In early summer, Vivian took me to a tearoom called the Friesische Teestube, the Frisian tea café. Tucked into a quiet corner of Schwabing, not far from her apartment, it was an intimate setting where people read and quietly talked. Its muted lighting and dark wood paneling created a distinctly gemütlich atmosphere.
There she introduced me to one of its owners, a man named Heinz, but whom everyone called Mac. In his early forties, Mac was outgoing, with a goatee and thick glasses. His English was fluid, if somewhat tortured. Over time we became friends.
One day, Vivian and I went to the Teestube when she wandered off, seemingly knowing everyone. Seeing me alone, Mac pulled up a chair. Our conversation turned to our university days. I mentioned studying physics in college, and he said he had studied nuclear engineering.One day, Vivian and I went to the Teestube when she wandered off, seemingly knowing everyone. Seeing me alone, Mac pulled up a chair. Our conversation turned to our university days. I mentioned studying physics in college, and he said he had studied nuclear engineering.
“The Teestube seems like a lot of work,” I said. “I bet you could earn more as an engineer.”
He became very serious. “You know, I have this thing. It kills me pretty soon.”
I was shocked. “Mac, I’m so sorry. What is it? How long do you have?”
“Ja, it’s called life, and there’s nothing the doctors can do. They say maybe 30 or 40 years more, then kaputt. They tell me to eat healthy, work hard, and make sport. Not for me. I think I live better being with friends and drinking wine with them.”
I laughed. “That’s a good story, but it sounds like an excuse to be lazy.”
“You think?” he replied, frowning. “I married to a wonderful woman when I was younger. Four years. Her name was Britta.” His face took on a faraway look. “Wunderschön. Beautiful. One day, the doctors, they say her to have a simple procedure. Nothing serious, Ja? They make it in the morning, and that afternoon she had an embolie. How do you say, a blood clot? She died right then. I never said goodbye.”
“Mac, is this another joke or is it true?”
“I never joke about Britta,” he said, pausing to emphasize the point. “And I never forget her. The first few months, I was crazy. I had to leave. Too much memories. I quit my studies. I travel across the Sahara from Marokko to Kenia. You know, I wander the desert. Isn’t that what the Bibel says? I learn important things. Now I live to live.”
A week later, Mac invited Vivian and me to dinner at the Bauernhof (farmhouse) where he lived outside Munich. There, we found an improbably diverse group of people from all over the world whom he had befriended while running the Teestube. On that warm summer evening, we ate farm-style at a long outdoor table, a polyglot assembly under a sky that stayed light far into the night. Afterward, we moved inside for an impromptu jam session, with Mac on the banjo, someone playing guitar, and those without an instrument offered a kazoo. Later, Mac narrated a slideshow of his travels: Tuaregs in the Sahara, overlanding through Kenya, and the Pashtuns of Afghanistan. I sat there, listening like a kindergartner at Story Day, while Vivian was elsewhere, socializing with those around her in whatever language they preferred.
I’ll share the journey every Thursday. Join us.
