German and Italian

I tell Elena the story of the Pied Piper, since she’s never heard it.
She says, the subway station walls remind her of a pool.
I say, I’ve gone to concerts in an old pool.

She says, I need something sweet
I say, chocolate croissant?
She says, cookie?
Berry cake?
She says, that?
The apfeltasche?
What’s an 'apfeltasche'?
It has apples.
You like apples?
Yes. Let's get it.


Elena and I go together mid morning to find those fabled ‘black brothers’ and try to discover anything we can about the camera, jacket and key.
Surely, and strangely enough, there is a noticeable divide in the population of the park. In one half there roam the baby carriages, the joggers, and the dog walkers. Then, turn a corner, pass some trees and there is a cement plateau and benches and suddenly not the hint of a soccer mom. This part is predominated by guys, listening to music or just hanging out who seem to have grouped themselves together in general accordance with ethnicity. After some strange minutes talking to one and then another of these men, all of whom only try to pick us up, the experience brings nothing but a phone number we will never use, an exchange of cigarettes and declined offers of ‘the best stuff [weed] ever, right here’.