Dealing with the fallout of a broken washing machine, today I made my way to the closest “wasch salon.” I bought time on washer Number 9 along with a heaping cup of soap powder.
Everything churning away, I bought a cup of coffee from a machine for €1. The manager paused in his machine polishing to ask if one could drink that. That was what I understood, though he kept talking for a minute or so in a mouth-full-of-mush native Berlin accent.
A moment later, I took my coat off and knocked the coffee cup onto the floor.
I asked him for a rag, intending to clean it up myself.
“Oh, ya gonna make me work today!” he said cheerfully.
I said how sorry I was not to be able to tell hime how it tasted, as it was all over the floor.
He cleaned it all up, chattering the whole time, while I looked silly and penitent (not hard).
Then he gave me my Euro back.