It's a beautiful summer day and at least possible to miss it, we have mixed up and running in the park to the people in our neighborhood: Wild kids jumping with her parents, who wanted out early on not Sunday morning without it, the seemingly casual, actually down to the last detail, the look to create, with the globalized world where rich bourgeoisie to see in big cities, Hartz IV recipients of the adjacent prefabricated housing, which is a walk in the park might recover from her work at the supermarket checkout, the city entirely inappropriate hunting dogs with their owners always grumpy and isolated drinker.
After we are so spent, we need bread for breakfast on our sunny balcony. This time we'll tell our Turkish baker with the warm voice, in its refined painted daughters I am every weekend. Instead, we go to the small, more feminine bakery further down the road.
I would ask to settle for two dark and two light sandwiches, but the Treasury does not deter from the breakfast cart a science to make. While he was deciding between Mürbeteighörnchen, butter croissants and Mandelküchlein so difficult as possible, I go out of business in order to sell me the time in the sun.
on the small wooden bench outside the bakery sits a Russian, with his flat cap looks like a mixture of Wladimir Kaminer and Zille urchin. He is talking with a friend who is balancing on a bicycle, while he supports himself with one foot on the floor. Both drinking cans of beer. I do not blame them. What's better on such a beautiful day as a small breakfast at the Winsstraße?
I close my eyes and my face right into the sun to me as an inconspicuous disguise sunbathers, while I was in fact my ears pointed and hard trying to follow the conversation. I have been learning Russian and years with little success to me every opportunity to practice law.
The Russian with the flat cap asks me if I'm from the neighborhood. I try in my answer in Russian. He is impressed dutifully. Same time he is angry with his fate, because we met as a direct neighbor ever. They live for 15 years on the other side of the Danziger Straße. Dimitroffstrasse, I correct myself in thought. This famous names from the GDR era is one of our neighbors not ready to give up. Meanwhile, I have internalized his reflexes so strong that I no longer have to rely on his reaction. He is - as now almost all in our neighborhood - a yuppie from the West and has the only house on our street unrenovated wine planted on his balcony. He loves our neighborhood so much that he played briefly with the idea in the meantime, together with its neighbors, the house where he lives, to buy out the obvious cash-strapped owners to renovate it and hand. The neighbors are members of a society who walk bald with long, colorful robes through the town and preach love and harmony. Their leader told our neighbors that a heavenly inspiration in said the investment would prove to be fruitful and promised happiness and harmony. However, the Harmony Society was apart from the divine inspiration, and contribute to the related success promises no more seed money and more business to burst eventually.
Meanwhile, the Russian was disappointed that I was apparently traveling with my boyfriend. Nothing dresses a woman apparently as good as a person after drinking alcohol in the heat. My outfit I owe not to such compliments secure. I wear ill-fitting high-water jogging pants and a washed-khaki shirt with a printed label and a Holstentorwapppen in the style of "Hamburg lass" or the like from the early 2000s. At that time it was thought originally to take a kind of characterization or brand name on the breast, the origin, political orientation, assertiveness and sexual freedom of movement of the wearer should characterize. I can remember "bitch," "Nefertiti, from time to remember a more precise" Kreuzberg Erin "," CCCP "and I also mean to" bitch. "
I allowed myself to stop the noise of my cavalier but not like this, I feel flattered.
"Yes, you have come too late" I tried to coquetry.
"It's never too late in life is more to come" corrected me, the Russian with his bearish Bass, apparently with himself and the world at peace. Then he put his friend and on their bikes and run with their beer cans in hand lurching through the quiet summer in Berlin.
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