Last night, Maran got the whole bunch of us to go to some Indian restaurant, our first together as a group, and as Maria reasoned later, if we were gonna sacrifice our tastebuds, he might as well pick up the check. Which he didn’t but I suppose that’s alright cuz the food was fab.

That and he got all dressed-up like a princess in traditional Indian garb. (Which the rest refused to believe that Indian men actually wore. Hadi took one look and said, “That’s a skirt, no?”)

Anyway, I found Maran, Hadi, their Finnish friend whose name I can’t seem to place right now (oh hell, let’s be honest, I didn’t bother to remember the bloke’s name, so sue me) and Meera at Sendlinger Tor and then we proceeded with a not particularly short tram ride to the restaurant, where we found Blue and Tolis already waiting.

It seemed a pretty classy dig, not snotty but with Ambience. Pretty soon we were joined by the lovely pair of Michael and Donatella. We all ordered mango lassi (a kind of Indian yogurt-fruit drink, for those not in the know) except for Hadi who had to order Spezi. (“Me, drink milk?”)

Eons passed (the waiter certainly did, to and fro) before we made up our minds on what to sup on. I was torn between the Curry, Briyani or the Tandoori. Mind you, these are just three sub-menus; I haven’t even gotten to the actual dishes yet (Masala, Tikka, Blah Blah Blah). Pressed for time when the waiter hovered over me, I read out the first number in my line of sight.

It was only later that I begun to wonder what a No. 55 would taste like.

Maria dropped in while our food were being prepared, gently admonishing Michael for sending her to a Greek restaurant instead. Pretty soon our dishes came. Dona found hers too hot, of course. She would. Poor girl. Blue had to get the ultra spicy curry, naturally. Sehr scharf indeed. For his culinary courage the Malaysians around the table named him an honourary countryman. And No. 55? Delish. Who said ordering a random dish was a bad idea? (Well, I think I did, but ignore me, and just listen to me.)

Good food, great time. As always.

When we left the restaurant, I suddenly realised that Maria was shorter than me. I always envisioned her very tall, very German. I told her so. She looked at me over and asked, “What are you, 177, 178?”

“180 centimetres.”

“Wow.”

“I guess you always seemed tall to me somehow, maybe cos you’re taller than the rest.”

“Yeah, the rest are just short.”

(And yes, Maria, this is just an example of me repeating casual conversations, as you so kindly pointed out to me a little earlier during dinner last night.)

Yeah. Dinner last night seemed the first normal thing I’ve done in a long time with all my friends. I know I’ve been cutting myself off lately and thankfully, I’ve stopped feeling sorry for myself. Actually, I’m getting kinda embarrassed when friends come up to me and ask me if I’m ok.

Slightly embarrassed, but very grateful. Grateful that there are people still thinking of me. Am I ok? Well, I’m getting better. Concern much appreciated, ladies and bugs.

Of course, it helped that, after the shock I got last Saturday from receiving the world news post-seclusion, I was pummeled right back into Life. Chiefly this consisted of running all over the place to get a last-minute ticket for the Cake concert both Mikes were bound for. (I would have gotten a tick earlier but for the five days spent less than blissfully missing.)

Saturday evening, by the way, was both damp and invigorating, the boon of after-showers. What better way to come out of a cocoon? But I was so damn sure I wouldn’t get a ticket. Then Blue reminded me that I said the same about Tori Amos last year and we got the extra tick anyhow and he was right this time too.

It never ceases to amaze me how perfectly confident Blue is that everything will turn out right. Maybe I am too pessimistic sometimes. Ok, all the time. Give me a break, will ya?

Don’t let no one (especially not me, for I’m sure to be the first) tell you that standing in a long winding line is a boring, tedious thing. It is tedious, but on blessed occassions, rare amusements do present themselves.

Take, for example, when we were lining to buy my ticket. Blue scouted and told me the front was mobbed by a gang of Asians. When finally we trudged forward, I saw that the so-called Asian gang consisted of one Chinese guys and several of his Caucasian mates. I looked at Mike, “So, if one of them’s Asian, the rest are too, by default? Like the whole group was tainted somehow?”

“Yup.”

“Doesn’t that make you, by sticking with me, one too?”

“Yeah…” said he with the big monkey grin. This is a guy, if he had his way, who would be the next Japanese Eminem. He plans to dye his hair brite orange and join a Yakuza biker gang. Right. Good luck.

