Frankfurt

The underground train stops at the local station. It is 12 noon, rays of sunlight steal through the air and look like spider webs. The cold seeps through my thick overcoat. The temperature is below five degrees. I rub my hands together and my colleague Felix smiles and says something about “lovely weather today, it’s not too cold.”

I think he must be joking. He notices my amazement and explains that these golden threads are a gift from heaven on autumn days in Frankfurt. He puts my heavy suitcase on the ground and advises me to not go out without a hat that covers my ears and the scarf that protects my neck from the cold wind.

Night falls in the quiet “city of banks”. Slowly the temperature drops, in time with the hands of the clock. I am surrounded by deathly stillness, the space around me seems empty, even insects cannot be heard. The trees line the streets like soldiers in battle. Their yellow leaves cover the pavements like a carpet and cloak the cars like a protective blanket against sudden misfortune. The whistling wind warns of a snowstorm. Only the sounds of the trains in the station across from my window reveal signs of human life moving about this place.

My eyes cannot stand this observation any longer. It is as if they were watching a nineteen-twenties silent film. The scene before me is blanketed in an exciting, yet eerie spirituality that calls up many philosophical questions that my mind is unable to answer. I close the curtains and walk back and forth, hoping that my movements will drive away the tedium of the late night hour.

“My God, punctuality!”

I hesitate to leave the hotel and ask the employee at reception whether there are many assaults or harassments at night. The young man of Iranian origin furrows his brow, smiles and says: “You are in Frankfurt where you are safe wherever you go.” A deserted street stretches before me; white lines separate the lanes for automobiles from those of bicycles and of pedestrians and their dogs. The light from the lanterns help my right green and my left brown eye in their search for a cigarette butt, a chocolate wrapper or a scrap of paper. There must have been a vacuum cleaner here to free the street from crumbs of rubbish.

Drops of rain fall gently; the wind rubs icy cold into my cheeks. I can hardly breathe in the frosty air. I cannot smell the rain. Does the rain in this clean place even have an odour? The sanctums of German society flutter through my head: health, cleanliness, strict order, accuracy and punctuality. Oh, my God, punctuality and strict order. The mere thought makes me shiver. I worry about adapting myself to certain „sacred“ standards that I tend to avoid. I have been fighting a losing battle with time all my life. The traffic light turns green. I hurry to reach the other side of the street before the seconds counting down beat me to it.

Over there it smells of grilled hot dogs. At this moment the words of the poet Talal Heider reach my inner ear: “Time, time, my dear, has no time to wait.” I feel like this hasty verse. My body transforms into an Arabian horse galloping over the rooftops. Past the illuminated windows that look like matchboxes. It secretly observes a couple embracing after a long day. It dreams along with the children whose grand bedrooms tell lovely goodnight stories for peaceful sleep. It wishes it could wrest off the walls of the simple flats. It eavesdrops on the sounds of music that trickle outside. It feels sorry for the old lady sitting alone in the night caressing the black fur of her cat.

Observing others is a hobby; I have loved peering through windowpanes since childhood. It is a hobby I have been unable to pursue for a long time. My work and the cafés and pubs of Beirut left me no time for it. Moreover the tall buildings and narrow streets allow little room to secretly observe other people.

Frankfurt took me back to the nights of my childhood in a Lebanese mountain village. There, time belonged only to me; I watched the moon and the stars and waited for dawn to arrive. This city here brought back a feeling in my memory that I miss at home. Its stillness allows me lovely boredom, which I long for, a boredom everyone misses who becomes lost in chasing after worthless and pleasureless hours.