You’ve arrived in Freiburg im Breisgau, south-west Germany. It’s been a long day (early flight … wrong bus … right bus … very busy train), and you and your other half want a drink. You stumble upon the Markthalle (market hall) in the old town. It’s packed.
People shoulder their way through the crowds, choose what to eat from one of the food stalls (curries, sushi, sausages and sauerkraut), get a drink from one of several bars (beer, wine, cocktails), and settle down at shared tables to enjoy.
It’s the Thursday before Easter, about 7pm, and there’s one free stool at the bar that looks the best.
You sense that a woman with blonde hair (who is standing at the bar, not sitting) is curious about you. Maybe she wants to help. You almost catch her eye, then you do catch her eye. She smiles. She speaks to you. Yes, she does want to help. She tells you that the free stool you’ve seen – next to her – is yours. She vanishes and returns with another – it’s not clear where from – and sets it down beside the first. Instructs you both to sit. You do so and say, “Danke!“
She smiles and looks at you. Pretty blue eyes with a big hint of mischief. Spiky short hair.
You realise you’re going to have to speak German.
You realise you’re going to need a drink quick.
Michaelis, the barman (it says so on his shirt), knows you speak English, because you (plural – this will be a language lesson of sorts) are wondering aloud what to have. And he asks, “What would you like?”
Well, you’ll be damned if you’re going to answer in English on your first evening in Germany, so you request, with care, “ein Bier und ein Wein. Bitte.“
Ah, but which?
You cheat. The beer is fine, but you cannot compute, let alone select and repeat, any of the wines on Michaelis’ vocalised list of compound German names (he’s messing with you, for sure). So you say in what you hope to be a considered kind of way, “Der Zweite, bitte.” (“The second, please.”).
The pouring is generous. You say “Cheers!” and “Prost!” to each other, to Michaelis, and to the woman with spiky blonde hair, and she says “Cheers!” and “Prost!” and clinks her glass with yours.
(She’s drinking Crémant de Loire. Tells you it’s delicious.)
You take that first sip. It’s good … so good. And you don’t wait to take another sip because it’s been a long day, remember, and you’re beginning to relax … and that second sip is a big one … it’s such a lovely drop. And you rest your elbows on the bar, allow your body to slump, and you look to your left and into the woman’s merry blue eyes.
You hope you’re ready.
Phrase book chat first. She’s called Liesl. Lives in France, just over the border, half an hour away, but is originally from Düsseldorf. Has a daughter, a husband, a mother-in-law. She’s done her weekly shop and is now having a drink. Actually, this is her second glass, she giggles. Does this every Thursday.
She has a lightness about her like a bird. Which is probably why she’s not taken a seat herself. It would only tie her down.
The next hour or so goes something like this.
Liesl talks more than you, because she has fluency and you don’t. You manage simple statements, zero sophistication, and she fills in the gaps. If she makes assumptions, you don’t correct her, but she gets most things right. She calls you ‘schlau‘ because she’s got people skills and wit – she knows as she winks at you that, actually, she’s the ‘clever’ one.
Liesl has lights for eyes and laughs like a girl. She touches your arm when making a point. Her words flow up, down and around like birdsong.
You gather a muddle of information, small clues about her life. A life in which being a mother to her adult daughter feels just the same as yours with your children. The worries, the joys, the everything. There are a couple of misunderstandings, but an expression can say what language cannot. And when things get hairy linguistically, you turn to your right, pretend to translate for your other half, and Liesl takes over in German-English fluidity.
Eventually, Liesl has to go. She’s had one too many, she says, and still has to go home and cook for her family. You exchange numbers the old-fashioned way, on a scrap of paper using a pen Liesl finds in the depths of her bag. She gives you a hug, gives Michaelis a hug, tells you she’ll be in touch – maybe she’ll even visit the UK! But the last time she was there (in the 1990s) it felt overcrowded and rained all the time. Nor could she cope with the roundabouts! She starts to talk about Brexit, but then remembers it really is time to go.
Later, you want to recall everything Liesl said, but mostly you just need to sleep. You manage to scribble in your diary that she was “nice and fun”, which doesn’t do her any justice at all. So two weeks on, you want to explain why Liesl left such a strong impression on your first night in Freiburg (and she doesn’t even live in Germany). And you wonder who she’ll meet this Thursday when she enjoys her two glasses of Crémant de Loire at Michaelis’ bar having achieved her weekly shop.
PS Absorption in Liesl’s language lesson means there are no photos of the Markthalle, so the images above and below are of elsewhere in Freiburg. Luckily, someone else snapped Michaelis here.
Have Paprika, Will Travel 