Dear Lotte,
I’m glad we matched! I’m certain that we could bond over our mutual love for our houseplants.
You should see my thriving Norfolk Island Pine.
My greatest accomplishment was the resurrection of an African violet that I bought at a supermarket in Innsbruck, Austria.
The shock that the violet withstood from leaving the store had caused it to lose all its flowers, wither, and nearly die.
I named the violet Esmerelda—taking the name from a Victor Hugo novel—and nursed her back to health over the course of several months.
In those days, Herman the fern who sat on my dresser was larger.
Now my Austrian roommate Hannelore, who lacked a basic knowledge of the mating habits of vascular plants, insisted that Herman the fern was gay.
This was said out of malice and meant as an insult to him.
Hannelore’s misguided insistence soon became a point of contention—breaking the fragile peace of our small alpine apartment—and requiring the intervention of Teresa, my older and more worldly Italian roommate.
You may wonder now if living with two exotic women ever led to anything more than a platonic relationship.
But that would be a digression and is beside the point.
I will continue.
Herman by this point was massive!
He took up half of the empty space on my dresser.
I misted him every day in the morning and again at night.
I was also careful to keep Esmerelda away from him because he was usually damp, and the last thing you want is a moldy African violet.
To complicate matters, Herman the fern wasn’t the only Herman in my life.
At work, I reported to a second Herman. Now the second Herman was pretty important.
I had to call the second Herman, Magister Herman.
From now on I’ll refer to the second Herman in that manner.
One morning, while misting the first Herman, I received a text from Magister Herman asking why I wasn’t at work.
Now this question really confused me because the school year had ended just the week before, so I paused my misting of Herman and pressed the phone to my ear.
Magister Herman continued speaking to me as my gaze turned, and I stared down at flowering Esmerelda in growing disbelief and horror.
The school year was not yet over. And this was not the first time that I had missed work at the alpine school.
But as Magister Herman continued speaking, I could hear the braying of Hannelore in another room.
My favorite writer Victor Hugo once said something like a woman of Hannelore’s age is much like her mother—a mere copy or imitation of her in a Platonist sense.
And when I met Hannelore’s father, he struck me as being the most hen-pecked man alive.
After meeting him, it all made sense to me.
Hannelore had grown up with a very demanding and critical mother.
Oh, it’s been such a long day, Lotte. I can only hope that you have enjoyed learning more about me and my time abroad on the Continent.
May these Tinder messages find thee well.
Your significant other,
Thom Yorke
A Well-Educated Guess 