SIDEWAYS IN LOVE

A GERMAN-AMERICAN FRIENDSHIP

Sam lives in an apartment house in Brooklyn. His apartment is spacious and tastefully furnished, suggesting a female roommate, and the well-groomed green plants and numerous decorations are matched to the dark colonial furniture. Apart from that, I find no reference to a woman, no pair of pumps, no relevant magazines. The bathroom could be definitive, but I'm sure I would find nothing there either. Although Sam's behaviour doesn't indicate a homosexual tendency, I still believe he has one. When he spoke of his friend, he seemed to mention his companion, not a friend. The poor woman Dapperheld-Dängeli doesn't know this, otherwise, she might have long since gotten her enthusiasm under control.

Looking at a picture I'm petrified. On Sam's wall, Klimt's Danaë dangles in large format. Seeking logic, my brain rattles into overdrive. What is the real coincidence? That I have red hair like the Danaë or that it hangs in Sam's living room? Was Dagmar Dapperheld-Dängeli around here? It's almost impossible to rule out!

I pull myself together and take a seat on the bright couch. My confusion has escaped Sam. He switches on the stereo system and scans his CDs for appropriate music. To welcome me to New York, he decides on Frank Sinatra. Since I want to be a friendly, uncomplicated, unobtrusive guest, I leave him in the belief that the choice is brilliant and encourage him in silence. I'll be able to bear Frankie boy for an hour.

Sam disappears to the back of the room where the kitchen is. From the sofa, it looks organized and often used: Notes hang with magnets attached to the refrigerator; dark and light bread peeps neatly packaged from a bread basket; apples and oranges lie in a bowl; pans and sieves, ladles and meat forks dangle over the stove.

Sam prepares tea for us and accompanies Frankie's vocals - loudly, theatrically and without inhibitions. Inevitably, my eyes once again fly to the art print that shows the Danaë, and I discover new details. Even the expression of the sleeping person leaves room for many interpretations. The open lips seem relaxed and sometimes aroused. The expression, however, contradicts the hand that has been placed in front of her breast and the golden light between her legs.

Sam puts cups and a pot on the dark wood table, murmuring that the tea needs another minute, and also gives his attention to the art print. "Klimt had a predilection for red-haired women," I hear him say. "That's a commonality between him and me."

Aha! It's getting stranger! And if he just pointed to my red curls, I should ignore that?

"What's she dreaming about?" I wonder. "Her lips and hand indicate an erotic dream."

"She isn't dreaming, I'd say. She's aroused; Zeus is there between her legs."

"Those golden lights?"

"The gold rain, yes." Sam turns to me. "You don't know the legend of Danaë?"

"I'm afraid I'm richly uneducated regarding gods."

Sam pours out the tea and says, "She was the daughter of the king of Argos, who was warned by an oracle his grandson would kill him one day. As a consequence, he locked his daughter, who still had no children, in a dungeon and left it guarded by wild dogs. Now there was Zeus, who had a desire for her. So he turned into gold and dribbled into the dungeon onto the sleeping woman." With a grin, he added, "Of course, she became pregnant."

I lift the cup to my mouth and blow into it. "And, of course, the child killed her father."

"Yep." Sam leans back on the couch with the teacup in his hand. "Not on purpose, but the prophecy came true." He looks thoughtfully at the picture, "... many people believe this woman whom Zeus coverts doesn't need him, though he's a God who plays a profound role. They think she's satisfying herself, loving herself... is a woman fixated on sex." He drinks a sip. "Look at her attitude and expression."

I can understand what he's talking about. The beauty nestles herself, touches herself, arouses and falls in love, but in fact - and despite the gold rush - with and by herself.

My eyes meet those of Sam. Over the edge of his cup, he looks at me and smiles. A good-humoured sparkle dances in his eyes. Then his phone rings. Sam puts the cup on the table and taps his pants pockets until he finds his cell phone. He pulls it out and announces himself with a loose expression. The caller seems to be his friend, who lets him know he's not coming to dinner. Sam takes it calmly.

After he has hung up, he says, "Okay, I'm cooking alone for you and me." He puts the phone aside and gets up to go to the kitchen and looks into the refrigerator.

"I have chicken. There should be noodles." He asks a little louder, "Ribbon pasta with chicken in pesto sauce? Does that sound okay to you?"

"Sounds good," I say, tasting the tea. It's delicious. With the cup in my hand, I stroll to Sam. "I'll help you."

"Out of the question, you're a guest." He pulls a knife out of the block with which he plans to cut the meat. It is, however, a vegetable knife, a large one, but still not for meat. So I take a suitable knife out of the block.

"Let me do that," I suggest. "After all, I'm the only one of us who is armed properly."

"Smart!" Sam pushes his knife into the block and pulls out a third that he gives me. At the same time, he takes the meat knife from my hand. "You can cut tomatoes and onions for salad if you want to do something." He winks. "Just looking for the right knife."

I find onions in a metal basket, but there is no trace of the delicious red vegetables. "Where are the tomatoes?"

"In the cool cabinet. Left bottom tray."

