It doesn’t get much better than this: sitting outside a coffee shop in your hometown, planning a vacation without pressure. With its medieval brick gables, Lüneburg in northern Germany is itself the destination of countless dreams. Sitting out on the street in April, casually sketching out a trip to Italy, has a certain airy, effortless charm. No obligations, no worries. Pure relaxation amidst the gentle, everyday sounds of the background, without any loud noises.
“Mom, I’m going to marry Lisa,” the man next to me said, out of nowhere. I was lost in my thoughts and stared at him, not really waiting for the punchline.
“What?” the lady in her mid-fifties — usually governed by impeccable self-control — blurted out. It was his loving mother. — That would be me.
The marriage-minded guy had crossed one leg over the other and was tugging at the laces of his shoe. The ends weren’t the same length. He tugged, compared, tugged again… “No matter how much caution and restraint you use, someone always ends up losing out. One always pulls the other shorter,” he muttered, holding both threads in his hands. His thoughts drifted across the shallow bed of a body of water that needed no name to be remembered.
Shorter? I didn’t even make it to the last eyelet of his shoelace-nursery-training before he expected applause.
Typical Junior. He celebrates the endless time it takes him to tie a simple bow. So he’s planning to get married. Thoughts drifted from a bizarre sight to a daring preview. Come again? My son is getting married? Lisa is nice. They barely know each other.
With every little tug he gave my patience, I understood more clearly what was rolling toward me.
I knew the staff at the restaurant — including Sylvia, who approached us with a beaming smile. We know each other. That’s all. We exchange small talk every time we meet. Over time, we’ve developed a kind of silent understanding; some things no longer need to be said. No fuss. No announcements. An ear for nuance, an eye for the overall impression.
She came over to our table. “Hello, Anna. I’m bringing your cappuccinos.” She handled the tray with unusual care. Normally, she’d slam it down, unload it, and tuck it back under her arm in one fluid motion. This time, everything moved in blurred slow motion beside the galloping horses of my thoughts. The situation demanded more than just sorting the ponies out. Basic politeness is my second forename.
“Hello, Sylvia. Thank you. We didn’t order anything.”“I saw you, and it just slipped out. Easy enough at this time of day. In the evening, it depends on the weather,” she said with her robust smile — lips barely moving, narrow as ever. Her laughter has its own dimensions. It doesn’t just spread. It takes over an entire city square.
“Guess again, Sylvia! No hints, no warnings — he wants to get married.” I nodded — though it might just as well have been a shake — at my son.
She turned to Junior. “Congratulations. Take her! Don’t waste any time! Lisa loves you. That’s enough. That’s all you need to know. And we may never understand why she’d even set foot on your island of emptiness.”
My son had gotten better at noticing the moments when keeping quiet was exactly the right thing to do. He stared at his shoe. The child was occupied, his face giving nothing away — unreadable, almost blank. You never know what comes next. My big baby. Once a sunbeam in my arms, now a wall with weather behind it. Right beside the beauty sits his talent for ending any conversation in one sentence. It wasn’t really the shoelaces that bothered the man, who rarely lets anything get to him.
I distracted myself with coffee. It doesn’t matter in what form it arrives — coffee is perfect in any weather. Mood barometers hold their needles still for a moment. Sylvia looked at me questioningly. I knew it had nothing to do with the new tableware in front of me. Still, the china gave me a moment to sort out my thoughts. “Oh, that’s pretty, Sylvia. You’re bringing cappuccino on an extra tray now? With a glass of water. Wow! The rose pattern on the cup suits the city so well. What’s gotten into you, folks? Coffeehouse culture? Like at the famous Tomaselli in Salzburg? If you’ve added a Mélange to the menu, you’re going overboard.”
“Don’t worry. For us, it’s always just business. You’ll know exactly where you stand.” She let her gaze wander over the stepped gables of the historic houses. “Yeah, no. You have to move with the times. With coffee, we’re going backwards. The market calls the shots. Not that we’re letting that crazy expensive Italian luxury machine gather dust. I’m not running around the tables with filter attachments and hot water — and a brew-time inspector breathing down my neck. Can I get you anything else? Anna? Strawberry cake?”
