For our 31st birthdays, my friend and I decided to go to Berlin to celebrate. Our birthdays are one day apart, I am older and wiser by 24 hours, and we had planned a long weekend of celebration and exploration.
We had reserved a table at Katz Orange, a trendy restaurant with fusion cuisine that was at the top of all the “must eat here” lists in Berlin. We were decked out, wearing high heels, black dresses and our make-up looked almost professionally done.
We entered the space and were met by an eye-grabbing décor, it was a wonderful combination of hobo-chic meets fluorescent lighting design. The tables were somewhat close to one another, there was a mix of patrons, young and old, couples and groups, who were chatting away, adding a homey vibe to the welcoming atmosphere. One may say we were overdressed, but we didn’t care one bit!
The waitress showed us to our table, we were sitting between a table of two girlfriends speaking a Scandinavian language and an older couple, who smiled at us as we walked over. Before we had even sat down, the man turned and said in an American accent, “We saw you come in and hoped they would seat you two next to us!”
We started talking, and in what must have been only 15 minutes of conversation, we told them all about our birthday weekend and business dreams, living in New York and London respectively, what we had done so far in Berlin and what else we were planning. They, in turn, told us about their various trips to Europe, how they came to Berlin, decided to hop on over to London for a couple of days, the car they had hired to go to Potsdam the next day, their children and grandchildren spread throughout the US and reminisced about their beautiful trip to Greece years ago. It was such a pleasant encounter, it almost felt forced that we each go back to our respective dinners, but we had to order, didn’t we?
And order we did. It was a grand meal and since you only turn 31 once, my friend wanted to treat us to a good bottle of red wine. The evening progressed, our new friends bid us farewell and wished us Happy Birthdays about forty-five minutes into our birthday meal and we continued to revel in our culinary experience.
Around midnight, as the restaurant had but one or two guys drinking at the bar, we decided it was probably time to go. When the waiter brought us our check, he informed us that our friends had paid for the wine. We were both floored.
What? When? How? We begged them to give us their names, some way that we can find them. Did they pay by credit card? Due to privacy issues, they couldn’t divulge any personal information.
“We can tell you, though,” said the maître, who appeared delighted by this exchange, “that we called a taxi for them for Hotel Adlon.”
The next day, our last day in Berlin, we went to Hotel Adlon. The front desk directed us to the concierge, where we proceeded to give every detail we could about this couple. We told him what happened, explained how we wanted to send them flowers or thank them in person, we gave him the dates they checked in, the dates they went to London, the car they had hired, described their features, emphasized that they are Americans, until finally, that glazed look of confoundment that seemed to have frozen on the concierge’s face, turned to excitement,
“I think I know the couple of which you speak,” he says. “We cannot give out names or room numbers,” (respecting people’s privacy has never been a greater obstacle to saying a simple thank you!), “but we can send the flowers to their room on your behalf.”
We described the flowers we wanted, wrote a note for our friends and left money with the concierge. As we left the hotel, my friend and I looked at each other in acknowledgement that we may have just paid for this guy’s cocktails tonight or maybe some random American couple will be getting flowers and a lovely note from some girls they never met. But, here’s to hoping!
The rest of the day was spent visiting the Bundestag, walking around Alexanderplatz and taking in the remainder of our birthday extravaganza. We had trouble at the airport, so the return home kept us preoccupied and we didn’t think about our chance encounter. As we exited the airport parking lot in Athens, our phones vibrated simultaneously. I looked at my phone and saw an email from a person I didn’t recognize, in it, a picture of a bouquet of flowers, our note and our new friends’ contact information. We have kept in touch ever since.
