Don't Follow

I am really embarrassed to confess that until then I had never taken a ride with a stranger. It was winter of 2008 and I had already found out Berlin was my favorite city in the world. A week before my departure I discovered The Cure would be playing in Hamburg at the weekend. As soon as I told my flat mate that I wanted to go but had no money for the train tickets he suggested Mitfahrgelegenheit, a social network for anyone who wants to schedule a ride. I wasn’t surprised to see that Germans were THAT organized. But coming from Sao Paulo, the first thing I imagined was me getting into some kind of scam followed by a hologram of my mother screaming WHAT DID I TELL YOU BEFORE YOU GOT ON THAT PLANE? But my love for the unexpected overcame the fear. In a few minutes I had arranged both rides. I would go on Friday and come back right after the show. Perfect!
So there I was, with a lovely middle-aged woman thinking how stupid I was to be scared of that. I arrived in Hamburg, met an old friend, discovered the wonders of a heated floor, lost account of how many cranes I saw and headed to the concert. The show was amazing. I couldn’t decide if it was more fun to watch Robert Smith or the crowd of goths reviving the dance moves of their youth. After a few beers I found the guts to use my A2 german and call the ride. “Meet me at the entrance, I have red lipstick on and a bottle of gin in my hands”, said the person who would be driving the no-speed-limit Autobahn in a few minutes. I looked around and saw the doppelganger of Robert Smith with a half empty bottle coming in my direction. I followed him to the van, silently chanting the “don’t be a pussy debora, it will be fun” mantra in my head. “Get inside. The doors are not closing properly, but there’s nothing to worry. There is not enough sits, but you can sit on the floor, kein problem.” Now my mom’s screaming hologram was everywhere and any part of me that could resemble a traveller seeking adventure had just vanished. My instinct was to pretend I was calling a friend. “I’m sorry, my friend is really drunk and I need to take her home. Bye!”
I followed the crowd to the bus station, thanking god for the invention of the credit card. But that piece of plastic wasn’t very useful when I saw that the next train was at 8am. -7 degrees outside and I was stuck at a train station that had no walls. The only thing open was a Mcdonalds.
And this is the story of how I spent 480 minutes inside a greasy, stinky Mcdonalds.