11. Put the Lime in the Coconut

By now we were just like the Three Musketeers, the only difference being that there were four of us. And we weren’t French. And we didn’t have swords. Or muskets for that matter. And one of us was a woman.
Hum…. We were like: The Flying Wallendas. Based on some of our daring-do today that might actually be a more apt comparison.

I had just finished showering when Cerstin returned to the apartment with 5 CDs that Ule and the music shop guy recommended. She had listened to cuts from a couple of them and said they were really good.
I sat out on the terrace and watched the sunset while Cerstin got ready and then we all met for dinner. We ended up back at the place where Cerstin and I had eaten the night before and had our heart-to-heart. Tonight however, the place was packed. Perhaps the island was beginning to fill up for the weekend. It must be getting close to the weekend. I had long since forgotten what day of the week it was. Let’s see… arrived on a Monday, climbed a mountain on Tuesday. Rested on Wednesday, climbed a mountain on Thursday. It’s Thursday.

We found a seat at a table next to the kitchen. The room was thick with cigarette smoke; as the cliental was most surely made up of Europeans. I didn’t hear English emanating from any other table. I was thankful that my ignorance of a second language was off set by the multi-lingual tongues of my friends. Tonight I had brought my English/German dictionary in case we ran into trouble but we never needed it.

More laughs. More talk. By this time we had settled into that familiar phase of conversation that old friends assume. No deep philosophical discussions or heated political arguments on the menu tonight; Just a nice evening of food, drink and friends. The drinks arrived and we toasted each other.

“Prost.”

Ule reminded me that I had to look Cerstin unflinchingly in the eyes when we toasted or else I’d have 7 years bad sex.

We spent much of the dinner reliving the day’s climb. Mostly I, kept coming back to the subject since I felt that I had earned the right to tell the tale. Ule and Radiger both complimented me on my hiking style. They still maintained that it wasn’t a “climb”. In my heart I know what it was and I can safely say that I was impressed with my climbing ability. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that what I exhibited was “prowess” but I did survive and without any serious suffering.

We made tentative plans for me coming to Germany and seeing many of the areas that I have yet to visit such as the Black Forest, Bavaria and Cologne (Köln). Ule once again extended an invitation for me to drop in any time. I thanked him and said that I would get their e-mail addresses and keep in touch and that I would also burn them a CD with all the photos that I took on our “hike”.

About half way through dinner I started to feel a bit ill. Not food poisoning sick; but I suddenly had no appetite an dthe thought of lifting another forkful of my delicious tuna to my mouth held no appeal. I sat quietly and fell into the shadows of the conversation, contributing only when I had to. When everyone finished we strolled along the beach front to our village and decided where to go next. At this point I opted out. I excused myself for feeling ill and told them to go along and to have an absucher for me: if that’s allowed. They wished me well and we said we’d see each other tomorrow.

It was early still – probably not even 10:00 pm. when I crawled into bed. At 1:30 am I woke up to find that Cerstin was still not home. I thought that was a little strange considering how I had looked after her the day before. I know I had told her to continue on without me but there was still a little bit of m ethat figured she’d make it an early evening. I sent her a text message asking her if she was alright. She responded immediately with, “Yes!”

Finally, around 2:30 she gets back. I thought about pretending to be asleep but when she came in the room I opened my eyes.
“John. You’re awake.”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you sick?”
“Uh huh.”
“Ule thinks maybe it is psychological.”
“I don’t think I’m sick. I am sick.”
“I mean; he thinks your body is reacting to the tough climb.”

Obviously Florence Nightingale wasn’t German.