I was finishing up a cigarette while waiting for Frank to swing by and pick me up. Earlier in the day, I’d been hiking on the Mullerthal Trail in Luxembourg before returning to Aachen to meet with him for dinner. As I blew the plume into the air, the grumbling in my stomach thundered along with the literal tempest looming overhead, this was February in North-Rhine Westphalia. The pang was especially felt while I shivered from the cold, acutely aware that I hadn’t had a thing to eat all day, save for a Kind Bar.
“Where are you?” Frank, choppy over the phone, asked, 10-minutes past agreed rendezvous time.
“I’m at the Car Rental place, the location you sent brought me to a rundown building on the other side of town.” This was true. We were both low on wireless data and have had a rather difficult time locating each other.
“Ah, okay, don’t go anywhere, I’ll be there in 2 minutes.”
Frank arrived at the Car Rental precisely 2 minutes as indicated. Being on time was his thing; it was every German’s thing.
“We’ll get dinner at a Greek Restaurant near my apartment.” He declared.
The place was called Athens Restaurant. An unpretentious hole in the wall carved from the side of a building across the train station where Frank had picked me up five days earlier. The place was small and had, maybe, less than ten tables. At the door, the smell of garlic and olives permeated. I particularly liked the ersatz floral arrangements and off-white (probably a result of multiple wash cycles) tablecloths. An amateur painting of a Greek island was on the wall and three miniature columns stood directly in front which, I think, was meant to allow the viewer the sense of being guests in a mansion overlooking the Mediterranean. The intention was good, its vision evident, but the craft was a mere nod.
The server, an avuncular man with a knack for throwing jokes (in German), brought us bread, butter, and beers. I ordered a Soufico. The dish was heavily spiced and it was difficult to fully enjoy the thing even when I hadn’t eaten anything all day.
“So what are your thoughts on running?” I asked, eyes transfixed at the painting. I asked the question because Frank had, in the past month, been training for two half-marathon races later this year; one in Cologne, and the other in Valencia.
“A lot of people find running to be an existential symbol; some see themselves running towards something, and others from something.” I continued.
“I’m not really sure right now.” He said while cutting a steak.
“When I’m running, of course, I try to make it to the finish so if you think of it that way, I’m working my way towards something.” He continued.
“I feel the same. Although, at times, I can’t seem to ignore the fact that there’s also a part that’s trying to get away. I’m not sure why and from what, but the feeling is there. You know?” I said.
“Yeah, I know.” Frank responded.
“Maybe the more things you leave behind, the farther in life you get and the reason for how you got there becomes unimportant.” He continued.
The server returned to offer a refill on the beers and replenish the bread basket. We said yes and he pointed to my glass which was close to empty. I took a swig, looked out of the window, and then gingerly excused myself for a cigarette. A slight drizzle fell and I noticed the smoke eddying to the direction of a passing bus.
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