7 Flights of Stairs

My apartment is really charming. It has white crown molding, large windows, lots of natural light, a newly redone bathroom, complete with an adorable red button that you pull to flush the toilet.

There's a charming balcony, overlooking a charming street, with a charming lack of parking spaces.

Everything about it is ... European.
 Including the fact that it's on the 5th floor, no elevator. Moving in, (ie moving up) was a bit of an ordeal.

Even going grocery shopping is an ordeal. Which is what happened today.

German grocery stores are awesome. High quality food at low costs. But because everything's so fresh, Germans don't go to the store once every two weeks, and stock up like Americans (or like this American)... They go frequently, and only check out a few items at a time. Which then leads them to unabashedly cast very annoyed glances when you have more than a few items at a time.

I didn't have a choice! No bread, cereal, milk, toilet paper--nothing. I needed a big grocery store trip. So after I ignored the scathing looks, and pulled the "clearly-I'm-not-from-here-and-I'm-sorry" card, I trekked home with my enormous bag of groceries.

Then I made the trek Up.  There are four floors of doors between the entrance and my flat, but I wanted to know how many flights of stairs. Carrying heavy or awkward objects up tend to make me try and quantify the pain.

Eins
Zwei
Drei
Vier
Funf
Sechs... 

Then I couldn't remember the German word for seven.

SEVEN flights of stairs. When I finally arrived, the toilet paper resting on top of the overflowing bag, got caught on the banister and went tumbling down, through the middle of those seven flights of stairs, then past, into the basement.

I cried out, like Luke when he discovered Vader was his father, "NooooooOOOoooOOooooOOOO!"

Back down the 7 flights, down into the basement. Picked up this little guy:

Then I made the journey back up. Didn't count the stairs this time. 

My Rear Window

Germany is north. Once we hit mid-September, the days here get rapidly shorter. I wake up very early to get to work, and I had 2 blissful weeks upon arrival where the sun was coming up on my way. Now I make the entire 70-minute-long commute in pre-dawn hours--completely in the dark. 

I look out my bedroom window. It has a full-glass pane door leading out to the balcony, facing the street. The whole street is like that. When it's dark outside, you can see into the other flats through their door windows--like watching a film through a glass screen.

5:55 am, pitch black sky, and I see one other window lit, straight across the road. Clear as a moving picture, I watch as a man, pushes a kitchen chair into the table, puts his keys in his pocket, and adjusts his belt. 

Without feeling a glint of shame for my voyeurism,  I wonder, what is he doing up at such a cruel, cold, dark hour. 

With me. 

Fumbling around his apartment, same as I, eyes trying to adjust to the dark of the morning. Just the two of us awake in our whole neighborhood. 

And I share this rather intimate, rather sweet moment with a total stranger.

Then I think, "Maybe I should close the curtains when I get changed."