Mein Arsch ist Kalt

 

31 January 2011—Hamburg

I departed for Hamburg.  Each time I must leave a city, it is difficult.  As I travel, I meet an infinite number of marvelous people.  I develop connections and plant the seeds for potentially strong bonds and friendships, only to rip it from the ground shortly thereafter.  Before each relationship is given the chance to flourish, it must be abandoned and left behind—not because it is deserving of such abandonment, but simply out of the necessity that is my pre-conceived plans for travel pushing me ahead.  The dynamic of travel supercedes the static, leaving half-formulated friendships in limbo with unsure promises of future reunions.

In Hamburg I met another host, another kind and open soul with which to share space and time temporarily.  Ester met me at the train station and greeted me with a hug.  We went back to her apartment and quickly became three as another couchsurfer arrived—Angela from Russia.  We were three strangers, brought together by the internet and our own curiosity, now sharing a kitchen as we prepared a delicious carrot and ginger soup.

1 February 2011—Hamburg

Angela has been studying in Hamburg, so she is familiar with the city and offered to show me around.  I accepted, and we began our wanderings despite rather undesirable weather.  It was cold—likely the coldest day I’ve experienced thus far—and the wind cut through my clothing.  Often I found myself chanting “Mein Arsch ist Kalt” as I hopped and skipped to create movement, friction, and ideally warmth (I was rarely successful).  However, it was pleasant having company.  I did not have gaze at a map seeking direction; I simply followed.  And, furthermore, I had a companion whom could take photos of me, proving my existence and presence in Germany.  This saved me the hassle of haphazardly setting my tripod on a bench, snapping test shots, turning on the timer, racing into the frame, and generally causing much confusion for those nearby and much embarrassment for myself.

After preparing dinner alongside Angela, I shared a few beers with an ex-surfer who had stayed with me in Philadelphia.  Facebook gets a lot of criticism, but it certainly has its value.  While I’ve often considered purging my account, I always reconsider when I think about the connections it has allowed me to maintain.  Throughout my life, I have encountered many amazing people with whom I have gotten along quite well.  However, circumstances (generally time and space) do not allow for the practical maintenance of a typical friendship.  However, this does not mean that I do not want future contact with such a person.  Friendships are difficult to maintain without common contextualization, for this is often the content of our conversations.  Therefore, with differing spatial and temporal localities, relationships fizzle.  Facebook, however, enables them to survive this fizzle, allowing a reconnection once localities reconverge and offer a chance for reunion.  This is how I found Ben again, and I’m glad that I could.

In the late evening, Ester’s boyfriend, Torben, returned home for an installation in Münster.  He was quite drunk as he had utilized Mitzfahrzentrale, a German car-sharing program, and had found himself in the backseat with two dominas (professional dominatrixes).  Torben is a photographer and had had an interest in doing a story on just this topic.  It was his lucky night to develop some connections, but there was one catch… he had to drink with them.  As a result, he stumbled in from the rain in the middle of the night, gleeful about his good fortune.

2 February 2011—Hamburg

In the morning, Ester took me to a unique little neighborhood of Hamburg--Blankenese.  Nestled within the hill, homes were linked with only winding steps (4,864 of them).  Allowing yourself to become lost would result in lovely discoveries, and possibly later frustration (as one desperately seeks to go down, while only finding routes up).  I later parted ways with Ester to begin my adventuring solo.  Oye, it was awful weather once again—such a tragedy for such a striking city.  Rather than enjoying her beauty, I felt compelled to huddle indoors, perusing shops instead of sites.

I’ve taken to saying ‘Oye’ and ‘Aye’ a lot.  I’m not quite sure why.

Also, I’m growing ever so slightly obsessed with graffiti and non-sanctioned public art.

As evening approached, I found my bladder begging me for relief.  However, I found no convenient site at which I might offer such reprieve.  I decided to hop on the S-Bahn to Ester’s.  Though she was still at work, her boyfriend Torben was supposed to be home.  When I got to the door I was literally dancing in an attempt to contain myself.  No answer.  Fuck.  Ester worked about a 15-minute walk away.  I may or may not make it.  I may or may not have made it.  I may or may not have found a dark corner off of a side street.  You can pick whichever story suits you fancy and public-relief ethics.

Esther’s friend was performing at an open mic night at a local Jazz Bar.  She invited me to join, and I happily accepted.  When we entered, we had to press through a crowd to reach the bar, and yet another to view the stage.  After several minutes of weaving and muttering “entschuldigen,” we spotted her friend and wiggled our way into the little space behind her.  She would be fifth to sing.  All of the acts were talented, but one in particular stood out and it wasn’t because of his voice.  This stout little man had perhaps the most entertaining dance moves.  And while priceless in and of themselves, when contrasted against awkwardly contradicting appearance and voice, they were elevated to an entirely new level of hilarity.