by Alexander Bevilacqua
“Follow me, ” the middle aged man says, and I obey. Although he’s a stranger, I have no choice; I’m stumbling through a Bavarian suburb after 10 p.m. in search of my budget pension, and I’m thoroughly lost. Finally though, someone is helping me. The man, sporting a full Bavarian moustache-and-mullet deal, must be my pension (that’s European for cheap hotel) owner, coming out to look for me. His ’do symbolizes relief.
We walk through a gate, then into the building. The room seems a bit too lived-in to be a hotel room. Something might be wrong, I think—but then the pension really is very budget. When is my continental breakfast? And when should I pay, tonight or tomorrow?
“Payment? No payment. You must be joking. You’re my guest,” the “owner” says. Suddenly all’s clear. Naively I’ve wandered into this man’s home. How do I get out without seeming impolite or scared? His manner is intimidating: when I attempt to refuse his offer, he insists with enormous emphasis. Perhaps he is a little strange in the head, or maybe just slightly inebriated. I decide to go with the latter. Five minutes later, we sit in front of two large beers.
Klaus, my host, lives alone. He smokes, and this can’t be his first beer tonight. Unwisely, I reveal my destination for the next day. Klaus immediately offers to drive me. Or better, we’ll take his motorbike, which sits, hulking in the garage. I tremble at the very concept of an Autobahn ride behind this drunken Bavarian.
Over our beers, Klaus tells me he’s a national pool champ. He has also been to all the countries in the world, except for Brazil and Corsica, which are too dangerous. It’s hard to believe what he says. But I don’t have the guts to admit that I’m exhausted and just want to sleep. An hour after midnight, we still look at his holiday photos. Then, he reveals his big dream.
Klaus will leave his job soon and move to Marseilles to open a German Bierhaus on the seafront, featuring perfect Bavarian cuisine and, of course, proper Bavarian beer. After that, he will open a Provencal restaurant in Bavaria. Students will travel back and forth, learn each language in a beer-based cultural exchange. It’s not clear whether it will work, he says, but it’s exciting and worth a try.
I like Klaus more after this revelation.
Admitting I need sleep, I sweeten the assertion with a promise. One day I will drive all along the Marseilles seafront in search of a German pub. If I find it, I’ll know Klaus was successful. Before falling asleep, I put my backpack against the door. It’s still uncomfortable to be in the house of a stranger who lives alone. A stranger who, for unclear reasons, has taken in a random person from the street.
In the morning, I attempt to slip out before Klaus’ awakening, but he catches me at it. Breakfast? Unfortunately I need to make a train. No talk of motorbikes, but a hurt Klaus herds me to his car. Ever hospitable, he drives me to the train station on an empty stomach.
What if we aren’t heading towards the station after all? Klaus’ silence brings on a moment of terror. But soon we’re there. Then guilt. Why was I still suspicious? I buy the train ticket; Klaus disappears. Searching everywhere, I notice the car is gone, too. He must not like good-byes, but I had wanted to thank him properly.
The train leaves. My conscience tells me that I haven’t treated him well, running off as soon as I could. He had been so uniquely open and generous—but I am unused to kindness from a stranger, and as for Klaus, I think all he needed was someone who would listen for a night.
