Finding a Frankfurter in Frankfurt

He was waiting for me as Immigration pushed me out into Germany. I’d rarely been so glad to see another person, and here he was smiling and holding his arms out for a hug. After a hectic trip to get to the correct London airport for my flight to Frankfurt, I had been sure I’d miss my plane, arrive in a strange country hours late, unable to speak the language, forced to find my way to a place I’d never been to dine on foreign food with grumpy people I’d never met.

I pulled my ridiculously heavy rolling bag over and melted into his arms. Yes, I’d never seen him before, but it had been a long and stressful day, I was tired from hauling so much baggage in and out of taxis and through terminals, and I needed a hug so bad!

Besides, he was tall, dark, and handsome, and I was sooo horny. I hadn’t had a chance to scratch that particular itch through a whirl of long haul flights, crowded youth hostels, and sheer exhaustion since leaving Australia a week earlier. I pushed my chest against his tall frame and drank him in. Mmmm.

Let’s call him Hans. He peeled me off, took a step back, and looked at me. “Guten Tag! Willkommen in Deutschland, Britni!”

Oh no! I knew enough German to know that this was a greeting, but if Hans spoke no English, and I had no more than a few words of German, this could be more stress on top of a long day.

Hang on. We’d been flirting on the same chat board for months, and I knew his English was excellent. “G’day, mate!” I said in my broadest Crocodile Dundee. “Crikey! It’s ripper ta see ya!”

His eyebrows rose a little as he unpacked that, and I could almost see the same thought running through his mind. “Crazy Australian fraulein speaks no English. Could be tricky.”

But he smiled and reached out his hand for my bag. I automatically checked. No wedding ring. Mmmm, definite possibilities.

I was a few days short of my twenty-second birthday. Young, blonde, and — looking back from fourteen years later — hopelessly naïve. Hans must have been in his mid-thirties, and I felt just a teeny bit like Maria meeting Captain von Trapp. He seemed so old, and confident here on his home turf.

“Come,” he said. “We have to take the train, and then the bus.”

“You know where I’m staying?”

“Yes, the youth hostel. Haus der Jugend in Brückenviertel. We had the Wikimania meeting there last year. I know it very well.”

Now I remembered. He was an editor or something in Wikipedia, which at that point was still flaky and unreliable. He was one of the enforcers and chased mischief-makers away.

He led me through the spaces and the bowels of the terminal to a booth where he bought me a ticket from a machine, and we descended to a platform. A lot of the signs were in English, but a lot weren’t, and I was grateful for a guide. Everyone else seemed to be rushing about confidently, and if it had just been me and my bags, I would have been lost and worried that I would take the wrong train.

“You have no Euro, yes? No problem.”

Yes, I had no Euros. I had a bunch of pound notes, and some strange coins jingling in my purse, but I hadn’t thought to get some local currency.

“We will find a bank machine, later, and you can repay me, if you like. Or buy me a beer.”

Do German trains run on time?

Fair enough. I was all eyes as the train pulled in. It might look like any other station, and any other metro train, but this was Germany, and I wasn’t going to miss a detail of this foreign adventure.

We found some seats, Hans hoisted my bag onto a rack — he must be hiding some muscles under that neat white shirt, because I still had the “Heavy Bend Your Knees” tag Qantas had put on it and it hadn’t gotten any lighter with a few London souvenirs — and he pointed out the features of the German countryside. A massive football stadium, a row of allotments with cutesy little houses and elderly folk reclining in deckchairs amongst the sprouting plots, bland apartments, industrial sheds, and finally a vast echoing station.

Somewhere along the way, I began asking Frans for the German names of things, and he happily obliged. Foosball Stadion, Vonungen, Hopbarnoff.

We hopped off at the barn and he led me through more confusion to a yard where buses were lined up. I pointed at one and raised my eyebrow.

“Bus,” he said, and I smiled back.

“And how do you say, ah, handsome gentleman?”

“Gut Aussehender Herr,” he said. “Look there’s one over there!”

