I had attended the CeBIT conference before. It was an annual event for my company and over the last few years had become an annual event for me. This year I was less enthusiastic than normal about going to Germany, but I didn't have a good reason to back out.
The high tech conference is held every year in Hanover, over five days. It generates a lot of business for my company but the downside is the accommodation. That there are so many visitors that the infrastructure of the town can't handle the influx of people—there is never enough hotel rooms. To alleviate this issue the local people host exhibitor employees and try to leave the available rooms for conference visitors. To me, the thought of living in a stranger's home for a week rather than a hotel room was horrible, but after a couple of years I'd come to appreciate their hospitality and the insight into their lifestyle. It was never going to be home away from home, but it was not the uncomfortable hardship I'd expected.
This year I was staying with the Sterne family, Helga and Gregor. They had a son, Frank, and a daughter Inga, who were both at college. Inga had given up her bedroom for me and we all passed the time of day pleasantly as I came and went to the conference and dinner. Basically, I did little more than sleep and shower in their home.
The family gushed with kindness, were always accommodating and frequently offering meals that were not required as part of their boarding deal. Once or twice I accepted their offer of dessert when I'd come home from dinner. Helga's lemon cheesecake was as good as anything I'd tasted. The children were also around a lot and enjoyed the opportunity to converse in English, something the parents mostly struggled with.
The biggest downside of this year's conference was that the two colleagues I was traveling with were both were taking their spouses on the trip. This didn't make much difference during the day as we manned the show booth and talked to customers, but it was a challenge to find a comfortable routine for dinner. Understandably, they wanted to eat alone, and I didn't. I made it through most of the week hooking up with some old friends and my colleagues but when Saturday night rolled around I had no plan.
I walked around the town center for a while, checking out several local restaurants that were overflowing. The last thing I needed was a table for one in the middle of that cacophony. I thought about touring the red light district, even if it would only be for amusement, but decided not to—one tour there was probably enough for my lifetime. In the end I drove back to the Sterne's suburb, found a pizza place and ordered a large pepperoni to go.
I wasn't expecting anyone to be at home, but as I fumbled with the key in the unfamiliar lock Inga bounced her way to the door and pulled it open. She was in her early twenties, had short black hair and looked like she'd been studying as she had on some narrow glasses that I wasn't familiar with.
"Come in Mr. David." she beamed. "You got pizza?"
"Yes," I admitted a little sadly, "The town's very busy for dinner and I had no plans."
Inga nodded. Her English, like all of the German students I'd met, was excellent. The funny thing was that most of them spoke with a slight American accent, a product of their watching US TV shows. And I can tell you, from the posters in her bedroom walls, all the clichés about David Hasselhoff being big in Germany, are all true. "Sit down." She indicated the family dining table, where she had several books spread out. "I'll get you a beer. Makes the pizza taste better, no?"
This wasn't what I had planned. I'd figured to eat the pizza in the bedroom and catch an early night. My inclination was to turn down her offer, but that seemed somewhat ungrateful and they may not approve of food in their bedrooms. I placed the pizza box on the table and Inga brought a bottle beer and a glass form the refrigerator.
I indicated that she should help me consume the pizza, but she declined and set about clearing away her books. I told her not to, but she said she'd studied enough and would prefer to talk with me, practice her English. My heart sank. This was definitely not what I had planned for the evening.
In the end, it didn't turn out so badly. She drove the conversation along very well for a non-native speaker and it wasn't a hardship being in her company. Inga was tall and slim with a full figure, happy features and clear, bright eyes that were beautifully expressive. I found myself examining her tight blue jeans closely and wondering what she wore beneath her lime green shirt. She'd taken off the glasses and I thought that when she laughed and screwed up her button nose she looked extremely cute. I tried to shake such thoughts from my mind, figuring they were pointless and would only lead to me masturbating myself to sleep that night.
"Tell me about living in America?" Inga asked. She had never crossed the Atlantic and wanted to. She explained that after college she planned a three-month sightseeing trip through Canada and the US.
I ran through a bunch of things I thought she should plan to do on her trip and told her about my everyday life. I never thought the daily comings and goings of a Program Manager with a passion for dogs and volleyball was interesting, but she seemed enthralled and hung off my every word, down to needing to know how often I went to Starbucks.
Like most people, once I'm engaged in talking about myself, I got more comfortable and started to have fun with Inga. She broke out more beer, one for her this time also, and finally took a piece of pizza, brought it back to life in the microwave and chomped on it as we talked.
"So what's with the pizza tonight? Why aren't you out with your friends? Isn't that what you all come for... the beer, the food, and the red light district."
I laughed and explained what had happened, that I really was here to work, I could get beer in the US also and that red light districts weren't of much interest to me.
She puzzled over this. The attitude to prostitution is a lot more relaxed in continental Europe and the fact that men visit brothels is an accepted fact of life. I told her that it just wasn't something I was used to and had very little interest in. She probed me and I reluctantly admitted that I didn't like the idea of paying for sexual services.
"It's no big deal." She shrugged off my reluctance. "Better that a man has somewhere to go and can pay to fulfill his needs than his home life... suffers, or worse, he rapes someone."
Not exactly comfortable with where the conversation was going, I shrugged and nodded agreement.
Inga was less inhibited though and bolstered her argument, "The brothels are clean, licensed and pay taxes. Say a man is unhappy at home because he doesn't get... a blowjob. Wouldn't it be better that he paid forty dollars for one, than feel bad at home. It's only a blowjob."
I almost giggled, enjoying the refreshing attitude. I thought back to my college days and wished I'd heard that statement before—it's only a blowjob. "Yes, yes," I finally agreed, "you have a point. I'm just not used to such a... liberal attitude."
