25.12.05, 6.45. I arrive punctually, on the dot, ins Seniorenhaus (an institution in which old folk voluntarily lock themselves away until the end of their days), and yet I still count as late. And anyway. What was I supposed to say to the boss's “Couldn't you help us out over Christmas?” I answered with my usual on-duty little smile. I warm up with my colleagues over coffee. As usual, we start discussing our old people, our employers, behind their backs. And at gossiping the Germans will remain world champions for a long time yet, though at football they haven't a hope. It's not that I can't badmouth the odd person myself, but after 19 years of living in Riga, like it or not you end up stewing among a certain set of people, saying hello to friends, acquaintances and chance individuals you have to use to your own advantage. That's it. The rest don't scratch me (this phrase is a direct borrowing from German). You can quite happily not know what your neighbour is called, but you can clearly hear that the neighbour's sex life is as irregular, as unreliable, as snow in Düsseldorf. The next gathering takes place at 10.30, which is the time for a tipple. And then the colleagues start giving each other presents. I got fobbed off with prettily wrapped candles, candlesticks, sweets, sweets in mugs, mugs without sweets, and a Father Christmas as well. I fobbed back with perfume bought while still in Riga. It was a real stroke of luck that Mum thought to buy it, and the amber beads too (blimey, 7 Ls those little lumps of amber cost, threaded onto fishing line, and I only noticed that as I was handing them over). A bottle of Rīgas Balzams for an aunt in Cologne. I was all set to chuck the amber bits out, but the Feast of Love is no longer far off, so I have to wrap them up nicely, and – as you do unto me, Fritz, so I do unto you. If you give me a mug full of boiled sweets, then I'll give you a 15 ml bottle of perfumed hooch. In principle I'm in ecstasy over corporate present-giving, especially when a comrade puts the gifts up on eBay to “find out how much the others really respect him”. That happened just as I was changing one old lady's nappies. I can feel her looking me straight in the eye. But where am I to put mine? Look at a neatly groomed intimate area? The old dear will think I'm a pervert. Maintain eye contact? I always see smugness in those eyes. Or perhaps that's what I subconsciously want to see? Then I'd rather watch TV. I was extraordinarily moved and proud when Benny XVI wished me a happy X-mas in Russian too. I opened my eyes wide and replied: “Blya!” By the way, my colleague from Kazakhstan and I are united by pride in the fact that back home everyone knows how to say “Davai, davai” and “Poshla na....y, p...da s ushami”. [1. A coarse Russian expression, meaning “go to hell, you heathen”.] To the Germans I count as antisocial, in short, a yob. It's enough that my friends are the descendants of Germans from Kazakhstan, and most of them have no respect whatsoever for this country. Neither have I. However often we're told that “du-bist-deutschland.de”. Someone is bound to find this too sugary, but I feel I belong to Riga. I love Riga, and in Riga they love money. So Germany is a sort of compromise, a buffer zone where you can winter over and then go home along with the migrating birds. On the one hand, I'm here for material considerations, of course, although I do have another, romantic side. Despite the fact that I still talk with my hands, that I'm shy and lonely, that every day I have to face the natives' arrogance and at times their fear as well, I intend to become a doctor here. I know that this road is strewn with thorns and blanketed in exhaust fumes. But it's precisely by this road that I want to reach my goal, so that afterwards someone could make a film about me.