Last week was a doozy. This week, I'm giving you a break. Which means that I've got my Pop Fitness mix playing on Pandora on instead of good ol' Damien Rice which brings the tears flowing through. And when I say Pop Fitness, what I really mean is Flashback Friday a day early.
If I was worried about you judging me, I wouldn't be doing this.
Sometimes life throws you stories- and maybe it's because I'm a writer, or maybe because I can appreciate the makings of a good story, that I cherish the moment with an eagerness that makes me giddy. I'm living in the moment, but I'm also fully intending on writing about it to capitalize the moment into "foreverdom".
We had just arrived at the train station in Rome, ready to depart to Munich for Oktoberfest. At this point in my life, I'd taken 8 years of "token" German. And boy, was I ready to make Munich listen. Kind of.
I had just looked up the word for Passport (Reisekarte), which was fated to luck, because, well, you'll see.
We boarded the train - the first serious train I had ever been on. We headed to our "first class" cabin which might fit a baby llama - but most certainly not two 6'0+ human beings. Our liaison(?) came through to give us some instructions. He looked just like the German version of Santa Clause.
He knew we weren't German. It was probably the inefficient way our travel bags were packed. Regardless, he gave us heavily accented English instructions for our safety. I gave him two metaphorical thumbs up for effort, but based on the glazed look my husband had, neither of us caught on.
Then I made a mistake. "Wie Bitte?" - For those of you needing translation, it's like a nice way of saying "WTF, Tell me in German". So he did.
And I was not prepared.
At the end of the five minutes of drool inspiring catastrophe, Chris turned to me and asked "What did he say?"
"I think we're getting our passports back".
Nevertheless, my first experience with a native German speaker did not deter my resolve. Then we arrived at our hotel. And this, ladies and gentlemen, this is where our story starts.
So. I unpack our belongings to get my mind in order. I'm hanging items, stowing items, fluffing them. Amidst my preparations, I stub my godforsaken toe on this metal door stopper (who does that?) that was shaped like a miniature bread slice with a vengeance.
While hopping around grabbing my flesh wound that has started to bleed a copious amount, I turned to my husband asking him to call down to house keeping. Because if you've ever had a foot wound, you understand.
"I need a Band-Aid. Will you call housekeeping?" (The capitalization is important people. Band-Aid is a Brand name, not a product name).
Chris dials, "Hello. We need a Band-Aid.....a bandage?....a Band Aid?....my wife is bleeding....she stubbed her toe?....oh okay. Great. Thanks"
Minutes go by and a knock comes on the door. I stumble to greet the housemaid and she hands me four boxes. I open the boxes, and instead of my blessed Band Aids, I find four boxes of Tampons. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Tampons.
Apparently, the phrase the grasped upon was not the one that I had hoped for. I "ran" to grab my dictionary as my face did my Irish heritage proud. I found the translation, ran to the phone and asked again:
"Haben Sie Pflaster?"
"OHHH! Pflaster!!!" (laughing in the background).
At least my German worked this time.
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