Breakfast Without Tiffany, or Following The White Rabbit

The morning is like New Year- the way you spend it, the way you gonna spend the whole damn year = day. This old Soviet belief works especially precise when it comes to Orange: he doesn't eat evenings and nights when he works, that's why morning is some sort of a Ritual, a special kind of Siesta to be spent in total perfectness, half-meditating.
I'm a long-sleeper, so it was hard at first to get used to annoying wake-up calls produced by the Orange's furious bike-bell in 8 am. True, the most original alarm clock I have ever experienced. My offers to drive are rejected by the Orange scornfully (who on Earth drives when it's a 15 minutes walk?)
So we're gonna have, what Orange calls it, a jolly breakfast. To my surprise, we do not have a picnic on the bridge (beloved by our common friends),  we don't even go to the Baker's- such a typical decision for the area.
The guy leads me to the Hugendubel- a huge book-store just in the center of the city on Hauptwache.

Always full of people and almighty coffee scent, it also offers ranges of colourful bookshelves filled with issues for the most demanding reader. There's also some shabby inviting red coaches (where I often had a short nap over a book during the boring lunch hours) and a small cafe on the ground floor serving quite а worthy cappuccino.

The place might be a good variant for a breakfast or a brunch, especially when you're alone, while I tend to read when I eat anyway. This place, however, has minimum 30 freaks around who're doing the same- reading. We grab some books in English, milk coffee and fresh croissants, then we enjoy our choice for half an hour- these are mostly Taschen city guides collection issues, like "Taschen's Berlin".

And here's the link where you can flick through the book online:
                             
http://www.taschen.com/lookinside/04951/index.htm

I consider Taschen City Series a perfect present and a suitable variant for breakfast reading due to the prevailing proportion of pics and a wandering dreamy travelling mood it sets you into.
The next book we've chosen was Truman Capote's "Breakfast at Tiffany's"-  a rare book, the film version of which seems to be better. Anyway, our breakfast at Hugendubel sounds not that catchy to the ear, but much more boosting for the brain. I wouldn't reject one at the jeweller's though...

Gonna tell you about one more very special breakfast version, which was designed together with a good friend visiting me here in October. I should say we have always practiced the so-called wine-shadowed, cheese-coloured and good-spirit-flavoured meals starting from our union based on jelly-bear craze during our trip to France.

What you spot on the pic is a random collection of groceries partially transported from Ukraine by my caring friend- like caviar and Red Portwein Massandra, the deep harsh tinge of which evokes some students years' memories. Except the encouriging toasts with the "Good Morning" inscription this pic exposes two small bottles of Montenegrian Rum, without which we don't actually drink Coke.
 Soothingly for the Alcohol-vegeterians, we do not consume those galloons of spirites mornings in one go, but the fact of some old good wine bottles in store definitely warms us up these cold winter days.

Orange always says, and I support this idea, it's not what you actually eat on breakfast- it's where and with whom you devour your meals. Everytime I'm bored I tend to apply a simple trick-just lifting my head up. And especially here, in Frankfurt, keeping your eyes on the vertical dimension of the city creates an unexpected play of contrasts.

 

 

We have promised each  other to be more attentive. I try to catch some shots with a simple amateur camera and this way they seem to be preserved and opened up on demand. Orange hates photos, claiming they miscolour and pervert reality. That's why he prefers real pictures, especially those on the street walls, some of them bear his signatures and some just reflect the dual face of urban- arts and trash at the same time. 

      

And next time we're gonna follow some street advice never to be late...especially when it comes to breakfast.

How the hell he is, or some details of why this blog bears such a name

I have a friend called Max Mint. A cute guy with a wild hairdo. Is that enough to desribe a person, or guess you need some clues?...and that would be that his hair is a fantastic red colour, mostly triggering sort of “why- have- you -dyed –your- hair -such -an -acid -colour” reaction. That’s why we call him Orange.

Due to his surname, which is, I remind, Mint, he was teased “Peppermint Orange”,such an untasty mixture, I suppose. But when he once got a flashingly- purple shiny bike from the old lady in the market on Saturday as he claimed, the Orange himself transformed his nickname’s attribute into a Purplemint.

We got to know each other several months ago, when I moved to Frankfurt. We're both of us not originally from Germany and I,frankly speaking, doubt what nationality he actually is. Our common friend Jade claims Orange is a gypsy with some Vicking ancsestors. That, he says, he pipped in the diary of the former. Since the theory seems impossible due to the Orange’s too reddish for the gypsies head , I prefer to think he’s a hitch-hiker from the country unknown looking for some answers in life, which the Orange confirms saying “I’m here to have fun”. We do not know much about his background except he has an unseen talent of memorising faces and wine sorts, has billion of friends all around the world, a grandfather in India and, moreover, occasionally changes places of living never leaving stable relations behind. Better keep out, girls!at

Anyway, he speaks perfect English and that’s the language we spoke from the first moment we got acquainted, which happened at the Flohmarkt, or flea market. Orange was collecting money playing his multi-coloured hippy guitar and winking at me through his blue lehnon-sunglasses. First perceived as another homeless beggar, he was actually quite sleek. Moreover, he yelled Ukrainian songs with a horrible accent, so I couldn’t avoid getting to know him.

Then we somehow turned out to have common friends, for Frankfurt is another global village and now here we are: 5 months later, reading books and eating hot home-made dumplings with eggs and liver in his small apartment below the roof on Leipzig Street. The house faces the street itself and the range of neon lighted shops, but our windows mostly unveil the backyard life screenshots with its raw stairs, high aged trees touching the rooftops, numerous balconies with the blankets hanging on the drying-ropes and moss-grown paving.

Orange loves telling stories. It’s not that he’s making them out, no, but some of them are bound to be rejected by sound mind.

However, what I appreciate in this person is a unique talent to enjoy life and see more to ordinary things than a normal eye would see.

From the day we met we enjoy tasty food, try various, often extravagant, clothes and read books, let alone the other fun-having which deserves another set of blogs. This blog would be dedicated to the aforementioned components, which the Orange experienced places he’s been to, the last of which is Frankfurt am Main, Germany.