It is a beautiful August morning here in Berlin. The crisp, cool air is a welcome reprieve from the sweltering Indiana summer I left behind. I will be enjoying the weather from the balcony of my 9th floor apartment, but will venture no further. There will be no sightseeing today. No souvenir shopping and no running to the corner for an ice cream cone. Today, I will be in hiding, trying desperately to recover from yesterday’s indignity.
With eight people in our apartment, the trash had really begun to pile up. But with five consecutive days of rain, and a three block walk to the nearest dumpster, no one was eager to dispose of it. Finally, the sun was shining, and I decided I would venture out for supplies, stopping at the dumpster along the way.
I set out on the seven-block trek to the grocery store with two, large bags of garbage and my bright, shiny, purple suitcase for transporting heavy purchases. At first, I tried holding the bags in front of me, but the muscles in my forearms quickly rebelled. Then I thought I might drag one and set the other atop the suitcase, but the cobblestone sidewalk made short work of ripping a large hole in the bag. I bent down to retrieve the trailing litter, and lost my grip on the other bag causing it to tumble from its precarious position.
It was then that I noticed an unidentifiable liquid had drained onto the shiny purple. With a sigh, I did what I had been loath to do. In a brilliant imitation of Santa Claus, I slung the largest bag over my shoulder. The other I let hang on the side of the suitcase, even though the muscle in my forearm felt like it was on fire. I ignored the stares of well-dressed Berliners on their way to work, and tried to ignore the cold, slimy feel of something dripping down the back of my leg.
I stayed focused on the goal, which was finally in sight; the same dumpster that, on previous trips, had been right outside our apartment door. It had been so easy to simply walk outside each evening and discard the day’s trash, but this time we required a larger apartment that was farther away.
A group of about twenty, English-speaking tourists on bicycles had stopped on the sidewalk, directly over Hitler’s bunker. Less than fifteen feet beyond that was the dumpster. I slowed my pace, willing them to finish by the time I got there. But the tour guide was explaining that there is no public access to the bunker because Neo-Nazis would turn it into a shrine.
I hated to interrupt, but I had little choice. I could not go around them because once the suitcase with the dangling garbage rolled off the sidewalk I would be hard-pressed to get it out of the grass and back on track. The tour group was spilling into the street, so I couldn’t go that direction either. With my head held high, and a sincere look of apology, I said, “Excuse me,” and worked my way through the crowd. The tour guide kindly asked everyone to move their bikes aside.
Finally, I was able to lower the handle on the dumpster and heave the bags inside. They were gone, out of my sight, and completely irretrievable when I heard a gasp and harsh German words. I turned to face a woman who not only had my attention, but the attention of the tourists as well. She scolded me again and pointed to the words painted across the front of the dumpster, “Kleidung und schuhe.”
I translated the words out loud, and then clasped my hand over my mouth in horror. “Clothing and shoes!” I had been dumping garbage into a donation box! The woman continued to shake her finger at me, while the tourists started laughing; snickering at first and then full-fledged guffaws. I was thankful they didn’t know this had always been my dumpster of choice.
Utterly embarrassed and ashamed, I walked away as quickly as I could, rolling my bright, shiny purple suitcase, and praying no one noticed the liquid garbage on the back of my leg.
My fellow Americans, I sincerely apologize for my role in confirming our reputation as boorish idiots. I truly hope that you, and the person collecting the clothing and shoe donations, can forgive me.
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