Hosen Tauschen, Bitte.

While we’re on the subject of being undateable and welcoming unwelcome suitors, boy do I have a story for you! We’re going to take the tone of this blog from somewhere around my life is a mess but it’s funny and IDGAF if you laugh at me to #missedopportunity #imnotaniceperson #actuallysorrythistime. I hope to someday include the following in a memoir of my escapades entitled I Like Soup: And Other Pickup Lines. I might have to rework the title a little.

It all started at Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany circa 2006. A few short months earlier I had moved to Lyon, France to “study” abroad – AKA binge drink with Americans, throw up Beaujolais Nouveau in my shower and recite my kebab order in French. Needing to take a break from the acidity of bottom shelf red wine, I jetsetted my way to Munchen to fulfill a lifelong dream of drinking steins of beer bigger than my head. A couple of my friends happened to be studying in Germany at the time, and one of their German cousins offered to tour-guide our way through the debaucherous Bavarian celebration.

I had you at German cousin, didn’t I? It’s like they can sense the medieval currywurst of my ancestors coursing through my veins and are magnetically drawn to the delicious, delicious smell. I had never met this cousin prior to our trip, but was under strict orders to stay the fuck away from him like I was some sort of 19 year old black widow. I never have much liked following orders. As I walked through the gates of the Frankfurt International Airport, I saw the familiar faces of my friends, two liters of what I knew to be rum and Coke in either of their hands. Next to them was a very tall, slim German with funny little glasses and blonde hair buzzed short against his pink scalp. While not conventionally handsome, my heart skipped a beat and within 15 minutes I was licking melted Toblerone off of his fingers in the S-Bahn. We were all fucked.

Our first night of singing Sweet Caroline at the tops of our lungs on repeat and making dick jokes anytime someone ate a wurst, we all share the vivid memory of kissing the same guy, though our descriptions all vary slightly. In the days before smartphones, you only had your God given, substance abused brain to count on. One of us remembers this man having lost part of one of his arms, cut off at the elbow. Another remembers that he had just one full arm; the other cut off at the shoulder. In my memory, this man had neither his left nor right arm, and a kind friend held up the heavy steins of beer so that he could drink. What happened to his arms?! Everything was a blur, but nobody cared.

So, in the dank heat of the beer tent, I kissed the German, too. This is around the time that I should have realized that looks aren’t everything, because I forgot to pack shampoo and couldn’t wash my bangs for a total of four days and thought that wearing a headband would make it better? Unrelated; German toilets are equipped with what I understand to be a poop shelf, or a platform for your poop to land on inside of the bowl so that you can get a good look before praying to any number of Gods that the low flow will completely flush it.

#neverforget that you can wash your bangs in the sink with hand soap in a pinch.

On our last night in Munich, away from the hustle and bustle of the big tops in a cozy countryside B&B, my friend became drunkenly aware of the not-so-secret love affair with her cousin and trudged onto the hotel balcony, scratchy blanketing in tow, refusing to come inside until morning. I tried going after her but subsequently tripped and sliced my arm open on the door slide. Unaware that I was bleeding, the German took my arm tenderly, and slowly licked the bright red blood from the length of my forearm. So, that was weird.

Despite the vampire warning signs, the German and I kept in touch after I got back to France. I was on the outs with my shitbag American boyfriend, so I was really appreciative of any genuine attention. I gladly accepted international packages full of chocolates, tiny champagnes, knockoff handbags from Milan and handwritten notes on what can only be described as high quality parchment. They were always beautiful written words in large, flowing cursive about how he hopes I’m happy and living my life to the fullest. That whole YOLO thing is not just an obnoxious millennial trend that I adopted 10 years too late. It’s real!

I had constant invitations to visit him in Berlin, a city that I wouldn’t make it to for another 10 years. Trying my hand at being polite, I extended an open invitation for him to visit me in Lyon instead, which he immediately accepted. The weekend of Mardi Gras, that German boy sat on a 16 hour bus one way to spend approximately 48 hours with me. Contrary to the advice my best bro was giving me of well you have to sleep with him now, I treated him like trash the entire weekend. All I wanted to do was drink imported Corona with my friends at a club in Vieux Lyon, eat my kebab harissa que des oignons and pass out like every other weekend. I’m a creature of habit, what can I say?

