Status: ***ed up Rammstein feelage, ahoy.
Die Jagd
One
Danni
A cool autumn breeze made goosebumps rise on my arms and I paused in the devouring of my plate of Rouladen—meat wrapped in meat; how could one find something better—to roll down my sweatshirt sleeves. The navel blue cotton shirt flashed a giant white “W” on the front for the University of Washington, my soon-to-be alma mater.
“Wow. I didn’t think you would even stop to breathe when you got that plate in front of you.” My auburn-haired counterpart across from me muttered as she took a sip of her latte. A plate of dumplings in Alfredo sauce sat in front of her, almost finished.
I shrugged and went back to eating, groaning in approval at the splendid taste of pickles and mustard mixing with the saltiness of the broth it was bathed in. “You know I love my Rouladen.” My pronunciation of the German word probably lacked accuracy as my knowledge of the language was inferior to Carol’s, who could speak it conversationally without batting an eye.
My conversation skills went as far as “Hallo” or “Wo ist die Bad?”. Very important phrases. Plus, my Mississippi drawl—try as I might—got in the way of proper pronunciation of basic English sometimes, let alone German.
“I’m well-aware,” Carol said and smiled. “You love everything you’ve eaten here so far…”
“Germany has hella good food, okay?” I quipped, tearing into another bite. “Thanks for dragging me here.”
“I did not drag you,” Carol scoffed. “You very willingly got on that plane with me. You’re the one who’s always up for new experiences because it helps you write.”
She had a point. As a soon-to-be-graduating Journalism major, I wanted to cram in as much adventure and communication opportunities as possible. The University of Hamburg offered that to me, as well as for Carol and her Forestry degree.
We had met freshman year—floor mates in McMahon Hall—and bonded over the years through taking some general classes together and just having similar, dark senses of humor. Though we were both obvious introverts, Carol was quieter than me; my journalist instincts required constant, thought-out conversation. I asked a lot of questions, fueled my constant thirst for knowledge.
Carol’s family was almost completely German and she wanted to spend her last year in the land of her ancestors. I followed, though I had considered taking a trip to Sweden (where my family hailed) originally. My parents were weary of the prospect of sending their oldest child off to a foreign country, my younger sister inexplicably jealous. With Carol’s constant prodding, I agreed to go, and now we were striding down the streets of Hamburg, window shopping or giving into urges and pulling out our wallets. With coffees in hand and scarves around our necks, we drank in the beauty of the German city and relaxed on that Saturday afternoon.
I forbade myself alcohol (which is difficult to do), though Carol bought herself a glass of wine. Day drinking was a usual pastime of ours, but with a game that evening, alcohol didn’t sound all too enticing. All through college, I played intramural rugby. My freshman year left me with a vertical scar on my left knee from ACL repair surgery. But I loved the game so much, I was now the only American on the Hamburg Rugby Club. Despite the Germans’ rough exteriors, they often feared me, and I enjoyed that power—perhaps a little too much.
Plus, there were hot German dudes aplenty.
Not that such a component would influence me in any way.
Maybe a little.
Their accents were half the problem, okay?
Anyways, rugby was the one thing that alleviated the tension and stress built up with contacting sources, conducting interviews, writing stories, and meeting deadlines. Journalism was a tough field of study and I hadn’t even graduated and found an adult job yet, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t spring an ulcer just from an important assigned story for class. So I toughened up and chose the hard-hitting sports to help keep my sanity against hard-hitting stories. It was either that or alcohol and I was determined not to become like every other journalist out there who spend every evening at the bar getting shit-faced.
Though I enjoyed that from time-to-time too.
“You are coming to watch tonight, right?” I asked as Carol rummaged through a table of old, vintage trinkets in front of a pawn shop.
“And watch you get slammed around by hot, sweaty good-looking German men? Of course.” She picked up a rusted compass, the needle hardly intact and wobbling on its center. “I want this.”
I took the compass from her and sat it back on the table. “No.” Her face fell before scrunching into a scowl. “You said you couldn’t spend any more money after our trek to Berlin last weekend!”
“Yeah, but—”
“I know you love old, decrepit things,” I said and grabbed her hand to lead her onward down the street. “But no.”
“At least I just like old things. You’re the one who likes old men.” Carol drug her heels, clomping along with my arm stretched out behind me to keep her moving.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I sniffed.
“You’re attracted to pedophiles.”
