Diary of a journey to myself / The first realization

Travel diary

Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia

25.12.2014, Waiting lounge at Frankfurt/Main Airport

Once again, we are sitting at the airport in the waiting lounge, waiting (as usual in a waiting lounge). I have no idea how many times we have spent time here since we started our long-distance travels exactly six years ago after our wedding on the idyllic Drachenfels. Our backpacks, on which Fabian sprayed our initials F and S with white spray paint before our first trip, so that we can distinguish them not only by weight, are probably on their way to the plane. As always, I have probably packed the wrong shoes again. Somehow I never manage to get it right with the shoes. There is no way I will give up my beloved boots and sandals with at least 7 cm heels. The flip-flops are actually just for show. Whenever I have actually walked around in them for a whole day because it is really too hot for boots when walking through cities or mountain landscapes for hours, I get such nasty blisters between my toes that even the really expensive and very special blister plasters that I consume in mass quantities on every vacation no longer help and I put my boots back on because they are simply the most comfortable to walk in, but no one believes me. Fabian is used to it and has the blister plasters at the top of his checklist of things we must always remember. After all, he has known me and my quirks for 16 years, and I know his quirks, which are certainly no less ridiculous. Everything must be organized and archived, and woe betide anyone who interferes with it or dares to disrupt his CD, comic, or film collection. I think it's cute how he keeps an eye on me and my idiosyncrasies with his vacation checklist. In this context, I find it very sweet that "Pony cutting" is now also on the list. Before our last short trip to Bratislava and Vienna, I hadn't managed to have my pony, which always has to be exactly above the eyeliners, cut by my trusted Iranian hairdresser.

As if he had just read my thoughts, he nudges me from the side, "Did you actually have your pony cut and did you bring the hairdryer?" "Do you think I would ever let such a witch as the one in Bratislava touch my pony again anywhere in the world? What a nightmare. Do you remember that?" "No, I have no idea what you're talking about. Now stop looking like that. As if I had forgotten about it," he grins mischievously at me with his gray-blue eyes. "Do you remember what she kept repeating? Do you still know that?" I want to know. "Kattastroff, oh, oh Kattastroff." Now he beams all over his face and dramatically raises his arms in the air. We both have to laugh again, roll our eyes, raise our eyebrows as high as possible, and groan, just like the brightly made-up, quite corpulent, gypsy-like hairdresser with the huge cleavage in orange (I know, the term gypsy is totally objectionable, but it doesn't really fit Sinti and Roma).

She tied her thin black hair together as tightly as possible into a ponytail so that the thinned-out white-gray hairline would stand out particularly well. When she placed me in the holey and slightly sticky hairdresser's chair with her bony hands and stroked through my hair with her fingers, which she had apparently painted bright pink a long time ago, inspecting my eyebrows in particular, while she came dangerously close to me with her thickly lined, in a much too wide arc, black eyebrows and her eyes, she groaned from the depths of her soul, which had already seen a lot of suffering and misery in life. At the same time, she threw Fabian meaningful and accusing glances, which expressed that there might still be something that can be done, but only with a lot of effort. While she groaned quietly at these sentences, rolled her eyes, lifted her shoulders slightly only to let them fall resignedly, she dramatically changed her posture with the following sentence. With her hands supported on her hips and glaring at my face in the mirror in a threatening manner, she stated: "But the eyebrows absolutely have to be dyed. You can't go out like this. Period!"

With this dramaturgy, a lack of understanding of the Slovak language was completely unnecessary. I understood every single word, even though I had never learned Slovak before.

The memory immediately comes back. The small, dirty shop in a backyard opposite the "Trescher" (a Lonely Planet recommendation for local, good, and affordable cuisine in an authentic atmosphere).

The hairdresser's shop also had atmosphere, and what an atmosphere it was. Packed with bottles and jars of all sizes and colors, interspersed with holy pictures, crucifixes, and lots of colorful fairy lights, artificial flower arrangements in tiny porcelain vases, and a signed giant poster of Verona Feldbusch (or did she already go by the name "Poth" back then?).

