Running From A Bill In Berlin

My German travels were mainly in Leipzig. Twenty-eight days to be exact. However, I did spend three nights in Berlin, and during this time, I managed to tick something off my bucket list- I ran from a bill. Running from a taxi without paying is still on my list, a list that doesn’t really exist but is also very real.

When writing about my travels, I have avoided mentioning any dating. I like to pride myself on my authenticity, so it makes me ashamed that I may have left out parts of my stories due to self-consciousness. I am one of many parts. Maybe, I was just being tactful.

Anyway, during my days in Berlin, I had one date. She was Ukranian, gorgeous and hard to read (she might even be reading this). I stayed with the host and her son at my Air BnB. You could tell she was, at one point, beautiful. I was awkward with her and avoided most interactions. Most of my Berlin time was spent hungover and full of the cold. In space land, drifting from one home to the next, knowing an eleven-hour train to Budapest was soon approaching.

I wasn’t allowed any guests over, and sneaking someone in would be demanding with the way the Air BnB was laid out. So, I knew if my experience with the Ukranian was to go down that road, it would need to be her place.

I met her as she surfaced from the underground. Man, I love Eastern European women. We get on fine, sometimes more than fine. Coming from Glasgow, I enjoyed drinking alcohol in the streets of Germany. It was legal! I still felt self-conscious, though, as if people would assume I was a jakey. So, the Ukrainian and I walked around and drank before sitting in a park. She was appalled by my continual public urination. Eventually, she laughed about it; maybe it was my confidence. I think I was a novelty to her just as much as she was to me. A date with a hairy drunk Scottish man pissing all over the place. The word novelty doesn’t connotate the amount of love that I want to represent. I love different people. I remember I was seeing a Hungarian girl in Budapest who spoke English with a Southern English accent. I didn’t like it. She had an English ex and probably watched a lot of TV from England, but when I was with her at the start, it felt banal. Her phone rang, she answered and started speaking to her friend in Hungarian. There it was. You are something different; I want you.

Anyway, back to Berlin with the Ukranian. She told me she couldn’t have any guests. Something about a cat and the accommodation the German government provides her. So, if that wasn’t bad enough, she also didn’t like smoking. I’m half-cut at this point, and we’ve just arrived at a pub. Desperate for a fag, I apologise and go outside to skadge. I meet a Portuguese man who kindly provides me with a cigarette. We get on well, and I tell him my story. Not my whole story, but my story of that day and a couple of months prior. I, of course, informed him of my date and our situation. When I mention the no-guests rule, he laughs. He said, “No, no, I get it, the body count.” Now, this made me sad for two reasons. One, I don’t like it when bullshit popular vernacular infiltrates society. This guy was in his thirties, and the new flavour of the week still got to him. Secondly, I wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about sex. It was about the story. My story with her had an ending already.

Drunk, loving the conversation, I ask him if he wants to smoke another fag with me. He laughs, “What about your date?” I shrugged my shoulders and explained the level of drunk I was. My chatty stage was out and proud, wanting to converse deeply with strangers. Also, for what it is worth, I’m not a horny drunk. He said okay, but quickly returned to tell his friend he would be outside for a bit longer. After about twenty minutes, we re-enter the pub. He reaches his table first. His friend laughs as she sees me, and they both focus on my return to my table. The moment my ass touches the seat, my date leaves. No words were spoken. She had already paid my bill and texted me half an hour ago saying, “Are you coming back?”. My heart dropped when I read that. My new friend was in sight, laughing with his friend, and gestured for me to come over to their table. However, they ended up coming over to me because I happened to have a superior table.

His friend was an incredibly hot Croatian woman. After my month in Zagreb, I was proudly reciting my limited Croatian. A German friend joined us, and the Portuguese man and I switched to whiskey. Always a mistake. I reach the danger zone. A rushed goodbye followed as I stood up; I knew I was due passing out. I head to the bar to pay my part of the bill. The waitress told me to wait as the other waitress, serving me all night, will deal with the bill.

“Okay, can I go outside quickly for a fag?”

“Sure.”

I knew the bill was going to be a disaster. I had been ‘buying’ double whiskeys for the group. But in all fairness to myself, I did go up to the bar to pay. Not as if I knew it had to be a specific waitress. I go outside and walk towards a donner meat place with a big smile. What a dickhead.

I did it. I stumble home, eat my food, pass out, piss the bed, flip the mattress and receive a good review from the host.

My date did follow me on Instagram the next day. Maybe I had potential; I’ve always had potential.

Just happens that that day, I was a right bad bastard. A complete moral write off.

Laugh.