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.