Read the beginnings of this story here: Operation Demographics.
From Düsseldorf to… Duisburg?
(Year: 2011)
Man, guys, what a night yesterday. The plan was actually absolutely simple: a quick trip to the Düsseldorf Old Town, grab a fast beer, and head to the first hotel I could find. But as it always goes in field work, plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy.
One beer turned into two, then three, and before I knew it, I had made friends with a few people at the bar. They were intensely interested in my job. The later it got, the more fun the group became, and naturally, the less I wanted to call it quits on the drinking. When my temporary drinking buddies finally tapped out, I had to look elsewhere. Fortunately, that was not too hard; there was certainly no shortage of pretty women in the joint.
Someone then tipped me off that on a Wednesday night in Düsseldorf, you go to the SUB. So, what other choice did I have? I do not start drinking and then go home without having partied.
Or do you run bathwater and then not take a bath?! Exactly.
At the SUB, I parked myself right at the bar, because people here in Düsseldorf say that is the best spot. While I was looking around, I immediately noticed four people: two guys and two good looking women. The guys were just ordering four B52 shots, but the girls apparently were not feeling it and waved them off. My great luck was that I was sitting right next to them. The two of them asked me without hesitation if I wanted to step in for the women. My brief reaction: “I do not understand the question.”
I spent the entire rest of the evening with them and got to know the crew a bit. Big shoutout at this point to Kay, Lena, Dannika, and Daniel. I talked a lot with the guys and told them my story. When I wanted to head out at some point, since I still did not have a hotel, Kay immediately protested. He offered to let me crash in his spare guest bed. That meant I could keep partying, so I gratefully accepted. What is the worst that could happen?
And what can I tell you, I am lying here in the guest bed for the second night now. I was briefly at the embassy this afternoon, but the guys there had absolutely not organized any accommodation for me. A quick phone call was all it took, and I drove straight back to Duisburg because Kay is offering me his guest room until I find a place of my own.
Sometimes you just have to catch a lucky break. After pretty much everything has gone wrong since I landed in Germany, it probably turned out for the best in hindsight. On Monday, I have the first big meeting at the embassy, where I will get the exact instructions for my mission. We will see what is new.
Until then, hang in there!
The guest bed became my base of operations. I settled into the illusion that this direct contact with the local crowd was exactly what Washington needed. I analyzed my new acquaintances, tagged along with them to amusement parks and parties, and wrote reports. I was deep in enemy territory, operating undercover, and took my role as the protector of my new “assets” very seriously. That inevitably led to conflicts with the locals. At a club called Jägerhof, things escalated. When a friend of mine was being harassed, my instincts kicked in. The move was heroic, but it ended with a broken wing. Even in the hospital, I still convinced myself that the Secret Service was watching over me while the nurses patched me up.
Crash Landing
(Year: 2013)
Did I ever tell you how I once broke my wing in a completely selfless act of charity? That is a rhetorical question, purely for the drama.
The whole thing happened back then at a party in the Jägerhof. Quick explanation for the out of towners: the Jägerhof is a joint in Dinslaken that started out as a really cool rock club, but then turned into a pretty messed up mainstream disco and thus sealed its own doom. Still, I must admit that I had a lot of damn good nights there. However, the aggression level of the guests kept rising every time. Normally, I do not care about that kind of stuff. I stay out of it, or at most shove someone away to clear the lines. But eventually, even I blow a fuse, although I usually keep a completely cool head due to my background. That happens exactly when some idiots talk trash to my friends. Or even worse: when they harass, insult, or touch my female friends. That is when I immediately hit operating temperature and turn into a polar bear.
That is exactly what happened on that particular night. My old man always used to say: “Son, things were different back in the day. You got into a fight, helped the other guy up afterwards, went to the bar, and knocked back a beer together. Today, you have to be glad if nobody pulls a knife.” I constantly have that quote ringing in my ears, but I never really wanted to believe it. I feel like I know two thousand people in the spots I hang out at, and I never would have thought it possible that someone could be faster than me. Anyway, a friend of mine was being harassed by some jerk. I stepped in, and before I could even realize what was going down, the wing was already broken. We were all completely blown away by how damn fast that went. The bouncers threw the guy right out the door. A buddy of mine, who conveniently is a doctor, put my wing in a splint right on the spot. He said it was not a big deal and I did not have to go to the hospital right away. I gladly followed that advice, of course; after all, I still had to collect the praise from my rescued princess. Everybody loves a hero. Despite the busted wing, I went ahead and updated my Facebook status right away.
In hindsight, that was the best decision ever. The physical therapist for the RSC Cronenberg, a good friend of mine, saw the post and reached out immediately. She got me an appointment right away and referred me to a real specialist so that everything could be straightened out before the actual rehab started. Extremely convenient. The following week, it was time to head to the hospital.
Because of my high position in the US government, I naturally enjoy every conceivable perk at the hospital. A private room, nice nurses, and always first class reading material. And the most important thing: no hours of waiting around. You go in, change your clothes, and things get started right away. A quick X ray, and off to the operating table.
From here on out, my memories fade, since I was completely under anesthesia. But I think the pictures from the surgery speak for themselves. And yes, the Secret Service is naturally also in the operating room when government officials are put under. They have to make sure you do not spill any state secrets or do anything stupid while delirious. I just asked the guys to snap a few photos for my blog.
The whole thing happened almost a year ago now, and I am only just getting around to showing you this today. I apologize for the delay, but here is the update. In closing, all that is left to say is: the stay was top notch. A big thank you to the entire team, and especially to my physical therapist Dini!
to be continued…
