There are certain things in south-west Germany which you cannot not experience: bureaucracy, beer, images of sex, alcohol in general, Gluehwein, the cold, cobbles, trains, the list goes on a bit (and these things are not necessarily exclusive to the south-west, but that's where I am...) And somewhere in this vast, beauteous list we can find a very special, very important, unavoidable entity: the tram. It has authority over vehicles and humans alike; it runs smoothly along its custom made grooves in the cobbles; it could cost you 2.10 Euro or 40 Euro, or it could be free; and it enjoys the hands, feet and bottoms of many a body, many times a day, due to its freakishly super frequency.
For me, travelling on it creates a similar mind set to that of when I'm brushing my teeth before bed. You're doing something, which will have other more thrilling things follow it (going to bed, reading/going to a seminar, reading) and it's an important part of your routine in which you just...think. There's little-to-no concentration required in brushing your teeth, which you have practised now for years, so that pretty much allows the mind to do it's own thing. For a few minutes, you are not required to do anything else. It's jogging for the lazy and hygiene conscious. Same with the tram. You just get on (making sure not to fall over a pram or seven, squishy squishy), find a suitable sitting bit and keep one eye open for old or pregnant people who may need a wee rest more than you. This is, of course, when it is a slightly less hectic time of the day and you are alone. The conditions are surprisingly particular.
So, you're there, brushing your teeth or sitting or standing on the tram and your mind swills all its ordinary thoughts to the sway of the moment, like a hand releasing the interesting innards of a fine brandy. It's tranquil and useful.
You're still aware though. Always conscious of any outward disturbances: a knock on the door, a new passenger. Now, here's who I saw a few days ago get on my tram.
I don't know his name. It could have been anything. I won't ever need to find out any details about his identity. However, he still had a pull. The pull of the weird. You know it. You know it so well because it happens every single time something comes into your minuscule slot of existence, because it changes your perspective more than you are comfortable with. And this time he looked homeless. He was probably in his late 60s, smelt of bad luck and walked in pain. His thinning grey-white hair was sticking out in ways surfers could only dream of, and Einstein would have heartily approved. It was charming, in a rough sort of way. He pushed ahead of him a wobbly suitcase trolley, normally found in airports, laden with an uncharacteristically swanky suitcase, large. With further inspection, the stereotypical plastic bags swung merrily filled with unknown treasures. Alcohol? String? Magic wand? Broken Christmas gifts? Really, he had the impression of a Santa on the dole, gone bust, corrupted, the elves mutinied, alimony to the missus. A tragic concept.
At any rate, he got off one or two stops later, stumbling and silent. But I wonder what he was thinking of as he stood here, clutching on to his suitcase trolley, his personal things, sloshing gently to the wavy movements of the tram. All I ever heard him say though was "lass mich mal raus".
