dinner, anyone? or perhaps some unconsciousness?

I guess Juergen caught me on the way down, so I didn’t actually fall all the way—more of a gradual slump, which is good—but I don’t remember it. The last thing I remember, I was putting on my jacket while Juergen was telling me the great story of how he was bicycling through my neighborhood when he got hit by a deer, then we stood up and walked through the restaurant toward the door. I was warm, slightly nauseated, and dizzy.

Then I was looking up at the ceiling; one of the waitresses had her arm under my head, and Juergen was telling me just to breathe. Of course, with his accent, it sounded more like he was telling me to "breeze," but I knew what he meant. What I didn’t know was what on earth had happened. Apparently, I’d fainted. I’m not exactly a fainter, so this was something of a surprise. An unpleasant, annoying, embarrassing surprise. I’m supposed to be tough, after all. At least I wasn’t wearing my boots with the three-and-a-half-inch heels, like I almost did. I would’ve had that much farther to fall, and who knows what would have happened then.

And at least I bounced back quickly as blood came back into my brain, and stood up, and we went on our way. The dizziness passed after I spent a couple minutes in the fresh air. It was probably a combination of too much rich, unfamiliar food and wine and coffee and stuffy air. It was not simply alcohol; I didn’t feel the least bit tipsy. (I only had maybe a glass and a half, and I’m not that much of a lightweight.) Poor Juergen felt so sorry, as if it was his fault. I’m the one who’s sorry—and a little chagrined. I placed a horrible cap on a perfectly lovely evening.

Juergen is my landlord, by the way. He lives in Germany with his family, and twice a year he and his wife, Marlis, come out to visit this part of the world, catching up on business, old acquaintances, and the tenant living in their house—me. They are an older couple, probably in their sixties. He made a solo trip this fall, and has been very pleased with how the place looks, for which I’m very glad. They are quite particular people, and part of my rental agreement involves house and yard maintenance.

Juergen took me out to dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant that is way way way beyond the realm of my normal dutch-budget experiences. ("Don’t you dare look at the prices, Lindsey. I am treating you.") We were there for three (three!) hours, working our way through a lovely bottle of white wine (I got the wine lecture), an appetizer of very thinly shaved beef, parmesan cheese, and fresh spinach, a pear and arugula salad with toasted pecans, the main course, for which I had an exquisite rib eye steak and fancy potatoes, and finally…when I felt very, very full, a Crème Brule I couldn’t say no to (I got the Crème Brule lesson too; that man sure can talk) and a cup of decaf coffee (by now it was 9:00) that I hoped would jar my body out of food shock (which obviously didn’t work).

I’m not sure what the moral of the story is. Probably just to pay more attention to what my body is trying to tell me—and don’t let myself go in for too much of a good thing. Sigh. It’s not as though I have recurring problems with self-control. Really. I thought about not telling anyone about my embarrassment—but it’s really too good of a story to keep to myself. And I’ve decided that it’s nothing to worry about, really, unless I keep fainting every time I eat. Well, so far so good, today.

I’m tempted to send that restaurant a card or something, with an apology and/or a thank-you to the nice waitresses. I hope they’ve forgotten what I look like. Not that I’ll be eating there again any time soon. However, I must say—I’d love to go back for just coffee and Crème Brule. Mmm.

At least I didn’t fall onto anything or into anyone. That would have been fabulous: I hit a waitress carrying a tray, the tray flies through the air and hits a table, the people at that table jump back and knock over a candle…and the restaurant burns down because of me. Well, that would have given Juergen another good story to tell, anyway. Oh, Juergen. Now he probably thinks I’m delicate. Great.