The following is the first of a series of excerpts from the forthcoming untitled Tanktronic book, due out this winter. In this excerpt, I reflect on my short time living in Stadthagen, a small town in Germany.
I lived in one of the town’s two hotels, in the one room they had that loosely resembled an apartment, complete with a kitchen fully stocked with pots and pans – but no stove or oven. That pretty much summed up the spirit of Stadthagen – accommodating and quirky. I made my three minute commute to the office in my rented small Mercedes, a name brand which is more Chevrolet than Cadillac in Germany. I managed to find a couple young adults [and one child, embarrassingly] outside the office who spoke English fluently, and they gave me some sense of friendship and normalcy over the weekends.
My animosity towards match.com has been well documented, although I never did delve into the results from my use of the service – mostly because no one gives a shit, it’s depressing, and now moot. To be as succinct as possible and recap almost a decade on and off the dating site, it boiled down to cycle of sending about four dozen emails, getting four responses, going on dates for a few weeks until the very last embers of a romantic flame were extinguished, swearing off the process for a few months, then repeating it in its entirety. This happened like, 27 times total. The actual definition of insanity, essentially.
So last night EZ and I went out for a late dinner before the American team’s second World Cup game, set to start at midnight. The destination was a British pub near Trocadero, to satisfy my weeks-long craving for fish and chips.
We finished dinner earlier than expected, and realized we might have enough time before kickoff to make it back to the other British pub across town we had watched the first game at – since they won, it seemed like the natural order of the universe would be to watch every game there.
Yeah. I don’t know why I was so sure they would be speaking German, but I blame the similarity between Belgian and German flags. I mean, if you’re going to essentially cut and paste a flag, you would think the languages would match.