After I made a point to sleep on the couch the entire weekend, I doubted that I’d ever see the German again, but a music festival took me back to Germany a month later where I was to spend a damp weekend camped outside of the Nurburgring drinking vodka Cokes for breakfast, and snacking on tinned bratwurst and curry ketchup on white bread.

It was great that the German was pleased with my being there, but was painfully obvious that he was trying way too hard. So my friend and I, with dirty bangs and nothing but vodka in our tums, basically tried to ice him out. This backfired when we were waiting for Papa Roach to come on stage, and my friend began hyperventilating under her plastic poncho. I tugged on his sleeve to ask for help, and was met with the same cold shoulder that we’d been giving him all weekend. My friend’s breathing became more and more erratic and she had no choice but to bolt through the crowd in search of a toilet. Naively thinking that we had just averted a crisis, we made our way back to the campsite to detox for a minute.

“I need the bathroom again,” I could hear the urgency in her voice.

“What? Now? We’re almost back to the campsite, can you hold it?” I asked, looking down the winding road ahead of us that led to the field of tents.

“I CAN’T HOLD IT. MAKE SURE NOBODY IS COMING.”

I looked around, and gave the all clear, only to turn back just in time to see her shitting up against a chain link fence on the side of the road. We were close, but is anyone really that close? I quickly looked away, only to notice a group of festival goers coming around the bend. Well shit.

The time finally came to go back to France. I thought that these were the last moments I’d spend in Bavaria, and as we drove through the winding countryside to avoid traffic, I stared out the window in complete awe of how I got to this place, with these people, and how I hadn’t yet died of alcohol poisoning.

We made it to the Frankfurt airport with time to spare and we all said our awkward goodbyes. I thanked the German for the festival making a conscious effort to avoid eye contact. This is the moment that he chose, lanky arm outstretched, to present me with an ornately leather-bound book.

“This is for you,” he said before walking away, not looking back. He definitely stole my dramatic thunder, I’ll give him that.

“Oh my God, this better not be his diary,” I laughed as we walked to our terminal, turning the book over in my hands. As you do when you arrive at the airport far too early, we headed to the nearest Irish Pub, ordered a couple of pints, and stared at the book in the middle of the round table. “I can’t open it. You do it.”

My friend snatched it greedily up from the table, “I hope it’s his diary,” she said, before quickly lifting the book’s flap. The first page read, Als der Wind die Sonne davontrug. 2006/2007. When the Wind Blew Away the Sun. YOU GUYS.

The next page was a dedication, entirely in German. As we thumbed through the pages, we could see that this wasn’t a diary at all. Instead, it appeared to be sixty-seven painstakingly beautiful handwritten story pages. As a French speaker, I never had high hopes for understanding German in its entirety. That day in the Irish Pub, over pre-flight beers, my friend clumsily poured over the words, trying to translate chunks of text into English. From what we gathered, this was the fictional story of my future with the German. I can neither confirm nor deny that it ends with us looking down at Earth from our moon house, grateful that we found happiness in each other.

I was appalled to the point of embarrassment. I didn’t want to have a book written about my life with someone I had only ever met three times. Thinking back on it now, that’s the fucking dream. I can’t even get a guy to respond to a text in emojis let alone dedicate an entire book to me. The sadness of letting that European citizenship slip through my fingers is unfounded.

Over the years, it somehow never occurred to me to make use of Google Translate, so here’s what you’ve all been waiting for:

This story comes from pure fiction, and is dedicated to one person only. Fanning thoughts of this wistful young lady and my love for her have inspired me to write my pen swiftly. Although she speaks only a few, few words of German, I deliberately wrote this story in German. I hope that she will read this book and understand it someday. In thanks and love to the person with whom every moment is precious – Magaly Lynn.

Did I ugly cry into my phone after fat fingering all of that German? None of your business. Wow. I almost regret telling him how weird it is to write a book for someone you barely know via MSN Messenger, or whatever antiquated chat system we had 15 years ago. Almost.

