I am Ida

They are three. Hippies I suppose. They emanate that nonchalant out-of-placness which feels right at home in Berlin. I’ve walked past them on the S-Bahn nach Oranienburg and have noticed a tad pissed maybe, they have occupied another good four seats with something that resembles a musical instrument. I sit down and open “All My Puny Sorrows” and go two stations.

Then somebody shouts “Hi!” and I look up. It’s the hippie with the dreadlocks. If you know some hippies in Berlin chances are one has dreadlocks.

“How are you?” he says in German.

“Fine. Thanks.” I say in my embarrassingly-broken German. “I’m sorry, my German…” and he immediately switches to English. Everybody can switch to English on a moment notice.

“What ya’ readin’?” he asks and I hold up the cover so he can see for himself.

Julia has given me the book.

“What’s it about?” I don’t think he really cares for the content but I say it anyway.

“Depression I suppose.” I’m not sure myself.

One leaves the trio and comes sits in front of me. He doesn’t have dreadlocks and looks more put-together compared to the other two. He looks battered though. His eyes are drifting away.

“Where do you live?” He asks just like that, no introduction. He’s holding on to a bottle of beer.

“Schlachtensee.” I don’t lie but then I haven’t said exactly where in Schlachtensee. He probably won’t even remember.

“There’s a beautiful park there… a park.” And his eyes lose their focus for a second but then he comes back. “There’s a Reichelt markt there.”

Well I’ll be damned.
“Beer in the morning, huh?” I’m not accusing, just making a statement.

“No, no, …” he tries to explain, “We started yesterday at three, we have a friend in the park.”

It’s a trend. Party starts on Friday, goes on through the night and stretches well into Saturday morning.

“Where are you from?” The ultimate question. I play the game just because I feel like it and he's drunk.

“Make a guess.” Nobody has ever got it right. He pulls himself down from the outer space and looks at me, really looks. I wait for it. I get Italian a lot, Spanish, French, once got Georgian but never Iranian.

“You’re from Iran.” Affirmative not even a question. My mouth falls open but then I start laughing. I like the fact I've lost at my own game. 

"What's your name?" I ask him as the train pulls into my stop. I owe him this much. I owe myself.

"Sven."

 I get up and pat the young man on his shoulder. He smiles.

"I'm Ida, Sven. Take care."

As I'm getting off, dreadlocks shouts: "You have a nice smile!"

"All you need is smile." At the Reichstag