Having landed at what could only be described as the world’s largest McDonald’s restaurant, Mr Lush muses to himself that there is likely not enough alcohol in the world to assuage the aesthetic pain he feels at the sight of this architectural abomination. The Rimowa’s witnesses seemingly coordinated and undoubtedly pavlovian jump out of their seats the moment the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign goes off does nothing to improve Lush’s mood. Caught up in the stream of careerists, Lush is barely able to muster so much as a quick ‘thank you’ towards the flight attendant who was so kind as to provide him with two G&Ts on the house during the flight, before being dragged off the plane. All are back on their phones, checking on their meme coins and sending pictures of their genitals to their secretaries as they race along towards border control. While Lush is annoyed at the extra effort required to scrape his three-wheeled suitcase along the floor, he is consoled in the notion that he is at least doing some damage to this architectural symbol of modern mediocrity. BER Airport’s immediate retort is to make Lush wait for an hour at passport control. Well played, Herr Port.
Now that a border control agent has finally confirmed to Mr Lush that Mr Lush is indeed Mr Lush, he grabs his broken suitcases, puts them on a baggage trolley, and feels the rush of freedom as he goes through the automatic doors. The otter, codename Harry P., is, of course, not hard to distinguish in the crowd. No, it is not his round glasses, nor the distinctive scar on his forehead but rather his two towering companions, the Zebraffes Kiki and Kuku. Though they have aged (when is a Zebraffe an adolescent? Or, are they adult Zebraffes?), they are unmistakeable, even while wearing leather chokers, pencilled eyebrows, and dark lipstick. Each is carrying a cardboard sign with the inscription “Thomas Lush, esq.”. Whether they are happy, annoyed, or bored to see Lush after such a long time is hard to say. “That clears it up. They must have just turned 18”, Lush sighs to himself. The Zebraffes greet Lush with the inimitable shibboleth of the newly cool: a shrug and a hug. Harry P. moves in briskly to offer Lush a firm hand-paw-shake. “What a pleasure it is to finally meet you”, he says with a smile, before adding: “I’ve heard so much about you”, with a wink towards the Zebraffes. “Alright, let’s get moving. I’m to take you to your hotel!”
Somewhat to Lush’s surprise, the otter leads him to a Toyotter pick-up truck. The only non-standard addition is a sunroof to allow the Zebraffes to avoid the indignity of travelling in the bed of the truck. Lush makes various attempts at small talk with Kiki and Kuku.
“How’s the gap year going?”
Monosyllabic, non-commital response.
“Made any friends your age?”
Monosyllabic, non-commital response.
“How do you like Berlin?”
Monosyllabic, non-commital response.
Lush thinks to himself: “In fairness, everyone knows how hard it is to make small talk with moody Zebraffes. Also, in fairness, the set-up with their heads poking out of the sunroof likely isn’t helping. Also, and, in fairness, it is hard to make small talk with such tall animals. Ba-dum tss!”
Before the awkwardness becomes fatal, Lush decides to turn on the radio. The song that plays (Lush detects using the vestiges of the German he learned at Eton) is called ‘Ich will ’ne Frau, die mich will‘ by Dagobert.
It reminds him of his childhood German teacher Herr Klaus Kräuterschmäuterläuterbäuter and Herr Kräuterschmäuterläuterbäuter’s love of testing his pupils in front of the whole class. If the pupil being assessed did not excell, extra homework would be assigned. Needless to say, the pupil Lush rarely excelled. A particularly bad episode in which Lush doomed himself and his fellow students to extra homework over the Easter break flashes before his eyes. A nameless dread begins to grip Lush and a cold sweat begins to run down his temple at the thought of German declinations, conjugations, and comma rules.
Thankfully, the truck soon comes to a stop in front of Lush’s hotel and the otter (codename Harry P.) announces that they have arrived with a tap of his wand on the dashboard. Lush is pleasantly surprised to see a red carpet flanked by Art Déco lamps leading the way to the hotel’s entrance. The Zebraffes look up from their phones for just look enough to spy a lemur dash out of the hotel to help Lush with his luggage. As Lush straightens his tie, he notices that the otter and the Zebraffes are already accelerating away, doubtless tosomewhere cooler. A “see you later” still hangs in the air as Lush turns to respond in the affirmative to the lemur asking if his luggage should be brought straight to his room. Lush moves towards the reception desk to check in.
“Good evening, Sir. Welcome to the Connaisseur. Your room, number 204, is on the second floor. Will you be expecting any further guests this evening?”
Lush musters up whatever suavity he possesses and coolly sing-songs:
“You never know. The night is young.”
“So that’s a ‘No’”, replies the leather-clad receptionist with a smile. “Thank you very much. Oh, one last thing. Olivier left this for you with a message that you should, quote: ’behave’”, she added, handing Lush a manila envelope. “Enjoy your stay, Sir.”
On his way to the over-sized birdcage of a lift, many questions flash through Lush’ mind.
“Why is the interior decorating concept at hotels seemingly always velvet and chrome? Is it a fetish thing? Is this a hotel or a brothel? Why am I here? Are the drinks here of a reasonable price? Why did the receptionist know Olivier? Why should I behave?”
Lush suddenly has a flashback to Paris.
“Ah, I recall why I should behave.”
Lush tips the disgruntled over-sized parrot that serves as lift operator with the only money he has (a solitary pound coin) before slumping down the hall towards his room. After the customary five unsuccessful attempts with the keycard, Lush finally opens the door to his room. He turns on the light and his eye is immediately drawn to the heart-shaped bed with satin sheets, then the mirrored ceiling before finally landing on what is either a particularly phallic vase or a sex toy. With a sigh, he turns the light back off and steps into the bathroom to draw a bath.
“Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten my art supplies, so I guess I’ll just have to take a bath instead”, he giggles to himself.
“Why am I always funniest when no one is around?”
As he makes a mental note to not open any drawers in the room, so as to avoid the confusion and embarrassment brought on by the “tools” that likely lurks in them, he sits on the edge of the bathtub and opens the letter from Olivier.
The bathwater already feels delightfully warm and Lush decides to throw in a splash of Herbalaltedie Fressences bath oil, and put on Beethoven’s 7th. What a divine piece of music. As Leonard Bernstein (a style idol of sorts for Lush) once said, it was like Beethoven had a direct line to God when he was composing. Lush thinks back to his conversation with God (the baseball bat, of course) and wishes he had a direct line to him.
Awakening from his reveries, Lush begins to get ready.
„Thisis going to be a Hell of a night!“ MM/DPFC
