Lass es dir schmecken!

Theoretically, it's the same thing as guten Appetit, but at my place it has taken on a meaning of it's own, something akin to, "I'm going away now."

With no living room (or accompanying sense of community), the only time my roommates and I ever really see each other is in the kitchen as we are preparing food (the act of eating being performed here only within the sanctity of the bedroom). "Lass es dir schmecken!" is the last one hears before the other retreats to eat in private. The first time I heard this phrase I was so confused I had to ask for a repeat, even though I had understood the first time: Let it taste good to you? Okayyy. As if I had such control over my taste buds.

If I had to give this chapter of my life a title, it would be Lass Es Dir Schmecken, as that is the only thing one needs to say at my place.

But the time has come for me to move. Now that I know what it's like to live in a student dormitory I can say I have done my time. My work here is done. I have overcome the loneliness and uniformity and florescent lighting. I've outwitted the bedroom doors that lock automatisch, leaving one stranded without shoes, phone or jacket, leaning out the window and waiting until someone comes by who can call the Hausmeister.

The Waschmaschine that ate my money without giving change, beat and boiled my things to a pulp, somehow dyed them blue, and then barfed soapy water on the floor.

The long, lonely nighttime hobble home after dancing at Engelsburg or Stadtgarten, under the bridge and past the creepy park. (Vorsicht! Da hocken die Bösen!) The futile attempts to engage roomies in conversation. The interrogation about hand towel, er, Missbrauch (misuse). The Milchwerk just outside my window which does something loud with milk late into the night. God only knows what.

The adorable one from Nr. 1 who now pretends not to see me. What I have done to offend him remains a mystery.

So much I've been through!

The strange and unexpected kindness of a neighbor who actually knocked on my door and invited me to a lovely party at Christmastime-the lowest part of the year-proving there was life in the building after all.

The friendly brand-new roommate who actually eats in the kitchen, is charmingly disorganized, hangs his underwear over the radiator to dry and is here doing an internship with a puppet theater.

(On Friday, as he was running late to the theater, I opined that his boss would no doubt understand, since artist types aren't terribly punctual. He responded: "And German artists!?" I will miss him.)

All is being left behind, and I am moving across town to the cutest, coziest place ever with nice roommates who like to throw parties.

So. Aufwiedersehen, Klingenthaler Weg. Goodbye, loud milk factory. Goodbye, dear ones.

Aber Waschmaschine, wir sehen uns vielleicht später in der Hölle. Mach's gut und lass die Kleidung dir schmecken.