Suspicious Minds

I arrived on a Sunday after an uneventful flight and an endless wait for the connecting train to the city that would become my home. Now that I’d settled, somewhat, and had a reasonable sleep, I rose at the crack of dawn with a little more energy than the day before I decided to explore. 

The sun crested over the buildings as I looked at the map on my phone. The light shone blindingly between the peaked roofs making me squint. I took in the bitingly cold air and became alive as I descended the hill that my apartment sat on. As I reached the first intersection, I looked up and poking between the trees was an ancient stone structure that looked like it was out of one of the fairy tales that I’d grown up reading. It was a turret and surprisingly looked like it had been made into someone’s house with a garden out front and an Audi at the end of the drive winding up to it. I walked past it, gawking and turned my head to take in the Belle Epoch architecture of the apartments that lined either side of the street that I was walking down.

I was elated to be surrounded this history. It was a change from the houses that had lined my street that were called war-time or had that split-level architecture of the ‘70s. Were these buildings from the mid 1800s or early 1900s? The town’s square that I was heading for was supposed to be from 800 AD and I couldn’t wait to take in that long sense of history.

I walked past a man who had his hand shoved deep in his pockets as if to anchor his pants firmly to his body. He walked directly towards me and as I skittered out of the way I saw him glance at me with a scowl permanently glued to his face. I wasn’t going to let that exchange ruin my day. I walked on and noticed an old couple also walking in a straight line right towards me. I pressed myself to the building and tried to make eye contact, only to see their faces weighed down, eyes planted on their own steps.  As I approached the town square, I finally saw the city wake up with shop keepers opening up, but only one, who looked like he was a foreigner himself, exchange a nod with me. Everyone else seemed immersed in their own activities so much that I felt like I couldn’t ask where I might grab breakfast.

I didn’t want to get Starbucks. I wanted to expand my taste buds, but the café at the corner of the square looked closed, so I passed it taking in the large majestic size of the townhall and my jaw dropped as I rounded the corner to see the windows of the church.  It was rounded with a high dome and long stained-glass windows. It looked more ornamental than a place that welcomed worshippers.

I was mesmerized by the huge shadow the building cast over the street and pulled out my camera to capture the image that probably had a million stories to tell. I’d looked a little into this town’s history and knew that at one point it had been the center of the Holy Roman Empire and wondered if that church had held ceremonies for the Emperors who had ruled this area. I noticed a little bakery across the street opening and looked at all the cookies in the window. My stomach was aching to be filled with something more sustainable than that. I walked around the church and rounded the townhall once more, coming to the square. I did a little window shopping there then went down a smaller, busy street hoping to find a good place to eat. 

I came across a place with a few tables outside and a burgundy awning with the name Edgar’s scrawled on it. I entered and took it in. To me, it looked like those dark little Parisian places from the movies and I hoped that at least it had good coffee. I sat down and leafed through a menu. I’d been sitting there trying to make sense of it; the basic class I’d taken had given me the slightest bit of knowledge to order food and I was able to choose from three items that I understood. The waitress came with a look on her face that showed no interest in what I was about to say.

“Café?” She assumed.

I didn’t contradict her, and I untied my tongue enough to order potatoes, bacon and eggs.

“We have English menus. Next time ask,” she curtly informed me.

I sat there taking in the people around me who were chatting in a sort of subdued, polite manner. The odd time, I saw the corner of someone’s mouth turn up in an attempt to smile. The waitress came back with my coffee and a little tray with cream and sugar cubes. I thanked her with a smile, and she grunted and walked to the next table to take their order.

The coffee was comfortingly strong. I didn’t normally add sugar, but I did this time to make it palatable. It wasn’t offensive, but it shocked my taste buds awake. I took in the restaurant with it’s black and whites of Marilyn Monroe leaning over a balcony, Marlene Dietrich in a Vegas showgirl-type dress, and a few people that looked like authors from 1920’s/30’s Paris; Steinbeck and Hemmingway maybe. My view was cut off by the waitress who plunked a plate filled to the edge with fried potatoes with bits of bacon and two eggs on top. It was almost an ouveos ranchos but without the tempting colour. I smiled and swear she rolled her eyes as she walked away then returned with ketchup, and silently, but firmly put it on the table. I ate in silence. It was a meal for a lumberjack but was just what I needed in this foreign place to make me feel at home.  

I nosed around the city a little more before I trekked back up the hill and to my apartment. I passed a few younger couples with faces that were frozen in a statue-like stoic manner and past turret, which I’d learned was what remained from the original wall of the city, and up the rest of the hill to my building. My landlord was out front tending to the garden, and I said hello to her as I turned the key in the front door.

“How do you like our little city?” She asked.

“It’s definitely not like home.”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

I laughed at her reference. She’d been a professor of English Literature at Stanford for a few years then moved home. She’d been very chatty on the phone and had sold the place before I’d seen it. At least I felt welcomed by one person.

I had Monday to set up a few things and buy some bedding and other things for my new home, then started on Tuesday. It was the usual awkward introduction to a new team with smiles plastered on everyone’s face that didn’t match the people I’d seen in the streets around town. I was paired with a man called Andre who buzzed around the office like he was on rollerblades but took all of my work questions and one about getting oriented in town with immense patience. My company had hired someone to come in and teach three of us language classes so that we’d become acclimatized and comfortable in our new home and it was nice to have accomplices with similar issues.

It seemed like when I was in my apartment bubble or my work bubble that there was a welcoming atmosphere, but when I stepped out on the street there were a bunch of suspicious agents observing me. I noticed that when I strutted down the hill to the bus with a smile on my face, I was met with a stern look and raised eyebrow. I asked the bus driver a question and was given an abrupt reply like I’d interrupted his concentration and should think twice in the future about it.  The grocery store clerks wanted nothing to do with my questions about where to find things and when I went shopping it seemed to be a game hide and seek with the salespeople who hated when I found them.

After about three months I’d become accustom to the burst of rain that happened almost daily and most of the customers that Andre and I visited or video chatted with about their education in social media and advertising to hone their businesses we becoming warmer. One Thursday, I was sitting with Paula, a woman at one of the bigger bakeries when she asked:

“How do you like the city?”

“Um, it’s…” I searched for the words.

“It’s uncomfortable at first, right?”

“Yeah. Where are you from again?”

“Czech Republic.”

“So, you found it hard to fit in?”

“Na, yeah. I had my boyfriend, so I had someone. You are here by yourself?”

“Yeah. Are people always so….um…”

“Serious?”

“Yeah. Well, grumpy, maybe.”

She laughed and said, “I can see it. They don’t smile as much or greet you in the street but if you meet someone that becomes your friend, you have a friend for life. You just have to wait a while before that happens.”

She laughed even harder at the face I’d made that must have looked like a cross between fear and hopelessness but melted into a smile. I was ready for the challenge. I’d already picked up and moved 4000 km, I could work at making a connection if it meant a lifelong partner in crime.