Drunk Guys and Rembrandts

I could blog about going back to Potsdam and the cute little shops and historic sites and how I was so brave about figuring out the regional train system all by myself.

I could blog about the wonder of staring at original Rembrandt paintings and feeling like I'm about to cry.

I could then blog about how I always cry. Always. Even when I watch things like American Idol or The Apprentice. I don't know why, but I always cry.

I could then blog about how that is neither here nor there and I've blogged about that before. I could then go off into many tangents that are also neither here, there or anywhere in between.

I could blog about many things, but I have chosen something very special for you today: the drunk guy. To give a little background, I was with my father at a reception for some group-or-other that has something-or-other to do with libraries and spanish stuff. I should probably pay closer attention to details like this, but I didn't care. All I knew was that I was incredibly excited to go to the art gallery where it was being held.

There was food. There was wine. There was beer, I believe. I had juice and sparkling water. (I could blog about my irritation with the European obsession with water that is not just nice, cool, still water.... but again... I must not sidetrack. I'm blogging about drunk guy.)

We had a guided tour through some highlights of the art gallery and then my Dad and I split off into different directions. I was walking through some Dutch paintings alone when suddenly, there he was: drunk guy. He was standing next to me as though we were best friends in the world, rambling about how his group had abandoned him just because he had to pee.

I was amused.

He said unabashedly that he was incredibly drunk and had better go have another drink because... well, I didn't quite follow the reasoning. I told him I'd never been drunk, but I thought I'd probably be very entertaining because I already make a fool of myself in normal life without the help of booze.

He kept talking and I realized that he wasn't going to let me look at the paintings in peace. We were apparently friends now and looking at the paintings together. He was being decidedly friendly. And then he started asking me personal questions: how old was I? What was my name? Was I part of SALALM? (SALALM is the library thing-a-doo-hickey that my Dad is attending here in Berlin.)

I started feeling a tad concerned.

I kept smiling and started walking, very deliberately, back toward the main reception area. He kept talking and I realized very quickly that he was coming onto me. Man, it's been a looooong time since I've realized someone tried to pick me up. Usually the wedding ring on my finger and details like me being overweight and in the presence of three screaming children are enough to make the thought laughable.

I was entertained but alarmed.

I wasn't really 100% sure he was coming on to me until he asked in his drunk stupor, "So if your Dad saw us together, would he kill me now or wait until after the conference?"

I replied, "As long as you don't touch me, I think you'll be all right."

He backed away a little bit and said, looking reflective, "I don't think I did that."

"Then you should be okay," I replied.

We found the main group again and I quickly eased away. Problem solved. Only one thing remained: get out of the reception so I could blog about it and let the rest of you laugh with me.

All is well in Berlin. Life is different... unquestionably... but all is well.