It was a late Indian-summer week in Berlin. My colleague Philip met me at Tegel airport mid-afternoon. This visit was planned as mostly vacation, just a touch of work to make it properly chargeable to our grant. I would be staying in his ground-floor visitor's apartment rather than in some faceless hotel – reciprocity for similar hospitality on my part every year for the past three or four.
I'd visited Berlin for two weeks or more several times, but not yet met his family – wife, two daughters, and ancient family dog – just seen pictures and heard stories. The "girls" (21 and 24) were recently returned from simultaneous "student years abroad", spent in the US. When we drove up, they ran out to greet us – the arthritic hound stayed inside, and Mom wasn't yet home.
The daughters were stunningly attractive almost-identical blonds, both with absolutely note-perfect English - idiom, delivery, pacing, gestures, body language, the whole package. They did have cutely different accents due to one having spent her year in Michigan, the other in Mississippi. Having them there was a huge social relief: my German is pathetic (a whole three years in college over forty years ago – and never used hence nearly all forgotten now). Mom's and Dad's English was rough, awkward and self-taught, full of second-cousin words and grammatical foofaraws demanding unrelenting attention and, actually, requiring a lot of on-the-fly translation from their version into "proper" English. Hence extended conversation was an energy drain, but one relievable via the girls.
My host and hostesses gave me a quick grand-tour of their part of the 4-floor triplex. Modern and beautifully constructed: the Euro-windows eliminated outside noises completely, and each level was perfectly sound-isolated. Level 0, the ground level, was to be all mine -private bath and bedroom, and a solid-mattressed queen bed. Floor #1 was living and kitchen, #2 the two daughters' bedrooms, #3 the parental suite.
Philip's wife Julie arrived home shortly, in time for the first bottle of wine. It was a bit startling just how similar the three women were: genetics rule! We had a light dinner, and I was shown the entire kitchen before retiring - the parents would be gone to work when I got up, so I should prowl and help myself, just as Philip had done at my place.
I was up a couple of hours ahead of the girls: when finally they did arrive at table, I had coffee and eggs ready. They were sleepy, but friendly and apparently impressed by my industry, which they clearly thought simply mad. Lounging around the table at only about 55% wakefulness in their short, lightweight nighties, they were either unconscious of, or utterly unconcerned with, any possible effect on my libido of four long, pretty, smooth and decidedly female legs, and four occasionally-visible boobs. I chose not to object.
After breakfast we sat about with more coffee – I was the appointed coffee-guru because I hailed from Seattle, home of the ubiquitous Starbucks, Inc. They briefed me on their histories as students, their extended US travels, old boyfriends. Both were sans current local romantic interests – they hadn't been back long enough for that to develop – but were actively looking! I got the stories about the family dog, now fifteen, very creaky.
Then they explained Mom's early history, of which they seemed quite enamored: at age seventeen she'd begun singing in a touring rock band that had successfully played Europe and the Middle East for several years. Julie claimed Mom had had a reputation as a truly wild woman – which caused the girls some mild amusement.
That wildness had been part of Daddy's attraction to her – he'd apparently matched it, and they had become an item within the band, finally married and produced these two. The girls insisted, and quite proudly, that although Mom was in her mid-forties now, she was as fit as they and that all three of the family women could wear the same clothes - perfect interchangeability.
Mid-afternoon, now fully awake and unfortunately much less dishabille, the girls announced that they had both gained weight in the USA and were going out for their daily 5-km run, part of getting back into good shape. It surprised them when I volunteered to go along. My normal running rig - Speedo and singlet – surprised them even more: they were wearing long, identical sweatpants labeled "UCLA Bruins". They giggled at me: "Are you really going in THAT? Maybe in southern Cal, but it's a bit odd for Germany!" I assured them that I intended to run thus. They looked at one another and shrugged, then grinned and said "OK, then, we'll match you! Don't want you to be a spectacle all by yourself. Wait a sec..."
They returned wearing identical running shorts and long-sleeved tee-shirts. They had lovely legs, to all intents and purposes optically indistinguishable, taut calves and quads, traces of old suntans. And if they HAD gained weight in the US, they'd already lost it – they weren't distance-runner skinny, but very nicely and gently fleshed, not a trace of cellulite anywhere, no dimples, no signs whatever of any excess avoirdupois past or present.
I issued compliments, they accepted gracefully and happily, seemed at least mildly pleased to have even such an old-fart male as myself being appreciative.
It was only two short blocks to a wonderful paved trail which ran through young forest and over gently-sloped dunes. It was the jeep trail built by the East Germans for patrolling the long-gone Berlin fence, the trail now converted into something more useful.
We passed a few pedestrians, mostly with dogs, and a couple of other runners, but got no untoward stares or glares. The path was marked – very Germanic – at 100-meter intervals. One wouldn't want to get lost out here in the great wasteland!
I let the girls set the pace, while making it clear I could go faster if they wished – just because I had close to forty years on them didn't mean I couldn't keep up. They settled for slow, perhaps a 10-minute mile, just above a race-walk. When we got to their planned 2.5 km turning point, I suggested that we double their normal distance. With some gentle urging and encouragement, they agreed, reluctantly.
At about km 7, I very slowly and sneakily increased the pace – I'm a long-distance runner with decades of practice – and as we approached the final kilometer we were going at a more respectable speed. They were beginning to gasp a bit but it was clear they could handle it if they chose.
I urged them: "Come on! Let's bust the last kilometer! Stick with me!"
I pulled them through it at my old slow-training pace, finishing that final kilometer in just under 5 minutes, a barely sub-eight minute mile. They were impressed with themselves – a personal best for both.
They hugged and thanked me, then insisted on my taking their pulses: 143, 148: mine was just under 90. They were amazed: I blamed it on my forty years of practice. They congratulated me.
Then Vera said, as we started walking homeward, "You are really in very good shape! And you've been running almost as long as our PARENTS have been alive! Wow. Good for you! I hope you intend to keep it up!"
I love bantering, flirting, with women, and it was clear that it wouldn't be either lost, or upsetting, with these two. I of course could not resist... I muttered sotto-voce "Keeping it up is NOT one of my problems, but it sure is a long-term goal!"
It took half a conversational beat for the penny to drop; then they choked slightly, sputtered and turned that nice shade of pink reserved for blue-eyed Nordic blonds.
Carla took the bait, slapped me familiarly on the butt and said "Sheesh! You're a dirty old man, you are. A very well-conditioned, smart, witty, dirty old man! I like that! But you know, we're just innocent little girls. What's Germany coming to, with foreign guests treating their hostesses like this – running us so fast, getting us all sweaty and tired, then making sexy jokes!? If we were responsible little girls, well, we'd obviously have to tell our parents!"
