by Cyn Bagley

Created on: June 25, 2007   Last Updated: December 29, 2009

Five a.m. comes early when you cannot fall asleep until almost eleven p.m. because of late night college classes. The mind hyperventilates as the red-segmented glow of the digital clock counts the quarter hour as you roll back and forth, trying to find a comfortable spot, while your mind races on the day's events. Five a.m. comes early.

I stand in the living room, my eyes fixed on my husband. I can barely stand. He mumbles. My consciousness flips in and out like a badly tuned television.

"No water," he says. I look at him, my eyes watering.

I blink and blink again. The next moment I feel his arms around me. He crab walks me to the bed and pulls the covers over my unresisting body.

"Go to bed," he whispers in my ear. "There's no water, no coffee, no shower. Go to bed."

I fall asleep.

###

It is seven a.m. I blearily wipe my eyes, climb out of bed, and march to the kitchenette. There are no coffee smells. I groan. My husband usually leaves a pot for me in the morning.

Then, I remember my husband's words. No water. I check the faucets. No water. I sit and watch the birds, waiting for my landlord to wake up.

At eight a.m., I hear the landlord's blinds go up in his part of the house. It is a distinctive sound. I rush downstairs and knock on his door.

"Kein wasser," I say, as I point to my part of the house. I looked like a wild woman in my pajamas and robe.

"Ja, ja," he says, "kein wasser."

"Come," he continues. crooking his finger. He strides to the street. I march behind him. He points to two vehicles, three workers, and one backhoe at the end of the street.

"Alles sind kein wasser," he says, as he points up and down the street.

I translate his words and gestures to mean that everyone on our street had no water. We watch a minute as the backhoe tears up the street. Water wells from the hole. As we walk back to the house, my landlord says," No coffee. Everyone go crazy."

I laugh. Germans drink strong coffee all day. I had learned not to accept my landlord's wife's coffee. It was that strong. Besides, the last time I had heard about crazy Germans, they had started a world war.

"By twelve," he says, "wasser by twelve."

At eleven-thirty a.m., water blasts through the faucets. Outside, the workers leave a stretch of dirt cut into the pavement.

Did I have an epiphany? Did I learn anything other than my German language skills stink?

I brewed a pot of coffee, then brushed my teeth.

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