“I’d love some, Sylvia, thank you. What do you think of Junior’s ambitions?”
“Be glad, Anna. It’s about time. They think they’re maturing as they get older. Wisdom? Beauty? No chance. You don’t get more of anything with age — just more laundry.” She lifted her head for a quick, sharp glance. “Junior! Cake?”
The gentleman at my table shook his head. “Thanks.”
Sylvia disappeared back into the restaurant. I gathered myself as I looked at the oval brushed-metal tray. Oh, how nice: today there’s a heart on the milk foam. Chocolate powder sprinkled on in one confident sweep through a sieve. I don’t need the magic of a stick — seducing coffee and milk into a peacock silhouette? That’s as much my thing as a hairdresser who talks you to death. I cut my own hair. Powder works just fine. So simple, and yet it spreads a little charm across the North German lowlands. With a gentle mood for the image of love, I lifted the cup to my mouth. Coffee helps when you need it. A second wind has more staying power for the essentials. After setting the cup down carefully, the dusted symbol remained intact. Coolness is called for now, Anna, I told myself, just before a tiny shock matured into full-blown fear.
“What a pain,” groaned Junior. “These things are never the same length. Velcro fasteners are rubbish too. If you have dogs that shed, you’re in for the next problem. However you do it…” The man without a pet ended his profound everyday troubles with a resolute jerk. A knot and a bow followed, and he looked up at me from the side. His expression hadn’t changed, but his chin was frozen mid-flutter. “Mom, no joke. I’m going to marry Lisa,” Miller Junior said again. He tilted his head toward me. The shoes fit snugly on his feet — feet equipped for life. They knew real burdens only from the movies. The only weight his bones had ever carried was his own. He took a big gulp of cappuccino and blew at the chocolate-powder heart — somehow. Then he snorted through his nose and made it sway on the foam. Loose powder sprayed pointlessly in my direction. With the first slurping sip, the marriage-minded man had erased the heart completely. Remnants of milk foam clung to his upper lip, the corners of his mouth, and the tip of his nose. Junior kept the cup in his hand. He looked across the square. As he did, he wiped his mouth by slowly rubbing his thumb and index finger together. The foam on his nose dried.
My thoughts needed more light to grow. I followed his gaze. There was nothing there. If it doesn’t work out again — shoes, marriage, life — I’m here. The rascal knows it.
It was a gently sun-kissed April day — pleasant enough, drifting right along the edge of becoming boring. We were sitting in the middle of Lüneburg, under a twenty-year-old maple tree with light green foliage, at a pub owned by friends. They had been running the place for years. The whole family pitched in; they moved around each other like a single organism, stepping aside only when the flow of customers forced them to. I could see time passing simply by watching their children. Just a moment ago they were in strollers, complaining whenever the weather changed. Now they were playing at being landladies, just tall enough to peek over the tables. My family is tiny. That’s no guarantee of a peaceful life. With Junior and me, all the Millers were gathered under the tree. Our intended conversation that day was about a business trip to Pescara in Italy.
At the end of May, Junior was planning to drive to the Adriatic for the annual meeting of an association. I had planned to go with him. The reason for my decision was as simple as it was impulsive: “Italy? No question. I’m in.” With his casual mention of wanting to get married, I was out. Lisa had actually planned to return to Lüneburg in July. And suddenly a decision dropped on us like unexpected snowfall — tying two lives together. And what were my first practical thoughts? “The vacation is ruined.” Checking off trivialities on the sidelines — maybe that’s just a way of buying time. It wasn’t about traveling. I vacuum up crumbs when uncertainty hits. Airless moments demand reserves. If I sense a hospital stay coming, I don’t go to bed. I clean the entire place, just in case I’m gone for a few weeks. The hotel booking and registration for the meeting had been confirmed eight months earlier. An earlier departure with one or two stopovers was on the table. Still, my enthusiasm was limited. With Junior, you’re never free. The mood was like preparing for a trip to Italy with a class reunion. It was time to attend one of these meetings again. I knew most of the participants better than my son did. No surprise there — he liked to have me represent him at previous events. I had let myself be persuaded several times and explored New York, New Orleans, and Dubai. There are worse things. His fear of flying was the only reason for the division of labor. Pescara is easy to reach by car. Junior got there without wetting his pants. The plan was to stop in Verona, make a pit stop in Venice, and take a trip into Abruzzo. Calling the preliminary program a delicate roadmap into Italian culture and style was fair enough — purely by accident. Every fuel stop in Italy can deliver inspiration. We could pick it up along the way or somewhere nearby. A change of plans in the Miller household was out of the question. Junior’s decision to get married didn’t seem to have been made lightly.The whole travel topic was off the table. I had other, more pressing things on my mind.
