Suddenly, there are palm trees. The singers on the radio sing in Spanish. The humidity is close to 100 percent. On Google Maps, Orlando looks like the first sunny day after a month of rain: puddles everywhere, big and small, in reality enormous lakes. Land that consists of more water than land. Sweat drips down last night’s mascara. I was too tired, too young, too dumb, too arrogant to think my smudged face could survive the next day. I packed the wrong clothes, I think, and mentally unpack my suitcase: two sweaters, two pairs of pants, two boots. At the hotel, I burn them all.
On the Uber driver’s phone, wedged on the dashboard, a pretty woman is talking - probably his girlfriend. She shows him her purse, her lipstick, things off-camera. He doesn’t say a word, just clears his throat again and again. He’s shy, I think. How sweet: she talks, he listens. She finds him calming, he finds her exciting.
My hair has never looked better. That’s the punchline of this text. As soon as it gets hot and humid, it takes center stage on Broadway, big costume, finally showtime after 28 years of German weather. For this heat this body was made for, I think, this heat unravels this spirit.
The Uber driver’s girlfriend now goes on a commercial break, because she’s not his girlfriend at all, she’s a streamer. One hand on the wheel, the other scrolling through reels. I’d do the same, I think, if I had a license and had to drive heat-stricken tourists with fabulous hair around all day. On the radio, a male voice sings Soy Lo Peor, I am the worst. When we get out of the car, it feels like we’re stepping into a swimming pool.
The views expressed in this text are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of the Goethe-Institut.
