When I saw the program, the decision was made: a chamber concert with pieces by Paganini, Brahms, and Rachmaninov that would transport us into another, long-vanished world. The Cuvilliés Theater, a jewel of Rococo hidden within the Munich Residenz like a precious casket: gilded boxes stacked upon one another like intricately carved balcony chambers, stucco and ornamentation in red and gold, chandeliers refracting light a thousand times over. A theater that looks like an overflowing baroque box of chocolates – and in which one feels simultaneously tiny and sheltered. That was exactly why I wanted to go to Munich.
Stefan and I do this once a month: a culture weekend. Theater, concert, museum – the occasion varies, but the rhythm is fixed. These excursions are places of refuge for us, islands where we gather strength, find inspiration, escape from everyday life. This time Munich: concert in the evening, the next day visiting the Residenz, strolling through the city. I had looked forward to it, also to finally taking the evening dress and patent leather pumps out of the closet again. Because in everyday life there is hardly any occasion for that.
When we got off at the main station, the weather hit us like a slap in the face. Icy March wind that whipped the rain diagonally through the air. I pulled my coat tighter, tried to turn up the collar, but it didn’t help. The rain crept in everywhere, under the collar, into the sleeves, onto my skin. Around us: crowds, suitcases, voices in all languages. My head began to throb.
„Let’s go in over there.“ Stefan pointed to a kiosk across from the station exit. „Quick, get some water. And something sweet.“
I hesitated. Station area. I don’t like such places, this hectic pace, this foreign world of travelers and stranded people. Stefan had already crossed the street. I sighed and followed him.
Inside the store it was warm and pleasant. I blinked against the harsh light of the LED lamps, everything very modern here, very clean. Refrigerators hummed, shelves with sweets lined up neatly. Behind the counter stood a young man who nodded to us. Dark eyes, open face. I nodded back, perhaps a bit stiffly, and turned to the drinks. A bottle of water. Then to the sweets. Granola bars? Cookies? I stood there staring at the packages, but my thoughts were already on tonight. I hoped the dress in the suitcase wasn’t too wrinkled and that I hadn’t forgotten anything.
Behind me the door slid open. Cold air and the smell of wet asphalt streamed in, the heavy rustling of plastic bags, shuffling steps. An older woman came past me. Several jackets layered on top of each other, more layers underneath. Gray hair stuck to her forehead. The plastic bags in her hands were bulging and old, the handles knotted together. She went straight to the tea machine in the corner.
I felt myself involuntarily step aside. Made room. Looked elsewhere.
The machine hummed. Hot water hissed into the cup, steam rose. The smell of fruit tea.
„Good to see you.“ The kiosk owner’s voice was warm, familiar. As if he were greeting an acquaintance. I pretended to study the cookies, but I was listening. The woman murmured something. Quiet, indistinct.
„Good, good,“ he said. „And if you get cold again, you know. Just come in.“
She nodded. Then the rustling of bags, the door slid open, cold air, the door closed again.
I stood there with a package of cookies in my hand and didn’t quite understand yet what I had just observed.
Stefan came to the counter, put down water and Hanuta. I followed him.
„The woman just now,“ I heard myself say. „Do you know her?“
He looked up, and his face softened. „Yes, of course. Comes every day. Sometimes several times a day.“ He gestured toward the machine. „She can have tea for free, as much as she wants. Especially in this cold...“
I felt something shift inside me. Very slowly, like when you turn an object and suddenly see another side.
„I don’t sell her alcohol,“ he continued, matter-of-fact but not harsh. „We agreed on that. It’s better for her.“
„That’s...“ I was at a loss for words. „That’s very... thoughtful.“
He shrugged, almost embarrassed. „She’s just a human being. Just like me.“ He tapped the register. „7.50.“
Outside the wind hit us. Ice cold, wet. We walked in silence, our suitcases rumbling over the pavement. After a few steps I stopped and turned around.
„I didn’t want to go in there,“ I said quietly. „I had... I have prejudices. Against such places. Against the people there.“
I thought of the woman with her bags, of the warm tea in her hands. Of the young man who gave something every day without anyone noticing. Who didn’t make money from her, but looked out for her. Who treated her like a human being, not like someone you step aside from.
And I thought of myself. Of my discomfort. Of the contrast between what awaited us tonight, the golden Cuvilliés Theater with ist boxes and chandeliers, this journey into another time and this quiet kindness in a kiosk across from the station.
„You know,“ I said, „maybe that’s the more important lesson of this weekend. Not the concert. But... this. That humanity doesn’t need a stage. That it exists where we don’t want to look.“
I knew: I would not forget this moment. Not the young man in the kiosk. Not the woman with the tea. And not the shame about how wrong I had been.
B.
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