Since I am flying today (Thursday), I went out for a late lunch Wednesday at my nearby excellent Indian Restaurant – it’s a few blocks away and I seem to go there for a meal the evening before most major trips.
Normally there’s not much to remark upon – the food is excellent and I enjoy myself.
Yesterday was special though – I was surprised at how busy it was for a late lunch on the second day of Christmas (as Germans view the day) – and across the way from me was a family. To my eye it looked like a husband and wife, two kids, and one grandfather.
Again, not much to talk about, until the kids got up and started running around.
The older kid, a son, clearly a son, was wearing a rather short denim skirt and prancing about in a way that, to my trained eye, looked like a flaming gay kid.
The parents didn’t seem to care; grandpa didn’t seem to care, nobody cared.
Nor did, I, for that matter. I went back to reading my book – looking up when the family got up to leave.
The kid was prancing about – twirling under the decorative umbrella that stood over an Indian god of some kind.
The lack of caring by anybody made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
It’s why I like living in Berlin.
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