Duderstadt

6:45am, in a dark and empty square, my yesterday started with a stranger, Frank. 3 hours into the mountains, an ultra-specialized clinic for cell harvesting was waiting. There were two snow storms. A hail storm. We got lost 5 times. I announced I knew his secret: he was driving in to the woods to kidnap me. Young and fluent but with standard German reserve, his face was blank. Didn’t get it. Didn’t like it. Ahh, no. A beat, then a slight smile, “And Frank is not even my real name.” A partner, I had! A partner in appreciating mishaps. He became “Fake Frank”. Stories evolved about our mission to this mountain place: we were blood smugglers, probably for the Russian mafia; I was the tougher gangster, even though he’s 6’5” and climbs mountains. Obviously. We were funnier than two strangers should be, Fake Frank and the Tiny Gangster, shocked, a little, by all the laughing.
Our destination arrived. The door handle was a hand holding a rod. A hand. Naturally, I assumed Bowie, the Goblin King, lay just beyond. But no, only a building older than my country. And. A 2 hour fascinating “chat” (read: lecture) about cellular structure and immunology with a dash of molecular biology. It being my reaping time, they harvested 25 vials of blood, using the left arm as the right had fallen fallow. Food happened at, what I realized was, the German version of Walmart. So good though. Leaving, we got lost 2 more times. Maybe a small house and a herd of sheep were in our future, stranded in this valley between crests. Alas, the road. A camera flash of a rainbow between storms. Me and Fake Frank on the road from Duderstadt.