Switched lines (now heading into the Muffathalle theatre) and we met up with an American girl who just flew in that morning and was heading for Vienna the next day for two months of German language and she just decided to hop down for a cake concert in the meantime.

I want that kind of spontaneity. Also, she made me think of a certain boy who arrived in Munich almost a year ago, fresh and hopeful and shining new. A week ago, I would have frowned at this memory, but today I can just smile, and shake my head, a little sadly, a little gladly.

Well, we ended leaving the girl at the entrance (we never did ask her her name, did we, Mike?) and going back to the end of the line again while waiting for Michael. He turned up quickly enough and we headed inside. A perfect place for college rock-style concerts, I thought. A modest stage on one end and a suitably overpriced bar on the other and David Lynch-ish red light washing all over.

The opening act was Bananafishbones and they were great. I found their lead singer hilarious with his contorted facial expressions and vocal phrasings and that hat. Reminds me of a certain someone. I solemnly told Blue he should form a band one day. All he said was, “What instrument do you wanna play?”

I had an epiphany during their song “Come to Sin”: You always go back to the people you love. No comments, just think about it.

Then came the main meal (or the dessert, as it were): Cake. It was a sometimes fiery, sometimes oddly average set. However this didn’t worry me much as the three of us got to the front where there was something of a moshpit going on and people were basically throwing each other around. I got pushed to the very front, right behind a row of avid female fans (of Cake, not mine, unfortunately). This is possibly the best position, if ever there was one, to have sweaty guys ramming against your back (and inevitably, your backside), that is, to have yourself in turn ramming against the sweaty and well-toned backs of scantily-clad, screaming and swaying girls.

And I didn’t mind their backsides, either.

Come to think of it, I didn’t really pay all that much attention to the music, other than some profane idiot behind me who kept yelling, “Jon! Jon! Play ‘Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps! Jon! Jon!” I could have killed that guy, and probably would have, if I wasn’t kept so busy with certain delightful creatures in front of me.

Two Mikes and Kenny left the concert completely drenched in sweat (and not all of it their own; in fact, most of it probably wasn’t) and satisfied, after the requisite encore of everyone’s favourite gay anthem “I Will Survive.”

Indeed, I will survive. Or, I must, as I was informed earlier in the afternoon yesterday.

Monday, despite the normal melancholic and migraine-related pigeonholing, proved to be a rather bright and sunny day. (I know, no real writer would write “bright and sunny”, but it was bright and sunny.)

I spent much time in the morning dealing with my plane ticket business, which seemed to go no where. The angelic Frau Graßl was at hand to help, as always, and I cannot thank her enough. (She told me I thanked her enough times to last a year, erm, last year.)

It’s at times like this I go about rediscovering beauty – the goodness of people around me.

Then there was Esther from back home who insisted I go to see one of the counsellors she knew here; she was worried about me. Esther’s a very nice lady, by the way, and a much cooler person than most of us can hope to be. (But we must try.)

It turned out to be pretty much like a professional therapy session, except that it was free. A lot of holding hands and snug hugging and me pouring out everything I had stockpiled inside for the last five months or so (despite my acute embarrassment).

I always thought that one was supposed to end up in a shower of tears and formulation of false childhood abuses or something like that (you can tell I watch a lot of TV) but mostly, I had great heaves of relief.

It’s good to just talk.

My therapist (oh, a therapist now, is it?) reminded me that I must fight for myself. Psycho-self-help- book-babble, I know, but I like the sound of it.

On the U-bahn ride home for a shower and dinner, I noticed this middle-aged guy, sweltering from the heat, just casually wiping his brow with whatever he had handy, which was this canvas shopping bag. It was so human, so automatic.

It made me smile.

If for no other reason than because it was so right. I haven’t smiled, not really, not like this, for ages. This wasn’t more useless, cheap amusement, but simple, honest pleasure. And I really do look a much nicer person when I smile. I haven’t thought about it, but I guess I have not really liked myself since I was fifteen and on top of the world. (I was also a power-pushing taskmaster then, but that’s another story…)

I like this person smiling back at me, from the reflection off the U-Bahn doors as the stations melts by.

I am amazed, but I do like me. And this makes me happy.

When I got off the U-Bahn at Olympiazentrum, I received an SMS from Monkey, telling about dinner plans involving an Indian restaurant of some kind, plus directions. Well, off to dinner then. Hope the chow’s good. ;)

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Copyright © 2002 Kenny Mah Ying Fye.