The Glass of Ginger Ale

In the early afternoon J. and I returned to the hospital, checked in at the "Erstkontaktstelle" and the "Anmeldestelle" again, waited for ca. 1 hour in a full waiting room across the hallway from the "Erstkontaktstelle." Then a doctor asked J. "Does your arm hurt?" and "Can you move your thumb without pain?" and "Does your cast fit?", and a couple of other questions, and then we were free to go again. Interestingly he said that J. should receive a proper cast in one week, whereas the previous doctor mentioned two weeks. Anyway, even though we were bored half out of our minds by the end of our stint in the waiting room, it was an antidote to yesterday; I emerged quite cheerful and no longer worried about J. at all.

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As for the evening, T. and I went "clubbing," in a very limited sense of the term, for the first time in our uneventful lives. A classmate in her seminar group had invited her and a companion to a cocktail bar a stone's throw away from Nollendorfplatz; out of curiosity and out of a sense of sisterly camaraderie I went along. After the first impulse of curiosity was gone I dreaded the thing, fearing that I would be a drag on the proceedings and that everyone else would intimidate me by being much more mature and self-assured than I am (which people my age have a tendency of being here in Europe). Besides I don't like running any danger of being chatted up. It has always bothered me the rare times when it does occur, because it feels so degrading to be asked out for a drink or whatever only based on one's appearance and/or one's age and/or one's lack of a Y chromosome. Fortunately it was not a problem this time.

At ca. 7 pm we met outside, ca. 15 information technology students and law students and then I, the anomaly; everyone was evidently younger than me, but not so much as to make me feel conspicuously ancient. They reminded me of my classmates in high school, in a very nice way.

We ascended the steps up from the restaurant to the bar, to find a spacious high-ceilinged room painted in cerulean and crimson, decorated here and there with whimsical and therefore inaccurate representations of ships and sea serpents, as sconces softly illumined the scene. A series of beige leather-covered banquettes runs around the wall, and little square tables, wooden-topped and metal-legged, were arranged with little square seats covered in the same beige leather. The furnishings were hardy, and evidently designed to withstand the depredations of the boozing scholar. The barkeep led us to the rear of the room, which is hidden from sight around a corner, and brought ashtrays and tealights and menus. T. settled for a gin fizz whereas I ordered ginger ale. Of course it is in grave contravention of the spirit of the place not to order alcohol at a cocktail bar, but I had a slight headache as well as no intention of forfeiting the least fraction of my clarity of mind. The gin fizz is concocted of gin, sugar syrup, lemon juice, lime slices, and ice, and T. sipped away at it slowly. As for the others, they ran riot with caipirinhas, "Molotov cocktails," fruit punches, etc., though after they had two or three drinks most of them had enough.

It was amusing that the infotech students did converse of "geeky" things, planning a Star Trek movie marathon, avidly discussing "BSG" (= Battlestar Galactica), and claiming that the density of a CD is less than that of water, etc. One of them earnestly stated that Italian films were "the best" — listing directors like Fellini, Antonioni, and Rossellini — and declared his preference of subtitles over dubbing, because the old dubbing tends to be slipshod, whereas the new subtitling tends to be precise. I felt (patronizingly) elderly and wise at this point, because of course "the best" is a subjective and rashly general designation, and the older and more knowledgeable one becomes, the more one recognizes that the excellence in one school of artistry does not blot other schools out of competition.

Altogether I was quiet as a mouse, and attentive as a journalist, while T. kept up conversations diligently where possible. An extroverted, ruddy-cheeked and experienced tippler, who sat beside us, not unkindly remarked that T. and I had maybe been precipitated into the group too suddenly, and that we should make an effort to be friendlier. But I was as friendly as it was natural for me to be, and I think that friendliness should not be faked. Besides, given that two years ago I would have been in an agony of self-consciousness, my ease of mind and forthcoming manner (such as they were) were miraculous.

After over two hours, we settled the bill and waited and then walked home through the frosty night air. The tippler said to us, as we left, "You're just afraid." In the sense that we are inhibited, possibly so. But imbibing alcohol beyond a conservative point just isn't my thing; I don't like becoming red-faced and loud and irrational, the last time I had a severe headache and nausea I vowed that I'd never incur such misery by drinking my way into a hangover, and in university I heard or saw enough of people boozing themselves stupid and going to the hospital for alcohol poisoning and so on. It isn't a question of prudery but of common sense. Besides, I had ca. 15 Euros along and didn't feel like spending more.

So, in a nutshell, T. and I went to a cocktail bar and conducted ourselves as respectably as a pair of be-cardiganned grandmothers, so our potential heady adolescent adventure proved a tame and civilized matter after all.

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P.S.: Hopefully the blog post title is not too inane.