Italy won the World Cup with 5 of 5 penalty kicks against France. I was estatic and, possibly during those jumps for joy, promptly lost my key in the dark field of Treptower Park. I didn't realize it until Matthias and I had made our way back to the S-Bahn station and stopped, just briefly, to watch the Italians celebrate on a small cafe's TV.
I rip apart my purse, repeat, and then drag a drunk-but-sobering Matthias back through the dark.
We shuffled around in the field, searching. A whole afternoon and night's revelry -- from Seeed concert to victory kicks -- yields empty wine bottles, tossed beer cups and everything else but keys. Where is the lost and found office? I am grateful for Matthias' native German, but frustrated to hear the same response from the police and the security staff: come back tomorrow.
So I am "back tomorrow."
My bike is still here, but no keys are tucked under the rear tire. The grass at least offers up 65 cents, which I pocket as a possibly downpayment to a locksmith.
This is the second time since arriving that I've needed one. The first was as I stole a good-bye kiss with a certain someone on the bright landing just beyond the door's reach. The wind, no doubt jealous, slammed the door firmly shut to us both. I had on no shoes, no bra, no panties...but the sheen of our Sweet Good Morning Fuck (we had given it a name by then) was still on my skin.
Because of Matthias' hospitality -- a bed of my own and a shower to wash away the dust of the field and the salty-sweat of my dancing -- I present myself clean and fully dressed to the park staff.
Come back at 6, she says.
I want to curse.