A couple of years ago, I found myself back in Germany on vacation. I can’t seem to stay away. The disapproving cousin had mentioned that the German was living in Munich for work, and that he was still pining for me after all of this time. I found that rather hard to believe, but was still tempted by the idea. When I arrived in Munich, I shot him a message to try my luck at finding plans for New Years Eve, and possibly securing another ride to the majestic countryside castle of Neuschwanstein. After a little back and forth, it was decided that we’d meet for Bavarian brunch under the gate at the head of Neuhauser Strasse. Such romance.

As I nervously climbed the escalators out of Karlsplatz, I searched the crowd for that puerile, lanky guy with glasses from a decade before. My eyes scanned left and right, and as I got closer to the gate, I spotted him. Damn, he had grownnnn. As I approached, I noticed that he wasn’t alone. I don’t know what I had expected really? Surely there was no world in which he loved me so much that he had spent the last eight years pining for me all the way from Germany. He had every right to move on from whatever the hell that was, but I was still a little bummed that my the fairytale I suddenly made up didn’t pan out. That EU passport is my white whale. Damnit.

After a Bavarian brunch of weisswurst and weissbier with the German and his now wife, we strolled the streets of Munchen together one last time. I was on my best behavior and didn’t even once ask his fiancée if she had received her own personal love book. See, I’m not all bad!

… bet she didn’t tho.

I’m Old Style, You’re Just Old.

My spidey senses tingled, telling me to cancel any chance to live off of pierogis for the rest of my life. Something about texting me nonstop for the two days leading up to our date romantic prose like, “A nice drinks and maybe some kissing would definitely be nice ;)” really gives me murder vibes, don’t ask me why. Back and forth banter about pagers, Ikea furniture and dive bars, on the other hand, is exactly what I’m looking for. So while Friday night was spent squished onto a slippery leather sofa binge watching Veep with my three male roommates under 25, Saturday night I almost made a fake beeper, realized it was too much work, and then walked the few blocks to meet a man for a can (or 3) of Strohs at my favorite neighborhood dive bar. He ordered PBR and the rest is history, really 😍

Betting is now open for how many dates I’ll get before he ghosts.

A friend once told me that I’m undateable; and then she told everyone else. She even went so far as to suggest that I meet with her other single female friend of a certain age so that we could discuss what exactly we’re doing wrong. What about all the old men that have tried to date me over the years? Hmm? If that was my thing, I’d be rolling in some kind of foreign currency drinking endless Magners’ while watching non-stop rugby so that I could shamelessly oggle some super fine ass while my better half took his afternoon nap by now.

Let’s take a look at one such missed opportunity via a Note I recently found in my phone.

May 5, 2014 2:31am

Kimchi Restaurant

Serpuhovskaya Metro or Oktobr

26 Stremyanny Pereulok

[RIP]

TO DO: WEAR CANADIAN TUXEDO* TO FIT IN

Lady in Canadian tuxedo on metro with animal carrier. Petting dog or cat and looked like it was the most happy moment of her life. Content, heartwarming, the little things in life.

Everlast and Johnny Cash Folsom Prison Blues mashup at Hard Rock. WTF? Worse than Nickelback and Robby Williams Millenium in a short sleeved turtleneck waving his arms in the air like it’s 1999… because it probably was. I hope.

I assume that the song sounded a little like this #sorrynotsorry

Old Italian lady wearing black sweatband on wrist dancing to It’s my Life by Bon Jovi [that’s my jam, girl!] as she eats her burger with a fork and knife.

British paratrooper diplomat

Ladyaalde hats rock

Welshe love only Scottish wiskey

Brought whiskey to secure land deals during some war in the 90s.

Harrodshore…

Been to Africa, will be stationed in Egypt and not afraid, Zimbabwe, went to falls and gave eq. One month salary to guide because u can

“I have to go to the loo then we can dance only if it’s foo fighteres or mochlrback…. [Scream – are we having fun yet, yeeeet, yeeeeet, yeeeeeet, no no]”

Nutty yank dancer with beautiful hair [it me!] – according to 45 year old British foreign affairs diplomat with the British Embassy. Small hands, worn out skin, odd body proportions, getting tattoo of military regiment insignia lasered off. Now it’s just a light teal blob on his forearm that looks like a hammer and sickle outline. Wears cargo pants and Keens [what it is, from the Pacific Northwest?]. Needing reading glasses to write down his name, number and email address for me. Walk of shame to metro with my grandfather felt unclean. He didn’t know who Hugh Jackman was. Clammy metro ride, cold sweats, no public restrooms in case of need to vomit like the day after St Paddy’s in Seoul, coming home walk of shame over an hour away. Had to exit subway to vomit in horrible public toilets [wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last].

