As I write to you I am so very tired. However, I have an obligation. Company is on the way. People are counting on me to be my usual self. At this moment I can barely see out of my left eye. I lay on my right side. I pray all is delayed, postponed or cancelled. I did attempt to get confirmation that a thing would still indeed be happening. I got none. Well all I got was dissonance. This is normal and expected. But today of all days I really don’t want any of that. I feel the odds stackIng against me. I am not well. I am not myself. I have been inundated with ailments. All new to me. And ever since I’ve been pushed to my limit trying to acclimate to Germany I have been suffering. Seriously, far beyond allergies and culture shock I just keep being pained. I thought when learning the language was behind me, even if temporary, I would be forever cured. Of course not. It is destined for me to be in pain whilst being here. I am agonized trying to move about. I find myself waddling though the easiest of situations. So much is made to be unbearably hard by her and them. Her being Germany. Them being the Germans (zee Germans). If it isn’t my body turning against me it will be the bruises of confrontations. Physical black and blue ones from being shoved and/or an ego one completely undetectable to all around me. There is the drilling all the time that eats away at my ears. Then there is the cold that has fought with my kidneys. And now there is the anguish of going to market and buying eggs. Yes even that is now going to be painful. So now I’m lying here trying to stop my head from exploding. Yet still the drilling is loud this weekend, the cold luft is involuntarily flowing through the apartment and I am reliving the moment in which I begrudgingly bought 32 free range eggs.
I know. What am I going to do with all these eggs? And why must I complain all the time? And why must I exert myself to make every encounter a poetic tale to solicit onto others? Because telling is therapeutic and what else is there to do. No one listens to me in any language. No one understands me in person or on a page. And if I don’t express myself my entire body will implode versus this cluster headache destroying just my head. It is this or I become “Nell”. So here we are met again with yet another disagreeing situation and hoping to make light of it. These are inevitable and occur consecutively. I just got rid of a shitty gym membership yesterday. Naturally today the egg lady would spit in my eye less than 24 hours later. A door closes and another one … closes. Today I was offered eggs on loan. What a fascinating concept that is. Is it really so that I get up most Saturdays and some Fridays, put on my best casual clothes and trek all the way to this eccentric character who sells fucking chicken shit orbs, I do this for the better part of a year, all for her to assume magically all of sudden this week I cannot afford 2,80€ in artisanal eggs? Actually, she thought I said I only have 2,30€ so I was begging her for eggs. She replied with enthusiasm that she would gladly loan me the eggs and I could pay her the next week. As if I was destined to be there every week even when I somehow don’t have .50 cents difference. I’m still baffled as to how the number 32 in this god awful language became whatever that was. In fact I’m reeling.
The sheer reality is I had this cluster headache since late last night. I had to get up unreasonably early for a Saturday. My husband was being my husband. I had planned this wonderful outfit and now the weather had gone to shit. Everything was really falling apart. I was also pressed for time. It became even more cold and windy the moment I left the house. And then I was in severe pain through my skull and bones. I purposely walked a different direction as to avoid crowds. I was constantly checking the time. It was going to rain any second. And then I get to the egg lady and there is a curving line around her truck. I am a dumb American who respects queuing even in an unorthodox situation like a farmers market. When one grows up with unreasonable elders who always yell about places not having enough “checkers” you grow to just wait your turn. As per usual some crotchety old German lady thinks it is perfectly acceptable to skip me. I’ve grown used to this even in America as white people always pull the I’m sorry I didn’t see you card. That only happens occasionally in the states but here it’s daily with no cards to pull. I generally get the we don’t queue response. What I don’t care for is the patronizing advice that maybe as an outsider I’m the one not respecting some unwritten rule. No. People are assholes. And this particular elder decided to take her cart and literally shove it in front of me. For a brief moment I considered the idea that as I flanked the line and turned with my cart she may have assumed I was just passing by. So in that she took her place and wasn’t in the wrong. Nein. In thinking objectively and in relation to physics that Oma was putting way more effort into this to be right. If I do a 180 with a 360 wheel cart and you are somehow now magically directly on my left side … you tried it. So to smirk and place ones cart against my left leg and foot was a tad aggressive to be in the right. And unfortunately the German way is for me to physically assert myself as well which is so out of my character and heartbreaking because I’m supposed to respect her. Anyways this exchange was quite physical and audible. Every time she shoved that cart on my leg and in my personal space she made certain to grunt and expertly clank the wheels on the concrete. I smiled. I ignored. I eventually stood in such a manner she was essentially in market traffic versus in line at all. I was also prepared to possibly buy all the remaining free range brown eggs which tickled me. I thought please let me ruin whatever baking plans she might have. Please Satan.
