There’s a delightfully quirky public holiday in Saxony (and Saxony alone) called ‘Buß- und Bettag’ — Repentance and Prayer Day. This Protestant pause of the working week falls on a Wednesday. Always. A lot of people moan about it. Other German states manage to have holidays that fall on a Monday or Friday and give you that lovely long-weekend feeling. The Saxon version gives you that Is it the weekend? feeling and then promptly sends you back to work.
Well.
The Mathematician and I decide a walk’s in order. (In the morning. In the afternoon, we’ll repent our slacking off and pray we can work fast enough to catch up (a perversion that might make Sade raise an eyebrow).) We go for the yoosh: a stroll down to and along the river, a saunter through Clara Zetkin Park, and a cheeky nibble at Ouai.
As we stroll the tree-lined avenue by the Elster (which puts The M in mind of a Bruegel painting), I wonder if the coffee bicycle will be by the bridge.
“Not that I really fancy a cup,” I say. “It’s just that it might be nice. You know, psychologically. Plus the cup will be lovely and warm. If it’s there. It might not be. I mean, look at the weather.” We look. It’s greying over. “Although it is a public holiday, so …. Do you want one?”
“No.”
“Just me then. If he’s there. Or she. Is that rain?”
I hold out my hand.
“Yeah, I think there’s something coming in. Something cold.”
“Mmm, perfect weather for a hot coffee ….”
I don’t see anyone walking along with cups to hand, which makes me a little suspicious. We see several rowers and joggers though, distinctly underdressed amongst (and alongside) the winter-padded walkers.
“Oh, look!” I say.
In the distance, I spy a little line of glowing lights adorning the canopy of the coffee bike. I rummage in my pockets for change.
“Sure you don’t want anything?” I ask as I walk up to the barista.
“I’m sure. Enjoy.”
I’m the first in line — seems he’s only just arrived. I chinwag a bit as he sets up.
“Last day of the year, today,” he says.
“Really?”
He nods. “Then nothing until spring.”
“Well, then that makes this cup extra special!”
“But what about Glühwein?” says a woman behind me.
The man shakes his head. “There will be Glühwein, but I’ll be enjoying it from the other side of the counter. Besides, I can’t make coffees out here in the winter. The water will freeze.”
“Oh, I had’t thought about that …,” the woman trails off.
I tip the man and we head off.
“Serendipity,” I say, sipping foam. (I’m not normally a flat white drinker, but the coffee’s too bad to drink black.)
We walk around the lake and look at the ducks, who’ve all tucked their heads under their wings.
“This weather reminds me of Tusculum,” I say.
“Where you met that professor?”
I nod.
The early March weather had forecast rain, but the sky’d said “Fine,” so I’d grabbed my rucksack and headed up the Alban hills, south of Frascati, near Rome. I was open-mouthed when I reached the ancient ruins of Tusculum (on Tuscolo hill) — not because of the climb, but because of the view. Ancient roads with wheel ruts, a theatre, the bases of columns. And off in the distance, over the caldera of the Alban volcano (!) had been a magnificent gathering storm.
An older gentleman with hiking sticks had come to me and started talking. He’d offered to show me around — he was an amateur historian and walked these hills every day. He’d shown me the dormitory where people had stayed. (“Go in — I want to see your face when you see it!”). He’d told me the history of the ceremonies there.
Once every year, in February or March — “At about this time!” he’d laughed — the people of Rome (or maybe the nearby settlements) came to sacrifice an animal to ask the gods (or perhaps a specific one) for good harvests and plentiful children. Now, Tusculum was quite a walk from Rome in those days, so the people stayed in a hotel of sorts.
“But not like now — twenty to a room!”
“Well, I’m sure that helped with the fertility issue.”
He’d nodded sagely.
He’d taken me for a walk about the settlement, told me Cicero had once lived here, told me of his own children and grandchildren. In fact, he was supposed to be picking them up from school about now!
He’d driven me back down the hill, to my hotel, and wished me a pleasant stay.
“Wasn’t he the inventor of something?” says The Mathematician.
“Yeah, he and a few others. The two dimensional soft x-ray imaging device.”
“I’m jealous you got that tour,” she says as I finish my coffee.
“I know, right? What a wonderful chance encounter.”
“Yeah, you seem to get a lot of those.”
I smile in the icy drizzle. Serendipity.
