Storymania - Seven Days Spain by Elvira Frankenheim

Seven Days Spain (2)
Elvira Frankenheim

Next to my friend sits someone with long black and scruffy hair. This small guy is wearing a black T-shirt and a blue jeans and I´d think him to be somewhat around the beginning of 30. Dieter turns around to me and whispers in my ear: "Woah, this raggle-taggle freak smells totally like Bucharest toilet, central railway station. You smell it, too?" "Happily not," and I take some deep inhales. Where was Bucharest again? Isn´t that the capital of Bulgaria? No, this was called Budapest, right?

Now it actually does start to smell a little strange. Dieter is being addressed by his neighbor, who surely didn´t have any rendezvous in the last three days neither with his shower nor with his razor. "Now, where do you want to fly?" we are asked. "New York? - Rio? - Tokyo?" The guy is grinning and shows his teeth which obviously had no rendezvous either, and surely in the last 30 years and surely not with any toothbrush. Seen against my purely white teeth they are the sheer empire of caries. Dieter looks at me dumbfounded. Without waiting for any verbal reaction from our side, he asks a question , faster than any politician can lie. "Shall I tell you some joke?" and the guy and starts right away. "I heard it in Italy. Watch out, there´s a preacher and a ferocious bus driver, that was well known for his wild driving style. Both are standing after their death in front of heaven´s door. Peter the denier says to the preacher: "I´m very sorry, but you can´t enter, but Enzo may!" The preacher is mad with rage and asks for the reason. "Well, dear preacher, in your mass, everyone was nothing but sleeping, but on the bus, when Enzo was driving, everyone was praying as hard as possible!" I had to grin; this stinker seems to be really fun. "By the way, I´m Karl-Heinz." The intermission clown is introducing himself. In exchange, we tell him our names.

All passengers have boarded and a stewardess, Miss she must be something special, is handing out the safety instructions. Miss she must be something special is named Marina and speaks with an East-European accent. Karl-Heinz says: "You know, how she sounds? Like Teresa Orlowski. You know, to whom I refer?" "Who was that again?" I want to know and have really no clue. "A former porn producer, and she worked as an actress, too," Dieter answers. "Hey super, you´re right!" Karl-Heinz states with enthusiasm and jokes on: "When this queen of hardcore would be on board, she would surely say: the inflatable dolls are under the seats. Please just blow them up after leaving the airplane. As for the sake of stimulation, we´ll show you an erotic film out of our program. In case of potential problems, we´ll serve some drinks with Viagra. Of course you´ll have time to buy the new after-shave designed by Lindsay Lohan." "Since when do women need after-shave?" Dieter wants to know and I´m curious about Karl-Heinz´s answer. "After all intimate shave, of course." "Ah, this is a good one," interrupts Dieter and starts to grin. "Karl-Heinz, which village will you fuck shit up in Majorca?" "I don´t know yet, I booked a Roulette Travel Deal. And you?" "Cala Ratjada ..."

The captain introduces himself and states the flight duration to be one hour and fifty-five minutes. They say that all the time so self-assured, as if nothing could ever happen. Just assuming, a completely freaked out guy with some hand grenade in his fingers and a Koran under his arm would enter this style the cockpit, then I would be utterly curious, whether we would have some safe landing anywhere.

May 5, 2009 - 6.30 a.m.

We´re already airborne for a half of an hour when the captain says "On the right hand side you can clearly see Paris." I see nothing but a fluffy blanket of clouds; you can´t even see any pike of the Eiffel Tower. For a million euros, the question of the height of the tower would be a little bit too easy. The exact weigh though, would be of a little more difficult nature. Speaking of weight. Kitty is my best and a slight touch of overweight friend, that favors to eat between the meals. She is vamping up all her favorite dishes with chocolate sauce. My oh my, and can she talk without end. The little fatty blabbermouth is originally named Michaela Kittner. She was given this pet name due to her family name. We have known each other for roughly three years, because of the theater group. Kitty isn´t only standing on stage, but sometimes she´s prompting too. She had her 24th birthday some three days ago and is now, thanks to a more than generous monetary donation from her mother´s side, able to enjoy anytime some last minute travel. She´ll send a SMS, when she has arranged something. Should she fly to Majorca, I could meet her. Dieter met Kitty one time as well, during that Disco evening, where he screwed up his ankle, and when I remember it right, it was even Kitty, who drove him back to his hotel.

