SIDEWAYS IN LOVE

I’M AN EVIL ALIEN

The speakers crackle and the captain's voice is heard. As if he were running a fairground ride, he drew the passengers' attention to the turbulence, which had been jerking the plane around for about a minute.

I hold my tea firmly and I find it a shame I didn't order a martini which would now be practically shaken by itself instead of stirred. My eyes are on the macaroni, which vibrates in the aluminium bowl as violently as my neighbour's seat. Both our cutlery rattles loudly. As the plane falls into an air pocket and loses about 500 meters in altitude, the American woman next to me clamps her fingers onto her armrests, as if they were made of plush, stiffening, pressing deeper into the seat. She stops breathing. Although speaking is quite risky with the horrendous rattling, I cannot bite my tongue, I try to calm her down and tell her such turbulence over the Atlantic is normal.

I speak from experience. Unfortunately.

A joke from childhood comes to mind: Mommy, I don't want to go to America! - Be quiet and swim faster! I bite my lip to keep my thoughts to myself because my neighbour would probably not find it funny! After all, everyone wants to go to America. Only me, I don't want to! And I have many good reasons.

First, Christmas is in less than a week, and I had something quite different planned. I should be on my way home. Instead of calm and comfort in sleepy Muhlhausen, I'm expected to hustle and bustle in New York City. Instead of touring with my friends around the medieval Christmas markets on the Eisenach Wartburg and the Erfurt Domplatz, I'll stay with strangers from one meeting to the next in the coming days. Instead of the Thuringian sausage, I'll eat hamburgers, instead of the well-earned mulled wine, there's still water, which tastes of chlorine.

Second, this wasn't made clear! The Berlin company Schlun & Winheller hired me as a product manager a year and a half ago to support Austria and the Slavic countries, which was a stroke of luck for me because the mentality of these countries is very much like my own. For 14 months, I was travelling in these beautiful lands and sold our knives so successfully the company thought it would be appropriate to give me greater responsibility and send me to the cities of the Middle East and the USA. Once I was sure I would never touch the ground between the Pacific and the Atlantic - now, I'm constantly flying there. Surely, because the American mentality and my own are two different worlds, I was incompatible, and I never dreamed of ever making an exception that would become the rule.

Third, my stomach needs a vacation. For several days it has been rebelling against my constant stress with nearly constant, quiet, but annoying nausea. On my departure from Thuringia, I imagined a colourful, fulfilling life in Berlin. But the only thing I do in Berlin when I'm there is work. Life, it's only for the mould on the cheese in my fridge.

Fourth, scary mail in my mailbox. I don't want to think about it, but I dig the crumpled envelope from my handbag. It's unstamped and unlabeled, so it has been personally posted by the author. A single sheet of paper is included, and for the umpteenth time, I unfold it, staring at the image that occupies almost the entire page. It is Gustav Klimt's Danaë. Below are four lines:

Sweet Danaë, sleep!

Be good for me!

Close your eyes

And cradle yourself in peace!

Since the Danaë is a redhead like me, a misdirected letter would be a strange coincidence. One doesn't have to be an interpretative genius to recognize the threat hidden in lyrical poetry, and the person who has given such an effort to the rhymes, makes me mad as hell: Dagmar Dapperheld-Dängeli, my colleague and the real reason for the change in my responsibilities. Dapperheld-Dängeli was formerly responsible for the East Coast and the Midwest of the United States and had developed a fascination for an employee of the New York wholesalers Williams Ltd., a business partner of many years. This was a thorn in the side of my boss Dr Schlun, especially because Mrs Dapperheld-Dängeli is married. The beloved himself probably knows nothing of this fascination to this day. It was discussed only within our company in all departments - a further thorn in Dr Schlun's side. So that everyone might concentrate on their actual activities, the spheres of responsibilities were soon exchanged, and I lost my beautiful lands. Instead of a bad conscience, my colleague got a fit of temper and said I would bitterly regret my scheming behaviour. I was the only one who had not gossiped about it. I didn't even reproach her and endured all following taunts and tears without starting the desired quarrel. I'm a peaceful girl who tries to make the best of situations I am pushed into; but at some point, even with me, the barrel is full, and with threatening letters, it overflows. I think of how this woman said goodbye yesterday... after blowing her nose in a handkerchief and with tears in her eyes she wished me a good flight and fun in New York with... the name was in her sobs.

He is Samuel Klingenberg, the innocent who will receive me in a few hours at JFK Airport. The name is enough to bring my imagination into overdrive. Samuel? That sounds like a boring, frail man. And Klingenberg? A descendant of immigrants? Jewish maybe? Somehow, the name makes a pompous and narrow-minded impression. He sounds like green woollen sweaters and khaki corduroy trousers from Bloomingdale's.

