Love Is Pink!

I nodded. “Even you remember now. So, it’s clear what you should do. Reach under your counter, pull out my Prada bag, and hand it over. Then we’ll all be perfectly happy.”


It was done. I was saved. My bag had arrived, and with it my old life would return. The nightmare was finally over.

But Mr. Meyer paused. A look of embarrassment appeared upon his face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You’re not even capable of giving me my bag? What do you get paid for? Catching dust in a suit?” I lifted the Prada imposter and held it right in front of his nose. “Do you see? This is a handbag. Mine looks exactly like it. So hurry up, I don’t have all day. Chop-chop!”

His arms sank and he remained speechless.

“Don’t just stand there. Say something!” I barked.

“The Grand Royal Hotel did get in touch earlier. But—”

“But what?”

“They were unable to find the bag.” He tapped on his keyboard and looked at his monitor. “They wish you lots of luck on your trip home, and they are certain that the woman who mixed up your bags will contact you immediately. They’d also be pleased to have the honor of hosting you again and to have you recommend the hotel to your friends and acquaintances.”

“And you’re reading this off your screen?” I said, completely flustered.

“This is the e-mail that we received from them. I’d be happy to print it out for you.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “But tell me one thing: How am I supposed to get to a critical meeting in Berlin today without having a passport, credit card, or a single cent in cash in my possession? Who will compensate me for that?”

My voice got increasingly louder. I’d bent forward and grabbed Mr. Meyer by his lapels. Now his face was just a few centimeters from mine. “Who will see to it that order replaces the absolute chaos my life has become? You, perhaps, with your acne?”

Mr. Meyer pulled away and took a step back. Speechless, he lifted his trembling hand and pointed toward the ticket counter. “Your airline will certainly have information. Go over to them and give them your details.”

“And then I can fly back home?”

Mr. Meyer lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.

I could have really let him have it, but I simply didn’t have the energy to argue with a pubescent trainee. Instead, I grabbed hold of my suitcases and stormed over to the airline counter.

The woman behind it was around fifty and wearing a ridiculous blue-and-white suit like the ones stewardesses wore. To boot, her uniform must have gotten tighter over the course of the years. Now she looked like an overstuffed liverwurst whose skin might burst open at any moment.

Presumably, this poor wretch had been banished to the floor because she’d always gotten stuck while pushing the meal cart.

She was on the phone. “Beate, I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “The spices are important. The eggs are important. And do you know the most important thing when trying to bake really good Christmas cookies?” She paused dramatically, sat down on a swivel chair, and said in a conspiratorial tone, “The secret to good Christmas baking is butter. Butter and more butter.”

I banged my Prada bag on the counter, but the bimbo didn’t even bother to look up. She lifted her finger in my direction and kept speaking into the receiver. “No, no. Right, not margarine! No way. That will completely corrupt the taste!”

Since I didn’t know what else to do, I used both hands to beat the counter like a drum. Slowly and quietly, then quickly and violently. My hands started to hurt.

Fatso tried to ignore me at first. She shut her ear with her hand and continued to yap. She moved her mouth—but because of my loud drumming, I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Based on the aggravated look she shot me, I guessed it was nothing nice. With exaggerated slowness, she hung up the phone, sighed, and stood up.

“Are you through with your important conversation?” I demanded.

She narrowed her eyes at me and nodded.

“And you’re also sure, absolutely sure, that you can give me your undivided attention?”

Again, she nodded.

“That’s fantastic. A service-oriented employee, who, amidst all of her personal obligations, still finds the time to take care of her customers. Really sensational!”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said, “How can I be of help?”

“Be of help,” I repeated. “That’s the motto of the hour. My name is Kr?mer. Someone stole the confirmation of my e-ticket for Flight A-375 from Geneva to Berlin.”

The counter-woman took a pencil and scratched her head with it absentmindedly.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “The one thirty flight.” The corners of her mouth twitched, as though she were trying to form at least a hint of a smile. “Nothing’s happening with that. It was canceled due to bad weather. I can put you on the next flight. There are still two empty seats.”

“And when does that take off?”

She blinked. “At seven fifty p.m.”

“So I can still check in?” I asked, feeling hopeful.