He’s tall, sunburned, relaxed, smiling, eyes red-rimmed, hair brushed to the left, bleach blond, unkempt—yet masterfully hip.
He’s calling me brah.
This guy is so unbelievably cool, so unquestionably rad and chilled—so fucking hip—that he makes me nervous. His name is Bernhard. He’s been windsurfing all day, 8 straight hours beneath the ruthless New Zealand sun, hands blistered and bruised and bleeding from rope-burns, rocks and sand. It was his first time. He’s taking a class. He’s been in New Zealand for 4 months and hates the city—here for the windsurfing course.
He asks me if I want to grab a bite—brah. So we exit the elevator, stepping onto the third floor reception area of a massive nine-story hostel, and agree to grab some food from the grocery store.
Admittedly—I’ve been lazy and haven’t been cooking as much as I should, also I haven’t been eating as much as I should, also food prices in Auckland are out-of-this-world expensive.
We dump our pack and head a block or so to the grocery store. I’m supposed to meet Caroline at the bus stop in 30 minutes. We rush-grab a few bananas, a few steaks, two oranges, a tomato, spring onions, and some noodles.
We—without speaking—mutually, race back to the hostel and into the giant kitchen. He’s got a sack of food—some cheese, apples, tea, a loaf of bread—stashed in one of the many refrigerators that line the walls. The counters are littered with pots and pans and plates and piles of mile-high glassware and bowls, wash-rags, plastic bags, cups.
Bernhard gets to work.
The guy knows what he’s doing, collecting a cutting board and spoon and cast iron skillet, he tosses the noodles into a dish and sets the stove to boil, slashing open the steaks and readying the skillet with corn oil and low-heat. He hands me his pocketknife—you can cut the spring-onions.
He’s a pro, whirling on a deadline, meal-making like a cuisine wizard. I ask him if he’s ever worked in a kitchen. He smiles and tells me that he worked in a restaurant for two months, washing dishes. He used to watch the cooks and learned.
I notice that there is a folding spoon in the pouch where he had kept his knife. Last night, he tells me, he had slept in the park—not a good idea, brah, he assures me with an easy smile.
I’m filled with admiration for this charismatic youth.
He’s maybe the quintessential cool, reminding me of my father as a young man. I’m jealous to be honest, and experience a sudden and fierce loyalty for this new found friend.
Time is running out.
I’ve got twelve minutes to eat, sprint, and meet with Caroline—and the steaks aren’t even cooking.
Go man, he says, and I’m moving, racing down the street in white pants, white cap and navy blue shirt, tucked. The deck-shoes bite into my feet, reopening the blisters and wounds, but they make the outfit—a necessary torture.
She’d missed the bus, or the bus was late, or I don’t know what—something anyways—and once again I ended up waiting for Caroline.
And, yet again, she didn't disappoint, showing up with a roommate in tow. Both girls are dressed up, looking good, ready.
An idea started to form.
While I had waited, pacing like a lunatic, my thoughts kept returning to Bernhard, that peculiar, smiling German, with his sunburns and pocketknife and enthusiasm, and I decided, he will come with us—we’ll go get him and he will come with us.
It’s Saturday night, by the way, and I’ve returned to Auckland, briefly, on my way North to Paihia and the legendary Bay of Islands.
Also, the stars had aligned—figuratively speaking—and Caroline’s roommate, Isabelle, is German.
That’s two American and two Germans.
It's perfect.
We walk the blocks to the hostel, ride the elevator, enter the kitchen, and enlist Bernhard—who, at first, is reluctant, until two attractive girls provide the necessary push.
Fast forward an hour or so.
We’re in a club—The Snapdragon—on the second level and it’s packed. DJ spinning wax, tossing down beats and we’ve all had a few drinks—the girls and I have, at least, Bernhard declines. He says he doesn't drink. We’re dancing and having a good time and all of the sudden this twelve-foot tall negro, looking especially mean and bloodthirsty, grabs my hat and glares at me. No hats, he says in a deep monotone voice, breathing stream.
We hang-out to dry, sweat-wet, on the deck and the Germans speak German and Caroline and I speak English.
The moment is beautiful.
Caroline is very tall, tan, slender, and gorgeous—a Southern Belle if there ever was one—modern, sweet, hip, attractive, humble, kind—and trusting.
Isabelle and Bernhard hit it off.
We leave the club and walk the docks, which are deserted. We’re tired, blurry, blinking, and end up on a bridge laughing and talking and truly enjoying the moment, living in it, absorbing every precious detail—a miracle.
The bus picked the girls up at 3:13.
Bernhard and I walked home—established friends.
Though we know so little.
2 comments:
Some people who sleep in the park advise duct taping your money to your ankle.
BERNHARDT! I want to BE him!
Post a Comment