DWI

I forgot how 20-year-old girls dance, which is just as well, because the 20-year-old girls I danced with when I was 20 had nothing on the 20-year-old girls I was dancing with tonight. It is after midnight in Frankfurt, and somehow I have found my way to a restaurant cum dance club on a barge on the Main with a smoking-hot Russian girl.

The Partnerin has nothing to fear from Russian #1, who has been a sweetheart through the entire time we had German class together. But the other Russian girl, Russian #2, with model-class looks, is a bit of a surprise this evening. She barely had five words to say to me during the past ten weeks, and now she is licking salt off my hand.

Well, not now … earlier at the restaurant the German class had chosen for a few beers to celebrate the ending of the class. Russian #2 goes with a Martini, which this German establishment serves in a tall glass. C’est plus qu’un crime.

After a couple of those, she orders a tequila shot, and then announces to the table that she needs a man. She and Russian #1 then whisper to one another in Russian and point to a table full of young German guys … a couple of them are cute, but they generally look moribund. Don't know if its too many beers or just their group persona. Nevertheless, if she had said it loud enough, I’m sure twenty or so willing volunteers would have materialized from the surrounding tables.

Russian #2 tells the boys at our table that one of them must lick the back of his hand, pour salt on it, and give it to her. They look like deer in the headlights, these poor boys, so she picks the nice guy from China who had assigned me the Traumberuf of Profikiller during one of the class exercises. She downs the tequila and to the delight of all the guys at the table, licks the salt off his hand.

About twenty minutes later, this process is repeated with another guy. This time it is the instructor. Lick, salt, tequila, lick, done. I announce across the table that I am impressed with the size of her tongue and that I am looking for an intern. Everyone laughs, and the dress and lipstick jokes start to fly … even after 9 years, Bill Clinton is still one of the most popular Presidents in the rest of the world, not for his leadership but for his outrageousness. Obviously not very shy, Russian #2 announces that I am next.

When it comes time to order the next shot of tequila, I order one too. It’s not polite to let Russian #2 drink alone. I’m the guy who brings gas to a bonfire just to make things more interesting.

So we both lick, apply salt, wish each other Nastrovje, down the Tequila, and lick the salt off each other’s hand. We are best buds. I'm the only one to join her in the shots, of which I figure there won't be many because she is two shots and two martinis up on me, and until now I have only been drinking Apfelsaft Shorle.

A few Tequila’s later and we are down to a group of four. What lightweights. In New York (at least back in the go-go Clinton days), Thursday night action was only starting at 11. So we help her down the stairs and start to walk the path back along the river. She grabs my arm … “May I?” No affection there, she just needs a little horizontal stabilization.

As we walk along, we pass a barge cum restaurant cum dance club with House blaring out the open doors and windows.

She asks, “What kind of music do you like?”

“I like all kinds of music," I reply. I can tell where this is going … she wants to dance. I am immediately reminded of "You'll Dance to Anything" by the Dead Milkmen. “Techno is OK for dancing, but I am really old school ... metal and punk.”

“You mean, like Queen?” she asks. I think, Omigod … This girl really is from Siberia.

“Queensryche maybe, Queen never,” I reply.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You like Metallica?” For her, this is probably like asking about Papa’s music, but she is trying to find common ground. Give her credit.

“No, I really like outrageous stuff. Butthole Surfers, Suicidal Tendencies, Dead Kennedys, Anthrax … crap like that.”

“And what about Techno?” she asks.

“I can do it if I have to.”

Then a Pretty Blonde German Girl waves from the barge and tells us to come in. Like it or not, I am dancing. I didn't bring my boots, dammit.

So we go in … it is ladies night. I’m not sure what that means in Frankfurt. In America that means that ladies drink free and guys pay double. I’ve never been to a dance club that lets a guy in without asking for very much in return. They are very accommodative ... No cover, no pressure to even order a drink. You could probably just dance, and that is what Russian #2 proceeds to do.

So I stand at the door that opens to the river, and Russian #2 is dancing along to the music hanging on the streamers from the door-frame in what could otherwise be the choreography to an X-rated movie. Not that I mind. But she really does not need me. She simply wants to dance. And rather than gawk at her, I’m reading the room.

