Cultural Exchange

The softly spoken, quietly friendly German visitor has hurt his back. He has hobbled into the town and bought some Tiger balm because he feels that heat will help. I suspect he may have a disc prolapse but he is sure it is not so serious. The third time I see him I ask how he is. We’re all a long way from home and a bit of friendly concern can go a long way. Hell, I’d appreciate it.

I am seated at the kitchen table, writing up my notes from the morning. He asks me if I would rub some of the balm into his back. Of course. He is standing before me; my eyes are about level with his stomach. He unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans, and drops his trousers. They fall to his knees in a moment. I blink and am up, out of my seat, and round behind him in a flash, darting into a safe position with the pot of balm, anxious not to see more than I have already seen.

I am more comfortable with the back of his underwear and, as I compose myself before action, he reaches round and pulls down his underpants. I bravely take a breath and get on with the task, affecting nonchalance as I begin to rub the balm into his back. It doesn’t rub in. It’s horrid, sticky stuff. It’s like trying to massage with cold honey.

I offer him my hot water bottle for the afternoon so he can lie flat and keep warm the sore bit of himself. He offers to cook me dinner tonight but I already have plans. How friendly strangers can be. How good it feels to be unafraid. It occurs to me later what a picture we made, should some hapless individual have strayed into the kitchen to make supper.

Later that evening there is no sign of the poor man. I am concerned. One sighting had him wandering into the kitchen clutching my hot water bottle and looking unwell but no-one has seen him since early evening. I feel he needs my hot water bottle more than my feet do, so I head off to bed, with only my conscience to keep them warm.

I had, however, been telling the attractive man on reception about the surprise at the kitchen table, when all was revealed, which he also found unusual, or highly irregular if we want to be terribly English about it. Then he said ‘the poor man is suffering and we’re laughing at him.’ I wasn’t. Really I wasn’t. Too guilty to sleep now. Misjudged too.

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