Sylvia came rushing in with the strawberry cake. “Anna, here’s your cake. Make sure it gets out of the yard.”
I looked at her, pressed the side of the cake with my fork.“What’s wrong with it? Is it from the day before yesterday?”
“The cake is fine. It’s fresh. I’m talking about your grown boy. Don’t dwell on it. You have your life. Get to know it. You deserve it. Then you can finally let it all out.”
“If you knew what’s going on inside me. I could cry.”
“You? Crying? In public? You’d better start freeing yourself. Begin with him. He wants to get married.”
“Sylvia, HE is sitting right here listening to everything. I have feelings too,” my son said.
“All the better. Get married! Lisa will know how to take care of you. Things will change — you just won’t notice at first. I’m not worried about your feelings. You’re a lucky guy. She gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder and looked back at me. “Anna, I have to run. We’re short-staffed. It’s preseason — before Lüneburg gets flooded with tourists — and we need every hand we can get.”It was cut off.
My intentions were my hope, really. At last, there was a chance to get rid of him. Of course I love Junior — but he does make me appreciate the benefits of long-distance relationships. All these years. And now there was a ray of hope. I hadn’t missed a single chance to shake him off. He wasn’t clingy — I could have taken that as a compliment, in a way. But it was different: his body and mind were like inert masses that simply refused to move. Junior had grown up an enchanting, sociable child. A ray of sunshine — until his voice broke. Over the years, he had grown into a Miller. He had raced through puberty with all its ups and downs. Bursting with hormones and overwhelmed by emotions, he followed his destiny as a misfit. No relationship lasted long enough to force him to settle down. Not much about him had changed since then. At 187 centimeters, he was far too tall for the baby hatch. A hundred kilos is a considerable figure — practically a landmark. A figure like his father’s. Senior required his own illumination. Where a Miller appears, there is no room for sunlight. I don’t pretend otherwise. The train of hope had left the station.
When mothers talk about their unmarried sons, the truth comes out bluntly. Not a word too many. “Oh, that’s your son who carried the heavy potted plant all the way through the city to your home. That was really kind of him,” said the lady from the flower shop in Munich City Hall. Junior, who had been recognized, stood in front of the store. We had met earlier for a cappuccino at the cathedral.
“You can have him,” I replied, pointing at my son without turning to him.
“Thanks, no. I have one myself.”
I would have placed him in good hands at sixteen, but he wouldn’t sell below market value. He was indifferent to it. I had no idea what he was after. Eccentric collectors of damaged stamps? Junior was definitely no longer in mint condition. More like unstamped — passed through countless hands, never mailed. He didn’t stick; he simply slid off, and I found him again at the counter when I swept up in the morning. So far, the yellowing stamp with the “Miller Junior” motif had attracted no serious interest. My hope for redemption sprouted. It seemed I was in luck, and this relationship would last. Obviously, his father was a Miller and considered himself a gift to humanity. I had everything: time, ideas, warmth, and love. And what grew out of it? A Miller. And what a Miller. Junior is a notch above Miller. The fact that he was ten years older than Lisa didn’t worry me. What worried me was his lack of talent for arguing and making up again. When he’s upset, Junior tends to make a silent blast. The audience doesn’t hear him, but he blows the instrument right out of the sensitive violinist’s hand. I stand firmly on the side of sounds of delicate origin.
Lisa, the poor child. The thought was futile. He is the son I cannot deny. His well-being is my permanent job. It was never a wish. The calling arose from an unwanted yet beloved pregnancy.
