Station Love
The train screeches to a halt. Few people want to get off here, in the medium-sized Hanseatic city that is nowhere near the sea. And of the few passengers who do, most, including myself, do just that: pass through and move on as soon as their connecting train picks them up. I'm already aware of the arrogance of the foreigner in me, knowing that I really know nothing about this region. There are reasons why people live here, reasons they know and I do not.
As I shoulder my rucksack, dragging my suitcase behind me, my gaze is caught by a brightly colored column. Turquoise at the bottom, then a band of yellow stones, turquoise again at the top, and at the top a purple and black striped onion-shaped belly. The uneven mosaics shine as if polished in the sun. What a beautiful thing you can do with a simple station pillar! I'm already feeling a bit more at home here and trudge on towards the lift. It was then that I noticed that the other columns in the station were also so beautifully designed and colorful. Magical! As I enter the station hall, I'm greeted by even more curved lines, golden spheres, colorful columns and floors and walls decorated with colorful mosaics. Lights are falling in from somewhere and reflecting off small mirrored stones around the room. You can't rush past here, you have to stop and look! That's probably the only reason for the long waits between trains.
After spinning around like a stargazer, I want to follow the aroma of coffee. But my suitcase catches on something. I turn and see it, or rather it, the body, a woman's body. She's crouching with her face against the wall, her hands spread out.
"Are you all right?" is my first impulse. But her face, now turned towards me and smiling, doesn't show any discomfort. Quite the opposite. I'm overcome by the uneasy feeling that I've disturbed her in some way.
"Thank you, I'm fine. I was just saying hello to my lover".
A soulful smile in the midst of countless freckles. My questioning look seems to amuse her, then her eyes wander back to the wall. Her delicate fingertips caress the rough white. She says goodbye with a fleeting kiss and whispers a barely audible "see you later".
"Isn't he attractive?" she beams in my direction.
"Who?" I look around, hoping to find the answer myself.
"It is! My station!" she exclaims happily, arms raised.
Contrary to my expectations, her volume doesn't attract any attention. The saleswoman in the bistro a few meters away carries on, arranging the pastries so that, despite the gaps, it looks like there's plenty to choose from. An elderly woman in an apron sweeps invisible dirt from the corners near the exit.
"Oh, this is your station? You really have done a wonderful job! Great design!" Now I too am happy to be able to pass on my enthusiasm directly to someone else. Her warm brown eyes smile:
"No, I didn't design it, that was the famous Mr. Hundertwasser. Just look at all the shapes and colors! And that wall fountain! A dream of a place! Everything is in flow! You would fall in love with it, wouldn't you?
I nod hesitantly, because it really is beautiful here.
"When this magnificent building was inaugurated in November 2000, it was all over for me and my Friedrich." Her eyes sparkled with tears. "I'm going to tell you something, but don't think I'm crazy."
I nod, astonished at such intimacy, and lean towards her.
"We got married two years ago. Friedrich and I. I just felt that he liked me too. I have been coming here every day ever since by train, of course."
I nod once more in understanding, although I do not understand a word. Uncertain, I dare to ask: "Excuse me... and who is Friedrich now?"
"Well, the station," she explains with warm, matter-of-fact sincerity. As if she could see the error of her statement in my look, she continues:
"Of course it's called Friedensreich Hundertwasser Station, but because it's so close and familiar to me, I call it Friedrich. When we're intimate, it's sometimes Fritz too".
When we're intimate ... I seem to have lost the thread forever, and I don't know if I'm interested in finding it again.
"Do you have a family?" she tears me from my thoughts.
"Um, no," I answer for the sake of simplicity, wanting that coffee now more than ever. I nod in the direction of the bistro and leave. She smiles at me understandingly as her right hand runs gently over a mosaic surface.
The coffee is good, hot and strong. It's steaming in front of me in the seating area of the bistro. I enjoy the peace and quiet of being the only customer in this modern living room, with its floral wallpaper, artificial plants and warm bar lighting. My thoughts are still circling around my strange encounter.
