After waiting for two hours alone in the baggage claim area for Kathleen’s separate flight to arrive, Tine, Kathleen’s sister, and her male companion picked us up at the old Tegel Airport in Berlin.
It was a long drive back to their parents’ house. As soon as we got there, we tossed our luggage to the side — neatly, of course, as Germans are fastidious creatures — and plopped ourselves onto a freshly made German bed for a much-needed nap.
Afterward, my then-girlfriend/now-wife and I ate a cold dinner of bread and cold cuts and then watched Clint Eastwood’s movie Mystic River on DVD, or as Bostonians would say, “Mistick Rivah.”
The next morning, Tine cooked us breakfast, and since the jet lag had me convinced I’d gone back in time to my Aunt Dolly’s house, save for the brightly-colored German walls, I sat at the kitchen table bouncing my leg nervously.
“Let’s eat outside on the patio,” Tine thankfully said, in German. Thank God, I thought. Fresh air for my nerves.
Kathleen’s parents’ patio. Photo by author.
That afternoon, Kathleen and I went for a bike ride into the city and stopped at a charming cafe to eat ice cream. At night, we met Kathleen’s friend at a beach bar with a bunch of sand on the floor — inconvenient, to say the least — and had a few cocktails.
Brandenburg Gate. Photo by author.
It got me thinking about recreations as I sat there listening to Kathleen and her friend blab in German.
