Siegfried Lenz

The mornings are for writing, but at lunchtime I usually take a stroll down my street. There I always find cause for astonishment, reflection, stopping and staring. The fine-boned Asian school kids, German satchels strapped to their backs, going home from the International School, their inborn serenity crushed by the sheer weight of knowledge. They go past lost in thought, in heavy contemplation. Native kids, promenading down the street, look more carefree to me; confident in their guru-, or Papuan or African look, joking casually with their girls, stopping for coffee, while gaggles of the younger ones crowd into the chippie, where they demolish great quantities of chips. Remarkable the high-denomination notes they clutch in their little paws. Is it that their harassed parents are trying to buy themselves a little liberty?

The dependable kindliness of the foreign workers never fails to impress me. Each time there’s building to be done, or pipes and wires to be laid or repaired, it involves them. Imagine their plight, a short nod on my part gets quantities of friendliness back. What must they think of this street where people go shopping in tennis whites, or, cross the grosser Onkel in a display of jodhpurs and riding crop? What must they think when they see the expensive pedigree dogs, that might not be wearing Rolexes, but short of that, look every bit as if they’re going to a canine cocktail party?

My shopping street might not be all that long on the map, might not have the most stellar temples to consumption, might look at first glance rather modest, but it presses its claims, intimates that there’s something special about it – in view of the special clientele that shows understanding when prices are put up. A second fishmonger’s seemed to feel the need to adapt to the local custom, and dubbed itself ‘fish salon’. But no need to fear that they chop up slimy carp with nail scissors and count shrimp with tweezers. The owners talk Platt. A little shop that offers honest to goodness towels and washcloths nevertheless calls itself ‘Dream Shop’ to make its specific appeal. Cultured people can safely purchase their white goods here. Where shopkeepers give their shops names like that just to appeal to people’s snobbish instincts, boutiques can’t be far to seek either. And there they are too. Visited by women, who are advised by suave experts on how to dress and ornament and accessorize themselves, and how high on the hem and how low on the neckline. Of course this street has earlier strawberries than other parts of town, and there’s a persistent craving for avocados, pomegranates and mangoes – not to mention sturgeon and swallows’ nests. But in the end, it’s just a village street with snob appeal.

About halfway along the street on my regular daily jaunt, I turn left, and pass the S-Bahn bridge. Before that – unusual for the area, you’d think – there’s a cobbler’s shop, then I’m on the longer way back home. Who lives in these sad looking boxes? Here, where the statutory dimensions of a social housing apartment sounds like a joke. It’s notaries, real estate agents, doctors, more notaries – you would think they sprouted out of the ground here in Hamburg. But tailors live here too. And a pet clinic offers its services, in case your pet canary has a sore throat.