Eating. Drinking. Octopi.

I was wearing black, sitting on a bench under Frankfurt´s white-hot noontime sun. An enormous square fanned out, steel and glass on every side, spattered at the corners by curiously-domed churches. These survived, or were reconstructed. Lothar showed me the pictures - the place was absolutely razed in the war.

I rode into the city on Frauke´s bike, under tree tops and graffitied railway bridges, past beer gardens and rose nurseries. It all took about an hour.

Maybe you heard. There´s this octopus, Paul is his name, and he "chooses" which team wins the World Cup games. I mean predicts, with near infallibility. How? He swims into the one out of two tanks with the flags of the nations. He´s not been wrong, I think.

I saw quite a few Starbucks in Frankfurt. Not going to lie, I was intrigued. And a little tempted. But I stood my ground behind the self-righteous attitude of European (let´s get specific and say Italian) coffee. And I much prefer the coffee maker - Merle taught me how to use it.

The day of Germany´s last game, Lothar came home and changed into a t-shirt with a lobster on it. The kids and I interrupted our 24th (or was it 25th?) round of backyard badminton for a mock penalty shootout, all to warm up for the night´s marquee matchup. Spain vs. Germany.

Per Lothar´s advice, I´ve had a pretty essential slice of Frankfurt cuisine. First, green sauce, a regional specialty that goes great with potatoes. At the game-watch, he ordered "hand-cheese," typical of this area, and so called because of its shape. On top of all that we drank applewine, it´s like a less-sweet kind of cider. It tricks you because it tastes so much like juice.

Germany, needless to say, didn´t win. The way back from the pub was dark, lit only by Lothar´s and Linus´blinking bike lights, and the hints of their murmurs.

Forza.
-a