“Do you love her?” I asked the man with the sudden marriage plans.
“You know that.”
“You say it often, and I’m sure you’re in love. But would that still be the case in ten years if she were sick and in a wheelchair?” To the untrained ear, these words sound harsher than they struck him. My son grew up with that question. When others overwhelm me with their eternal emotions, I crush the mood with the threat of a wheelchair. Life happens. Some people panic when the unknown walks in. That never worked on Junior.
“He’s ethical. He’s morally steady.” Wow. Hearing that with confidence would have been a huge compliment to my parenting. It would have filled me with pride to think, just once, that the seed had sprouted. A Miller — undeterred by external stimuli. He dares to step out of the daily struggle for insight. He is ready. I will continue to hope. It’s no use: self-deception is a waste of time.
My strawberry cake was light and sweet. The wasps weren’t panicky enough this early in the year to pounce on it. Lisa deserved that cake. Every woman should expect and demand to be more than a tasty morsel at the right moment. What would he do when simple desires took a back seat to problems — or suffering? Junior is trained and hardened by me. He knows the rules of the road backwards — and runs when the light is red if he feels like it. What I call a word of warning is, for him, an annoying, familiar form of waterboarding. The wheelchair-move as a warning against the fleeting ideal? It stopped working on Junior long ago. I could still shock a prepubescent child. He swallowed hard, adapted later, and now he knows the rules of the game.
“Mom, you raised me.”
“I tried.”
“Yes, I love her. And we’re getting married. And anyway, it’s much more practical. Long-distance relationships suck when you’re starting a family. The evening phone calls, the visa applications. They always force her back to Minsk before they let her re-enter the country. The Belarusian authorities will soon stop playing along. It’s getting harder for her. Soon the curtain will fall.”
“I understand.” A complete lie. I didn’t understand a thing. Starting a family? Wow. That was quick. Suddenly her departure is risky, she says? The young woman had studied law in several European cities. She had been traveling the world for years without any problems. The people at the city-office were completely overwhelmed. One question haunted all departments: What is the right thing to do? Call the Office for the Protection of the Constitution to buy time by creating obstacles — or chip in for a wedding cake?
Everyone has their professional and personal experiences. How can you separate that when it comes to love? Love is everything because all the clutter arrives unsorted. Is the only thing left to stay out of it and keep your fingers crossed? If only it were that simple.
I refrained from further excursions into the world of hasty opinions — for now.
“You just took her to the airport two weeks ago. Don’t give me any of that ‘I miss her so much’ whining with quick relief. You’re planning for at least two lifetimes. When are you getting married?”
“I haven’t asked her directly yet, but I’ve hinted at it, and she’s signaled she’s okay with it. No problem. We agree. Basically, everything is settled.”
“Well then. How romantic.” I felt like a Las Vegas passerby acting as maid of honor at a shotgun wedding. I still had images in my head and tender objections before my mouth would be silenced forever.
“Take it as it is: I’ll ask for her hand, with a ring and all the trimmings, when she’s back. But first we’re going to Pescara and through Italy — all three of us.”
“Which three?” I must have misheard. It had to be.
“The two of us…” He waved his index finger casually back and forth between us — the way a man weighs pasta shapes and manufacturers in a supermarket aisle, wondering whether bronze dies really do create that rougher surface that helps the sauce cling.
“What? Us?” I followed his finger with my incorruptible gray-green eyes and saw no sense in it, unless…
“Exactly. Us. As planned — and Lisa, of course.”
Abruptly, the imagined sound of wedding bells fell silent. No echo, just the final metallic strike of the clapper. A catchy tune of the unmelodious kind — howling like an alarm siren — took over the scene in my head. It replaced the gondolier of an Italian special with a children’s carousel beside the goat pen. “Together? Are you crazy? I’m not going. How did you come up with this crap? No colorful explanations, please. Drive! I’m out. The umbilical cord has been cut — I was there. You were, too.”
“Funny. No, it’ll be great. Then you can get to know each other right away. After all, you’re going to be a family.”
