Germany is a special place, special in the nest of three-headed, phosphorescent rats on the shores of Lake Karachay sense. Germany can be difficult to stomach at the best of times. After all, even seemingly mundane matters can give those of us with distinctly Anglo-Saxon leanings fits of the vapours. For example, in order to be enrolled in a “Krankenkasse”, I was instructed to provide a copy of my British health insurance card that does not exist. They were well aware that prior to my descent into madness, I mean, move to Germany, I had been living in the United Kingdom. They were also aware that there is no British health insurance card. Yet they requested it anyway.
So… I was strongly urged “not” to visit their local office as they want everything done remotely. But the only way that this issue could be resolved was by visiting their local office. I was, seemingly, able to provide them the documents they needed but after three weeks, I’m yet to hear anything from them. Although they continue to claim their right to payment, they have proven themselves incapable of even processing a routine enrolment.
Perhaps I am being impatient. I have, in fact, been accused of being irrational by some. It is, of course, perfectly acceptable to send me on a wild goose chase with windmill-tilting segues, but it is beyond for me to question the rational of even trying. It reminds me of living one of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s kabuki plays. It is at times touching, at times hyperbolic, at times implausible and, after reading two of his plays, utterly predictable. The first time is always the best. There is the sense of the unknown, of discovery, of uncovering merits and demerits. The second time serves a purpose. There is much merit to his works and it gives a sense of what the culture, mindset and lifestyle of Edo era Japan were, but it becomes clear that with the exception of a few details, there is a set formula. The third time is the least rewarding. You know exactly what will happen and when. Of course, the names and setting will be different but the plot remains the same.
So, I try to muddle on as best I can. It’s not quite like it was before. Before, however exhausting, I had more space and could spend hours each day wondering alone in the forest. Now, I’m in very cramped conditions in a city. I still try to go out for an hour or two each day, but it’s rare that I’m able to enjoy it. I’m not entirely certain what I will do next summer. I’ve written off going to the USA. It scarcely seems worth it at this point. From an ill-tempered, obnoxious oaf who irritates all the right people to a demented, bigoted cretin who is loved by all the wrong people. I couldn’t stomach the original Obama S**t Show, I’m disinclined to put myself through its third-rate “sequel”. If I can get through a visit to the supermarket without suffering the vapours in Germany I proudly chalk it up as a success. So that leaves me with the option of genteel poverty in Portugal or England. I’ve had some fruitful discussions about living in England again as the dust seems to be settling.