I’ve been in Germany for almost five months now. It’s great to be with my wife again. I’m more comfortable in my skin here with her, than I was back in the Philippines when we were apart. The climate here is colder, which I prefer over the oppressive heat we often experience. Still, this place doesn’t feel like home yet. I’ve been here long enough to miss a lot of things from the Philippines. It’s also our fourth wedding anniversary – the first we’re celebrating here in Germany – and I am spending it alone. I think I’ve earned the right to feel homesick for a little bit.
Being unemployed, I spend most of my day alone at home. Every morning when I get out of bed, I take a leak and a dump. If it’s a Monday, I do the laundry. I boot up my computer and put on some shows on YouTube. On weekdays, I usually walk to and from my wife’s office to join her for lunch – more or less a seven kilometer walk. On the way there I pass by an Änderungsdienst – a clothes alteration shop – where I wave at the tailors and they wave back. I get home, chat a little with my parents, and then do some writing or studying. Around an hour before my wife goes home, I begin preparing our dinner – a big step for me given that I didn’t really cook before she left the Philippines. We eat, watch some shows or play Dota 2, bathe, then we sleep and do it all over again.
The fact that I can quickly summarize my day means I’ve established some sort of routine, and that it doesn’t take a lot of thinking and decision making for me to get on with the stuff I just said. This means I get to spend more time inside my head, to think, and to feel. In these moments of silence, I find myself watching porn feeling horny wistful about the things I miss from home.
First things first. I told you I prefer the cold over the heat. If I had to choose between being in a desert and being in the tundra, I might go for the tundra. In the tundra, I can always pile on more clothing to raise my core temperature. In the desert, once you get down to your birthday suit, you know you’re fucked. However, this does not mean I don’t like the sun. In fact, I miss it. The skies here in Hamburg are often overcast. There’s a running joke that kids here grow up thinking the skies are gray, and blue skies are anomalies.
Seeing skies the color of washed jeans and everything else tinted like brushed metal every time you look out of your window does have an impact on your general mood and disposition. I never thought I’d miss the color yellow, but I do. The yellow sun back home makes the colors vibrant, makes them pop out of the background. I prefer my gray-tinges come from the smoke belchers, the soot, and the smog – just little hints here and there. Definitely not everywhere.
I miss being able to eavesdrop on random strangers. Back home, you can easily pick up some juicy bits of conversation without looking like you’re listening. Here, trying to drop some eaves makes me look like I have diarrhea and I’m trying to keep it in, or like I’m constipated and trying to force it out. Either way, I look like someone who is concentrating damn hard on shit. And after all that effort, I still probably wouldn’t understand what they are talking about.
Back home, whenever I get pissed or upset, a really easy way for me to get my good mood back is to eat (hence my hefty physique). The good thing is there are a lot of tasty sausages to be had here. The bad thing is, there’s only so much sausage I can stuff in my mouth before I crave seafood. I want to binge on salmon sashimi, prawn and squid tempura, crabs in coconut milk, homaygahhhhd!!! Not really an option here. For a large port city, Hamburg’s seafood is expensive as fuck! Maybe even more expensive, haven’t checked the rates for fucks – prostitution is apparently legal here. I rarely see shrimps in the supermarket, and when I do, they are small and shelled. Haven’t seen a whole, unmolested shrimp during my entire stay here. I even heard a rumor that the shrimp they catch around this area gets shipped to somewhere in Africa where the people there remove the head and shell, before shipping the shrimps back. What the fuck?
I must say, food here is extremely boring in comparison to our wealth of cuisine back home. Eating out is also a lot more expensive (or embarrassing) for one simple reason: service water. In the Philippines, I believe food establishments are required by law to provide their customers with clean drinking water for free. No such law or convention apparently exists here. If you want water, you have to order some Mineral Wasser, which costs about the same as a soda – and everyone knows restaurant beverages are very much over-priced. If you’re like me and you don’t want to pay for water, you have to bring your own water bottle, from which you sheepishly and covertly take sips when you think no one is looking, because I am not quite sure if it’s entirely allowed.
If your water runs out and you’re still thirsty, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that water from the tap is potable. Just get to a faucet and you’re good to go. The bad news is that the only faucets you are likely to encounter outside your home – say, if you’re in a restaurant – are the ones inside a restroom. This is probably the one time you hope people don’t wash their hands after taking a leak.
Just in case this piece now sounds too much like a rant, let me leave you on a lighter note. I absolutely miss the Filipino b**ches. I’ve never been in a German b**ch. I don’t really hear the people here talk about their b**ches with much pride. Maybe they’re just pretty to look at, but you’re bound to freeze your nuts off if you attempt to dive for their clams and oysters. On the other hand, the Philippines has some of the loveliest b**ches in the world! They come in many shapes, colors and sizes. Some are dark, some are white, but most are some shade of brown. They are very beautiful, warm, and inviting. In fact, the most popular b**ches in the Philippines often have white foreigners walking all over them. Ahh, to be in a b**ch again. To dive head first, deep into its depths. To thrust forward and hold your breath, feeling the soft wetness around you, holding your breath until you can hold it in no more. Then to burst out of the surface taking big gulps of air, your lungs ragged, arms and legs spent. Being in a Filipino b**ch is an orgasmic experience.
If you’re confused by my unnecessary censorship, let’s have VJ Greg clarify things for you.