A Drunk and a Slam Dunk

Giving tours of a concentration camp every single day for nearly two weeks became quite taxing. Depression began to creep into my heart and consume my very being. The nights were darker, the wind colder. Melancholy streets awash with human tears. Poe would feel right at home.

That is until two days ago. It started off as any common tour. A multi-national group of about twenty joined me on my daily exodus to the depths of human evils. Luckily, there was one gentleman who seemed to lighten the mood. He was an American, fifty six years of age, from South Carolina, and a retired professor of accounting. Delightful chap. Asking perhaps too many questions, he was “that guy” in the group. The others stared at him and sort of rolled their eyes, giving me the “I feel your pain” look. But no matter. I have had people like this on my tours before. Simply don’t look them directly in the eyes when addressing the group and try to keep your pace vigorous, leaving as little time in between stops as possible. However, my efforts were thwarted on multiple occasions by this man, as he would sort of waddle up to me and slap me on the back, and offer a few charming Southern phrases. One queer quirk of his was his often embarrassing tendency to chuckle at inappropriate times. I mentioned that the SS systematically and randomly executed Soviet villagers in 1941… and he laughed! Perhaps it is just a nervous tendency of his. Nothing to worry about, I imagine.

We continue the tour while he continues in his rather curious manner until we pause for a bathroom break. He went inside first. For unknown reasons I was cautious to follow him. I needed to tinkle, but something was telling me to desist. Ignoring these inner voices, I entered the facilities. Big mistake. I finished doing my business (it was one of those urinals that scares the crap out of me due to its flushing power), and went to the sink. There was the guy washing his hands and filling his water bottle from another bottle that he had sipped copious amounts of liquid from during most of the tour.

“BLAHAALALHAGAZZO?” he muttered with the bottle cap in his mouth.
“What?” replied I, with a furrowed brow.
Removing the cap from betwixt his lips, “You like Ouzo Matt?”
“What the heck is that?” laughed the boy.
“It’s Greek. Here, try it” sayeth he, as he drizzles a small amount into the bottle cap.

That’s when I suddenly remembered the name “Ouzo”. At approximately the same moment I took the cap in my hands and threw it back like a rock star.

Oh crap. I’m a friggin idiot. It’s liquor! Here I am drinking in the bathroom with a crazy old man... while giving a tour of a concentration camp! The shock of my actions smacks me like a morning hangover. Wait a sec… that is why he’s been so odd on the tour…he’s FREAKIN DRUNK. This dude has been drinking booze since the start and he is totally drunk at this point. I mean, stumbling drunk. Stammering drunk. Slobbering drunk. And here I am, drinking with him! I don't know what came over me. I didn't even think, "Hey, when crazy old man offers mystery liquid, it's best to politely refuse." No, I thought, "Liquid? LET'S DO THIS!"

For the duration of the tour, I could not rid myself of the taste of licorice mixed with the sour sensation of shame.


IN OTHER NEWS:
I am currently watching “My Fair Lady” while writing this. I must say… overrated movie. The acting sucks, it's way too long, and it is obvious that Audrey Hepburn is not singing most of the songs. She is beautiful though. Classicly beautiful. I remember that I had a conversation with my dad before I left, saying that I think that certain woman will always be viewed as highly attractive, regardless of current fashions and styles. Except if they are from the 80's. Cindy Lauper and Tiffany won't make the list.

Speaking of beautiful:
The night after my Dachau tour, I met up with a hot Brazilian chick (and her very nice friend who I was not really interested in... in that way). She had been on my tour the previous day and there was sort of an instant connection. She liked my beard. Her words, not mine. I like where this is going. Also, she's a huge fan of The Police and has seen U2 and the Stones in concert. Attraction? Obvious. We plan to meet at the Indie club at 10:15. An hour before that, I am dancing around my place trying to decide what to wear. I settle on the simple black collared shirt. Classy, sophisticated, not too dressy, but not to shabby. I show up. Alone. Nobody is there. I wait fifteen minutes. Nothing. Shit. Screw you guys, I’m going home.

I show up for my tour the next day at 11am… and there she is. Alone. Hell yeah. She walks up to me, grabs my scarf, re-ties it (tight), pulls me in and says “I am so sorry, I need to make this up to you. I want to see you tonight.” Suddenly and without warning, my balls re-appeared (see previous blog posts).

We meet up that night at 7, as she has a night train. After an exchange of salutations, I stop her and say “First thing first: what’s your name?” She says “It doesn’t matter," takes my hand and we start walking. That was friggin hot. It ends up her name is Fernanda (any Trinity male will know why I kind of chuckled when she said that). We go to a hip, sweaty bar and grab a drink. Once inside, she strips her jacket and sweater off. Holy crap. This just got a whole lot more interesting.

We chat... we break the touch barrier. Nothing happens. She has to catch a train that night (fuck), so we leave the bar. On our way to the hostel where her bags are located, we realize that the train leaves five minutes ago, so we run to the hostel, grab the bag, run to the subway, run to the train station, run to the track… and there is her train, waiting for her. Dammit. I thought the Germans were supposed to be punctual... At the platform, we part ways, never to see each other again.

She was my kind of woman: Exotic. Witty. Intelligent. Dark. She had attitude. She got moxy. She re-affirmed my belief that I will eventually find "that one." It wasn't her, but dammit, it's gonna be somebody just like her. I need to take a cold shower.

Happy New Year (Neus Jahr, or really "Silvester" in Germany) and Cheers,
Matt