The word family didn’t immediately evoke warmth. Meant as a gesture on their part, it struck me as an alarm bell. It smelled like a trap — one of those pits of self-destruction you help dig in your eagerness. You? Me. Making room to bring in loose soil — that’s what I call a task. Watching a little tree grow and thrive — that’s fulfillment. Watching, not experiencing everything. A pat on the bottom to help it take its first breath and a cheerful “Have a good trip!”? No way. That was obvious. But how long does tree care take? The little bottom I had brought into the world — with the rest of him — meant business.
As a fan of Italy, I had looked forward to the destinations with anticipation. Seeing, comparing, and classifying brings a breath of fresh air to the mind. Junior’s penchant for covering distance by car in daily stages is an abomination to me. Miller sits in the car as if bolted to his seat. I, next to him, do not show the increasing internal pressure. At least at the day’s destination, I would have gained impressions and absorbed them. An old town, a square, a view of the countryside, a church — and I’m back. If not, a cup of coffee works wonders. In the new situation, there were more important things than fleeting enjoyment: my son and Lisa would get a chance. Not from us, but for themselves. They would have time to get to know each other. He would spend more than a few days and nights at a time with his bleached-blonde sweetheart. The rose-colored layer wouldn’t survive reality. In the interim, they could get to know one another and create something that would not rely on transient hormone spikes: substance, accountability — love? “When do you think you might get married?” I asked lightly, implying they had all the time in the world. The step into marriage is a sensitive matter. I showed sensitivity — and immediately regretted it.
“No idea. As soon as possible. Maybe in September. She thinks that would be appropriate.”
A shiver ran through me. It was enough to give me what felt like a concussion. I had been queasy for a while; now I felt dizzy too. My shocked nerves were struggling to recover.
“She knows when you’re going to get married, and you haven’t even proposed yet?” Young people, I thought. So practical. Feelings with a checklist.
“It’s just a formality. We agree. Women love proposals. Pure romance. And it’s a beautiful memory.”
A packed stadium was screaming that they needed every second to get to know each other.
The date in Pescara was looming. For a week, I tried to talk him out of the honeymoon with a mother-in-law — me — on board. For brides-to-be, that title alone is usually the soft opening of a horror movie. No chance.
“Mother, please understand — it’s important to both of us. We should go through with it as planned. I respect your concerns. They are completely unfounded. It will be wonderful.” His dream of a family was indestructible. My warnings burst like flying insects on the windshield at two hundred miles an hour. It spelled trouble.
The trip was planned. Nothing was prepared except for the romantically whispered idea of leaving four days before the meeting. As usual, the meeting lasted three days. Two more nights in Munich, and Lisa would fly back to Minsk from Franz Josef Strauss Airport. I assumed we would pick her up in Munich on our way south. Or she would come via Hamburg, stay for a while, and we would set off together. – Completely easy to prepare.
Love doesn't hold back when things get practical. The little nuisance knows nothing of practicality and permeates everything it encounters. Every blueprint of a plan is saturated by it until there are no straight lines left. It is not just the beginning, the end, and the path in between. On all sides, it sniffs out fertile ground. It is both fuel and a means of transportation. My mistake in the sequence had little to do with lived reality.
“Mom, we have to go to Minsk," he said, trying hard to keep his composure. His face looked tormented and overtired. Responsibility and worry seemed to have left their mark on him. He poured the cappuccino into the combustion chamber in one gulp. Ice cold and full steam ahead—ready to act.
I didn't have time to worry about details like the capital of Belarus: "Why? What happened? Is Lisa okay?” On that fateful day, we had been sitting under the innocent maple tree for just ten minutes. Nevertheless, I kept an eye on him. Innocent does not mean ignorant.
“Everything's fine. She wants to show us her homeland, and her parents want to meet us. There's no way around it. We've been texting each other all night.”
That's why you look like an all-nighter.
Junior put on his agreeable face. I hate it. It's always the same: he lectures you, and you're supposed to feel stupid if you question his total insight or his decision. "… That was mainly what it was about. I fought like a lion, or at least like half a lion. If you commit to A, you can’t skip B. Then we'll be done with it. It will bring us new impressions and enrich us. You have to keep moving…"
… otherwise, you'll stay what? Standing still? – I don't intend to move. – My son is a wisecrack for a fortune cookie factory. He might as well print it all on toilet paper. Why is he telling me this? My concern for the "child," the future daughter-in-law, had evaporated. The idea that I am free to make my own decisions remains a lifelong misconception. I am not ready to give up hope. Daily setbacks prevent balanced aging. At least it keeps me fresh. How much longer?