I looked it up later, and the words meant “Lord, he’s good to look at!”, though I mangled them terribly, as I repeated the phrase, pointing to him, and saying the same to every German we met. I’m sure he rolled his eyes as well as my bag, but hey, I was having fun.

“Kaiserstrasse,” I read from a street sign. “Um, Kaiser Street?”

He smiled and nodded. “And that one?”

“Münchener Strasse,” I read, wondering why there were a pair of eyes over the mouth of the ‘u’. There was a pub on the corner and a restaurant opposite. “Eating Street.”

“No, that would be Essen. This one is named after Munich.”

He was doing a lot of smiling, and so was I. This was the way to travel!

We drove along streets, across a river — “the Main River,” he explained. “This is Frankfurt on the Main. There is another Frankfurt, Oder…” — and along the riverside to a modern building marked with the Hostel International symbol.

My home in Frankfurt

“Rudi!” Hans said to the man at the check-in desk, “This schöner Aussielanderin needs your best and biggest room. She has brought everything she owns in her suitcase.”

“She will get a bunk in the dormitory room she has paid for,” Rudi said, examining my booking confirmation. “But maybe there will be nobody else until tomorrow.”

Luxury! A room all to myself for a night. In my hostel in London, my seven roommates had come in drunk during the evening, and some had left for their early flights before dawn. The rest had come from Africa and Asia and consumed pungent foods from noisy plastic wrappings.

To cap it all off I had had the absolute worst shower experience of my life. Hot and sweaty after days of travel and loitering around the city until it was time to check in, I had gratefully stripped off, cranked the tap all the way around, and the shower had produced a weak lukewarm dribble two centimetres from the wall, before cutting off entirely once I had soaped myself up.

Hans hoisted my bag onto a bed and checked his watch. “We have forty-five minutes before we meet the others at the Römer Square. It will take us fifteen minutes to walk there, or half an hour if I have to give you the German names for everything we see.”

“Good. I need a quick shower and change,” I said, unzipping my bag, and rummaging inside.

He peered over my shoulder, “I see you brought your library with you. I thought it may have been exercise weights.”

A girl has to read, right?

“You can read while I shower. Won’t be a tick. Um, it’s Hot on the left and Cold on the right here?”

I had heard horror stories from fellow Australians at the London hostel. Just back from Milan, and they’d thought that ‘Caldo’ was self-explanatory, but noooo.

“It is a different system here. Perhaps I can show you?”

I froze. Did that mean what I thought it did?

Well, if it did, I was keen. I picked up a towel for myself and threw another at him. “You’re on!”

My bare Hans

He led the way, our footsteps echoing in the empty corridor, my heart pounding along. There were two doors with the usual symbols, labelled Herren and Damen. Lords and, um, Ladies, I said to myself. Another door between, marked with a wheelchair.

He winked at me. “The handicap shower is big enough for two, and we will not be disturbed.”

He locked the door behind us, and I was on him.

Slight rasp of stubble against my cheek, and the aftershave I’d been catching hints of for the past hour. Up close it filled my nostrils, and my knees went a little weak. I held him tight and tilted my face up to his.

His lips were soft against mine, and I enjoyed the sensation, touching them with the tip of my tongue. I found his tongue had the same idea, and we danced in our mouths for a while. I opened my eyes for a moment, and found his were open, regarding me with interest. Dark and cool. Well, I could fix that.

I tugged his shirt out of his belt and ran my hands against the skin beneath, exploring the muscles below, Just as I’d guessed, he was solid, rippled where he needed, and flat where it was good. I pulled one arm out and began unbuttoning him, buttons the wrong way round, just like home.

I opened my eyes and drank him in when his defences were down. Tight below, wide shoulders above, he was glory under a light fuzz of chest hair. He sighed when I ran my fingers through the sparse curls, and I bent to taste each hard little nub of nipple.

I had woken the tiger. He pushed me back, pulled at my t-shirt and lifted it over my head. Dear God, but he unhooked my bra one-handed, and that went too.

He regarded me, eyes lingering over the highlights, which popped out all by themselves. “You know that photo on your profile?”

