Ich bin ein Frankfurter

So here I am in Germany, in a fucking Starbucks…I know, I should be in some many-generations-of-family run artisan place that make their own lace doilies.
Breakfast in proper German places in great, they do a lovely meusli and yoghurt and nuts sort of vibration. Walnuts and honey, lovely lads. And Starbucks here doesn’t even do the fruit parfaits that save the day in the US and temper the inevitable ballooning that comes with all those sweet sweet pancakes…
But they do do a lovely salami and cream cheese bagel for €2.90, not to be sniffed at in these times. And free internet. Proper free, doesn’t require loyalty cards or the donating of a kidney or anything.
Plus, I’ve had, like, a total mare or a morning with that most persistant tour preoccupation, laundry. I’m at code red (clear and present danger of smalls being turned inside out, washing the trouser in the hotel bath, with cheap “hair and body” shit) so I set off to find a laundrette. We’re at a bit of a posh hotel for a change, so I wasn’t going to get it done there, and was directed to a laundrette in the main train station here, a couple of stops away. It’s not a laundrette as we know them, but a dry cleaners that will do a service wash (or a wash-and-fold, as our American friends more lovingly call it) There’s much to-do when I explain in germinglish that I need it in a couple of hours – can’t be done, there’s a dark wash and a mix wash in it, then there’s the drying time, can’t be done, can’t be done…I say she can lob it all in the one wash and I’ll take my chances (watch out for the pastels at upcoming shows)…and I wink and say I’ll make it worth her while. I don’t really, but she still says it’ll be €20. Fine, needs must…
Cos there ain’t nobody dope as me, I’m just so fresh so clean