I hate BioMarkts. They tend to charge twice as much for tiny, overripe fruits and veg that’ll already be rotting eighteen hours after purchase. People who feel the need to pay six euros for a bottle of juice should be put away. I really don’t care if my mustard is free-trade, to be honest. Still, I found some that was, and grabbed it. The drinks? Forget it.
As I made my way toward the checkout, walking past free-range, humane chocolate and compostable diapers, I heard a female voice.
I turned. “Would you like to sample our organic rose water spray?” The woman was blond, tall and thin with a long, horse-like face and very thin lips.
“Sure”, I said, and she pumped a liberal portion all over my arms and shoulders.
“Do you like it?” she asked, “People in Iran drink rose water for its soothing benefits.”
I smelled the insides of my elbows for a second, tube of mustard in hand. It actually was very nice. I looked up and smiled at the woman.
“I’m twenty-eight…” I said.
There was a long pause. I’m not sure why I decided to say that. I’m not sure what kind of response was expected. She looked to the side briefly, cleared her throat and wordlessly handed me a small free sample.
I paid for my mustard and went home.
