Wanderlust

Ina Maria Vogel

 

It was the first week of August and the sun was filling the streets with a heat that was quite unusual for a German summer. People were obviously enjoying the almost Mediterranean feel of this very un-Mediterranean city and, the longer this heatwave lasted, became more daring, exposing body parts that might never have seen the sun before.

The train station in the city center of Frankfurt am Main was presenting itself in all its neorenaissance glory and the reflection of the blazing afternoon sun in the large glass panels of the roof was giving off a warm glow. The building’s ornate façade reflected the summer heat like a giant brick oven, and people gathering on the steps leading up to the entrance were looking colorful and chatty. From afar, the building and the scattered groups of people looked mighty inviting. The giant male bronze statue that carried a globe on its shoulders was greeting the travelers from above the main entrance. The weight of the world combined with the apparent willpower to carry it made for a perfect metaphor for the sheer endless opportunities and new beginnings the train station seemed to promise.

As soon as one ventured behind the impressive sand-colored façade, though, it quickly became apparent, that the building did not only stand for departure and wanderlust, but also for termination and final destinations. The premises were not only a magnet for excited travelers hurrying in but also a temporary, sometimes even permanent, home for the homeless, the hopeless, and the restless.

After you entered the building through the massive glass doors, the station’s appeal further decreased as one got swallowed whole by the noisy station concourse and overwhelmed with its harsh reality of sounds and smells of the most unpleasant kind. Businessmen in polyester suits who had spent the day in poorly air-conditioned offices were exiting crowded, stuffy trains and shared their body odor with the other passengers in the station while passing by. Chatter mixed with the squeaking sound of trains breaking, conductors whistling, and the loudspeakers added to the scenery with announcements about delayed trains. The voice coming out of the loudspeaker, a soft female one, yet with an underlying shameful and self-excusing tone, got lost in the general traffic noise. Passengers waiting on the platform were nervously trying to pay attention to find out, if any of the announced delays might be affecting their anticipated departure from this place that got increasingly uncomfortable by the minute.

My destination today was a supposedly unspectacular one, namely the Deutsche Bahn travel center. I had planned to visit friends in Cologne last weekend but was unable to travel due to a conductors’ strike. Annoyingly, I only found out about the strike, as I was already standing on the platform in my favorite vintage dress waiting for the train. The same soft and apologetic voice then informed me that the weekend I had thought to be spending with my friends on the banks of the Rhine river, a beer in one hand while dancing to music from the old-school ghetto blaster that my friend Jens called his proud possession, would not be happening. Well, at least not for me. My friends were kind enough to provide me with fun-filled pictures of their beer tasting with a crowd of new acquaintances. Hence, I was determined to get a refund from Deutsche Bahn, even if that was hardly a consolation for the incurred loss of adventure.

As I joined the line to the travel center, a pigeon that apparently lived high up in the metal beams spanning across the concourse flew by and barely missed my head. Contrary to its name, the travel center did not stimulate any lust for travel destinations and new beginnings. If anything, the gray, aging walls told the story of numerous dissatisfied customers who had probably entered reluctantly and left disillusioned throughout the years.

I was greeted by the smell of burnt rubber whose origin I could not identify. The long line – predominantly consisting of annoyed customers who were impatiently shifting from one foot to the other – was moving at a snail’s pace and already extended way past the entrance. While I was waiting, I kept observing the employees behind their 15 counters, all equipped with heavy windows. Rumor had it that the windows at the counters were bullet proof just in case a customer ever tried to attack any of the service staff, a scenario that apparently had been deemed not completely unlikely to occur. The employees resembled a bunch of steaming animals in a far too small cage. With agonizing expressions on their faces, attending to one frustrated customer after the other and becoming visibly more dissatisfied with each person they were approached by. Their pale, unhealthy faces seemed to be fully aware of the impact that a lifetime of duty in the travel center at Frankfurt’s main train station, a catch basin for the weary and burdened, would ultimately have on them. The only requirement for being hired for the job, I began to think, seemed to be a heavy life package or any other kind of obvious burden. A letter of motivation would be an unnecessary, unrealistic an altogether ironic requirement for anyone involved in the hiring process. Instead, the leathery faces of the applicants would have to be sufficient and convincing proof of their qualification for this job.

