Don't run inside
Did I ever tell you of the time I broke my little toe? No? Ah, man, it's a good story, and as with all good stories, it starts with coffee.
I love coffee almost at a romantic level. I get excited to go to sleep not because I want to rest, but because I know that in the morning I get to spring out of bed, fly to the kitchen to flick on the kettle, and minutes later I get to imbibe whatever the coffee gods have chosen to bless me with for that day, and I, zealot of the bean, will reminisce until sundown of the glory of this steadfast liquid I'm fortunate enough to have as a core pillar of the swaying skyscraper of my life.
Back in September, 2023, I splurged in a pretty big way on some very fine Gesha from La Cabra. For those who don't know, Gesha is a varietal of coffee that tastes delicious and costs all of your money: ALL OF IT. In this instance, I paid 51.95€ for 200g of coffee, which was a steal for something so tasty, however, maybe if I'd known what it was going to do to me, then maybe I'd say the price wasn't so worth it (hmm... actually, no, I take that back; it was still worth every cent).
I've got a good friend here in Berlin who I will call "R". R is a coffee enthusiast too and knows his way around a good bean or two, and coincidentally needed to borrow my government-issued Lederhosen (those leather pants with suspenders that are famously associated with drinking huge mugs of beer in big tents at Oktoberfest, while you're surrounded by drunken Australians) so we set a date for him to come around, have a brew, don some pants, and then we'd carry on with our day.
R arrives and I am just busting to show him these beans. We grind (mmmmMMmmm), we grind (oOooOooo), douse them with hot water (ErrooohhH!), and wait to slurp the (might I say "expertly"?) final preparation. We're in the tiny kitchen of ours that is segmented off from the main living room by a wall with a big window in it, and a door that can be closed to keep the cooking stank out of the living room. There's three of us in the tiny kitchen: R, Sofia, and me.
Disaster is about to strike. I've had like three coffees already that day, and I am HYPED the fuck up and it's only 11am. We are talking about some thing that requires me to go and get my phone from the living room, and I'm at the far end of the tiny kitchen, R is sitting on the counter top, and Sofia is leaning against the left side of the door frame, meaning I need to squeeze past on the right to get out.
This part is causing me to flinch very hard as I type this, so apologies in advance for any spelling mistakes that creep through.
Coffee-infused, I am Sonic the hedgehog, The Flash, Zeus's lightning bolt, all infused into one streak of energy. I careen the three steps needed to traverse the kitchen, pivot around Sofia, burst forth through the door frame and there is a very loud crack as I clip my right foot on the door frame. R and Sofia give a recoiling "oh!" from the noise, but unphased, I channel the liquid gold surging my veins and head straight to the living room coffee table, grab my phone, then walk back to the kitchen. Sofia has moved into the kitchen by this stage, and I end up standing in the door frame, facing them both, about to talk about what's on my phone, when R exclaims: "Are you doing that on purpose?!" or something to that effect, while staring at my right foot.
Confused, I look down and wouldn't you know it, my pinky toe is now pointing approximately 45 degrees to the side from where it should normally be pointing. Hmm, no, definitely not doing that on purpose. Sofia starts to panic, and I guess we all do a bit, but in my head, marred by the endless movie scenes of just popping broken things back in, I surmise that I can do just that. Right? Right. I'm fairly certain Sofia has started asking if she should call an ambulance.
I bend down, grab the toe and attempt to put it back. Wow, it's quite incredible how fast one can go from relatively stable to having your world essentially go inside-out as you fight your stomach trying to do just that. "Well, that didn't work at all", I think, and then I look at Sofia and say "yes, please call the ambulance, I'm just going to go and lie on the floor", because my view has gone as green as my face likely had and I just needed a moment to reflect on how stupid what I just tried to do was.
Reaching the living room, I lie down, and a few seconds/minutes/no idea how long later I wake up to Sofia screaming at me to wake up. What in the fuck was that? Supposedly I had fallen into a seizure and was having a grand old time on the floor while I seem to remember having some really vivid dreams/visions. Maybe it was the coffee gods trying to commune with me.
Everyone is looking mighty freaked out, but in my opinion, what was really freaked out was the state of my fucking toe. Christ, that thing was barely hanging on. I remembered that I had a lunch date with another friend later that day, but that clearly was going to need to be postponed, so I thought it was very funny to send him a WhatsApp message telling him I won't make it as I'd just broken my toe, accompanied with a really well-captured picture of it (of course, that photo is at the bottom of this post. If you don't want to see it, try not to scroll too far once you reach the end, but it kind of rocks and I recommend it).
The ambulance team arrives and they're simultaneously impressed at how broken it looked and seemingly a bit peeved that I'm wasting their time for a broken pinky toe. Sorry fellas, but I did just conk out completely on the floor so that doesn't seem so great. They determined it's best to get to the emergency room and let someone there sort this obtuse-angled-stabiliser out. We drive the five minutes to the hospital and they drop me off on the gurney inside the emergency intake, leaving me in the very capable, and very busy, hands of the doctors and nurses around the corner from our place.
Hilariously, I am lying not in the main waiting area, but in the hallway in a bit of a thoroughfare where the nurses are streaming past me back and forth, and every time someone new comes past, they notice the toe and give a big grimace and I can't help but laugh. Even better is neither can they, because it just looks so ridiculous. Everyone there was very sweet.
Finally, someone comes along to tell me, actually hell no, she's not going to have a crack at putting this one back, instead we're going to get the head nurse and let her flex her righteous rectification muscles on my toe. So, she arrives, and we chat a bit and then she looks at me with the face of pity, but just beneath the surface is a hint of delight at what she knows she's about to do (to be clear, not because it's going to hurt me, but because if it works, it's going to be so satisfying). She doesn't even tell me what she's going to do, because we both know, and she asks, "are you ready?", to which I reply, "do it". And she does. And it doesn't work at all. In fact, she's says something like "wow, that's really broken", and gives up. Well, that almost brought all three coffees and breakfast back up.
We move on to MRI number one confirming that not only is it broken, but the toe has completely dislocated and shifted way out of alignment (imagine breaking a tree branch and then throwing it as far away as you can, kind of like that), then multiple needles into the foot to numb it, to super nurse coming back and yanking the ever-loving-fuck out of my now completely absent foot until my toe sort of resembles what it used to (except maybe a bit more sideways? I guess I didn't have much say in that one), and then MRI number two determines: good enough, we're done here. They strap me up, tell me it'll be fine in six weeks, and thanks for stopping by.
We take a five minute cab back home and this whole diversion has taken just over two hours. Quite efficient! Hobbling back in to the house, I arrive at the scene of the crime, the kitchen, and wouldn't you know: the Gesha is sitting waiting for me on the kitchen table, perfectly cooled, biding it's time with it's glistening acidity, notes of guava and grape, succulent mouthfeel; all waiting to find its way into my parched gullet after such trauma. It was delicious.
I was not sure of what to write about today (as most of my Fridays begin), but as I sprung out of bed eagerly heading to the kitchen, I noted that since that day I have always moved with the careful, deliberate, mindful steps of a Curlyhair Tarantula, and this morning was no different. I tend to angle myself such that I pass the door frame as much in the middle as possible and no longer is there any harelike burst of speed as I navigate our 62sqm domain. I am now the Fremen of this household, and I no longer run inside.