Karl-Heinz tells us, where he comes from - from Gelsenkirchen. Karl-Heinz tells us, where his favorite place is - in the soccer stadium. Karl-Heinz tells us, where his favorite place after midnight is - under the bar. Because he can disinfect his wounds with beer that life caused him. Because he still hasn´t found his dream wife. Why are people drinking, when their dreams don´t come true? Then Karl-Heinz tells us, what he´d love to do soon. Emigrate, to finally find his luck. Goodbye Deutschland? Why doesn´t he stay in his homeland? If he would be really cleaned up and well adjusted, he would have the best chances to find a matching partner.

My father always says, who isn´t happy at home, won´t anywhere else either. Or differently expressed: The grass on the other side is not greener. Also my inner shrink knows that. When someone is unhappy, the inner attitude isn´t right. You can explore much anew in foreign places. And one can be easily charmed and thrilled by new places and new people, but very often this enthusiasm doesn´t last too long, it´s more like a straw fire. That, what my father will be eternally thrilled about, is the savior of mankind, the God of life and the resurrection. And because my father is that happy about it, he has to tell all other people about it constantly. Jesus does change people from the inside and provides them with a new personality, so that they get a happy life and an eternal joy. Yap. And who doesn´t know the quest for the right partner; we girls always call him Mr. Right? My father always says, Mr. Right is always the one that was nailed to the cross some 2000 years ago. And one can´t do anything but to fall smack in love with him in the first place. Man can´t put anything or one over God, as this would end up in serious worshipping of false gods. I think the one who looks for a partner to be happy, has the wrong approach. Exactly the other way round is right, one has to make the beloved partner happy and satisfied. The one, who doesn´t love himself, can infect no one else with any love. And the one who ever asked himself the question, why many super rich people that have so much money that all the others are hot for, take their lives, the inner shrink in me can only give one answer, that these totally unhappy people have such an inner emptiness, they completely lack any right spirit.

Palma lies on the south coast and is the capital of Majorca. Palma is a linely big city with many architecture jewels, in the first place, the dominating Gothic cathedral La Seu. Here, when you believe in all the rumors, in the middle ages the pope got order to stay away from this building. The city center is the historic old town and many colorful pointy dots are the beautiful old Jugendstil houses. Just beside the main drag along the harbor there´s the awesome promenade. And night owls can amuse themselves here, as here they´ll find the most cafes, bars and restaurants.
May 5, 2009 - 8.05 a.m.

No one applauded after we landed without any problem. Arriving in the park position, cell phones are out of all kinds of pockets and immediately switched-on. I do nothing but the very same. The display shows me a new SMS, and is from my carrier that wants to inform me about the very well priced international telephone charges.

After leaving the plane, Karl-Heinz wishes us a beautiful holiday and vanishes into the next toilet. We all integrate into the horde of tourists and move on to the baggage claim area. We don´t have to wait too long. At the exit of the hall a lady from the travel business Meckermann is already waiting for us. The woman looks like Stifler´s mum and says: "You´re really lucky, that you didn´t arrive yesterday, because thundestorms caused many flights to be redirected to Ibiza, due to this airport being closed down." The lady tells us the number of the transfer bus, wishes nice holidays and is handing over some exemplary of the holiday mag Mallorca aktuell into my hands. Outside the terminal, Dieter collides with a young Englishman who drops his can of San Miguel in shock. The beer is splashing into some bubbling puddle. The Englishman is casting some angry looks at Dieter, exactly like my father, in the days back yonder, when I was showing him some fucked up math exams. "Sorry," Dieter excuses himself and hands him two euro coins over fast, to calm him down and so he can buy himself immediately another packed lunch. On this island a can of beer in the hand belongs to the basic configuration of every British tourist, alike the Winchester of any settler, heading westwards in the USA in those days back yonder.

