Today, I visited my wife in her new office. Not her new job, mind you — her new office. As she now works in the private sector again, and her team is pretty small (in Paris: the head office in Berlin is an entire building), they went out and rented a coworking space. Which is a great idea: I didn’t think our lives would coincide so quickly, but there you have it… The kicker, though, is that the coworking they moved into earlier this year… closes in a few weeks. To be turned into a hotel. Not a Trump one, I hope: Saudis have a hard enough time filling the ones that already exist.
So they had to find another spot, and it came down to another, cooler coworking. Like, the place used to be a brothel, and that’s not even a joke (they kept the door to the underground dungeon: again, no joke, I saw it). That this has nothing to do with a Trump story these days may sound strange, but people have been doing crazy stuff for ages, if not ever. The crazy part is in the past, though: nowadays, the space is a perfectly hospitable, whip-free zone — as far as I could tell. And they had street artists draw on the walls too, which gives a touch of contemporary sexiness to the whole thing, keeping in style.
My wife’s company rented a closed office, which is convenient because I tend to speak when I’m in a coworking (just to mess with others’ work: I shouldn’t be the only one who watches Youtube videos all day). As I sat down, I asked the first question anyone would ask in such a situation:
- What’s the wifi, honey?
- Well, there are 2, actually…
- Oh… And what’s the difference?
- Well, one is for people from the coworking, and the other one is for friends…
- Friends? But we’re married!
- Oh yeah? And where is your wedding ring then?