When I first moved to Chicago I worked a coffee house in Boystown, affectionately named for the gay population which resides there. I had only worked at the coffee house for a few months when I was able to experience my first Chicago winter. I was living on Irving Park at Lakeshore when the first snow arrived and blanketed the already frozen lake. It was harsh and the December wind that whirled off the lake only made the cold Canadian air seem even colder. The coffee house was only a few blocks away, but I couldn’t face the freezing temperatures so I lazily took a cab. When I arrived, I found the coffee house was nearly empty due to the storm. But as I began my shift, I noticed a regular who would sit at the same table directly in my line of sight when working on the espresso machine. We seemed to catch each others random glances on his every visit. Perhaps it was because I was still new to Chicago or maybe it was because I was the always smiling face of the coffee house and he was curious what my story was. Either way, I was single and it was very flattering. I really should specify that it wasn’t merely a glance, it felt stronger because on each occasion it made me shyly blush.
A few weeks into this coy game, he returned with a heavy backpack as if he was studying for finals or backpacking through Europe. He sat at or near the same table on each visit to ensure his view. He would crack open a thick, heavy book to study and after a few sips of his drink he would read for a hour then reach down into his backpack. I envisioned him removing a German-English dictionary to ask for directions, as I would expect from a tourist. But the back pack revealed to house a huge chocolate bar, one which would make Willy Wonka envious. He peeled back a giant portion of the paper and cracked off a baby-bird portion of the bar to nibble on. I must have been staring again because he looked up and nodded at me, as if to offer me a bite. He hypnotically waved the book sized candy bar at me which must have put me under a chocolate spell because what I did next, I would never have done in a chocolate-free daze. I walked over to the table and immediately the dark chocolate wafted all around me. He politely grunted in very neanderthal style, as to offer me a bite. I snapped off a realistic, American sized bite and told him thank you. I introduced myself and I sat in an empty chair next to him and we chatted for a while. We nibbled on the chocolate, got to know each other and exchanged phone numbers. And a few weeks later we were on our first date.
His name was René, he was from Germany and it was his second year in the U.S. at a technical college. I found everything about him very interesting. Maybe, peculiar is a better word. He had a loud, uncomfortable laugh which I would often confuse as a severe wheeze. However, we dated throughout the Christmas season and continued to share more about each other. We often spent a lot of time in his apartment on the West side. We stayed in a lot because he liked to cook, mostly extravagant, traditional German meals. During dinner I shared with him stories about boring holiday traditions of picking what I wanted out from a Sears catalog.
He explained that the first one, Christkindl, is a good Santa; More of a Santa-angel. The other good Santa, Weihnactsmann, is actually the one bringing the gifts, arriving on a single white horse instead of tiny flying reindeer. At least that part of the story seemed to make sense. But most importantly, he stressed having an Advent calendar to count down the days until Christmas, pointing his out over his shoulder. It lazily hung crooked in his kitchen with nearly every little chocolate candy ripped out of its’ doors, as if a wild, sugar-crazed child struggled to fight off a diabetic shock. It was only December 4th.
In the following weeks leading to Christmas I continued to blindly rationalize away all the red flags which lead to the disastrous end of our relationship. Other than his borderline obsession and insatiable appetite for chocolate, things were not all that bad. Occasionally, he would slip in and out of German, teaching me a few phrases. Once, when my German began to improve, he must have felt I was worthy enough to share a family heirloom that he brought with him from Germany. It was a handcrafted, ivory antique instrument that he must have truly treasured because of the way he handled it. Carefully it was removed from the case and then gently, he unwrapped the soft calfskin hide that protected it. He treated it with such extreme care that I got nervous just preparing to see it. He then slid it out and immediately I noticed a lengthy German inscription along the side of the instrument. I looked closer as he held it up to his lips to blow. And as the music began, I realized I was listening to him play "We Three Kings" on a glorified, ivory recorder.
A few days later, I woke up at his place and discovered he had left me alone. This was extremely unexpected since we were not at all on that level where I would have been comfortable leaving him alone at my place. There was a note on his desk that read he had ran to the pastry shop for breakfast. I took this as a do-it-yourself-in-ten-minutes-or-less opportunity to learn as much about him before he returned. I carefully opened the closet and examined how neatly his clothing hung on all wooden hangers, like a Banana Republic store. “A total neat-freak”, I thought to myself.
I then scanned across the papers on his desk--messy, unorganized, and several past due bills and credit cards with high balances. “Tisk-tisk!”
I quickly continued as I heard his keys on the kitchen counter. Usually the good stuff is under the bed, so I quickly lifted the bed skirt and there it was...the ultimate red flag. Eighteen, maybe twenty, wrappers from the same over sized Vosges chocolate bars that first put us together, all shoved under his bed and hidden due to his shameless love and guilt of chocolate.
I sat on the bed thinking to myself, “Surely, chocolate hoarders can’t be safe to date.”
I had gained weight since we met, eating my way through Germany and snacking on chocolate the way Veruca Salt might have, had she not met her untimely demise with her flashy, “I want the whole world” attitude.
René swung open the door and presented me with a bakers box full of breakfast pastries. “Guten Morgen!”, he announced and handed me the box. I sat on the corner of the bed and reluctantly opened the crave-case sized box. I looked down and starring up at me were one-dozen pain au chocolat. Knowing that it was a bakers dozen, I scoffed knowing he had already eaten three.
I closed my eyes and politely said, “Thank you, but I really should be leaving.”