The weather this morning is typically German, cool, and with a slight touch of rain. "Cold in Germany." Dieter states and we schlepp our luggage to the stop. Near to our bus, three girls questioning their cell phones. According to their facial expressions, the little blond in her short jeans has just got broken up with via SMS. Or she could plainly not get into any enthusiasm about the weather, because sunshine galore in her home country. The bus driver would like to know the name of our hotel, to place my suitcases and travel bag strategically well in the cargo bay. We have to wait some half an hour, until we are complete. Then the bus starts and our adventure begins. No Karl-Heinz sightings anywhere. We have no clue, where his journey will lead him.

Cala Ratjada lies in the northeast of Majorca. The little village with the small miraculous haven is a well known holiday spot and goes with some five very extraordinary beaches. There, you can easily sleep off your hangover and take a bath in the sun at the same time. Some tourists with a lot of booze in their veins are hanging out till late night. In Cala Ratjada it was successfully realized that they should keep the place in its original. The attractive river promenade above the rocky coast is happily used by cyclists without respect, to have and keep all peacefully pedestrians in fear. Every Saturday, the vacationers can enjoy the weekly market of Capdepera and to have his wallet stolen from more than well trained pickpockets. Criminals, well, they are everywhere of course.

May 5, 2009 - 10.35 a.m.

We´re there! So, this will be our little domicile with 92 percent recommendation. Ok, well, from the outside it charmingly expresses the character of a school youth hostel. But the sun is showing off with a smiling face and this can of course stay like that for the next days, I´d have nothing against that of course. When entering the hotel, I´m taking the flowers in, I found them in some flower pot, and one seems to fertilize them here with cigarette butts. No wonder, some flowers are already withered. That means deduction of points. The one who knows nothing about botany, shall rather decorate the entrance area with some ensembles of tropical plastic plants.

On the Internet, you find some portals, where you can rate hotels. To read hotel ratings is really funny, and the sentiments do vary. While the young people complain that there wouldn´t be enough party in the nights, the older ones do emphasize how they enjoy the calm in the complex in the evenings. For one, the coffee was first class, for the other dishwater. One can dispute about the comfort in the rooms, of course. It depends, where one is coming from, how one is furnished at home and so on. Its makes definitely a big difference, whether you come from Guantanamo or Beverly Hills. The one, who arrives with high expectations, can be easily disappointed. The one who is modest and stays modest, without any big expectations, won´t be disillusioned that fast. Einstein did know: The horizon of some people does resemble a circle with the radius nil and that´s what they call their point of view.

The hotel manager has a very demonstrative thick organ for the smelling, it goes with an excellent organ for the language: "Grande catastrophe! Grande catastrophe!" he´s cursing around as the first reception. "Meckermann Reisen? Are you from Meckermann Reisen?" "Correct!" answers Dieter him with complete calm though already guessing that some kind of evil tidings are hanging like some sword of Damocles smack over our heads. "Kaput, kaput, kaput ...," our entrance is lamenting on. What the hell is kaput? I need an explanation.

Some blond is rushing into the hotel. She´s completely breathless and is wearing a short, tight red skirt, together with some yellow blouse, that´s opened that wide, that one can easily enjoy her whole black bra. "Who´s that?" I´m asking Dieter, but the lady has taken his breath away, I suppose. He stays quiet. I hope that now there will be an explanation. "Hello," pants the dame, "I have to catch my breath first." "Are you our tour guide?" I ask, after she seems to have caught up with her breath and relaxed a little. "Yes, my name is Sarah Sackmann. And I´m the head of the tour guide department of Meckermann, responsible for the North of the island. You have booked with us?" "Yes, exactly," says Dieter. Mrs. Sackmann is taking a closer look onto her clipboard and wants to know more. "Then you obviously have to be Mr. Dobrowolski and company, is that right?" We both only nod shortly and stupidly look at each other and we curiously wait for more information. The unexpected is the enemy of the human, and one should be prepared.