"What does that have to do with me? They'll be your in-laws, and Minsk might be where your future kids grow up if your future ex-wife leaves you one day." Okay, that wasn't the kind of fortune cookie message people like to munch on before their wedding. But it's true: the lovebirds barely knew each other. Constant “Honey” here, “Honey” there. I began to wonder whether the two of them were really suited to each other as a couple. Maybe what was really going on kept coming out. Or did the repetition help them convince themselves of their relationship and show it off? The lovers pronounced “Honey” differently. Junior remained straightforward, genuine Hanoverian—the way it's spoken in standard German. Lisa played with intonation. She used “Honei” to convey an armada of feelings and intentions. It took me a while to learn to assign fragments of moods and purposes to her. Who buys a "German/German" vocabulary book with only one word? The hundred pages were filled with a myriad of meanings. My thirst for knowledge, in addition to exploring her family's homeland during a site visit, was limited.
My son remained undeterred. "No, they specifically asked about you. They really want to get to know you and show you their hometown of Minsk."
Damn, I'm alone. When you need help… Not even an old dog or a sick mother to take care of. I would have used that as an excuse. "So, what's your plan?" I feared — absolutely nothing — and waited. For the moment, I was fed up and sure that things could only get more colorful, not worse.
"No problem. It'll be fun. We'll jet off to Minsk for five days two weeks before the trip to Italy and…"
"Five days?" I blurted out without having agreed to participate in general. The news swelled and worsened as I thought about the near future. How would this end? Moving to Belarus right away?
"Yeah, it's only a measly five days. We'll knock it off in no time. We'll stay at a first-class hotel, see the city, and get to know the family. Then we'll come here with Lisa, she'll settle in for a few days, and then — just like that — we’re on vacation."
I did not hear a flip while watching his flying fingers. He really thought it through, I thought. Without detours, free of doubts and deliberations, he plans it and puts it into action. I was proud of myself and my upbringing. There was a supernatural glow in the fact that love made him overcome his fear of flying. On the heroic wings of immortality, he will flutter fearfully to his beloved… He will fly with grace behind the Iron Curtain and lead her to freedom. Somehow touching again is the stuff of a not-so-great but schmaltzy romantic story. Favorite sweater on, feet and dog on the sofa, popcorn, and tissues at the ready. Don't think; just let myself go. “You’re flying? My respect. That must be love.”
“It is love,” he confirmed. “But of course we’re not flying. We’re taking the train.”
Boom. The sun of truth rose and didn’t scorch his wings. He had none. There was no question that I was too close to the shining star. Junior seemed to think he was it. The light improved visibility. The contours sharpened. The droplets of hope-fog in the air evaporated — along with my illusions. I watched them disappear, being replaced by the mental sound and physical shiver when anyone scratches with nails instead of writing with chalk.
“What? Train? Us? And back? Why me?” I hadn’t had a stroke, yet I had lost the ability to speak in complete sentences. I spat out questions and gasped for answers. The once-glowing bite of strawberry cake lay pale and silent on my weary, lowered fork. It wasn’t his fault last time either. I simply hadn’t brought it to my mouth. My excitement came with the numb echo of hemiplegia. When I feel dizzy, I sit up straight. When I feel like I’m going to choke, I stop eating. Hunted by tormentors, I turn the tables. Nothing fitted. I was trapped.
“It’ll be great.” Junior was in an enviably life-affirming mood. “We’ll take the local train to Hamburg. From there, the ICE, the Intercity Express to Berlin Central Station, and then hop on the night train straight to Minsk. Back the same way.”
“Night train? Are you serious? Count me out. How long is the whole trip?” I shouldn’t have asked.