Frau Schulze at Counter 4 was seemingly sporting a fresh, yet outdated perm, and was the only one of her colleagues who looked as if there might still be a spark of adventure to be found somewhere behind the large shoulder pads and the costume jewelry. She looked tired but was still showing a faint, Mona-Lisa-like smile on her face. I could imagine her sometimes getting the urge to spontaneously board a train that was leaving at 11:11 a.m. on Platform 11, without a plan and not even wanting to know where she would end up. But it was foreseeable that this rather theoretical spontaneity would regrettably but surely have vanished within the next two years, at the latest. Somehow, I would not be surprised if Frau Schulze was pursuing a totally unexpected hobby of an unusual nature as a way to balance out this brain-crushing job. Butterfly taxidermy or heavy weightlifting came to my mind – possibly even both to create a balance. But it surely had to be something along these lines. I also imagined her being married to an Arnold Schwarzenegger type of guy. Someone, who at least visually brought excitement into her life, even when their only shared interest was the weekly meeting with their “Stammtisch” to play darts and drink a few beers with a couple of like-minded friends. Although, I revised my thought, Frau Schulze rather struck me as someone who would always choose wine spritzers over beer. Fair enough.

At the counter next to her, I spotted a young guy who was nervously typing away, staring at his screen while a stocky, resolute lady with a slight shadow of a lady’s mustache on her upper lip stood behind him. She talked at him incessantly, and he appeared to be trying to shrink into his oversized suit, hoping he might eventually be able to hide in there. He was probably an apprentice. And the lady was most likely his supervisor whom he would be attached to for better or for worse for the next couple of years. His name tag read “Herr Ahmed” and – judging from the ill-fitting, bulky suit and the intimidated look on his face – he was likely not much older than 18, maybe 19. He had probably just graduated from high school and was obviously still struggling to find his place in the grown-up world. As someone who was trying to come to terms with his identity and a master plan for life, it must have been particularly hard for him to find his place and voice among his certainly peculiar colleagues. He must have been devastated on his first day when he realized that this was where he would have to be for the next three years, day in and day out, nine to five, Monday to Friday and every second Saturday. I wondered, if he had had a choice or if this had been the only job offer available to him. I also wondered, how long it would take him, before he got so used to being exposed to all this weirdness that it eventually would become his new normal. It was not unheard of, the process usually happened slowly but gradually, judging from my own experience.

Herr Ahmed reminded me of myself five years ago, when I was roughly his age. I still remembered how I left school with a feeling that the world seemed full of possibilities and destinations, much like this train station, and that I only had to pick the one path that was right for me. Despite not knowing what that should look like, I was certain that life would magically unfold in front of me. I could still recall the feeling of freedom I felt, when I left my parents’ house to move into a matchbox-sized dorm room in a small town in the far south of Germany. I had signed up for art history and math, thinking that time would tell what my heart was most set on. Turned out, for most of the first three semesters, my heart was set on partying and Lars, who was slightly older than me, lived upstairs, and provided comfort and booze whenever I needed it. Three semesters went by, in which I mainly alternated between curing a hangover and working hard to get one. As Lars, despite sharing the same lifestyle as me, miraculously managed to complete his Bachelor’s degree and moved away to work at an up-and-coming tech start-up, it dawned on me that I should probably make some meaningful adjustments to my life as well.

Admittedly, part of this was also “inspired” by my parents telling me that they would cut my funds if I did not present them with a solid master plan shortly. Frustrated by their financial superiority, I decided that I would only be able to experience ultimate freedom if I was earning my own money. Between art history and math, the latter was most likely to generate some income, I figured, so I decided to apply to the local bank that was hiring trainees at that time and offered a welcome gift of EUR 500.00 in cash.

On my first day in the local branch, I felt disillusioned and was certain that I had just made the biggest mistake of my life. The average age of my colleagues was 50 plus, and that was after counting in my youthful age of 25. Most of them were chain smokers who spent more time in the smoking corner behind the garbage cans outside the building than behind their desks; their clothes all resembled my grandma’s curtains, and the smell of old, stale cigarette smoke was tattooed into their fabric forever. The coffee break at 10 a.m. was the highlight of their day, when they gathered in the small coffee corner in the back office to exchange life hacks (“Did you know that you can easily save 20% of energy by not pre-heating the oven?”) and to complain about different sources of pain in their ligaments, often originating from some kind of perceived draft through a tilted window. I was unapologetically judgmental and despised their lives with an almost passive aggressive passion, just because they so obviously lacked the knack for adventure that I was priding myself on and that I valued so highly. They were so different from my freedom and travel-loving self and my disapproval of their lifestyle was, in retrospect, mainly a self-defense mechanism because the last thing I wanted was for their boredom to brush off on me. My aversion was governed by the pure fear of becoming what I had right in front of me. Therefore, I made a point of not having the regular 10 a.m. coffee with them, of smoking my cigarettes in a different corner of the back yard and of setting strict boundaries to avoid an overlap between work and my private life.