I snagged one of the pain au chocolat out of the box, kissed him on the forehead and left. On my way home I contacted T-Mobile and changed my phone number.
When the representative asked the purpose of changing my number, I asked her, “Did you know Germany has an angry, devil Santa?”
A few weeks into this coy game, he returned with a heavy backpack as if he was studying for finals or backpacking through Europe. He sat at or near the same table on each visit to ensure his view. He would crack open a thick, heavy book to study and after a few sips of his drink he would read for a hour then reach down into his backpack. I envisioned him removing a German-English dictionary to ask for directions, as I would expect from a tourist. But the back pack revealed to house a huge chocolate bar, one which would make Willy Wonka envious. He peeled back a giant portion of the paper and cracked off a baby-bird portion of the bar to nibble on. I must have been staring again because he looked up and nodded at me, as if to offer me a bite. He hypnotically waved the book sized candy bar at me which must have put me under a chocolate spell because what I did next, I would never have done in a chocolate-free daze. I walked over to the table and immediately the dark chocolate wafted all around me. He politely grunted in very neanderthal style, as to offer me a bite. I snapped off a realistic, American sized bite and told him thank you. I introduced myself and I sat in an empty chair next to him and we chatted for a while. We nibbled on the chocolate, got to know each other and exchanged phone numbers. And a few weeks later we were on our first date.
His name was René, he was from Germany and it was his second year in the U.S. at a technical college. I found everything about him very interesting. Maybe, peculiar is a better word. He had a loud, uncomfortable laugh which I would often confuse as a severe wheeze. However, we dated throughout the Christmas season and continued to share more about each other. We often spent a lot of time in his apartment on the West side. We stayed in a lot because he liked to cook, mostly extravagant, traditional German meals. During dinner I shared with him stories about boring holiday traditions of picking what I wanted out from a Sears catalog.
He’d scoop up a hefty spoonful of sauerkraut and frown in disgust. He shook his head at the thought that presents were bought from a mega retailer who also specialized in automotive repairs and oil changes. He would then try and explain to me why Christmas in Germany was better. His first suggestion was there is more than one type of Santa available; Even an evil Santa named Krampus, that violently whipped children with a switch. I was confused at the thought of having more than one option. I mean, I was angry at my parents for lying to me about just one, so there must have been some awfully vengeful prepubescents in Germany.
He explained that the first one, Christkindl, is a good Santa; More of a Santa-angel. The other good Santa, Weihnactsmann, is actually the one bringing the gifts, arriving on a single white horse instead of tiny flying reindeer. At least that part of the story seemed to make sense. But most importantly, he stressed having an Advent calendar to count down the days until Christmas, pointing his out over his shoulder. It lazily hung crooked in his kitchen with nearly every little chocolate candy ripped out of its’ doors, as if a wild, sugar-crazed child struggled to fight off a diabetic shock. It was only December 4th.
In the following weeks leading to Christmas I continued to blindly rationalize away all the red flags which lead to the disastrous end of our relationship. Other than his borderline obsession and insatiable appetite for chocolate, things were not all that bad. Occasionally, he would slip in and out of German, teaching me a few phrases. Once, when my German began to improve, he must have felt I was worthy enough to share a family heirloom that he brought with him from Germany. It was a handcrafted, ivory antique instrument that he must have truly treasured because of the way he handled it. Carefully it was removed from the case and then gently, he unwrapped the soft calfskin hide that protected it. He treated it with such extreme care that I got nervous just preparing to see it. He then slid it out and immediately I noticed a lengthy German inscription along the side of the instrument. I looked closer as he held it up to his lips to blow. And as the music began, I realized I was listening to him play "We Three Kings" on a glorified, ivory recorder.
A few days later, I woke up at his place and discovered he had left me alone. This was extremely unexpected since we were not at all on that level where I would have been comfortable leaving him alone at my place. There was a note on his desk that read he had ran to the pastry shop for breakfast. I took this as a do-it-yourself-in-ten-minutes-or-less opportunity to learn as much about him before he returned. I carefully opened the closet and examined how neatly his clothing hung on all wooden hangers, like a Banana Republic store. “A total neat-freak”, I thought to myself.
I then scanned across the papers on his desk--messy, unorganized, and several past due bills and credit cards with high balances. “Tisk-tisk!”
I quickly continued as I heard his keys on the kitchen counter. Usually the good stuff is under the bed, so I quickly lifted the bed skirt and there it was...the ultimate red flag. Eighteen, maybe twenty, wrappers from the same over sized Vosges chocolate bars that first put us together, all shoved under his bed and hidden due to his shameless love and guilt of chocolate.
I sat on the bed thinking to myself, “Surely, chocolate hoarders can’t be safe to date.”
I had gained weight since we met, eating my way through Germany and snacking on chocolate the way Veruca Salt might have, had she not met her untimely demise with her flashy, “I want the whole world” attitude.
René swung open the door and presented me with a bakers box full of breakfast pastries. “Guten Morgen!”, he announced and handed me the box. I sat on the corner of the bed and reluctantly opened the crave-case sized box. I looked down and starring up at me were one-dozen pain au chocolat. Knowing that it was a bakers dozen, I scoffed knowing he had already eaten three.
I closed my eyes and politely said, “Thank you, but I really should be leaving.”
I snagged one of the pain au chocolat out of the box, kissed him on the forehead and left. On my way home I contacted T-Mobile and changed my phone number.
When the representative asked the purpose of changing my number, I asked her, “Did you know Germany has an angry, devil Santa?”
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