What a fun day! Preparing to head out into the morning from the hostel lobby I saw Malte sitting on the couch. He is a young German kid of probably about nineteen and part of the crew from last night’s barbeque. We exchanged greetings and then Malte asked, “What have you planned for today.” I ran through my laundry list of sights and then returned the inquiry. He paused momentarily and said, “I go with you.”
I was actually very happy to have him as an exploration partner. He had an energy and honest invigoration about seeing the city. Since I’m consciously trying to log miles, we walked almost everywhere, which fit perfectly with the conscience of his budget. Our hostel was about 3Km from Darling Harbor and then a long stroll from there to Circular Quay and the Rocks.
I love art and modern art specifically reaches deep within my psyche. To mentally stretch, thinking beyond initial impression and delving into potential meaning reaches my head as well as heart. Malte was great and I had a true partner in crime when he said, “I don’t understand this, but I want to know what the artist was thinking.” Malte’s perspective on various works added even greater depth to the experience, than if I’d sat and processed alone.
We strolled to The Rocks and an open-air market so that I could buy a children’s book about a persuasive wombat. (I had purchased one for Devon in June and now wanted a copy of my own.)
Hungry, we took the next ferry from Circular Quay to Manly Beach for fish & chips.
Malte ended up buying a $4 slice of pizza, but I had to indulge the tradition of eating fish & chips while sitting on the sea wall, watching the people, sea, and surfers. Malte proved he was worth his salt when after eating, bam, I got hit with what felt like a dirt clod on the side of the head. The thud was strong and disorienting.
Stunned and looking at Malte, he asked calmly, “You have shit?”
“Did a seagull shit on me?”
“Yes, you have a big one!” he said without even a snicker.
(Sorry, no pictures to share here.)
I kept waiting. When would the laughter start? Come on Malte at least a giggle, a potential nasal snort of viewing another’s misfortune. Nothing.
“Would you mind watching my bag while I go to the restroom?” I said tentatively.
“Yes. Sure. No problem.” was his sympathetic reply.
Maybe it’s a genetic German thing. I can remember my friend being pooped on while we sat near the steps of Tamalpais High School and there wasn’t a single personal ounce of energy towards laughter, simply a desire to help.
Later in the evening, I went to a movie and Malte opted to walk back to the hostel. When I met up with him and the rest of the German crew by the Anzac Brige no one laughed at my arrival.
He hadn’t told a soul. I knew this because, later, when I told the story to Mena she confirmed that Malte hadn’t shared that part of the day with the group.
I felt deeply valued and respected by this friend of 24 hours who hadn’t sunk to the easy humor that comes at the expense of someone else’s misfortune. At nineteen, Malte is a much bigger man and example than I.
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