I open the refrigerator and grab the bag. "At the risk of being called smart again, tomatoes don't belong in the refrigerator. They lose their aroma and vitamins. They should also be unpacked."

"Smart," Sam says again, trying to cut the meat.

While we cut, Frankie boy sings to himself. The current song ends, and a new one begins with Italian sounding guitars.

"Do you know the song?" asks Sam.

"I've heard it from time to time."

"It's a duet with Dean Martin. He's in the first verse: When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine, that's amore."

Before I offer it, he takes my left hand, with which I hold the tomato, and draws me to him. We dance stiffly, each with a knife in our hand, to the chorus accompanied by lyrical female voices. Soon I'm laughing so much that my stomach hurts.

"What the hell is a gay tarantula?" I snort, as this is being sung. "Hearts play tippy-tippy-tay like a gay tarantula?"

Sam also laughs. "Not gay tarantula," he explains and turns with me towards the living area, where there's more space. "Gay," he said, "once meant being more merry or lively. And a Tarantella is a folk dance from the south of Italy."

"Goodness, this is super cheesy!"

"More than that and it's all the same. Let's go back to our chicken and the negligently chilled tomatoes tippy-tay." He pushes me to the kitchen to the beat of the music. "Would you like a glass of wine?"

Just before midnight, we emptied the third or fourth glass of wine. My fatigue has disappeared although I've now been on my feet for over 24 hours. Sam and I are chatting and laughing. That we are in dangerous territory makes it through to my initiative, but I don't shy away from the explosive topics because of my alcohol level. Let us call it a German-American friendship.

"Do you know how I can tell if a tourist is German in New York?" asks Sam, without asking as a question, and answers promptly. "They have cloth bags around their necks, and they put their money in them because they're afraid it'll be stolen. And they're always waiting for red lights, even if no car comes. Even at 3 a.m. They eat pizza with a knife and fork and give too small a tip even if they are satisfied with the service."

I dislike ​​being called stingy. "American tipping customs are fanciful by our understanding."

"The waiters earn their living with tips."

"I think that is an employer's problem. In Germany, waiters earn their living by working in a restaurant. The tip is a friendly bonus."

Sam shrugs his shoulders. "Other lands, other sleds! You have difficulty adapting."

"Other countries, different manners!" I mutter, spilling a little wine. Now I had to correct him. Other sleds, God, how sweet! I cannot even be angry with him for the repeated insinuation, but I don't want to leave it without comment. "And Germans are adaptable!"

His smile reveals he feels the love. "I don't think so. Anyway, you're a strange people. Kinda serious. You have no humour at all and you are suspicious and so correct. Probably you're just afraid of all possible things."

I feel like a fish lying on the dry ground and gasping for air. A thousand thoughts invade me, all of my reproaches I so far haven't expressed. But they are racing so fast through my brain that I cannot think of a good idea. But, I grab one. Tourists! "And do you know what I know of American tourists? They are too loud. You can hear them long before you see them. They scream and cackle and believe no one can understand them because everyone is too stupid to speak English. Although they ironically presuppose everyone speaks English and..."

"We don't expect that," Sam says. "But you're even answering a good German-speaking American in English. You should bail out here. When you speak English, you sound like Dirty Harry after a long night of partying!"

Damn it! Do I sound like Dirty Harry? What does Dirty Harry sound like? Who is Dirty Harry? Why do I see Clint Eastwood in front of me when I try to imagine Dirty Harry?

"Arrogant!" I will be brave. "Now you've given me the best example of American arrogance, as what happened to me at your airport."

Sam frowns and pours us both more wine. "That has nothing to do with superiority; these are reasonable measures for caution."

"Oh really? And all this display of flags, is this also a precautionary measure? Attention, please remember at every step you take, you're in the United States?"

"What kind of display of flags?"

"Your stars and stripes." I take a swig before speaking further. "On my first visit to the country, I thought it was a holiday, but I soon got used to it, you hoist your flag just about everywhere. Not only in the big cities, not only in state institutions or museums - even in the smallest cow town in Kansas it is blowing in the front gardens and on porches, in front of every school and every dinky bar. Whole barns are painted in red, white and blue and with writing like God bless America provided."

I pause briefly to let Sam have his say, but he doesn't give the impression he wanted to say anything. He has put a hand in front of his mouth as he listens to my words. The grin he tries to hide behind his hand is reflected in his eyes and it goads me.

"Under no circumstances will the stars and stripes be missing in films," I keep talking in full swing. "Think of Spiderman where Tobey Maguire shoots his web against the backdrop of a U.S. flag. Or in Triple X where a glorious parachuting Vin Diesel lands in a river. No need to mention which pattern the parachute has."

I want to list more movies but he interrupts me. "Now don't overdo it. This is typical of action movies, no matter from which country they come from."

I shake my head firmly. "Absolutely not."

Inevitably, I recall a German action film, in which Til Schweiger slides with a black-red-golden parachute over the rooftops of Berlin, only just missing the treetops and a bridge and gallantly falling into the River Spree.

"Why not, is there anything so wrong about this?"