“Shut up!”
A cool autumn breeze made goosebumps rise on my arms and I paused in the devouring of my plate of Rouladen—meat wrapped in meat; how could one find something better—to roll down my sweatshirt sleeves. The navel blue cotton shirt flashed a giant white “W” on the front for the University of Washington, my soon-to-be alma mater.
“Wow. I didn’t think you would even stop to breathe when you got that plate in front of you.” My auburn-haired counterpart across from me muttered as she took a sip of her latte. A plate of dumplings in Alfredo sauce sat in front of her, almost finished.
I shrugged and went back to eating, groaning in approval at the splendid taste of pickles and mustard mixing with the saltiness of the broth it was bathed in. “You know I love my Rouladen.” My pronunciation of the German word probably lacked accuracy as my knowledge of the language was inferior to Carol’s, who could speak it conversationally without batting an eye.
My conversation skills went as far as “Hallo” or “Wo ist die Bad?”. Very important phrases. Plus, my Mississippi drawl—try as I might—got in the way of proper pronunciation of basic English sometimes, let alone German.
“I’m well-aware,” Carol said and smiled. “You love everything you’ve eaten here so far…”
“Germany has hella good food, okay?” I quipped, tearing into another bite. “Thanks for dragging me here.”
“I did not drag you,” Carol scoffed. “You very willingly got on that plane with me. You’re the one who’s always up for new experiences because it helps you write.”
She had a point. As a soon-to-be-graduating Journalism major, I wanted to cram in as much adventure and communication opportunities as possible. The University of Hamburg offered that to me, as well as for Carol and her Forestry degree.
We had met freshman year—floor mates in McMahon Hall—and bonded over the years through taking some general classes together and just having similar, dark senses of humor. Though we were both obvious introverts, Carol was quieter than me; my journalist instincts required constant, thought-out conversation. I asked a lot of questions, fueled my constant thirst for knowledge.
Carol’s family was almost completely German and she wanted to spend her last year in the land of her ancestors. I followed, though I had considered taking a trip to Sweden (where my family hailed) originally. My parents were weary of the prospect of sending their oldest child off to a foreign country, my younger sister inexplicably jealous. With Carol’s constant prodding, I agreed to go, and now we were striding down the streets of Hamburg, window shopping or giving into urges and pulling out our wallets. With coffees in hand and scarves around our necks, we drank in the beauty of the German city and relaxed on that Saturday afternoon.
I forbade myself alcohol (which is difficult to do), though Carol bought herself a glass of wine. Day drinking was a usual pastime of ours, but with a game that evening, alcohol didn’t sound all too enticing. All through college, I played intramural rugby. My freshman year left me with a vertical scar on my left knee from ACL repair surgery. But I loved the game so much, I was now the only American on the Hamburg Rugby Club. Despite the Germans’ rough exteriors, they often feared me, and I enjoyed that power—perhaps a little too much.
Plus, there were hot German dudes aplenty.
Not that such a component would influence me in any way.
Maybe a little.
Their accents were half the problem, okay?
Anyways, rugby was the one thing that alleviated the tension and stress built up with contacting sources, conducting interviews, writing stories, and meeting deadlines. Journalism was a tough field of study and I hadn’t even graduated and found an adult job yet, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t spring an ulcer just from an important assigned story for class. So I toughened up and chose the hard-hitting sports to help keep my sanity against hard-hitting stories. It was either that or alcohol and I was determined not to become like every other journalist out there who spend every evening at the bar getting shit-faced.
Though I enjoyed that from time-to-time too.
“You are coming to watch tonight, right?” I asked as Carol rummaged through a table of old, vintage trinkets in front of a pawn shop.
“And watch you get slammed around by hot, sweaty good-looking German men? Of course.” She picked up a rusted compass, the needle hardly intact and wobbling on its center. “I want this.”
I took the compass from her and sat it back on the table. “No.” Her face fell before scrunching into a scowl. “You said you couldn’t spend any more money after our trek to Berlin last weekend!”
“Yeah, but—”
“I know you love old, decrepit things,” I said and grabbed her hand to lead her onward down the street. “But no.”
“At least I just like old things. You’re the one who likes old men.” Carol drug her heels, clomping along with my arm stretched out behind me to keep her moving.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I sniffed.
“You’re attracted to pedophiles.”
“Shut up!”
♠ ♠ ♠
And so it begins...