By the time I finished breakfast and was taking the last swallow of coffee, the matron came in and said the room was ready. She asked if I wanted to see it first, but I explained that my foot was killing me, and one trip up the stairs was more than enough. Besides, the legendary German penchant for "clean and neat" left me with little doubt the room was in good order.
I picked up my pack and hobbled up the stairs behind the matron. The room was on the third floor in a converted attic. There were two small rooms with a shower between them. She opened the door and I saw a comfortable space with a slanted ceiling and a small window on the far side of the double-sized bed, which had a thick comforter and ample pillows.
I thanked her and handed her the money, and she gave me the key in exchange. She bowed out gracefully and closed the door behind her. I sat heavily on the bed and started removing my shoes. A small amount of blood had soaked through and dried, causing the sock to stick. I got it off, but the handkerchief was a different problem.
I dug my towel out of the pack, along with a bar of soap in a plastic bag, and made for the shower. I let the water run on my foot for a time, until the handkerchief came loose. The gash was shallow, but red and sore from being stuffed in a shoe for 24 hours. I thoroughly cleaned the wound and washed my handkerchief and sock as best I could.
After returning to the room, I hung the sock and kerchief on the window sill and pulled out my newly-restocked first aid kit. I dressed the wound with antibiotic cream and a clean bandage, then collapsed on the bed.
When I awoke, it was already late afternoon. My foot felt much better, so I put on my flip-flops and clean shorts and shirt, and went downstairs.
I didn't see the matron, but I spotted the small Spanish waiter.
"Disculpe, ¿dónde está el pub más cercano?"
He looked fairly surprised. I wasn't sure if it was because I spoke Spanish, or because I knew he was Spanish.
"Of course," he replied. "We recommend the Struwwelpeter. Turn right, go two blocks, turn right again. You will find it easily."
I thanked him and headed out. The walk was a bit further than it had sounded. The blocks were long, but the architecture and dozens of shops hawking meats, breads, cheeses, and dry goods kept me distracted.
When I turned the corner, the pub was indeed conspicuous. A large sign with a strange image of a character with wild hair and long fingernails hung over a small crowd of laughing people roughly my age. Music spilled out of the interior every time the door opened and the smell of fried pork and hoppy beer wafted down the street at me.
I made my way through the knot of people and went inside. It was spacious, covered in wood panelling, and had several rooms branching out to the sides and rear. It was quite a bit larger on the inside than out and I chuckled to myself thinking of Doctor Who's TARDIS.
The place was crowded but not uncomfortably so. Frank Zappa's "Bobby Brown" was playing and I found an empty spot at the corner of the bar and sat on a large, swivelling stool. The place was clean and nicely decorated, without being stuffy or pretentious.
The bartender came over and I asked for a pint of the local dark beer and a menu. He nodded and shot off down the bar. I looked around at the crowd, which was composed of three large tables with seated revellers, and floaters that wandered back and forth among the tables chattng, laughing and sharing platters of snacks around. I got a good vibe from the place and settled in.
The bartender returned with a large glass of nut-brown beer topped with a perfect head and a small chalkboard with the day's food offerings artistically drawn on it. When the bartender came round again, I ordered the veal schnitzel and laid into the beer.
The beer was incredibly smooth and rich, with a perfect hoppy bite and clearly a generous alcohol content. I made a note to go easy on the beer and pulled out my book.
The schnitzel came and was a large portion. I squeezed the lemon across it and ate it like a prisoner's last meal, trying to go slowly and savor the delicate seasonings and texture, but so hungry I couldn't pause between bites. I washed it down with the local brew and sat for a time feeling relaxed and satisfied. I ordered another pint and spun the stool around to take in the surroundings.
After an hour or so, I never looked at the clock, a young man in his early 20s, light brown hair, angular jaw, tall and fit, came up to me.
"I'm sorry to bother you," he began. "I noticed you are sitting alone. Would you like to join us?" He indicated one of the large tables of laughing and singing people.
I smiled politely and said yes.
"Oh, you are not German?"
"No," I said offering my hand. "My name's Rex. I'm from Texas."
"Welcome, Rex," he grinned. "I'm Tomas. Come over and sit."
I followed him to the table, where he introduced me to about 10 or so people - six men and four women, all in their early 20s, I guessed.
"He is from Texas," Tomas announced. There was a wave of chatter and I braced myself.
"Who shot J.R.?" I didn't see who asked the question, but the entire table laughed and they rearranged the chairs to make room for me.
I sat and the conversation continued with questions about my hometown, what I was doing in Munich, how long I had been travelling, where I was staying. They all agreed that I had picked the best zimmerfrei in the neighborhood, and I got a lot of questions about how I got the job at the national theatre.
"A friend of mine at the Gate in Dublin referred me," I explained. "Apparently, they hire one or two foreigners to work on the big productions to bring in fresh ideas and techniques. Seems I was very lucky. Some people spent years waiting to be invited there.
"Can you get us free tickets?" asked one of the group, half seriously.
"I have no idea, to be honest," I said. "I haven't even seen the contract yet. I'm supposed to sign it Monday morning."
There was another wave of buzz and one of the women started singing an aria from "Die Fledermaus" to enthusiastic applause. More beer came and I learned that it was B&E, a famous brew native to Bavaria. I also learned the word, "gemütlichkeit," which apparently had no English translation, but was an emotion generated by warm camaraderie and good times.
I had not brought my contact book, but at some point Tomas had written his number on a beer mat and handed it to me.
We partied and sang pop songs with the pub playlist. I discovered most of the gang were high school friends who had all grown up in the neighborhood and knew each other for nearly their entire lives. The gathered at the Struwwelpeter almost every Saturday night, and usually there was a live band, but for some reason tonight was out.
By the time we broke up, I was walking rather precariously down the street, thankful that German sidewalks were dead straight and level. Tomas followed me to the corner, then turned the other way. When I reached the zimmerfrei, I found the front door locked. I stood for a moment wondering what to do. I didn't want to wake anyone, but I couldn't sleep in the gutter - or could I?
Just then the door lock snapped and the door opened. It was the Spanish waiter.
"I trust you found the pub," he said with a smile.
"Oh yes," I replied. "Good recommendation, thank you. And sorry to disturb you so late."
"No problem, sir," he stood aside and let me in, then bolted the door behind me.
"Good night, sir," the waiter said.
"Good night...er, um," I stuttered. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
"Tomas, sir," he said with a slight bow.
"Good night, Tomas, and thank you."
I decided to note this evening in my book as the night of the Tomases. Life has a strange way of drawing circles around things, I thought, or more like spirals. My head was swimming and I slowly made my way up the stairs to the room. I tucked the beer mat in the inside pocket of my pack, threw off my clothes and melted into the thick embrace of the bed. My dreams had a strange operatic quality that night, though with a reggae beat, as Bob Marley and the Wailers provided the accompaniment to a cast of naked women and snipers, narrated by Hunter Thompson.
And I'm only one month into this bizarre adventure, I thought, and faded to black.