Safety first

Irrespective of whether or not the child is already rather well padded and protected, and independently of whether the street is actually completely dry, it seems the careful and attentive German mother doesn't overlook the additional security that only a good-quality pair of swimming goggles can offer.

The Shoe Watcher

On Saturday morning, in front of a flower shop on the road into town, I saw a shoe watcher practicing his craft.

As I approached him, on the same footpath, I thought that he must eventually look up and see me, and I was trying to decide between giving him a smile or a more appropriate look of incredulity.  But with the dedication and focus of a true professional - or perhaps someone who had already lost too many shoes through moments of distraction - he just continued on with his detailed observations, ignoring me or oblivious to me.

He picked the shoes up briefly, but as "the eye is not satisfied with seeing", so too it seems the fingers are not satisfied with fondling, and so he put them back down to ponder some more.

Two hours later, as I walked back that way, he was away.  So were the shoes.

As if it had never happened.  But it had.

The Printer Room

When I was in the printer room, gathering up my freshly printed goods, suddenly the door flew open.  There, in the entrance, stood a girl I had never seen before, clearly also with printing on her mind.

She smiled at me, with a short, delicate smile.  We were alone in that small room: just her, me, two printers, a photocopier, and a giant plotter.  One rarely experiences such poetically perfect moments.  It was fate.  She felt it too.  Probably.

In a moment, a thousand pictures of the future flashed and danced before our eyes: the shy, uncertain getting to know one another, the discovery of unexpected commonalities, the superfluous printing trips, the surreptitious letter-writing, the growing affection, the nervous exchanging of our stories, the active listening, the hair-stroking, the comforting, the perfected affection, the house on the island by the river overlooking the meadow between the forests, the forgetting of a birthday, the music wafting around the campfire, the silly argument in which I was right but magnanimously don't dwell on too long, the paint on the walls, on a canvas, on a cat, the passive speaking, the new ways of thinking, the forgiveness, the end.

But sometimes a moment is simply too huge, feelings are too strong, possibilities too deliciously boundless.  One gets scared.

This, I can only assume, is why she quickly gathered her papers, turned around, switched off the light, and left me alone in the dark with my thoughts, as if I hadn't been there.

The Offer

Recently, there were several people on the main street holding signs to indicate their participation in the Free Hugs Campaign" ('Free hug' being translated as 'Umarmung umsonst' in a less huggable language).

It's a very beautiful idea: random(ish) acts of kindness to promote connectivity and an appreciation of self and others.

It is only if one starts to assign too much worth to the identity of the hugger that the delightful purity of the empathetic endeavour is somehow diluted.  But one must admit: the hugger's identity does in large part dictate whether or not 'free' is good value or not.

Examples of instances in which sharing a 'free hug' might still be considered a net loss.

The Phone Licker

Lest there be any doubt, this really is a drawing of a man on the main street enthusiastically, but carefully, licking his mobile phone.

Then, when he was finally satisfied that it was clean as a kitten, he put it back in his pocket.

Otherwise he looked like a normal parent.  But sometimes it can be difficult to see beyond the phone-licking.

Hair

I'm planning to return home for a week or so at the end of August.  I intended to come sooner, but didn't quite figure out the details of that sensibly in advance.

The planned visit is, obviously, primarily for the delight of seeing family and friends, followed by the relief and joy of interacting in shops and restaurants with less confusion, eating entirely recognisable things in a fully equipped kitchen, and being able to go to the toilet in a house without having to first swing my sink into the shower.  Nevertheless, it's not quite irrelevant that I need to arrange regular trips back home in order to avoid a regression back to the fateful 'long-haired months' of 2006/07.

I really don't want to go somewhere here to get my hair cut.  I try to avoid situations in which I might need to talk too much to strangers without any clear idea of the outcome, or explain anything more complex than could be expressed by pointing and grunting if absolutely necessary.  I've only just recently managed to pluck up the courage to ask for bread rolls ('Brötchen') in bakeries, partly because I've been told foreigners pronounce it amusingly (we do) and partly because there is a risk of follow-up questions*.  Nevertheless, shops generally aren't the worst.  It is comforting to know that, if the required interactions go badly, at least I can leave a shop fairly quickly.  What I don't want is to know that, instead, I will have to stay seated, replaying the foolishness in my mind while caped like a superhero whose only power is linguistic incompetence, as a stranger touches my head.

But, realising that the trip won't be for some weeks, and inspired by the unexpected support of my mum (a sure sign that my hair must have been getting pretty unruly), I finally mustered the courage to implement the emergency plan of shaving my head myself.

It was arguably the most difficult thing I have ever attempted.  Arms do not contort enough, eyes cannot see far enough, two mirrors cannot be arranged well enough to make this really possible**.  It was early the next day before I was finally able to stand triumphantly in my hair-lined flat, and even then uncertainty was a more dominant emotion.

I don't know for sure whether it worked.  My mum was able to offer vital advice and diagnoses through video-conferencing at important stages, and in the end she said that she thought it had gone all right.  But I knew that it was somewhat like an expert trying to judge the severity of an oil spill from BP's grainy footage.  It wasn't quite the same as seeing it in person.  So now I need to wait until Monday, and hope that my colleague's honest side will overcome his mischievous side when I solicit his opinion.


*-I'm getting better though.  Last week I asked for sunflower-seed bread, which is 'Sonnenblumenkernbrötchen'.  Yes.  One word.  'Sonnenblumenkernbrötchen'.

**-I realised later it might have been better to try it in Cafe Extra Blatt.  Here, if you choose the right (or, if you're paranoid, wrong) seat, there are enough mirrors around that I once calculated you can see yourself from approximately 10 different angles just by moving your head slightly - thereby making it the ideal cafe for the self-obsessed cubist.

The Photographer

It looked like a normal date - maybe a first date - and she didn't seem scared at all.

But, while I am not a photographer, there is something about the appearance of a massively oversized zoom lens pointed at a girlfriend not one metre away that raises suspicion as to whether he has ever photographed a woman before.

Or, if he has, whether it was done with her knowledge and consent.

Argentina

OK, I was wrong.  Perkeo isn't a lovely, quiet place to watch football after Germany have progressed past the second round.  It's a seething cauldron of sausage, beer and patriotism.

Or maybe the Germans are just loud everywhere now.  Perhaps everywhere there's one particularly loud German wearing only glittering pink trousers and suspenders.  I can't know for sure, because I only saw the one they had in Perkeo yesterday.

When the first goal was scored, I actually felt a bit scared.  I thought it was good that Germany were winning 1-0.  At least, I thought it wasn't bad.  I celebrated a little bit within my own mind.  That was enough for me.  Maybe there would be other goals anyway.  It was much too soon to draw any conclusions.  So I was happy to return to my simultaneous game-watching and sketching.

It seemed like the others weren't so calm and philosophical about it.  I wasn't ready for that level of noise.  It's not easy to keep drawing under those circumstances.  I don't think anyone else there even tried it.

It only got worse after that.  4-0 in the end.  The streets were full of jubilant supporters, with superfluous black, red and gold decorations on their clothes and faces, and even children squealing their love for Deutschland.  Cars drove around, while their occupants expressed delight by the undelightful sound of their horns - as if all humanity had suddenly changed its predilections and decided that traffic jams were the best things ever.  I don't know how the level of joy can be raised if they actually win the thing, but I suppose we are all aware that that probably won't be necessary.