After living alone in a giant apartment for almost two months, one of my roommates finally showed up last week. She’s one of about 20 North Carolinians studying abroad at the University of Mannheim this semester (there’s some sort of partnership between the state and the school), and despite her non-Germanity I like living with her so far.
The toughest thing about having a roommate is that it puts your own lifestyle in bas relief. She’s still in the throes of I-just-got-to-Germany-and-I-want-to-do-everything craziness, but even so she’s been putting me to shame on the sleeping front. She consistently gets home at about 2 or 3 a.m. and is out the door before I wake up in the morning. I, on the other hand, can barely make it to work by 9 unless I go to sleep before 11 (this is a hypothetical number – I still haven’t actually tried it). And by German standards, 9 is a pretty late start – most of the other interns I know start at 8, although in their labs everyone leaves at 4 and they’re not allowed to touch anything when they’re alone (whereas I had the distinct honor of closing up shop at 7 p.m. yesterday).
Still, there are perks to having a roommate, especially one who plays house in a decidedly Southern way: she refuses to let me help her cook or clean, she makes huge dinners and “forces” me to eat them, and this week she’s making biscuits – I just hope I don’t fall in love. We’ve even developed a Married-With-Children-style routine when I get home from work: I lay on the couch, put on some jazz and watch the Olympics while she tells me about her day and starts preparing dinner. I know I should be wary about assuming such stereotypical gender roles, but when the opportunity is presented to you it’s very hard not to be the man of the house.
But oh, the Olympics. The energy in Germany may not be quite as exciting as the Euro Cup, but I’m loving the Olympics just as much. While the Euro Cup was more a let’s-go-to-the-bars-and-watch kind of event, the Olympics is the ultimate background show. There’s usually news on the TV in the break room at work, which means that I get my hot chocolate (no decaf coffee in either machine – it’s a damn shame) and leave. But for the last two weeks I’ve been able to take a 15-minute break to drink two cups of hot chocolate and watch Croatian kayakers, Honduran handballers and a slew of other deliciously alliterative and obscure athletes. Likewise, the pre-gaming activities at our apartment have occurred against the constant backdrop of the London Aquatics Centre and Basketball Arena.
Last night London (that’s the roommate’s name) had some friends over for dinner while I ventured off to my weekly Stammtisch (I think the direct translation is regulars’ table – it’s just a meet-up at a bar) with the other BASF interns. When I got back home at 11:30 (again, early by their standards), the more inebriated of the bunch were heading off to a club, and a couple guys hung around to watch the second half of the US-Australia game before heading home.
There were four of us hanging out during the game – London, me, a German, and a guy from Scotland – and for the most part we just nibbled on breadsticks, drank wine and hung out. I was paying fairly close attention to the game, and the German guy also seemed to care (he’s actually a Celtics fan, for the same reason that I like Marseilles and Atletico Madrid: he chose them for Career Mode in NBA 2K6).
The best moment of the game, by far, was a two-minute stretch in the fourth quarter when Kobe went off. I love the Olympics because it gives me opportunities to view Kobe in the way Laker fans do – and I understand why this is their guy. Kobe hit a spot-up three, realized he was feeling it, and after a steal drained another one. Then he got back on D, took the ball off an Australian’s head, found his spot, and hit another. On the next play, he jacked up what looked like a 30-footer and proceeded to basically tackle an Australian player while going for a steal after the rebound. Three 3-pointers, a steal, a horrible brick and a horrible foul – it was a quintessential Kobe moment, and it left me smiling and shaking my head.
Bill Simmons talks about “irrational confidence” guys: basketball players like Robert Horry and Jason Terry who suddenly get hot and start playing at a level above their actual skill set. Well, if it’s possible for one of the 10 best players of all time to be an irrational confidence guy, then Kobe certainly comes close. He looked amazing for that one-minute stretch, and after the last three everyone in my living room – even the Scottish guy who didn’t give a shit about basketball – was mesmerized. If he had made that last three it would have brought the house down, and you can bet Kobe knew that when he put it up. The Celtics fan in me wanted to criticize the guy – this is the Lakers’ franchise player, after all – but the USA fan took over. I loved watching Kobe dominate. I loved the last shot. I loved the stupid foul to cap it all off. I loved being able to sit in a room with Europeans – and not even serious basketball fans – and watch them marvel at my country’s star player. I love Kobe, at least for the next week.
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