Last week at work was aggressively unpleasant again, more so toward the end as I dealt with my part of the work on a massive client as well as massive discussions about strategy; and I still felt tense and angry even while asleep after Friday.
In the morning I did half an hour or so of work, not reviewing stock this time, but trying to pull up figures for a strategic discussion because I knew on Monday I'd be too dumb and busy to handle it. PostgreSQL, BigQuery, Google spreadsheets, and enormous pressure from colleagues you usually get along well with, are really all you need to relax.
Anyway, uncle M. came for a visit, and we ate breakfast together. Croissants, orange marmalade, and baguette as always, this time with Ge.'s café au lait.
In honour of the year 1977, I wore a tall 1970s dress. And then I went on a wild housekeeping bender when T. visited and chatted with our youngest brothers about meal plans. I've figured out that a stale baguette slice is good for scouring the grease off of wood that's unfortunately near the frying pan oil splash zone.
Afterward T. and Ge. cycled off to the Drachenberg. I went on various errands. First, buying a pumpkin, broccoli, carrots, blueberries, and donations for charity, from a local organic store. Then fetching the New York Times (international edition) and two chocolate candy bars from the newspaper kiosk across the road. Then dropping off the donations at the parking lot at the former Tempelhofer Airport building.
It was busy at the adjoining intersection, as people who had been attending the Saturday marathon events were shepherded across a road by police officers who looked a little fed up. First they clustered on a traffic island in the centre of the street. Then they were let through to the other side. It all looked a little risky, like sheep stranded on a high boulder by floodwaters. Someone possibly in the blue-and-white police van had a megaphone and hollered instructions to the pedestrians in German-accented English. And one by one, a police officer waved through the cars who had selected this route.
At the airport building itself, a few donations had been stacked neatly against a fence beside the charity's van, but no one was there yet to receive them. So I walked down through the building complex, where it was a little creepy to think that this used to be an epicenter of the Nazis, until I reached the donation sorting and shipping hangar. There I offered to carry in the donations where they'd be better sheltered. There the lady who was coordinating let me in and said that a volunteer was on their way to take care of things already. Then I asked whether they needed more people to sort, and she said 'Always!'
Two volunteers were at the sorting table already: one a taller woman who almost looked like Melissa Gilbert, and the other a wiry smaller woman with her hair in a pixie cut. I sorted two bags of clothes, the first of which was exquisitely chosen — except for two German-language paperback books that were in good condition but questionably useful for people who live in Ukraine, and the second of which was all right. In the meantime a brisk sports game was going on in the part of the hangar that's fenced off for refugees and other Berliners: we heard a lively soundtrack of squeaking and running and shouting.
It did disturb me when I came across a men's jacket that had a pocket on the inside that was exactly the right size and shape to hold a Swiss army knife or something larger. [Update: My family has pointed out, to my relief, that this is likely just a coin pocket.] And I tried to clean off a puffer coat that looked warm and worth donating but had dark grey wear at the wrists, and a few specks of white, with a disinfectant wipe.
Other than that, a lot of baby diaper packages had come in, which was good — also a plastic pink potted orchid that was still in good condition, a decorated glass mug, and one or two other odds and ends.
On the way home I went off on side paths and looked at an old building monument, walked through allotment gardens, and finally entered the Mediterranean import store I'd been meaning to try for years too.
It prominently displays wine in the shop window and the bottles dominate a lot of aisles, and it's basically a supermarket in size. When I went in, I did have the sense that a stereotypically macho taste dominates the store: alcohol and meat.
But I was intrigued by the shelves and shelves of unfamiliar Spanish specialties and brands, from marmalades and nut spreads through potato chips; the jarred calamari and other shellfish; the huge shelf of dried pasta with gnocchi and manioc flour at the end (they also stocked Brazilian food, with pão de queijo in the deep freezer); sun-dried tomatoes, jars of capers, and lots of fresh pasta and olives.
Through a doorway with a sliding door it was possible to reach the fish counter.
The elaborate freezer section was timely for my 1970s experiment. I was fascinated by the grey prawns of all sizes, shrimps, crayfish, whole octopuses and octopus legs, frozen wild salmon fillets, slender sardines, mussels, Venus clams, battered calamari rings, etc. on one side. On the other side, frozen oranges filled with ice cream, tubs of ice cream, pão de queijo, tiramisù, and readymade pizzas. I didn't get a good look at the short legs of lamb etc. that were also there.
In the end I went home happy with this new experience, with two jars of pesto and two packages of pasta, a package of frozen tiramisù (not very 70s-themed), and a pack of aceto-balsamico-flavoured, salty potato chips. (The British television series Back in Time for Dinner suggests that flavoured potato chips were a big fad in the late 1970s, but rather the artificially flavoured kind.)
I laid in an interlude of typewriting. It was enjoyable in general. But imitating a # sign on a German typewriter that doesn't have it by typing the = sign, then backspacing, then typing a /, then grumbling to myself that it still doesn't look right ... at least 20 times, was not so fun.
For dinner I cooked pumpkin soup, roasted the pumpkin seeds for snacks, prepared grated fresh carrot, steamed a head of broccoli, and opened the package of tiramisù, while T. and Ge. played flute and cello duets with slightly adventurous intonation. And we had a nice family dinner.
I'm still stressed and even resentful about work despite these distractions. I have to keep telling myself to be kind to myself and to others; that I have been doing the right thing as far as possible so I haven't done anything I need to 'beat myself up' for — these times are just stressful; and that nothing that's happening in my job is as important as death or war.
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