We are again questioned some more. "Okay, you did exactly book what?" "One week Majorca, three stars. All inclusive." I say and express myself straight and clearly. "Excuse me, it goes like this, this night all members of a string orchestra from Prague have six roo..." "Siete!" interrupts the manager the tour guide unmistakable. "Ok, then seven. Seven rooms got totally divested and smashed up." "What? No rock musician? No drunken Englishmen?" Dieter is wondering and not only he. A bunch of musicians can never be underrated, no matter whether they try themselves with Mozart´s little night music or blast away with heavy metal. Contingently this wild bunch of freaked out Czech cellists manages to tear the place apart and thus deprives it of its originality.

"The orchestra departed this morning, though the renovation of the rooms will surely take two days." "Tres dias!" Again, our tour guide is corrected vociferous from the coati-mundi at the reception. "As this hotel is fully booked, the only alternative is to house you somewhere else. I´ll take care of everything." Sarah Sackmann steps next to Dieter and is giving him comfort, by rubbing his back with her right hand and addresses him with some "No panic, I´m there. Now everything will be fine." Then she lets her hand glide deeper and pats his booty. Hey, wait a sec! Fingers OFF this one, that´s mine, that is MINE absolutely!!! As if she heard my thoughts, she takes her pranks off and comes to the conclusion that she left her cell phone in her yellow Renault Twingo. Yes, cell phone. I´m just taking a look, whether something went on in between. One SMS has arrived, it´s from Kitty. Hi sweet, flying to Majorca tomorrow, did you arrive well? I´ll answer her later; right now I don´t feel like it. I need some beer. And a shower.

May 5, 2009 - 11.10 a.m.

The transfer, organized from our tour guide arrived, a yellow Fiat Punto with a Spanish driver, that wears some silver chain with a cross around his neck. He´s very friendly and helps us, to load the luggage. Dieter takes the front seat and we´re the only passengers. "One time eighty-third, corner of Madison." My friend is joking and wonders: "Three days for the renovation? Enterprise chief engineer Scott from Star Trek would have gotten that straight in some three hours. Did you see that black bra from the Sackmann?" "Sure," I answer snapping, "that you immodestly understood that sexual invitation." "Hey, don´t be that bitchy!" "Don´t you ever think, I´d not noticed, how she was playing with your ass?" "She was surely very concerned about our personal well-being." Well, rather YOUR well-being ...

I´m angry and can´t enjoy the comfortable drive. And additionally to all else, the motor starts to stutter shortly after Porto Cristo, like me when I can´t come up with any adequate answer. The Spanish driver stops the Punto to the very right of the road. "Again, another grande catastrophe?" Dieter wants to know. The Spanish shakes his head, but isn´t that sure himself. He gets out of the car and opens the front lid. "Woah, couldn´t they just shortly beam Scotty down, to find out what´s wrong? He would fix that in some seconds." Dieter tries hard to joke, but his gag isn´t really getting through. And our driver takes his shirt off, not to dirty it. Surfacing now, a white, totally un-erotic white undershirt, from this gushing out more than decorative black breast hairs. Due to the opened front lid the view onto the driver is blocked. After two minutes, the Spanish one reappears, he´s wearing a dirty white undershirt, more than decorated with black oily splashes.

The front lid gets closed again and the driver tries to restart the motor. The starter seems to function, but the motor doesn´t really want to jump-start. Now the God-fearing Spanish sends a devout ejaculation to the heaven and tries his luck anew. Hallefrigginluja, the motor starts running, now, who would have thought that?