I nodded. The discipline in my teens had been long sleeves, long dress, and definitely a bra at all times, but since breaking away there had been the occasional moment of freedom, recorded with much giggling by a girlfriend. I had put up a summery shot to tease my Northern Hemisphere pals, suffering through snow and overcoats while I apparently lounged at the beach.

“Perfect,” he said and ran his fingertips over my curves. I could feel tingles inside, darting down and lighting me up deliciously. I glanced down. It wasn’t just my nipples pointing out.

“Here, let me help you with that.” I unclasped his belt and fumbled with his trouser button. He took over, unzipped and stepped out of his trousers, which he bent down to hang up, with his shirt and my top, on the hooks. Say what you like about boxers, but with briefs, you know exactly what’s inside, and he was peeking out over the top already.

“Willkommen,” I said, and let the little feller out.

Not so little, to be honest. I liked the look of this one, and I gently traced my fingers along its length.

But Hans eased it out of my hands as he bent down, lips fastening around each of my eager nipples, and then he just kept on going south.

“Shower time!” I announced, arresting his downwards intentions. It had been a long day, and I was probably fairly fragrant down under.

He turned to the controls — yes, some sort of circular dial arrangement I’d not encountered before — and I took off my remaining clothing. I admired his taut bottom while he adjusted the temperature. He had a swimmer’s body: long, well-defined, and muscled around the shoulders. Just the way I like it. Not bad for an old guy.

He turned to look at me, and I handed him the bar as I slipped under the shower stream. “Soap me up?”

Dear Reader, my breasts have never ever been so clean. And after a while, I had no worries about my cleanliness anywhere. I was pretty much all soap.

I managed to distract him when he dropped the bar and I bent to pick it up. It was my turn, and I enjoyed the feeling of skin slick and soapy under my hands. I began at the top, and made my way down, turning him under the shower stream to admire him from every angle, Um, I mean rinse him off.

I never got down to his knees and feet. I got distracted about halfway down when I was kneeling to pay careful attention to his best bits.

Honest, don’t know how it got into my mouth, but there it was, tasting of clean and water, rather than the sort of savoury man tang I truly enjoyed. I ran my tongue over his ridges and veins, feeling him firm up solid. I knew how this worked, and I smoothly transitioned into a rocking movement, drawing him in as far as I dared, and then letting him slide almost all the way out. Faster now.

But he pulled it away. Honestly, that had never happened before. It never came out until it was happy and I was rolling the result around. To be honest, I’m not a fan of the taste. Like salty glue, but every man likes to think he’s a feast.

Not this one, apparently.

“That’s beautiful, Britni, but I would feel obliged to give you the same thing, and I don’t think we have time. There will be our friends, waiting. Perhaps, later?”

I nodded, oh yes. Frankly, at that point, I don’t think it would have taken more than a couple of minutes of devoted work to get me over the line, but some things are much better taken slow. Besides, in my experience shower sex is one of those things where the theory is way better than the practice.

Bankfurt

Five minutes later we were on the riverside walk. Slightly damp, perhaps, but it was a warm evening. I was on the river side, holding his hand. A chunky gold signet ring and a firm, warm grasp.

Cygnets… “Look, a white swan!” I said, pointing with my free hand. “So beautiful!”

He looked at me strangely. “What other colour would a swan be?”

“In Australia, they are black.”

He didn’t believe me, I could see it. “Look up Wikipedia!”

“Even then, I don’t believe it. You are pulling on my leg.”

I tugged on his hand instead. “Let’s get closer. I need to take a photograph to show people back home.”

White swans are possibly the most beautiful of birds. I got a couple of shots in before we were on the move again.

So pretty. On the far side of the river there was a cathedral poking above the buildings, and further on a cluster of glass and steel towers.

“All the big banks have their headquarters here,” Hans said. “They never see the sun. They come out at night, blinking like moles, spend a few hours at home, and return to work at dawn.”

“Oooh, moles! Can I see one?”

I looked around, but there were neither badgers, wolves, or ferrets. Squirrels, yes, but I had discovered in London that people laughed at you if you stopped to take pictures of them.

