On Wednesday evening, just as I was starting to relax and enjoy the peace, Bjorn came back. Yes, his 8 – 9 day trip, had turned into a one day trip. This one day did finally give me a chance to tackle the fridge of dysentery, disease and death, though.
I opened the door to a slightly battered-looking Bjorn, complete with broken nose and black eyes. Seemingly, he’d been jumped by some Turks in Sweden. This may or may not be fictitious.
Me: Where’s your key?
Bjorn: I gave it to my wife to mind and she forgot to give it back.
Yes, Bjorn is married – to an insane Russian, who also may or may not be fictitious. Bjorn has spent the last few weeks living in fear of said wife, who is an evil genius when it comes to technology. She has been hacking his mobile and screwing with his life, so he keeps on switching off the wifi to deny her access. So it makes perfect sense that they would go to Sweden together…
Me: Why would you do that?
Bjorn: Ramble, ramble, nonsense, bullshit…
Me: Sigh.
On Thursday morning, I packed my laptop, as Thursday is the day of loneliness when it comes to lessons. I figured if the students didn’t show up again, I could at least get some other work done. This week, two out of four groups showed up, which I guess is progress. One of the groups didn’t have a single German in it, just two Spaniards, an El Salvadoran, and a Pole. Welcome to Berlin.
When I got home in the evening, I was rather surprised to find the front door open. He didn’t, he couldn’t have… He did.
When Bjorn showed up around half an hour later, I was spitting mad, but decided to start off in a calm, Germanic way.
Me: Are you aware that you left the front door open?
Bjorn: Well, I didn’t know what time you’d be back, and I had to go out.
(Warning: The conversation goes a bit ‘Tarantino’ at this point.)
Me: Are you a complete and utter fucking moron?
Bjorn: No, it’s fine. I’ve done it before…
Me: You what?? Are you actually fucking mentally ill? Anything could have happened. All of my stuff is here. Where is your fucking key?
Bjorn: My wife isn’t answering her phone.
Me: Well, fucking call her again, and keep calling her. What is your cunning plan for tomorrow? Go out all day again and leave the fucking door open? Maybe you could put the fucking frying pan on the ring while you’re at it, to heat up the place for when you get back. You total fucking gobshite.
I would like to say at this point that I am a rather articulate person in real life. However, when faced with this unprecedented level of stupidity, all decorum went out the window. It’s perfectly clear that Bjorn has zero respect for his own stuff, but it would be nice to know that I can actually go out and expect my things to be here when I get back.
Yesterday afternoon, craving some normal conversation, I met up with my new best friend, Dietmar. We met at the restaurant where we first got talking. Over a couple of glasses of Chardonnay, we caught up, and I filled him in on my current living situation. When I showed him the photos of the fridge, he almost passed out. He offered to help me find somewhere new; I gratefully accepted.
Dietmar: I’d like to take you to a speakeasy in a ruin. Would you like that?
Me: Sounds great!
We hopped on his scooter and zipped off into the night, me probably cutting off his circulation in the process. The speakeasy was just opening when we got there and was indeed in a ruin. Only in Berlin!
Given the choice between spending the night with a mad Swede or a sexy older German man, the decision was pretty easy. It also meant that Bjorn would be locked out for the night, so the flat had a much better chance of survival.
I ignored all calls and texts, had a nice leisurely breakfast with Dietmar today, and eventually made my way home for around 1 o’clock.
Bjorn: You didn’t tell me you wouldn’t be coming home.
Me: I did. You just didn’t listen. You never fucking listen.
Bjorn: I had to check in to a hotel. I checked out at 7am and have been waiting for you ever since.
Me: Why would you do that? You really are a total fucking idiot, you know that?
Bjorn: Ramble, ramble, nonsense, bullshit…
Me: Look. I’m sick of fucking listening to this. Sort out your fucking wife, get your fucking key and sort your fucking life out. You asshole. You’re 36 years old and you live like a fucking moron.
Bjorn: Wow, I had no idea you were so crazy.
Me: ME? I’M CRAZY? YOU ARE A COMPLETE AND UTTER NUTTER. I can’t take this any more. I’m moving out. Give me back my fucking deposit and I’ll be gone by the end of the week.
Bjorn: Oh, I bought cookies. You can have one if you like.
Me: Fucking psycho.
Around half an hour after this conversation, the phone rang. It was Dietmar to say that he’d found me a room. I think I love that man. God bless German efficiency.
Expat Eye on Germany 