Overheard today while walking through the streets of Nuremberg, "The Germans are all bastards, I want nothing whatever to do with them." Well, OK, but I think that might be a slight generalization, yet I can understand the sentiment. As a few examples: I had been taking all the usual precautions in making sure that I was never caught outside the floating 1K radius without correct WC change. The reason for this I learned the hard way 16 years ago in Naples. That very humiliating lesson cost me a most embarrassing taxi ride and a pair of Levis. This morning as I waltzed the platz again I realized that I was outside the (comfort) zone. I started the search at the usual places, but no WC. Fortunately I wasn't far from the Hauptbahnhof, so back I went, picking up speed on the way. When I found it, the cost was a bargain at 50 euros and I noticed the attendant sitting reading the paper dressed in what appeared to be janitors coveralls emblazoned with day glow green. Dropping coin allowed passage through the turnstile and into the private chamber with the stainless steel, one-piece commode. Duty done, I washed hands (there are no towels or blowers so you're on your own here) and attempted departure only to be brought to an immediate halt by the aforementioned turnstiles. I am thinking that I have never come across two-way turnstiles, so there must be another exit somewhere. I look about not wanting to disturb the attendant who is reading the sports page. There is none. I look for buttons to push, levers to pull, instructions to follow. Nine, none and non. Then I hear it. Something abrasive and accusatory. Like a cop or my seventh grade math teacher (a nun). I plead immediate nolo- contendre, both hands going up in the universal "I have no idea" gesture and say meekly, "Anglais". He kicks back his chair, causing a screeching echo that probably was heard all the way to Munich and marched towards me with body language that suggested that I default to Tae Kwon Do fighting positing One. He walks past pushing the inside of the turnstile and commands "Go". Resisting the urge to ask where is that instruction written (on the fucking shit room door?) I exit watching him return to his chair, paper and underachieving position with the state. Que bastardo!
Example number two. Germans, and to be fair, the French and Italians too, have yet to understand the idea of second hand smoke. I guess they are all a little peeved at being kicked out of cafes, bistros, bars, restaurants, subway stations, hotels, stores, shops and just about every place that does commerce, and some that don't. So they smoke outside. And it makes no difference who happens to be around. I am sitting right now at a cafe that serves french style coffee and wonderful pastries, I have joined maybe twenty people outside to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. I am sitting quietly sipping coffee and writing this to you on my trusty old iBookG4, and taking on the second hand smoke of EVERYONE ELSE HERE. It seems obligatory that on every table, as on every lip, is a cigarette. This is gross. It is also very comical. I swear if you watch smokers closely (they can be of any nationality) there is a pantomime ritual that borders on comedy. Sit, fumble for one, try to light in a light gale, inhale, cough, cross leg, try to act relaxed as powerful pollutants attack your throat, lungs and heart, attempt to look sophisticated, cough, and repeat until cigarette has been completely inhaled, take a deep breath, cough. OK, here comes a new comedian, a middle aged mother of four (I instinctively know this), wearing the obligatory cammy cargo pants and an almost too tight stripped blue blouse. She has a tray with one grase tasse cafe and what appears to be a croissant covered in chocolate and sliced almonds. She puts her tray on the table two tables upwind from mine. She pulls back the rubberized-rattan backed chair and sits. OK, here we go. Even before she takes one sip of her coffee, she is into her plain black hand bag (with one silver star near the strap) and is pulling out.......yes.....here they come......a pack of........Marlboro Lights. And she starts the routine. I am laughing so hard at this point that I have to turn my head so as not to spoil to show.
But the laughter quickly subsides and she gets the last laugh....as a putrid plume of exhaled carcinogens makes its way ardently towards my turned up nose.
You win, I'm outta here.
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