the stations of defection

My companion and I step out of the room that has been heated by breaths or rather exhalations of alcohol. It is one of these functions that have been organized in this cocktail infested period called the "fresher's week". The cold and fresh air feels nice in my nostrils and skin. My companion lifts up the lapels of his jacket, smiles at me and says "And have you not considered attending a meeting of the Turkish society?". I first give out my usual laugh. Then I grit my teeth. How to put this eloquently and without sounding bitter. How to explain this excommunicated state of mine. There's no helping it. I start with "I know exactly what kind of people frequent these Turkish societies abroad. I would not be welcome, as you are well aware...." and then the whole drivel comes out. My companion listens to me in silence. By the time we have reached the Radcliffe Camera I realize I am gesticulating and the sore feeling in my throat lets me know I have spoken fast and loudly. Catching the sight of my hand in mid-air, I let it drop, and stop speaking. My companion smiles. "I had never seen someone speak through her teeth before. So the expression is true!". I laugh. That's one thing I do without effort.

I try to trivialize the whole thing and say that the German society needs me a lot more than the Turkish society does. Where would the principles of democracy and representation all go if there were no Turks in the German society?But of course, Germans are the butt of our jokes, this is England after all. We sit in the MCR and try to decipher with our scant vocabulary a column of the Frankfurter Allgeimene. It is a mystery why the MCR subscribes to it and my companion has hatched plans to replace it with the Morning Star. But on we troddle, mispronouncing and misinterpretating what we read to our hearts' content. We ask the odd word to the odd German compadre that walks in the room. They smile and ignore our pleas for knowledge, for they know we are hardly interested in deciphering what the paper wants to say.
It is then, maybe, all this starts, with this unaccounted for laissez-faire, the doggedness of respectability that these Teutons possess.
The way we sit playing Trivial Quiz and every other question is about the Second World War, and they first look indignant, and then dismiss the frivolity of the Brits and laugh along. Their paternal grace, which I shall come to learn. But these are my friends, and I relish this grace, this hugging the world, unaware I will have to reckon with it in the distant future (for it does seems distant- there is an eternity between then and now)
But not so much as I relish the jokes. (that will come later, after weeks of English insubstantiality) Having taken our leave from our German friends, we run towards home under the rain. It gets terribly heavy so we take refuge by the shop-window of Oxfam's at St. Giles street. The most prominently displayed book has the face of Stalin on it. My companion will get it soon, no doubt about that. I tell him I love the rain. He points to my leather coat and says "I would've loved it too, if I had a Gestapo coat on". Further laughter.