He rolled up the sleeves of his sports jacket to his forearms, rested his elbows on the table, and leaned toward me. “Yep, night train. You won’t even notice. That’s exactly how we’re doing it. It leaves Berlin twice a week. Twenty-three hours — plus changing trains. The night train goes straight through, of course. Just a track change at the Polish-Belarusian border. We stay on board the whole time. Nothing can go wrong.”
I had no idea what a track change was. For me, it was the same as switching tracks: like driving over a switch. Far from it. I would learn the difference from a raised position.
“Back to the night train. What kind of train is it? Are we going to sit in an open-plan compartment all night?”
“Nonsense. Welcome to the 21st century.” Junior threw himself back in his chair, laughing, carried away by his arrogance. He glanced sideways, as if checking whether anyone was listening, then leaned back toward me. He almost crawled over the table. It was exaggerated. Fortunately, he didn’t ask if I could keep a secret or if I wanted to buy an eight — something completely absurd. But he managed, with quiet words, to inspire people and lull them into a false sense of security at the same time. “This is a real sleeper train with private compartments. We’ll take our own. The train has spacious sanitary facilities. In the evening, we’ll go to the on-board restaurant — you know, the saloon car — eat there, and if we’re not tired, two glasses of wine will taste excellent. The next morning, we’ll go to breakfast relaxed, and — you’ll see — we’ll disembark in Minsk refreshed and rested. I’ll get us a fancy hotel. You’ll be thrilled and remember it for a long time.”
The trick had worn thin on me. … remember it for a long time. You have to let that melt in your mouth. For my taste, Junior had leaned too heavily on tricks when describing paradisiacal conditions. Who was he trying to impress with the spaciousness of the toilets? True Miller school: a few facts flash briefly as a framework, and relentless sweet talk throws arbitrary backdrops on top. The rest — everything — depends on your own positive attitude. Mine.
The conversation lasted longer and flared up in the following days. It may be naivety or ignorance, but one small thing didn’t make sense to me: what had I done wrong that he dragged me into it so thoroughly? Giving birth to a child decades ago is not a criminal offense. He was long since of legal age and should have been an adult. He had the opportunities. He had the education. He didn’t lack social skills or good manners either. Nevertheless, something was going in the wrong direction. Either it’s his father’s genes, or it’s a delayed reaction to my upbringing. There’s always something. Was it Barbie? Even as a loving mother, giving in to his fear of flying is not logical. What’s the point? I didn’t see the point in spending over fifty hours on trains, which would be more expensive overall. There seemed to be no alternative.
He presented me with a counterproposal himself: “We can go by car.” Junior refrained from a winner’s smile.
That would have been my last chance to get out of the car with my head held high before the rusty nail of fear reached my bloodstream. Who else could he have learned this trick from but his father? Simply put, nonsense is made to look better by offering an even more ridiculous solution. For me, it works like a reflex. The idea of him driving us through unknown areas east of the river Oder at night filled me with fear. My mind went into panic mode: car theft! Accident! Blood transfusion? Insurance? We would be in the abyss beyond the gray area of any safety net. I don’t speak the language. As a pawn of an arbitrary state, I would try to save Junior’s life. I dreaded the yellowish lighting of the streets. The return trip from Minsk to Lüneburg with Lisa would be a foretaste of our trip to Italy. My instinct screamed at me to at least cancel the trip to Italy. Junior would have easily and without hesitation driven to Minsk by car to avoid flying. His preference for trains over planes comes from an unspectacular reason: he doesn’t like falling. The longer the fall, the more time he has to freak out. It’s a matter of feeling. Like love. The same goes for the desire to travel.
Traveling on night trains was nothing new to me. We had taken the car train from Hamburg-Altona to Lörrach twice. With the car, it was a short hop to the south. I am a fan of well-rested people behind the wheel. We had tried it the other way around. One thing remained popular: driving on the highway at night because it was less congested. It may have had its appeal. A husband staring wide-eyed at the road did not fit into that picture. He did little to lend credibility to the word vacation. My Miller considered his daily mileage a victorious campaign. He liked to drive — like many men at the time. I don’t know if the man-to-machine romance still burns in the era of electric motors. All that’s missing is for hydrogen combustion engines to turn electric bunnies back into wolves.They would then claim they had been right all along and point at the electronic waste. I preferred to take provisions from home. Sandwiches, fruit, a thermos of coffee, and cold drinks that didn’t stay cold for long in the basket. A leisurely gondola ride was worth its weight in gold — traffic jam or not. Stopping wherever we liked was pure vacation. We took breaks because we had time. Landscapes were not by-products of human needs and Miller’s machine. The child romped around. So did the driver. Or he enjoyed the moment in conversation before continuing on. On and on — mostly southward.
