Turkey Trot

Back at work, with Ikea blisters and a full stomach. a little too full, and the jeans are a little too tight. Time to get back on the food wagon, especially before people start hauling out the Christmas cookies and Glühwein.
The stomach is full because I went to a Thanksgiving dinner this weekend at an acquaintance's house about three hours from Erfurt.  True to life, the acquaintance, who has a penchant for generating drama by the simple act of breathing, misinformed me and my traveling partner about the day of the dinner. He said Friday, but it turned out it was Saturday. So we ended up staying an extra day, going "Outlet shopping" in a nearby town. My traveling partner (Let's call him T, since I assume I'll mention him from time to time--coworker, likes boys, don't get your hopes up.) promised me that there are larger, more impressive outlets in Germany, one that is a "village," in his words.  We'll see. It's hard to beat the American penchant for name brands and bargain hunting. Outlets are still a relatively new concept here, I think, and the prices often are not much different from the retail stores.  But I do love the names of the brand names here: Bruno Banani, Marco Polo,  desigual, anything, as long as it doesn't sound German. Naturally, there are Levis, Addidas, Puma, and the others, including a Le Creuset, which of course soothed my bruised little soul.
The soul is bruised because I ended up needing to celebrate Thanksgiving so badly that I went to the acquaintance's place, a choice I would not have made if I hadn't needed the identification, the celebration of something that is just a part of who I am.  But the other American, the guy who hosted the dinner, really left me standing in the rain a couple of months ago when I was looking for a job. I had helped him (read: I did it myself) put together a PowerPoint presentation for his dissertation defense, since he could not work with PowerPoint at all. I got his pictures, text, music samples, everything, to not only look fantastic, but to work. Fade-ins, fade-outs, different visual effects. I helped him narrow his outline down to a manageable and comprehensible 30 minutes, went to two rehearsals with others to provide feedback, being the only other person in the room with a PhD, I think. There might have been one other person who has been grilled at that level and lived to tell the tale. I devoted a ton of hours to help him get what he came for, because that is what I do in principle and for a living. I work in education.
And the professors especially noted how fantastic his PowerPoint was. You may now call him Dr.
But when I was looking for a job, and needed to work on my German letter-of-app skills, he was nowhere to be found, and then later told me that he'd had "other priorities." Of course. You need a PhD in order to earn more money and crawl out of the crushing debt you have. I need a job so I can get a resident permit and a work permit, which is not the easiest thing in the world, or at least, that's what I've been told. Sure, of course you have priorities, but I get kicked out of the country in exactly three weeks if I don't get it together and prove I'm at least looking and have prospects. But no, make sure you take care of that make-up exam (No, really, that was his excuse, after not answering the email and then calling three days later.) No, really, after I keep mum about your multiple attempts to cheat on your sweet, loving, yet highly insecure partner, after I cook every day so you can study, after I put up with your egotism...no, just ignore the one thing I really need and will ever need from you.
The Germans I asked to proof my letter and help me with editing sent back feedback immediately. T basically wrote it for me, truth be told.  The American sent feedback about a letter that didn't exist anymore, four days later, after I'd already turned in my application. And the feedback was as weak as a cheap Soju cocktail.
Yes, yes, it balanced out. Yes, yes, I can't expect anything and this is not a world of tit for tat. Yes, I get that. Yes, I understand, but when someone who has experienced the same thing you are experiencing and knows how important the situation is, how much it's a do-or-die moment, when they have been enriched by your help because you simply want to help someone succeed, and they dick you over, it stings. No matter how you package it.
After I'd eaten my fill Saturday, after going shopping and not helping in the kitchen, other than to put my peach cobbler together, after watching the acquaintance and his partner rush madly through the house, after listening to boring people talk about boring crap in their boring clothes and their boring tosses of the head, I went to bed early, not thinking for a minute that I should help with the intense cleanup that would take place in another few hours. I lifted no finger, drank, ate, talked with T and a few other nice people, and wished for Thanksgiving in Morgan Hill, in Oakland, in San Francisco, in Davis, the beauty of conversation led by intelligent people, a sense of community where I know everyone has my back. And I have theirs. And we have all earned it.
My 20 minutes are up.