I find it hard to believe that this city and its places can be loved just for what they are. No. I think the love for a place only comes with a story or an event that takes place there. That makes the love to a place so much more fragile than to a human being, because every idiot can just march in and leave a bad memory. Of course I am talking about my beloved Rigaer Strasse, that I already wrote about a while back. Here’s to the tragic end of the story.
One evening I was on my new way home, cheerfully strolling down the street in a perfectly peaceful mood. Maybe I should add, that I was slightly drunk, which explains why I had the courageous idea of just ringing the bell of the person I was taking this enormous detour for. So I stopped in front of his house and thought about the pros and cons of my plan. But before I even made up my mind I noticed two people coming down the staircase, leaving the building and heading right into a greasy bar named Papparazzi next door. There was a high chance that one of them was him, so I followed them discreetly to the bar to find out that indeed it was him.
Unfortunately they came out of the bar quicker than I anticipated. Since I did not have the time to throw myself behind the near by flower boxes, they inevitably found me paralyzed in front of the window. “Hey! Wow! You? Here? What have you been up to?“ Pure. Embarrassment. For whatever reason he did not seem to be as irritated as I was, because he suddenly asked for my number. I was internally jumping for joy when it suddenly struck me that I recently trashed my phone and didn’t know any number by heart.
After we both reacted a little clueless, the girl he was accompanied by, who probably was pretty annoyed by my appearance and luckily not his girlfriend, had the striking idea that we should just agree on a date right away. So we did. Right at this place in a few days time.
On my way home I was literally bursting with love for my street and I felt quite heroic for my actions. Unfortunately I remembered the strong embarrassment factor of the whole event on the next day which made me avoid the street for a while. Of course only until our actual date when I put on a casual but stylish outfit and left the house 5 elegant minutes late to walk down my street.
When I arrived at the Papparazzi I noticed that he wasn’t there yet. So I sat down and waited, and waited, and waited. 20 minutes and an enormous amount of cigarettes later I had to realize that he wouldn’t show up. What an idiot! Or maybe I am the idiot. I don’t know.
The worst part of the story is that I had to give up on this street, on this piece of home, on this good friend. It’s strange how you can actually miss a few hundred meters of asphalt and stone. Until this very day I’m still hoping to see him drive by in a moving van so I can finally call it my own again: The Rigaer Strasse.
Outfits by Visby. Model: Anna Werner, Styling: Julia Karutz, Photos: Frank, Story: Dina