Of course when it was my turn the egg lady recognizes me. She knows just how many eggs and which ones I want. I generally like this lady and I enjoy our exchanges. And after today I won’t mince words. Those eggs are literally a different price every time I go! This is annoying but I’m not losing sleep over it. At any market most vendors if not all deal in cash and guesstimates. This is especially so in Europe. And I have so little cash on me I am rarely doing arithmetic or remotely concerned if I’m getting ripped off or not. I don’t like cash and I don’t really carry it. I usually go to the market with under 20 Euros mostly in loose change. The vendor yells out a price and I pay it. Sometimes I struggle with this conversation as German numbers are really complicated. After a certain point the digits are audibly said backwards. So things get confusing and I personally don’t ever want to be in a position where I have a 50€ bill because I will be robbed by someone. Most days I just get my eggs and leave. The goal is to get out of the house. No more no less. It isn’t important that I make acquaintances or buy anything at all. But I like her product and I need to try to get used to the experience of speaking German. And with my broken language skills she is generally more pleasant than most others especially on a transactional basis. She doesn’t throw my selections or aggressively stick out her hand. Maybe it’s just the fact she sells too rare and delicate of a product to be hostile. Now there have been days where she appears tired or burnt out but otherwise she remembers me and that alone is refreshing. I assumed after the battle with the pensioner our small talk would buy me some redemption. Then I would deplete her supply. Then I would saunter off with all of those people thinking I was some sort of chef. Although they probably all thought I lived in an asylum home with 17.5 children. Egal. Anywho, I approach and ask how much one set of 8 costs as to prorate what I was spending. I wasn’t buying all these eggs for myself. I foolishly told someone about them and they asked could I get them 24. I didn’t think it would be a chore. In fact, I set out to get them the day before but then I realized I had too much going on. The Friday market would have been ideal for this. There would have been less people, no queue and the ability to take my time explaining myself. I was also supposed to inquire about the costs and if I could do an advanced order. But now I was physically fighting with a crazy old lady and her metal cart. There was a growing “line” shoving against me. She now had this sort of step right up tone of voice. I jubilantly said how I needed 32 eggs. I had already placed a 10€ bill and over 6€ loose change in a zip top bag. I was prepared. I was ready.
She then changed her voice from the haggard Kölner type to a high pitched whisper and said something about that is okay you can get them on credit and pay me next week. I heard this. I understood this. But I handed her my usual box for my 8. I thought maybe she was positioning ordering and 24 eggs would be arranged for next week as I stood to deplete the pyramid of free range brown eggs. Well the first sign of problems was my egg box was missing a vital part … its inner cups. My husband has this annoying habit of consolidating things in our refrigerator. I try not to express how much this irritates me but it does. I will have something that is perfectly okay in its home in that fridge and he will decide to move part of it or repackage something to make room for a single cup of pudding or 2 beers he won’t consume for a month. So he took half the eggs out and positioned them behind something and then placed the box outside of the kitchen as if it was ready for a refill. And now I was the idiot with a non viable box with a white haired bully behind me. This isn’t the first time my husbands silly antics have put me in an only in Germany compromising position. But this was the first time it was with an audience on a busy Saturday. Anywhere else there would be a chuckle and we would have moved past it. But in this moment time stopped, she was visibly angry at me and everyone behind me laughed. It didn’t occur to me until after I left that not only was I assumed to be begging for eggs/money/pity but I didn’t even have anything to put them in. He doesn’t listen to me but he’ll read this and I bet he will leave my egg box alone now.
