My PhD program, the program that had been the primary focal point in my life for nearly 3 years prior to my arrival at UChicago, had failed me. Or I’d failed it. I wasn’t really sure. I guess, I’m still not really sure, three years later. The fact was, too many things just weren't working: my advisor was retiring, I had received only almost-adequate funding, and while my academic life was thriving, my social life had declined to the point of virtual non-existence. I was miserable and I wanted out.
My boyfriend at the time was also feeling a similar way, and when we landed in the middle of a finals-induced argument at the end of winter-term, he finally told me that he didn’t see a future for us. This boyfriend was a person unlike any I’d ever met before and probably ever will. I’ll spare you the shitty, push-and-pull process of breaking up we endured over the next few months, but I will tell you this: By the end of spring term, we had officially broken up, my career in academia was over, and I was pretty much a giant, fucking wreck. I had no interest in eating, I couldn’t sleep, and I was crying so much that I had to lie with bags of frozen peas on my face before going out in public.
So, when Claus came into the coffee shop one morning towards the end of term and smiled at me, it was a new smile, and a smile that didn’t remind me of something I was leaving behind or trying to forget. He would come in almost every day for lunch with his two fellow Neuroscientist friends, Jonathan and Tulia, and would usually return for a refill and some sort of chocolate treat in the afternoons. I didn’t think much of our interactions, except that I looked forward to the easy chit-chat I shared with them in the afternoons, this non-philosophy post-doc who didn’t know my friends or my ex-boyfriend, but instead chatted with me about coffee roasts, developments in his experiments, his latest bike ride, and upcoming music shows we were hoping to check out.
I started going to shows and movie nights with Claus and Tulia and Jonathan, and once things were truly over with my ex, I eventually started riding my bicycle over to Claus's apartment after my shifts at the coffee shop. We’d mostly just sit on his back porch in the sun and sip PBR tallboys and smoke cigarettes. I don’t remember us talking all that much, but I remember he would rub my feet and we'd sit quietly in the sunshine. Sometimes, out of the blue, he would crack really horrible jokes. And late in the evenings, he made me dinner. It sounds so trivial, the mere fact of eating, but at a time when food was the last thing on my agenda, Claus took care of it.
It was always the same thing… a salad of nothing but ice-berg lettuce, topped with one of his mother’s salad dressing recipes and sunflower seeds. He’d also toast some bread for us and top it with cottage cheese and Herbs de Provence. It sounds weird, now that I think about it, but it was actually pretty delicious. It was simple, sturdy, and helped make me feel like I was still alive. And even though what I thought was I needed at the time was black coffee and sad indie-rock blaring on my headphones, Claus helped me realized that was I needed was quiet sunny afternoons, a person who didn’t remind me of the person I was desperately trying to forget, and a home-cooked meal. Thanks Claus… I hope you’re skiing somewhere in the Alps today. Merry Christmas.
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