*Canadian Tuxedo: wearing denim jeans with a denim shirt and/or denim jacket of the same wash. Outfit may also be comprised of a mini jean skirt or jorts. Bonus points for jean accessories such as cowboy hats or knee-high sandals.

When you look good, you feel good.
(Photo by Jeffrey Mayer/WireImage)

Did you follow that? Good, because neither did I and I was allegedly present. The events leading up to that mess of a memory were as follows: I was craving a bowl of mandu-guk and Google searched for Korean restaurants around Moscow before I made the hour long trek into the city to play tourist. I jotted down the address and followed Google Maps to the location of said restaurant only to find a sad Kimchi sign hanging on the outside of a gutted brick building. There would be no soup for me, as the saying goes.

In a hangry panic, the only reliable restaurant I could think of was the Hard Rock Café at the end of the major tourist street of Arbatskaya. My sugar bloods had dropped too low to concentrate on a Cyrillic menu, so away I went to gorge myself on overpriced Long Island Iced Teas and a big ol’ cheeseburger. I was seated at a hightop in the bar in between two tables with other sad, solo foreigners; mirror images of myself. As I asked the waitress for another drink, she suggested that perhaps I mingle with an older man at the table next to mine, as he was also an English speaker. At this point, what did I really have to lose aside from a few useless organs and what little dignity I had left by age 27? I scootched on over and met my new friend the British paratrooper, aged 45 [or what a 45 year old might have looked like before turning into a mummy].

Since the above Notes do a piss poor job of painting a picture of the evening, my shoddy memory will have to do. We chatted about what we were doing in Moscow, and, learning that I was new in town, he offered to show me an Irish Pub around the corner. Even though it was getting later, I didn’t yet know my way home, and I learned all about stranger danger in elementary school, I obliged. The amateur that I was, I still had a fear of being murdered if I tried to take an unmarked taxi home; besides, I didn’t know my own address. I asked and asked and double asked how late the subway ran, and he assured me that I could get home at any hour. I was later assured by a waitress that I had missed the last train by hours. Not today, you James Bond wannabe.

Beer in my belly and Nickelback to dance to, there was little that I could do at that point other than try to make as much room for Jesus between 007 and myself as we boogied our way to 5am back at Hard Rock Café. I feel like it’s important for everyone to know that after hours it turns into one of the saddest excuses for a club that I’ve ever seen. At an hour when the sun should be rising but doesn’t because Russia, Closing Time played in my head as I begrudgingly followed my new friend home to British Embassy housing in an apartment block not far from da club. I slept fully clothed on top of the covers on the edgity-edge of the bed, and hopefully recited some protection spell I learned from The Craft when I was 12.

In the early afternoon hours, with a mouth tasting of what can only be described as spoiled milk, triple sec and hot garbage, we awoke from our slumber and my friend looked around for his reading glasses before writing his personal information down for me so that we could keep in touch. Aw, bless. He walked me to the nearest subway station and then at the very last minute tried to jump the friend zone fence by saying, “Give us a kiss,” and leaning right in. He is very lucky that I didn’t projectile vomit all over him, and I’m lucky that my reflexes worked well enough to dodge the smooch. I made it out alive! Aside from the whole, you know, loss of dignity thing that we talked about.

I used to be terrified of old people for no apparent reason, yet to this day I am far too trusting of older men. Whether I’m throwing back a few pints with them over a rugby match in Cyprus, accepting bowls of makgeolli from them at a back alley Korean BBQ joint, or taking them up on a free ticket to a Cubs game here in Chicago, I like to think that I make them feel young again, and that makes me feel young again. I almost forget about the midlife crisis I had at 25, and the fact that nobody under the age of 60 is willing to take me on a proper date.

I do, however, know that unless you’re the mummy, or rich enough to cryogenically freeze yourself and wake up in a future where all restaurants are Taco Bell, we only have one life to live so we damn well better Live Más.