I am at IntercityHotel Berlin Schönefeld. It is not a pretty place: the airport ground crews are on strike and the hotel is packed with stranded tourists from Ireland and Spain.
I hang out at a high side table at the hotel bar. As a German native speaker, I am treated with decency by the German barkeeper. He serves me white wine. The non-native-speakers are not so lucky: They get shouted at for inquiring about food. I hack at my computer.
A man approaches from a loud group of men by the bar. I look up.
is what he says to me, approaching further.
I am wearing a see-through blouse and my large breasts, dark red lipstick, a short skirt and tights, and full-cover makeup.
I try to answer, but the situation is too comical: I just burst out in laughter.
Confused, he retreats.
I later advise him and his group about travel options into Berlin. They are drunk and apparently unaware of their location (“hey, we could go to Berlin!”). Their accents are so thick that I have to ask them to speak slowly — I smile as I notice that that’s probably a first with an English-speaker in over 20 years!