"Our flag hangs mainly in front of federal agencies and at major events. And you see black-red-gold at the world cup sometimes, too. But otherwise..."

"See, that's the hopping circle!"

Confused, I raise my eyebrows. "The hopping circle?" As soon as I have spoken, I realize what Sam means. "You mean the crux! What is the crucial point?"

Sam sighs. "Perhaps Americans have too much national consciousness. But what about the others in Europe? What about the French, the Spanish and the Italians? They're proud, too. I think Germany has too little national pride. It shouldn't be bothered by others who are proud of their country."

I cannot say Sam is wrong, so I say nothing.

Why don't Germans say they are proud to be German? Because they aren't or shouldn't be? Why do funny pennants hang on the posts in the gardens instead of the flag? Because otherwise, the neighbours will give you funny looks? Because this isn't proper? We have every reason to be proud of our country. We can look back on a thousand-year history, tradition and culture, and the achievements of famous German men and women. But most of us aren't aware of this because we only look back until 1945.

Just as I want to say something to Sam, he throws a new point: "Except for beer. Since there the German pride has no limits."

Now that's enough for me! "Comparing German beer with the soap water which you get to drink here ..."

"Have you ever tasted American beer?"

"No, I don't need to."

"Typical German! You complain and you form an opinion based on the opinions of others. You always have prejudices and hardly a reason for it."

Bit by bit, I'm wondering what this is. Why does he provoke me so much? I want to defend myself as little as I want to fight, but this man is driving me to my limits. Between my teeth, I grind an "On the contrary, we always have reasons" out.

"On the contrary! Well!" He mimics me. "You are opinionated too! You continuously know everything better!"

"Come on, we need not discuss who the smartasses on this planet are," I object strongly and knock my fortunately empty glass over. My limited vision is a clear signal it's time to go to sleep. Instead, I put the glass back down, give the last drop of wine to myself and continue - with a heavy tongue, as I now realize.

"And you're also the simpletons of the planet. Take your kind," with the index and middle fingers I paint quotes, "going on cultural trips through Europe."

Swivelling the wine in his glass, Sam leans back visibly amused in the chair. He seems quite sober. "What about our cultural trips through Europe?"

Although I have a feeling he knows exactly what I allude to, and waits for me to formulate it, and although I don't want to do it, the words bubble out of me: "if you were in Rome then you know Italy. You were at the Eiffel Tower, then you know Paris and, anyway, the rest of France can go jump in a lake! Heidelberg and the Black Forest are, according to your knowledge below the Alps. If you were there, then you know good old Germany. You think, we as Germans wear national costumes, eat white sausages all day, yodel and gladly spend our lives watching folk music shows on TV."

"Nope." He finally ceases to swirl the wine. He empties his glass in one go and places it on the table. "We don't think you like to watch folk music all day. Namely, because everything which comes on the television is about sex." He tried to elicit another drop from the emptied bottle. Dead loss. "s*x is going on at any time of the day and into the night. s*x is even in the newspapers. And no one has a problem with that, on the contrary. You love nudity. You're naked in the park, naked on the beach, naked in the sauna..."

Now even I smile. "It isn't a secret you are prudes," I chuckle. "But it goes so far that you're clothed in a sauna, does it?"

"That's not it, but the level."

"Ohhhhh... of course."

"Nudity in public places is wrong and not aesthetic." Since I punish his statement with silence, he goes one better, he no longer acts amused. "It isn't even aesthetic that German men pee on the street and German women don't shave their legs and underarms."

I cannot laugh it off anymore. "You are welcome to check it." Without further ado, I pull up my trouser leg and hold out my calf to him. "Smooth."

Sam squints at my leg and folds his arms over his chest as if to keep them from complying with my request. "You're the smooth exception."

"The exception might well be the bristly German who strayed into your bed."

"I've had no German in my bed and also no one else bristly!"

"Oh, you haven't at all? Hm..." I put a finger to my mouth as if to think hard. "How is this not the same as your accusation that my statements about you are unfounded?"

So I have him well. Game, set and... well, at least a draw.

Sam supports his chin on his fist. "Krauts!"

"Yanks!" I reply as expected.

On this, both of us are silent and look at each other. He doesn't blink. I don't blink. With every second we grin more broadly.

"We should chill," mutters Sam without having blinked. "Otherwise, there'll be a third world war."

"That's not funny," I reply in the same tone.

"Do you see? Germans have no humour!"

"We have a good sense of humour, very peculiar, I would say. We don't need sitcoms that animate us with coordinated laughter to have fun."

"Let it go, Kraut! I count from three backward and then we can both blink."

"Very well. I'd like to look at the clock to calculate my sleep debt."

"It's almost two."

"Great..."

Sam counts. We blink at the same time and draw a deep breath. Sam rises almost jerkily and heads for the kitchen. He returns with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses and pours out a drink for us.

I stare at the whiskey. "Do you want me with you afterwards when I completely disgrace myself?"

"Anything but that. An American saying goes: 'Never go to bed angry! Stay awake and fight.'" With that, he presses a glass into my hand and takes his and clinks them together.