So we finally get past the customer is always wrong and 4 eggs are placed in the remaining cups. Another box is retrieved and 4 additional eggs are placed in that. Both are now stacked in front of me and the tone of the “bitte” is a tad shorter than usual. I repeat myself. I would like 32 eggs please. She then gives me the good grief sigh of you want 32 eggs on loan this isn’t Africa you know. Because anything I do remotely culturally out of norm is related to me being from Africa. To them Africa is some wild place where anything goes like standing in a line or buying things with numbers that are in consecutive order. Lions, tigers and agreeable interactions with other members of the human race without retaliation for not bagging ones milk fast enough. Wait no the Africa where people greet each other and don’t shove over carrots. No no the Africa where people are generally happy and express that in their glowing auras, delicious cuisine and impeccable dress. That Africa. Well no I am actually trying to patron your crunchy small business by purchasing 32 of your golden eggs. She pauses in disbelief. She of course has to emphasize how I didn’t use the correct plural name for eggs (balls too). Oh you want 32 Eier. You want 24 more of my precious abortion seeds. Oh you actually have money. You throng you. You peasant. You bum without a country. How dare you confuse me while I stand inside of a ball and hitched fucking metal box selling chicken shit covered zygotes. I’ll give you these eggs and I’ll make you pay in Ausländer tears. Go back to your bunk in the asylum house and cry all over the eggs I collected from under hen butts at 4am this morning. Maybe she actually did say step right up because now behind me was a bellowing mob of sniffly nosed Fidelios and Denmarks all getting positioned for the roasting to come.
I have no idea what she said. I really don’t. I know beginners German. I am nowhere near conversational. I cannot stand talking. I understand most things but I don’t do incessant unsolicited conversation, regional dialects and/or jokes. German humor is really like watching Seinfeld and I never did and probably never will. I also am not actively listening yet. To be perfectly honest if someone started speaking French or Spanish I’m more inclined to hear that. I cannot do German. My brain grows tired of translating and I just cut off. So after this woman hit about 4 one liners with her all white all conservative crowd I went blank. I remember something about me speaking English. I remember something about me having too much change. As I was counting coins she was picking some up and sliding some around with her pointer finger. Simultaneously she was on a roll with the crowd to the point the old bully bitch was laughing so hard she was vibrating against my right shoulder. My ears were turning red. She was doing stupid shit like repackaging quantities of 10 eggs versus an American 12 or a Deutscher 8 and I nearly snapped. But I kept responding like a fucking idiot and trying to keep up with the charades. And eventually I was able to leave with what I hoped was 5 Euros +/- left, 32 Eier and some remaining human dignity. But I was extremely mentally exhausted. I felt abused. I was visibly angry.
I was so distraught it felt good to be at the back of the line at the French mans cart. I aimed to empty that baggie of all my change on whatever he had left. I hoped to speak a language that was far easier. I hoped to take my mind off of whatever the fuck that was. And he was so nice as per usual. The change was exact. He reached behind him and gave me the hot croissant. He gives everzone else the shitty cold ones. He said Merci and Tschüss. Why? Because he is God in the second coming of Gérard Depardieu and he thinks Black women are the creators of the universe. All his beloved patrons queue just along his cart with no exceptions. There is no funny business. This is why France is easier. So what they pay tolls on their highways. Haagen Daas has a fucking $8 milkshake and it’s fucking delicious every time I hand that $8 over. I would pay anything to not have to have deal with the above. I then had to schlep all those eggs home, repackage them accordingly and explain how I probably won’t be back to make inquiry about how my friend could source them. As much as I like them and did like the lady keyword: did — I could totally give them up as I have done a lot of things and people gone sour in Germany. Again, I’m tired. Ego bruised. Big toe and left leg auch. Oh and it was sooooooooooooooooooo cold. Eventually I got the eggs to my friend, my money back and with some time I also lost the lump in my throat. Now I wonder do I just go next Friday and ask her in English what in the absolute fuck was that nonsense about. Or do I save face. I’m still reeling. It really is a miracle I even leave the house. To add insult to injury after all of this my friend sent me a picture of her evening special runny sunny side up eggs. She asked did I see a difference between the two plated eggs. I was supposed to compare as she called them “the natural eggs” I sold my soul for to the ones she already had from the grocery store. I really tried hard to be objective. I inspected the image for size, color, viscosity etc. Both eggs looked exactly the same. She excitedly texted she didn’t see or taste any difference either complete with corresponding emojis. She kept messaging about other mediocrities regarding the Eier. So I stopped responding and succumbed to vodka instead.
P.S. I’m currently sitting over the same fucking eggs now covered and smothered by my dutiful husband/weekend chef. My left eye is still impaired. There is another holiday tomorrow so the sun came out just for that. Maybe on Tuesday somebody will cure me … temporarily … again.
…