My thoughts wander from the hairdresser's shop in the Slovak capital to the Bolivian capital La Paz and to the "Hexenstraße, la Caille de las Brujas" (a recommendation in the "Insider Tips" section for special sights in the LP) and the little shop at its entrance with dried llamas hanging and filled to the ceiling with herbs, oils, ointments, amulets, soaps, and I don't know what else for magical utensils, all of which were supposed to serve one or more purposes. Desire for children, health, finding a partner, beauty, general luck, wealth, or simply as an aphrodisiac. In any case, they should be good for fulfilling all human concerns, and it's really worth believing in them. I bought 4 amulets there. One for my daughter Sarah, one for my mom, one for my friend Merrit, and one for myself.

Then I suddenly hear something from the speakers that I don't understand acoustically except for my name. I nudge Fabian, who is deeply engrossed in my tablet again. "Did you hear that, were they talking about me?" He shrugs uninterestedly. "You should go to the counter up front," he casually points to the boarding counter with his outstretched arm. "What did you do now?" he grins a bit, or am I just imagining that? I am confused. "Well, they have already checked my boots and my tablet for explosives, what else now? Yes, I'm going," I say. A little unsettled, I walk through the rows of other passengers, who I feel are watching me, to the front counter. "Ms. Heidemeyer?" I nod. "We have a little problem with your visa. You're flying to Vietnam, right?" I nod again. "The reader at the check-in counter apparently didn't scan your visa. We need to add it." I smile at the friendly stewardess with the black pony hairstyle as if she were an ally. "Sure, no problem," and I hand her my completely tattered passport. She briefly raises her beautifully curved eyebrows (internally, I think of the witch and how I would have liked to have those eyebrows after my "treatment"), then she hands me back the passport. "You should definitely replace this, it's falling apart soon. You could also get into trouble with it." With a stern look, she looks into my big blue eyes, as if looking into those of a little schoolgirl who sometimes needs to be told to be orderly. As if I didn't already know that myself. How many times have I earned angry looks at various borders because of my passport. Especially in Miami. If I hadn't been German, the tall, muscular colored American guy at the immigration counter would definitely not have let me into his sacred USA. I will never forget this saying: "The Germans are good, they do, what we want them to do."

What a lucky thing that I didn't really understand the meaning of it at that moment and just nodded friendly instead of reacting with a suitable comment. It probably wouldn't have ended well. The news that the NSA should have tapped Merkel's phone, which she only briefly complained about to Obama, had only been discussed since October. The whole question of how to behave towards the USA was a delicate issue and fiercely debated in our circle of friends. After all, we all liked Obama at least, even if not necessarily the Americans themselves. If we had known at that time who the Americans would choose afterwards, but probably we wouldn't have acted differently either, because we Germans subordinate ourselves and don't rebel for the sake of peace (my mother's motto). No, we are correct, punctual, extremely efficient, and goal-oriented. We have Bayern Munich, Schweinsteiger, and above all Mercedes. How often have we heard that by now. If I had known it at that time, I could have replied to the immigration officer in Miami: "And you will soon have Trump." But nobody would have believed me anyway.

So I don't protest now either, especially since the Pony Stewardess is right. Fabian always reminds me before every vacation to finally apply for a new one, but I am attached to my passport with the many colorful stamps and visas. Completely relaxed, I put it back in my pocket and go back to my seat next to Fabian, who is playing his beloved country quiz on my bomb-free tablet immersed in thought. "Do you know how fast I am now? 6 minutes and 39 seconds," he doesn't take his eyes off the screen. "Wow," I reply with feigned disinterest. "Don't you want to know what happened?" He briefly looks up. "What happened?" "My visa for Vietnam was not scanned, it had to be added." "I see..., but now everything is fine, right?" "Mmm," I lean back. Maybe I'll go smoke again. What a luxury. The smoking lounge is right behind us. I watch the passengers who will soon be boarding the plane to Seoul with us, more precisely Incheon (I just can't seem to remember). The only thing I dread is the six-hour layover in Incheon before continuing to Hanoi. Here we go!

Realization No. 1:

Things that catch my attention repeat over and over again. It seems to be a sign trying to send me a message. By observing attentively, I will be able to decipher them.