Behold! Who could that be, walking with not quite enough speed and a vaguely frightened expression down the crowded city sidewalk. Indeed and mind your manners! It is Das EuroDad!
Wonders! Watch in awe as Das EuroDad maneuvers his large German or Dutch or possibly Danish family around a man aggressively handing out his mixtapes at the corner of Broadway and Prince! Mein Gott, his calves are whiter than the snowcapped peaks of the Swiss Alps. Achtung, baby!
Das EuroDad's close-cropped blonde hair glistens as the sweat streams down his face, soaking his slim-fitting pastel polo and threatening to make his sunglasses slip out from the spot by his solar plexus where they are pleasantly tucked. And lo! The bright blue monochrome running shoes at the end of his nigh hairless legs.
Das EuroDad is a hero. Das EuroDad grabs life by the horns of the Pamplona bull. When Das EuroDad’s skinny nine-year-old son (Der EuroSon) complains of thirst, Das EuroDad will approach a halal cart in an alleyway and haggle with the vendor for 500mL of Dasani using five leftover kroner from his shorts pocket. Das EuroDad does not regret scheduling his family’s vacation for the hottest American month!
But soft! The halal man is getting into a disagreement with a mysterious stranger! Das EuroDad is perplexed. His English, it is not so good enough to understand what the source of the conflict. Patiently Das EuroDad waits for his change until—Gott en Himmel!—the stranger pulls out a blade and stabs the halal man tens of times about the torso!
Åkta! Das EuroDad has witnessed Die HalalMurder.
Das EuroDad must think quickly. His bright blue monochrome running shoes are covered in bright red monochrome blood.
The stranger turns now to Das EuroDad with a look that says “du bør løpe, fordi jeg vet at du så meg drepe denne fyren, og jeg kommer for deg neste gang.” He brandishes his knife.
Das EuroDad runs. Mind your manners! It is a grace that Das EuroDad spent the summers of his youth pole-vaulting or cycling or doing the Nordic combine, because his lily-white calves bely strong muscles. He runs, blinded by fear, far away from the halal cart, his family, his dignity. He runs until he can no longer hear the footfalls nor the vulgar American curse words of the stranger behind him.
Super nederen… Now Das EuroDad is lost. If only he had brought along his city map! He left it in the hands of his uncomfortably tall daughter so she could study it alongside her even more uncomfortably tall mother. In what direction is the Times Square, where he and his family were planning to enjoy high tea at TGI Friday’s? He sees not of those bright lights, hears not of that thunderous crowd.
Alone and sans international data roaming plan, Das EuroDad wanders hopelessly, wending his way between fast casual chain restaurants and pop-up Instagram shops. Where are the bakeries full of fresh baguette, the espresso bars, the stroopwaffel carts? This American condition, it is no way to live. No time for the finer things. The sturm und drang rises in his chest. He wishes he were at his bonne-maman’s estate by Lake Geneva.
A gendarme! Das EuroDad runs to him, plead in his eyes. He cries that he has lost his family, that he has severe misgivings about the state of American society, and also that he has just seen a man stabbed to death. But quel dommage! Das EuroDad cannot say any of it in English.
The gendarme looks up and down Das EuroDad’s 70 kilogram frame before resting on his now-duochrome running sneakers. The gendarme’s eyes widen. He whispers something into his shoulder radio as one hand goes towards the Glock semiautomatic pistol on his waist. Indeed and mind your manners! Not him too!
Das EuroDad’s long-dormant warrior instincts finally engage. In one swift motion he grabs the Glock off the gendarme’s waist, putting to excellent use the 18 months of mandatory military service he spent in the Armée de terre or the Försvarsmakten or the Koninklijke Landmacht…Milda måkter! His training was too effective! So grateful are his hands to be grasping real Austrian steel that he finds himself suddenly pumping all 17 rounds into the gendarme’s torso! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Das EuroDad feels something inside that he has not felt since the one time he was let into Berghain.
In a daze, Das EuroDad stumbles west, across the West Side Highway, and – loiskis! – into the cold yet strangely womb-like waters of the Hudson River. The river cradles him, washing away the Bvlgari Pour Homme he applies to his neck and chest each morning. Far in the distance he glimpses the land he has heard called “Nüjersey.” He begins to breaststroke, in perfect form. Maybe someone there will hear his story.
Behold! Das EuroDad!