Portrait:Reinhard

I stood straddling my bike, peering at my map under the streetlight when I heard him.

“Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” he asked.

I looked up to see a man of about 60 years old approaching, wearing a tailored suit and a friendly smile. Though Germans often have the reputation of being unfriendly, I’ve found many on the street are quick to assist if you are lost.

“Ich suche die Boden Museum,“ I answered, hoping he could point in the right direction to the museum where there is free outdoor concerts every Sunday night.

“Ja, kein Problem,” he said, beckoning me to walk with him.

I noticed the strong Eastern accident lacing his German immediately. It is something like the Irish accent is to English, with softer words that sort of slide together. He confirmed that he was from the east when he told me he speaks only Russian, not English, as a foreign language.

He prattled on, telling me about his job, giving me the meaning of his name and asking what I was doing in Berlin. I felt as if I had stepped back three weeks in my understanding of the language. I was able to sift enough words out strings of sentences to say “Ja” or “nein” at the right times and answer the occasional question.

At a corner, he paused, uncertain that he knew where he was going. I pointed to a sign with an arrow, and let him know I could probably find it from here.

“Ach ich fahre mit,” he said staying by my side. “Ich möchte auch wissen.”

With that, I became the tour guide for someone who was just curious to find my destination as I was. And gradually the situation transformed into something uncomfortable, rather than a pleasant encounter with a friendly stranger.

The telltale scent of tobacco wafted from his suit, growing stronger each time he bumped into my shoulder. He continued to talk, telling me how he was made a “Lord” in England and fishing his card out of his breast pocket. I began to plot my escape.

The museum was rising on the horizon. “Ist es nicht geschlossen?” he asked, and I shook my head. No it is not closed, I’m meeting friends there, I told him, hoping that would dissuade him from following me into the concert.

“Ich möchte sie auch kennenlernen,” he said to my dismay, as I began imagining how awkward it would be to introduce him to my friends as he was requesting.

At the edge of the bridge, I paused. “Also…” I said, hoping that was enough to signal this was goodbye. But he kept talking, and suddenly “Hilton” surfaced from the soup of his words, along with a suggestion. The mild flashes of lights in my head suddenly turned to sirens. With one last unrealistic grasp at the chance he wasn’t the creep I was beginning to think he was, I asked, “Sind Sie Besitzer?”

The words sounded ridiculous even to me, playing naïve. There was no way this man was the owner of a Hilton. "Nein, nein, ich habe gar nichts,” he said, confirming my fears.

"Ok ... Es hat mir gefreut... Schönen Abend noch,” I said, bothering with parting formalities that he didn’t deserve.

"Schade," he said as a pushed my bike toward the comfort of the crowd.

Yep. That’s right buddy. Too bad.