73
I had the number 73 some ramen. The trio next to me, videogame publishers, died hair and earrings, babbled drunk in a mix of English and German their eyes good and red. I ate every bit of my ramen with chopsticks and a spoon and it was really good, a miso broth with a big piece of vegan meat in it like spam as big as a stomach. There was a football match on the televisions of the terrace next to me a big yell going up when Frankfurt scored. A small old woman in a blue cardigan sat there for an age without anyone serving her, or so I thought, although she had ordered and I'd been too preoccupied with my phone and book and noodles to notice. She was sitting there all angsty I thought but she was actually just hungry a near miss and a yellow card. Her old grey face lights up like a baby's when you make funny faces at it when the blonde waitress swings this massive fucking pig knuckle down onto the table in front of her and she laughs and thanks her as big as your head with a bone sticking out of it you'd honestly say was human. Struck, I was. It'd been a long time since seeing someone eat a piece of red meat like that and she really sets to it, whacking up the mashed potatoes and pouring sauce from packets all over it. Every time I looked, and I was there for a while after the noodles with my book and lemonade, she was hoovering pink muscle and potatoes.
Decided to walk back Cologne rent-a-scooters green and graffiti. The Allies flattened it in the War, leaving little other than the black cathedral. An act of God every time I've ever heard that story. All the buildings out of the old town there is still an old town are new and brutal so Cologne Birmingham angular greyness. My hotel was a box, but a nice warm box with great internet and vegan breakfast. I was fine when I got back with my Chio tortillas from the kiosk ciao and banana pop in a glass bottle with a green label and a gold aztec bird. I was fine by myself. I was fine.