A table with five nice looking German girls watches us with various looks of shock and amusement. I’m clearly the oldest guy in the room. No, I don’t look like a grandfather yet, but I am clearly well out of my 20’s. But I am not dressed much different from them the rest of the crowd.

Me: Black T-shirt, jeans, loafers. Nothing special.

Them -- Guys: Some T-shirts (a couple with sayings on them … points deducted for that. Concert T's are ok, Brand names maybe, but cute sayings never), jeans, a jacket or two, tennies and loafers.

Them -- Girls: Hip hugging jeans, short sweaters (I think the Germans would call these pullovers, although they weren't pulled over completely), big belts, and heels. Thongs and parts of the anatomy showing (Points deducted for that … how do women put up with thongs is my first question, but my second is, why do we need to see them and what they are not covering? Shape is sexy ... crack is not.)

Russian #2: Form-fitting print shirt, painted-on print pants, and sandals.

I feel a bit guilty, because places like this actually need to make money. So I wander off to order a drink … Gin & Tonic, the drink of my preppie youth. Russian #2 settles on Martinis as the poison of her choice.

At the bar and ordering, I am joined in a matter of seconds by Pretty Blonde German Girl, who tries to strike up a conversation.

I realize I might be living out a sociological study here. The one where they tell you that young women are highly competitive in the quest for mates, and that they will often choose the older guy because he has wealth and status. I’m certainly not dressed for success, but I am with Russian #2, so I must have something. Have I become interesting for others? Probably not, I think she's just friendly.

I try to chat with Pretty Blonde German Girl for a couple of seconds, but I can’t hear a thing. Mercifully the drinks arrive, and I can flee. Boy, how life has changed since I was 20.

I collect our drinks … this bar serves the Martini in a Cosmopolitan glass, which is not a Martini glass, but is on the right track … The G&T is naked. The Bartender has no shortage of limes on the bar, but it never occurred to him to put one in, so I ask for one. I thought the german word for Lime was “Limette” (they call lemons Zitrone), but for some reason he starts to cut a lemon.

I wish I could say I am surprised, but many German bartenders are over the heads when serving anything other than beer or wine. I have never had a good Margarita in Germany, and it was not for a lack of trying. Some say the definition of insanity is knowing that the outcome of a certain form of behavior will not change but continuing the behavior anyway expecting the outcome to change. Well, that is not a clinical definition, but it fits the situation with me and German Margaritas. On one attempt, the Margarita came close to being acceptable taste, but the Bartender rimmed the glass with Sugar! I’m sure like most occupations here, one must have a certificate to show proficiency at Bartending, so where the hell do they learn these things? I guess it comes from serving mostly beers.

But I digress.

I again say, “Limette!” Yes, still cutting lemon. Finally I shout “Citron Vert!” He understands my lousy French better than German … not a good sign.

And I return to Russian #2.

I’m surprised she can dance so energetically after so many drinks. This isn’t just House, it is Trance. 140+ beats per minute. She’s been at it for at least half an hour. Hardy stock, these pretty Russian girls. But the music slows down to something more like 90 bpm and she stops dancing.

“We don’t really have this kind of Hip-Hop music in Russian clubs.”

This would be the Slow Jam of Hip-Hop, I guess ... I’m a fish out of water here. In any case, I’m a bit surprised to hear this. I thought it would be a global thing by now. You’ve gotta slow down and catch your breath sometime, don’t you. Everybody has stopped dancing for that matter. It is the catch-your-breath stretch.

“Have you been to Ibiza?

“Yes.” I ponder for a moment, “I have.” The larger question is, am I behaving like I am in Ibiza.

She continues, “I love Ibiza. I can really dance there.”

She can really dance anywhere, but I know what she means. There are maybe 20 people in this little Frankfurt dive tonight, and it is only 1 a.m. This really is a lightweight town.

Time to put her in a taxi home.

Sorry if the G-rated ending bores you. I might bring gas to a bonfire, but I don’t always throw it on.