However, much to my surprise, my colleagues still looked out for me and did not hate me back despite my best efforts. Gerda from accounting, who brought a self-baked cake to the office every Friday, always put a piece on my desk and consequently accompanied it with a kind smile. Not even fake kind, but actually true and honest kindness. She was easily 20 kilos heavier than her doctor would advise her to be and her thick glasses were so heavy that they had left a permanent dent on her nose. Yet, despite the objectively unsatisfying job, body weight, and nose dent, she seemed to be inexplicably satisfied with her life. Herbert, who worked in payroll and was part of the office bowling team, was one of those types as well. Despite my open reluctance to socialize with the others, he kept asking me if I wanted to join the team. And he did not even seem offended by my frequent rejections. He just smiled and kept saying: “Well, maybe next time.”

It took me a few months, but I finally realized that all those people who I despised for their seemingly boring lives shared a quality that I was most envious of: They were at peace with themselves and their lives. So much that they made the laser sharp observation that I was still all over the place, and their continuous kindness was their way of showing me their sympathy and support. I eventually got it: Certainly, it had neither been Gerda’s nor Herbert’s dream to be a teller at the bank, but it was also not the end of their world, nor was it a factor determining whether or not their lives were valuable and enjoyable. It was entirely up to them to make the conscious choice of being satisfied with their lives. Nobody else’s business.

I wanted to tell Herr Ahmed that he would be fine, that the discomfort would eventually vanish as he got used to his new job and that he might possibly even begin to appreciate his colleagues for all their authenticity. It would still take a while, though. However, I also knew that he would not believe me. Not right now. He would most likely think that I was trying to make fun of him. He will eventually figure it out by himself, I thought and allowed my mind to wander off to the next character on display.

After what felt like an eternity, I was finally called to counter 15 where, judging by the crookedly pinned nameplate, Herr Gottsknecht was impatiently waiting for me. His left eye looked stubbornly northwestwards, while his right eye drifted predominantly southeastwards. Predominantly, because a slight twitch kept forcing it to briefly change directions every now and then. A pair of glasses was trying to unite the two, to guide them, to make them look slightly less bizarre – but it obviously remained an unsuccessful attempt. Neither of his eyes was looking at the screen in front of him, and neither seemed to be looking in my direction. Nonetheless, he promptly addressed me with a merciless and harsh sounding “Guten Tag,” and I proceeded to explain my request. Herr Gottsknecht snorted loudly and was telling me in an irritated tone that the refund could only be applied for online.

I mentally began to sigh because the only reason I ever decided to drag myself through this in-person process was because the Deutsche Bahn website kept crashing and none of my countless attempts to get that damn refund had proven successful. I decided, however, to keep my inner frustration to myself and replied with a short, “I tried that. Didn’t work.”

I showed him my phone, where I had saved the ticket. Then, without asking for my permission, he reached for the device, took it out of my hands and started pounding on the display, trying to process the refund online, once more. In the process he snorted again, loudly and heavily. On his desk, just within reach of his right hand, I spotted an enormous-sized jar filled with peanuts. The nuts must have been dipped into a mixture of unidentifiable spices that, I imagined, immediately left a sticky stain on the fingers whenever a hand would reach inside to grab a few.

While I was still pondering this erratic and poorly thought-out choice of snacks, I suddenly observed Herr Gottsknecht’s short, meaty hand starting to dig into the jar right in front of my eyes. Absentmindedly, he had retrieved a generous scoop of nuts, jugged them into his mouth and gobbled them up all at once. While chewing, he looked almost satisfied for the first time in this interaction. Still staring at my phone, he then moved his spice-covered fingers up to his mouth to lick off the sticky, powdery substance. Before I was mentally able to grasp what I had just seen, let alone process it, my brain had to endure the next sensory overload: The very same fingers that he had just licked off were now tapping away on my phone screen, trying once again to initiate the refund online, all the while leaving hefty juicy fingerprints on the display. “Doesn’t work,” Herr Gottsknecht said, pushing the phone back into my hand and giving me a pitiful look with half an eye.

I surrendered to the hopelessness of the situation, mentally kissed my refund goodbye, and started to slowly make my way out of the travel center. I was being carried out into the concourse in the slipstream of a large family that, judging from the snarky conversation, had been similarly unlucky with their endeavor. Still somewhat disturbed by the utter waste of lifetime that had just occurred inside, I opened one of the large glass doors of the entrance and finally found myself outside the building again, right in the middle of all the hopeful and hopeless lingering on the front steps. Immediately, I was blinded by the setting sun. A beggar approached me, asking for change, and, while I rummaged around in my purse, I wondered where I had left my sunglasses. Then a vague idea occurred to me: probably at counter 15, right next to a giant jar of peanuts.