My longest train journey to date took me from Spain to Hamburg via Geneva in one go. The twenty-six hours on the train flew by. At least that was the plan: we were on our way back from a vacation in Ibiza and were stuck warm and dry at Barcelona airport. The Spanish pilots were on strike. Finding suitable trains to Hamburg proved tricky. Asking around was not yet a sign of loneliness. The internet was waiting to be invented. Strike? Long train journey? Who cares? We were young, and my nine-year-old son had a great time at the airport: the main thing was being among people. He knew no barriers to language. It was Junior who did the talking and kept everyone entertained. It doesn’t take much to relieve the stress of annoyed tourists for a moment. On the train, he was busy collecting sugar packets. I started with one for my coffee. The paper cup with bitter, furry coffee in my hand called for some kind of sweetener. All the zodiac signs were printed on the packets in pastel, rust-brown colors. For the child, the collectible pictures were rare treasures. He managed the crumpled paper booklets with care and stacked them in front of him. Time worked against him until he had collected and begged for all the motifs. We were sitting in a six-person compartment with other vacationers from Germany and the Netherlands. Their flights had also been canceled.
The Ibiza trip was a club vacation. The chain bore the name of a lonely shipwrecked man. This is where imagination and dreams diverge: for some, it sounds like a paradise island with palm-lined beaches. Others look for drinking water and the district hospital. On the outbound flight, my son had a queasy feeling for the first time. Well, it was our first flight.
“Captain Juan welcomes you on board.” All the passengers’ ears hurt, and the pressure equalization failed.
Don’t worry, Juan, your mother loves you. You’re doing your best. Flying isn’t for everyone. Even when there isn’t a breath of wind above the airport.
He needed two approaches and had three spectacular bounces in his repertoire when touching down. We were reborn in modesty when the plane came to a stop. Juan finally had his hang-gliding license.
No one would have thought of a Robinson-Crusoe-style adventure with the entertainment program at the club. It was ideal for Junior: sports, fun, theater, competitions. There was a free-form pool with a bridge and a palm island in the center of a man-made landscape. All-inclusive childcare: what more could a cleaning mother’s heart desire? The buffets offered everything imaginable in abundance. I have photos of Junior behind mountains of strawberry ice cream. There were no shifts during mealtimes. My husband made friends immediately, and we even had mutual acquaintances. Pure relaxation — the family was busy. No more, no less. It was pure luxury. The trip was undoubtedly too expensive. Nevertheless, I asked. Junior’s father ignored any concerns, and with the booking confirmation came my surrender. “It’s no use. Let’s do it!”This had an impact on the household budget, but not on the mood. After getting up, we trudged in espadrilles from our vacation home to the central club complex. The way there was accompanied by the chirping of crickets. The refreshing air carried the harbingers of the midday heat, wafting softly. Every day, records were broken — or so it seemed. It smelled as it looked: we were surrounded by wealth. Olive trees, pine trees, and tree-sized oleanders blooming in white and pink. The latter bore no resemblance to my puny plant on the windowsill. It was excused. In northern Germany, winter blues and scale insects were giving it a hard time.
Our first detour of five meters took us to the club shop every morning. My husband bought a daily newspaper, and I picked up a magazine. If it was a gossip rag, the seniors’ reading time skyrocketed. Blond-haired “Ironheart” Miller, his son, pulled a paperback illustrated with ducks or mice from the rotating rack. I cut his blond rodent hair myself for cost reasons. In the past, this hairstyle was called a “piss pot” cut. Later, everything angular was supposedly Bauhaus style. The hero hairstyle suited him. I gave it to him for fifteen years. With my superpower of creativity, I am the only person who can do it without a bowl.