When we're intimate ... How can you be intimate with an inanimate object? Various sex toys immediately come to mind. Still, what does this woman get back from the building? Affection? Compliments? Comfort? Hardly. Security and warmth? Maybe. Stability? Sure. She's been abandoned and disappointed by previous partners. Conflict and arguments are certainly out of the question in a building like this. Comfortable one-way communication? I stare into my now empty coffee cup, as if the answers lie somewhere at the bottom.
"Would you like anything else?" the salesperson behind the counter asks kindly. I reply with a question of my own:
"Tell me, that woman in the station hall; is she really here every day?"
"Well, whenever I work here, I see her. Only once was she absent for two days. When she came back, she asked me if something had happened; she'd been ill and couldn't come".
I am surprised that she doesn't judge the woman at all. I was almost expecting a slanderous tone, and now I am ashamed.
"Why do you think this woman comes here so often?" I ask.
"She told me she was more comfortable here than at home. Well, she always looks so happy... I like working here too, but I also like going home at night." Still no disparagement in her voice, just a wink at her last words.
"So nobody cares about her or what she does?"
A shrug. "She doesn't hurt anyone. Sometimes she even shops here and we exchange a few pleasantries." Her eyes search and find the woman, who is now sitting by the wall fountain with a dreamy expression on her face. "I actually like her."
After clearing her plate, she wishes me a good journey and disappears behind the counter. Our conversation seemed over.
Three weeks later, my return journey takes me back to the Hundertwasser station. Once again, I had to wait - this time for a full ninety minutes. It's an unpleasantly long delay, but after my stay at the spa by the sea, nothing throws me off balance so easily. Thanks to meditation, craft evenings and walks. I greet the colorful mosaic columns on the platform almost like old friends. It feels so warm and familiar that I even briefly consider just leaving my luggage on the platform. But when I realize that I'll probably be the only person whose luggage has been stolen from this place in a hundred years, I abandon the idea. This time I took the spiral staircase to have a closer look at the wall fountain. As the lift is out of order, the other eleven people who have got off also want to take the stairs - unlike me, they are in a hurry. Silently, clearly annoyed, they push past me, threateningly shaking my rucksack, suitcase and three extra bags of souvenirs and handicrafts. They're probably here more often than I am, and no longer have an eye for art. Maybe they never did. My path leads me back to the bakery bistro, where I have to share the living-room atmosphere with a family of five and an elderly couple.
They all communicate very loudly for various reasons, so I inevitably eat and drink faster and soon find myself back in the station hall. I briefly considered exploring the town, but with my poor sense of direction, I wouldn't be able to find my way back in time for the departure. Instead, I shuffle into the small souvenir shop next door. Scarves, ceramics, soaps, jewelers - everything can be sold as Hundert Wasser art. There are also postcards and books on display. I browse a bit, reading here and there. I also read about Hundert Wasser's aversion to straight lines, which is evident everywhere in this building and makes him attractive to me.
"So, are you back?"
I turn and look into reddened eyes.
"Have you seen it yet? I don't understand how this graffiti can make anyone happy!" She points to a black train of graffiti in the station concourse.
"Oh," I search for comforting words, "I'm really sorry about your... well, about the beautiful building." But she only seems more upset.
"I hope they clean it up soon!" I try to console her again. But my experience tells me that unwanted graffiti tends to stay.
The woman doesn't seem convinced either. "Maybe I'll just paint over it myself. That can't be against the law..." Her desperation made me uncomfortable. In my helplessness, I randomly grab an art card and put it next to the cash register.
"That's thirty." - Such an embarrassingly cheap way out that I quickly slip away with a "All the best".
So object love is not all that stable, I think to myself as I get back on the train. One can just come along and hurt the other. Whether it's a person or an object, we never seem to be able to protect our loved ones completely. I think of my neighbor who, years after her death from cancer, still mourns his wife. Or my father who, despite all our love, was crushed by the bullying of his superiors. What is certain?
I look at the art on my card for a while. I hear the train arriving in the distance and feel a tender connection with this woman who loves this little piece of earth with all her heart.
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