Heinz, the Birthday Boy
It was Heinz’s 71st birthday yesterday, and I was invited for lunch at their home. Lilia, his Filipino wife, ordered a 20-kg whole roasted pig (lechon) to celebrate the occasion. She said she would give me the pig head for sinigang — a Filipino sour soup or stew. She knows I love sinigang pork lechon. Unfortunately, I could not take it with me that day. I still have to go to the city center with a friend to check out a piece of porcelain from Augarten’s flagship store. Augarten is Austria’s porcelain manufactory, founded in the 18th century — the second-oldest in Europe — and famous for its handmade, delicately hand-painted tableware and other porcelain items. It is an elegant store, and I didn’t want to enter that boutique carrying a Hofer paper bag, which is becoming translucent by the minute as the greasy pig head comes into contact with it. Despite the mishaps, the celebration with family and friends felt warm and memorable.
For those who do not know, Hofer is that budget-friendly supermarket chain in Austria where I frequently bump into many of my fellow retirees from the United Nations in Vienna. While still on active duty, we all had access to the UN Commissary, where items sold are tax-free. It is one of the perks of working at the UN in Vienna. Sadly, retirement would take that privilege away from us. But thanks to Hofer, there is life after Commissary. It’s funny how these small community connections, like bumping into friends at Hofer, keep us feeling part of something bigger.
I told Lilia I’d pick it up the next day, or she could give it to Laura, another neighbor coming to the birthday dinner. I could get it later from her once she was home.
I was home the whole evening watching Netflix when I got a text from her saying she rang my bell, but went home when I didn’t answer. She even called me on the phone. I didn’t hear both; although I heard a faint buzzing, I dismissed it as coming from next door. I immediately sent her a text asking if it would be okay with her if I picked it up first thing in the morning. Yes, she wrote back, but didn’t say when I should.
I heard a knock on my door the next day. It was Laura’s friend delivering the pig head. I took the bag, forgetting my manners and not inviting her in. We chatted a bit, and after she left, I pulled and locked the door, absent-mindedly leaving the key in the keyhole — my first mistake of the day.
The day would be sunny, with highs of 33 degrees Celsius, according to the weather forecast. Another hot day, I could already feel it. I would stay home and wait until it cooled off before doing errands for Walter. He sent me a text earlier saying I should get some stuff from Hofer and another discount store on my way to his place. He hasn’t done any shopping since the day he decided that his feet hurt when he walks. From not using them as often as he should, I told him.
I had another birthday dinner invite later in the day, so after grocery shopping for Walter and delivering the stuff to him, I must go back to my place and change into fresh wear. Although I take public transport to Walter’s and back, it’s a long walk from my place to the nearest subway station. It used to be short, but you know everything becomes a challenge when you are my age. Fine, Walter said, when I asked if I could bring the groceries to him the following day when I go to his garden-house. That would spare me the stress.
Think again!
Ready to run errands, I stepped out of my apartment, shut the door, and the key wouldn’t fit in the keyhole. Classic me, always a step behind, turning everyday mishaps into stories we all can laugh about.
Fcuk, fcuk, fcuk!
Marilyn, my neighbor and friend, who lives in the same building, was home and has a spare key for my flat. I felt relieved knowing she could help, hoping I didn’t leave it stuck in the keyhole, which would make things worse.
Of course, it was. Marilyn found a key unlocking service nearby online, but she kept getting a busy signal whenever she tried to call.
Let me try, I said. The phone rang, and a woman answered. It was not the service we wanted. Marilyn made several calls before she finally got hold of someone who could do the job. The person who picked up our call spoke fluent German; he could only be a native speaker. He would send a locksmith to my place, but it may take about 20 to 25 minutes for his man to arrive. The person will call us upon his arrival.
The locksmith arrived in 45 minutes, but he couldn’t find our place. The street is underground, and first-time visitors relying on the address often struggle. A GPS can locate our street, but not the house, so I have to go ‘underground’ and wait for them, which, I always try to convince myself, is annoying but a fun adventure.
I could hardly understand what the guy was telling me on the phone. Definitely, German is not his mother tongue. So I told him to keep driving, I’d wait on the street, and we’d find each other somehow. It was embarrassing, but I had to stare at every guy walking past me who may fit the description I had in mind of the locksmith — some dark-complexioned guy from the Eastern Bloc. If he stops and stares back, like giving me a hint that it was him, I would say, “Follow me.” It was like cruising in dark parks for someone I could take home for the night.
My phone rang. Marilyn told me that Mr. Locksmith was waiting at the grocery store. She would come down to meet him. Wadafak? I thought he could not find our place. Yet, there he was, not the person I imagined he would be. Short and thin, frail-looking, pale complexion. I noticed the limp when we walked to the garage to get his car and shift to my parking place, sparing him a further parking fee. He asked me to jump in to guide him. At the exit, a mechanical boom barrier blocked us. He stepped on the brake and waited for the bar to rise. It did not.
“I think you need to use the ticket you got when you came in,” I told him, seeing the unpaid garage ticket on the dashboard with the €1.20 amount printed on it.
“You first need to pay,” I reminded him. I stayed in the car as he dashed to the ticket-issuing machine. He was back in seconds, asking me for loose change.
Once inside the lift that would take us up to my apartment on the fifth floor, he immediately pressed his hands against the metal wall, his knees shaking. Are you okay? I asked. “No problem, it must be the heat,” he said. I thought he would faint as we stepped off the lift, but he managed. He took a long look at the door, touched it, one ear over the keyhole, intensely listening to something he could only hear. Then he tapped the door from one side to the bottom.
“Your door has a special lock,” was his diagnosis. I know that, but can you unlock it? I asked. He gave me a funny look, as if I were asking a silly question. But, of course, he could, but today is Saturday, he said. He was bad news.
That fcuking pig head cost me €185! I’d probably mount it on the wall in the living room — for everyone to ponder. Never again to sinigang lechon head. But you know I lie all the time!
Stressssssssss….. 😨
You have no idea!
You gave me an idea to have lechon sinigang. It must be delicious! Will try cooking one.
So did you cook one again after that incident? hehehe