Went to Mitte after work today, and did a little reading and journaling. I saw this guy next to me in classic and minimalistic European getup—angular glasses, form-fitting sweater, designer jeans, and sleek loafers—writing vigorously in his oversized moleskin. And he had an amazing fountain-type pen. When I saw this pen, I thought he could be drafting a Constitution. He had his iPod on, and he must've been listening to Van Halen or something to get that kind of pen speed. But it was completely, intoxicatingly inspiring. He had passion! It was like Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. At some point, I hope to exclaim passion in a mission statement like that some day. With a good fountain pen. But then, all I had was my Seinfeld ball point, and 5 mere pages left in my journal. I ended up writing on the end pages, the back cover, and a random page in the middle.
Funny story. I got a package today (thank "ewe" Mom), and during all the commotion of trying to get it out of the slot, the light turned out in the lobby (the automatic timer-makers need to plan for people like me, people that really need a couple extra minutes for everything). I got the package out, and decided hey, I am just going to wing it, put in the key in the dark. What do you know, I put in the wrong key, losing at a 50/50 chance. Here's a Google reference:
As you can see, the keys for the most part all look the same, feel the same. I distinguish them by a little white paint rubbed into the holes of one, not a darkness-foolproof method. So the door happened to already be unlocked, and I could get to the lightswitch inside the door, but the key was completely stuck in the slot. I pulled with all my might for fifteen minutes, taking slight breaks to look up the stairs, questioning whether I really could walk up in shame into my roommate's dinner party, and tell her I had another key mishap. I had no chance, I had to succumb to shame, and fetch Melody to bail me out. I came in, and met her guests, one of which will be the new director of the Tinguely Museum soon. I tried to discreetly ask her downstairs, but that didn't really work. She tried, I tried again, to no avail. Time to recruit Chris. He came to the rescue, again, and he pulled with all his might to success.
So through all this key nonsense, I got an invitation to join Jonas and Chris for fondue, and watch the Zürich/Russian-city-I-can't-remember European "Stanley Cup." Zürich destroyed Russia, which is apparently a huge thing because Russia is really good and has a lot of teams, and Switzerland only has two. We had a lot of laughter, discussing mostly the Swiss Army, handball, the Macarena, Walküre, Phil Collins, the Jonas Brothers, and New York. I still think the worst thing about fondue is the traditional kirsch shot after, for digestion purposes (instead of reconsidering the eating of a huge amount of cheese, we decide to just help it along with some liquor, ha). Fondue is delish, but the liquor taste is just not for me.
Last night, I had all intentions on making some progress on emails, but was dead tired, so decided I would take a short nap. I didn't set an alarm, classic, and I woke up at 4am, a seven hour nap, rather. So there you go, I guess. They are coming.
P.S. I think I have discovered my purpose here. Thank you for your prayers.
No comments:
Post a Comment