After the flight turbulence, I'm expecting entry turbulence because September 11th changed airport security forever. As a US frequent flyer, the following should be one of my easiest exercises, but it will never be. Chicago and Washington have been memorable experiences, but New York has the reputation of being the worst of all American airports in terms of entry.

As soon as I set foot on American territory, I saw the first grim-looking, armed figure in uniform. The man yells at two guys walking in front of me, who don't hold their passports in their left hands as prescribed but in their breast pockets. The two are frightened and every joyful expectation falls from their faces. Farther back a woman lurks, whose task it is to scream uninterruptedly, to make the approaching masses understand what desk they are supposed to approach. Similar to a fashionable society party: men left, ladies right. However, we aren't at a fine party, but apparently in the country of the world's only people who can read - big letters on two signs: US Citizens and Non-US Citizens. On the latter, they could have written just as well Other Crap. Looking at us in the Other Crap queue stands the uniforms ready to jump like cowboys, prepared to round up cattle breaking out of line. If one of us moves close to the queues where only US citizens are allowed, two loud voices roar.

Normally, Europeans are sensitive to exactly this disrespectful nature and the tone which it conveys, to be an unwanted guest. Not when entering the US. They are silent; their heads down, and hope to be cleansed - no matter whether they are labelled as a member of an inferior race or even as a potential terrorist, or as an evil alien as in the song by Sting. To pass the time, I am thinking: Oooh-oooh, I'm an alien, I'm an evil alien...

The serpentine queue of the privileged Americans at the counters of US citizens has long disappeared, as I step from one foot to the other in the Other Crap queue, watching the unemployed officials to my left. One chews fingernails, others decay into a dull brooding, and the rest pick their noses. My legs feel like lead, my stomach is still stressed, my patience at its end, and my anger at Dapperheld-Dängeli, to whom I owe all this, is so great I want to ring her at home in bed and scream at her.

Finally, one of the security officers took the courageous decision to let a few non-hazardous Germans over to their American counterparts. I'm in! A little later, I come to the counter. The man behind it suffers from an overdose of coolness. He's almost under the counter, looks at me bored, and speaks with a dialect which suggests that ten sticks of chewing gum lock his teeth. His inquiry after my husband confuses me. I share that I'm not married. Pointing at the ring finger of my left hand, he asks what the ring is for. I let him know in Germany we carry the honour on the right hand - instead of telling him what comes to my mind: that I have smuggled my man in the suitcase. Although the sense of humour that I have retained is comforting, I cannot share it.

After the stamp is pressed into my passport, I pick up my baggage and go to the customs, which I can easily pass. Now I have to find Samuel Klingenberg, who will pick me up and take me to my hotel in Brooklyn. But before that, to judge what the conditioned air on the plane has done to me, I'm looking for a toilet. In the mirror, I find the usual picture: My pale skin is mega-pale, and shadows lie under my eyes, whose green isn't as usual, but rather dull and tired. Shortly I tie the red curls with a cloth from my face, run cold water and lean over the sink. After refreshing, I apply day cream, apply cover powder over the dark circles, shape my eyelashes with mascara and pretty my dry lips with bright lipstick. Then I pull the cloth out of my hair, shake the curls into shape and adjust my dark green two-piece suit. After a last, more satisfied look in the mirror, I grab my luggage and hurry with hundreds of others along the corridor that leads to the arrival hall.

There I go to look for a man with my welcome sign but don't see him anywhere. My first impression is Americans aren't very reliable, so I wait. Almost immediately I'm called on loudspeakers: "Miss Hannah Hönig. Please come to the information board!"

My last thoughts on reliability should be taken back. I needed too long on my restroom rejuvenation and overstated Mr Samuel Klingenberg's patience. On we go to the info point, where others are gathered, but none of them carries a sign with my name. Once I'm at the info point, I scan the faces in vain for a glimmer of hope, when I am addressed in German.

"Hi. Are you Hannah Honey?"

I turn around and have to lift my eyes a little to look at him, and I cannot help smiling because he mispronounces my name so sympathetically.

"Almost," I replied, smirking, and held out my hand in greeting. "Hannah Hönig - with an ö."

He returned the greeting and a smile. "Sorry, the umlauts make it difficult."

"Oh, never mind," I say out of reflex in English. No American has ever spoken to me in German. I look at him more closely.

Where are the green wool sweater and the khaki-coloured corduroy trousers? Where's the weak, little man with the dull look?

Under the dark blue knit beanie with white embroidered initials of the New York Yankees, black hair peaks out and forms an interesting contrast to a pair of eyes that are as green as my own. They are followed by a relatively wide nose, soft-looking lips, and a distinctive chin. Dimples, which are deepened by the smile, sit on his cheeks. The muscular neck disappears in a blue T-shirt. A light skater jacket, jeans, and sneakers complete his outfit.