Something that not only my father found out- that humans only address God when an emergency situation happens. You can even see that in films by Alan Smithee. With the stupid question "Why did God let that happen?" one has the Almighty in some seconds on the dock. But this is where a man belongs, because we are all drenched in sins, like the shirt now with motor oil, and thus no one may ask that question. God has to render no one any account that´s what my father thaught me, too. The one who asks himself the question "Why did this one have to die?" asked the wrong question. The right one would be: "Why am I still alive?" The normal condition of God is the elimination of sin, because God hates sin. The state of emergency of any God is, when for a change, no catastrophe happens, when God due to his eternal mercifulness gives humans time, to convert themselves. The one who doesn´t believe this, should just get familiar with the some first pages of the Holy Bible, there he can find everything.

Also Dieter and me send some devout ejaculation toward heaven. The tour goes on, my mood slowly gets better.

Porto Colom lies on the east coast of Majorca and is named after Christopher Columbus, who was supposed to be born here, but that isn´t true. I was always thinking Columbus to be Spanish, but he originated in Genoa, the town now belonging to Italy. This globetrotter once got ready to trail westwards, with the goal to reach India, but instead arrived in America. This is what I roughly know from my friend Kitty. When she gets ready making it over to the Gym Uncle Sam, then she only manages to make it to the Ice Cream Parlor Italia. Discos aren´t yet know in Porto Colom, thus it´s all rather calm here still. The old town and the haven are interesting. Here you can find all the countless little really good fish joints and restaurants next to all the little fisher huts and the little white chalked houses.

May 5, 2009 - 12:20 a.m.

We arrived! So that´s now our accommodation with, no clue, how much percent recommendation. The hotel is lead by a Swiss and I just hope it will be as calm and relaxed as in the Switzerland. We receive the keys for a room on the sixth floor, above would be only the Spa-Area. A cheap looking plastic bracelet is to be used for the accreditation for free drinks till 11 p.m. Beauty is only skin-deep. Ugliness is only skin-deep, too, because this bracelet is of value.

Finally my beer. I leave Dieter and our luggage alone at the reception counter, trot to the bar, and order. After I emptied my glass with two hearty drafts at the bar, someone addresses me from the side. "Hey, what are you doing here?" I´m looking a slight touch of irritated at the guy, looking more than freshly showered, while wearing some super cool sunglasses. Somehow familiar. Now, where do I know that dude from? "Hey, it´s only me, Karl-Heinz." "Yes, Karl-Heinz, it´s you. I didn´t recognize you at first. You´re really more than optically improved!" Now off with the hair, and out with the caries, then he´ll be pretty acceptable. "Sure, I spent yesterday night in the amusement center of Düsseldorf in a smoky bar and drank plenty of beers, to pass the time. That leaves its traces. The suitcase, I already checked in the evening before, and thus I had no fresh rags handy, I really forgot that. Then I prepared myself some little packed lunch, and you don´t frigid believe it, instead I only did pack the plastic wrap. Actually I only noticed when I arrived at the airport." "My father was in Venice, some years ago and only once back home, he realized that he hadn´t any roll of film in his camera." "Speaking of photos. You should see some old photos of me, me and me. Back yonder, you won´t believe it, I was the total adonis, my athletic body being sculptured and carved into stone without ever end by French artists." "I think, man, you exaggerate a little, but I think it´s funny." I start to laugh and infect him with that. After this small interlude I´m asked: "But what makes me wonder, is that you´re actually here! I thought, you´d be in Cala Ratjada. And where at all is Dieter, your father?" "My father? Men in the menopause have more than a deep passion for us girls, who could be their daughter," I reveal to him. "He´s my boyfriend!" "Get out of here? Now I think, you do exaggerate a little, but I think it´s funny," Karl-Heinz says, and I´m not even sure at all, whether he believes a word.

May 5, 2009 - 2:00 p.m.

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