A good day for ice cream
The sun is out. Not only that, I can feel the heat through my charcoal gray bathrobe, a welcome change from the past week of clouds and rain. I finish my cigarette and get dressed for the day. No, my girlfriend doesn’t want to join me for ice cream. She’s got to catch up on school work. What a shame. Backlogged homework on such a lovely Sunday afternoon. Schade, as the Germans say. But I guess that’s why their economy’s not as bad as other countries in Europe; it’s a national habit to leave no stone unturned. The legendary German efficiency. The iron will to do one’s duty. Schade. I head off on my own.
There it is, Pinguin Eis. Penguin Ice Cream. I’ve heard good things about this ice cream parlor. It seems like about 40 other people have too: the line runs past the parking space of the neighboring building. I check the line. No one’s smoking. I better smoke my cigarette before lining up. I position myself comfortably a good distance away and spark my lighter.
Ah, Stuttgart. Home to factories of Porsche and Mercedes-Benz. Their workers get big discounts on car purchases, so big they can buy the newest models as they come out and maybe come close to breaking even selling their old ones. The city is littered with luxury cars, and today every convertible has its top down. Almost every big-time car has a guy with gray hair behind the wheel, and the ones that don’t look like they will pretty soon.
A tram arrives and stops. A crowd of people get out. They get in line. Great. Now it’s nearly 60 deep. I stub out my cigarette and head over; a second smoke isn’t worth risking the next tram’s arrival. A BMW pulls over and illegally double parks next to the line. Out comes a blonde with leathery skin, maybe in her 30’s. She pulls out a small child just past his toddler years. Definitely younger than six. She sticks him in line just before I get to the end and bends down to speak to him. I’m not really paying attention. Then she leaves, gets back in the car, and drives off, presumably to find a more legal place to park. Wow. Way to go, mommy. Go ahead and let your small child save your spot in line. Ten minutes go by. Still no mommy. Kid starts looking around. Good luck, kid. Stuttgart is a notoriously difficult city to park in.
We’re right in front of the next building’s parking space. The line sweeps across it. How inconvenient for people wanting to get out. An elderly couple walks through the line. They get into a Mazda. Uh-oh. Right on cue. The kid and I are right behind the Mazda. The car starts up and slowly backs up. Everybody moves out of the way — except for the kid. He’s oblivious. The Mazda stops; the old man’s eyes haven’t completely deteriorated yet, never mind the fact that the kid’s baseball cap barely reaches the height of the Mazda’s trunk. The Mazda waits. No one moves, even though everyone’s attention is fixed on the kid. I sigh and guide him out of the way. I hope his mom doesn’t get back at just this moment. The last thing I want is to get sued for laying hands on someone else’s child. But wait, this is Europe, not America. The Mazda gets out and drives away. The line reforms. The group of girls behind me start smiling and checking me out. Sorry, ladies — I ain’t single. Thanks for the appreciation, though. Just your friendly neighborhood slacker doing his duty, in desert boots and Ray-Bans. Fifteen minutes pass. Mommy comes back with two more boys. They look younger than the car blocker. I guess mommy felt he had the most responsibility out of the three.
The line’s been moving; now we’re in front of the parlor itself. People aren’t lining up to go in, they’re lining up at the spot in the wall which opens up and offers you ice cream if you give them money. The kids see Pinguin Eis’s trash can. It’s got a jolly-looking penguin painted on the side with an ice cream cone in flipper. One of them runs up to it and starts kicking the penguin. People turn their heads to look for the noise. Mommy snaps at the offender. In French. Interesting. Offender doesn’t stop. Mommy walks up to the offender and restrains him. Car blocker shakes the trash can from the other side. More snapping in French. Car blocker starts to put his hand inside but is stopped by Mommy just in time. The line moves along. Mommy gets back in line with the two rascals in tow. The third, in his stroller, was saving her spot. She’s a master at delegation. We’re nearly at the window now. Car blocker sees a cigarette butt receptacle and reaches in. Mommy isn’t happy. Her French-ness makes the situation more amusing; I sense I’m not the only one holding back a smile.
Finally I get to the window. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten ice cream since December. What would I like? I’ll take a “giant†waffle cone with one scoop each of vanilla, chocolate, Nutella, stracciatella, and creme brûlée, thanks. I decide to be kind and pay with exact change.
I finish my ice cream across the street, by a fountain, sitting on a railing overlooking the city center. The sun is shining. It’s a beautiful day.