The Head of Marketing of Williams Ltd. I have imagined him differently. Maybe this isn't Samuel Klingenberg?

"I'm Sam," I hear him say to clear my doubts. "Was the flight good? Certainly, very stressful." A compassionate glance flits over my pale face. "The climate in aeroplanes is for the dog. But we'll get it back!"

"Uh," I stammer, confused about the dog he mentioned. I look like a dog? That's horrible!

Sam noticed my fright. "For the cat, I mean! I keep confusing this," he corrected, grabbing my suitcases and chattering on.

"You brought wonderful weather. The city looks best when the skyscrapers are lit by the sun or covered with snow. And now there are all the lights. You'll see, New York is fantastic for Christmas. All the music and the scent of punch..."

Although Sam's German is superb, I cannot answer him in my language. "If you like, we can speak English ..."

Sam looks at me. "Is it so bad, my German?"

"Oh, not at all!" The reflex! "Absolutely not. You speak excellent German. Where did you learn it?"

He raised an eyebrow. "A small wonder? An American who speaks a different language, German!" With a head movement, he points to the elevator we will take. "I grew up bilingual. My father is from Germany. He met my mother in Ramstein. They got married, moved here, and I was born."

"Oh, that's... that's interesting. Have you ever been to Germany?"

"Yes." He puts down one suitcase to call the elevator. "Do we have to be formal?"

I shake my head. "No, of course not. So, Samuel ..."

"Sam! The peppers are short."

I bite my lip so as not to laugh because he's going to mess up the next proverb. This is all so sweet. "Sam ... nice to meet you. I'm Hannah."

"Nice to meet you. So, you wanted to know if I was ever in Germany. In the 90s I was in Berlin, Hamburg, and Cologne. For fun. As a tourist."

"With your family?"

"Alone. My parents no longer go to other countries, but they are looking forward to meeting you. On Thursday for brunch at Sarabeth's."

A brunch? The day after tomorrow? With his family? How unusual! "On Thursday I have an appointment with the marketing of Williams Ltd.," I admit.

"Sure, with me and a few others. The meeting starts at 9 am and will last no longer than two hours. Noon is the perfect time for brunch!" Sam winks at me. "We don't do too much this close to Christmas. There's a bit of time where I can show you New York."

Sightseeing? I keep my mouth shut, to not be stamped as a stuffy, dutiful, industrious German. Even if I am one. If Sam is planning a brunch with his parents and followed by a tour... I like it!

Arriving at the hotel, I experience an unpleasant surprise. The room booking, which Dr Schlun's assistant has made, has been confirmed, although there are no available rooms at this hotel. The receptionist states that a system error is responsible for it–the most frequently used excuse in recent years for all possible errors. If it was nobody and nobody understands it, it was the computer. The fact is, however, she has no accommodation for tonight, and she can only offer me a room for tomorrow.

During my short stay, I don't want to move from hotel to hotel and I know I'll have similar bad luck in other hotels because now the International Congress of anthropologists is taking place in Brooklyn. The phone calls made to four other hotels confirm the assumption. Just as the receptionist wants to try number five, Sam makes a suggestion.

"Let's go halfway. You can sleep with me."

The receptionist is looking at me. From the corner of my eye, I notice Sam is looking at me as well. My forehead is tightening, I'm tired from the long flight, and the thought that it's after midnight in Germany doesn't make it any better. I was looking forward to an ample shower, a dinner somewhere around the corner and a large, soft bed. Especially a large, soft bed.

Sure, I could have all this at Sam's, but I don't want to disturb him, or constrain him–and I also don't want to be disturbed or constrained by anyone. Apart from that, I don't know him. Is he living with a woman or is he alone?

Sam turns away. I hear him pull my suitcases toward the exit. "Come on, let's do it," he says. "You don't have a choice, anyway."

I thank the receptionist and follow him. In front of the hotel, he loads my luggage into the trunk of his car.

"I don't know," I murmur as we sit in the car.

"I realize..."

"It's nothing against you."

"No, it's just uncomfortable." He starts the engine. "Typical German. Time to relax! My friend's coming over later. We're cooking together. How's your appetite?"

His friend?

His friend friend? Or a buddy?

"Nothing specific. I'm not hungry."

Twice lied. I'd like to have gone to an Italian, had a drink there against my rebellious stomach and eaten antipasti.

Why do I plan anything at all?

Hungary and Slovakia gone! Christmas gone. Hotel gone. Italian evening gone.

From now on, I'll let everything happen simply. I cannot change it, anyway.