We walked across a footbridge. In the evening there were boats with tables on the upper deck, people dining in the open air, and lovers walking close. I stopped him in the middle, and we leaned over the railing. A kiss to make the moment perfect, and then we went on.

Frankfurt has a gem at its heart. The Römerberg, a glorious city square surrounded by mediaeval buildings. The faces of the half-timbered buildings were illuminated, the whole square was cobbled, there was a fountain in the middle, and buskers were performing. Tourists and locals strolled, or took photographs, or dined at open-air restaurants.

We had nothing like this in Australia. How on earth had it survived the war, I wondered.

Hans was reading my mind. “Rebuilt,” he said. “Look down, Britni.”

I looked down. What I had taken for a manhole cover was actually a plaque in bronze. Three books were open amongst stylised flames, and an inscription included a date in May 1933.

Goosebumps goose-stepped up my back. “Oh, no!” I breathed.

Burning books has always seemed like a crime to me. The sort of act that human beings don’t do. And yes, now that you ask, I’m one of those who mourn the burning of the Library of Alexandria.

I paused for a moment, to think of that night here in this lovely old square. The fire leaping up, the books hurled into the flames in fluttering arcs, the shouts and hoots of the Nazis.

A few years later, and they were burning more than books. People. And after that, the buildings here had burnt in the bombing raids. What possible military purpose could this old square have had? None of it made any sense to me.

The weight of history leaned down and rested on me. We only went back two hundred years in Australia. We had nothing like this lovely old square, witness to horrors.

Hans gave me a squeeze. He pointed. “Look, there are Sarah and Jan, and little Asher. Let us go and say Willkommen to them.”

Dining down under

Fellow members of our online group. They had come from all over Germany to meet a visiting Australian, and we had dinner booked. There were a dozen of us, all told, and some had brought along their partners.

We had dinner in a genuine beer-cellar beneath one of those lovely old houses, and there were greetings and hugs, gifts to be exchanged, and my spirits lifted to be among these online companions. I beamed around these people I had never met except online.

I was asked to say a few words, and I blurted out that it was wonderful to discover that all my imaginary friends were real, and I was looking forward to eating some genuine German food. A hamburger, or a frankfurter, perhaps? Weinerschnitzel?

“Nein, das ist österreichisch!” someone yelled. “Du musst Handkäse essen!”

“Mit musik!” another shouted, and everyone roared with laughter. Except me.

Hans leaned over. “Weinerschnitzel is Austrian,” he said. “Handkäse is a little wheel of sour cheese, with raw onions.”

“And the musik?”

“Ah, that comes later.”

From the other side, Sarah shook her head and grimaced. “It makes the breath smell bad. Not good for kissing.”

She jabbed her husband, who hurriedly turned over a page in the menu.

I don’t remember what I ate, but there were little portions of various foods pushed onto my plate and I sampled them all until I felt that I might need help getting back up the stairs. There was good German beer, tart apple cider, and a ring-shaped cake was brought triumphantly in, to a chorus of “Happy Birthday!”

My birthday was still a few days away, but it was marked on my profile, so everyone knew.

It was good to finally get out into the cool night air. All around us people were saying goodbye, and telling me that I must come back again. But Hans stayed, and I looked at him.

“Perhaps you would like to stay at my house?” he said. “It is more comfortable than a bunk in your hostel.”

I smiled and nodded. I might have been ready for bed, but not for sleep.

“And,” he went on, “my wife is away in Switzerland for a few days.”

My face fell. “You’re married?”

“Yes, did you not see my ring?” He held up his hand. His right hand.

He studied me. “Is that a problem between us?”

I nodded glumly. “I wouldn’t feel good about it. I’m sorry.”

“Ah.”

He shrugged. “I am sorry, too. But if it would make you unhappy, then that is that. Come, let us get a taxi to your hostel. It is on my way home.”

He gave me a kiss on the cheek when he said goodnight, and I looked regretfully at the taillights of the cab as it drove away. Had I just made a massive mistake?

I wondered about that for years after. We remained friends, and we kept in touch. I eventually returned to Frankfurt, but that’s another story.

In the meantime, I went back to my lonely hostel bunk room and made the most of it.

Britni