Das coitus
In Philadelphia, few real Italian butcher shops remain. Replaced by the deli counter at the supermarket or the high-end meat market at Whole Foods, those emporiums whose owners smile and greet you warmly are rare and coveted.
Take a number
Standing in a long line, waiting for a Thanksgiving turkey ordered by his mother-in-law, a muscular older man remarked that the line reminded him of his time living in East Berlin before the Wall fell. A thick accent. Talking on his cell phone, sarcastically reminding his counterpart that he’d be living on “corn, mashed potatoes and the travesty of American football” for the day, he seemed to revel in the teasing. I asked where he was from when he finished, cannily reminding him that we were presently deep in Philadelphia Eagles territory, where the dangers to his personal safety, due to his opinion on American football, were much greater than any he’d experienced from the secret police in East Germany.
A new friend
Gunter welcomed my questions. Fifty-six years old, he was surprised at my interest in life on the opposite side of Checkpoint Charlie. Among other observations shared was the belief that “once one stands in a line waiting for food, the experience alters one’s outlook permanently”. Too, he spoke of his love for rugby.
He thought it unfair that he was required to stand in line at all, because he wasn’t going to eat the turkey. He’d long ago become a vegetarian. Gunter went on to suggest that his in-laws like to mess with him because he’s been having “das coitus” with their daughter all these years. I doubled over.
“Das coitus.”
Corn. Mashed potatoes. Das coitus.
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