Why "perceived safety" can be functionally subversive – Many manipulation strategies operate through threat activation, fear of social exclusion, and the induction of uncertainty. If a nervous system does not automatically escalate perceived threat, these strategies lose their effectiveness. This is a form of autonomous stimulus classification.

Liquid Amber

The streets of Ederthal lie shrouded in a milky haze. The late light is mentioned in a novel the lovers are currently reading aloud to each other. Nana and Sten wander through the labyrinth of alleyways. The sky fills with rose hues. The Kellerwald glows as if dipped in liquid amber.

Nana smells jasmine and roasted garlic. She wears a sombrero de palma, a wide-brimmed straw hat with a black silk band. This isn’t a hatband, but a band of love and play. With this band, the couple connects moments of intimate connection. It’s a signal of their erotic expansion.

Nana’s emerald-green top is made of muslin; the slender straps rest feather-light on her shoulders, the fabric itself barely more than a whisper—spun light. I briefly recount the story of her shorts. Flashback – Kassel a few weeks ago. In a shop window, Sten sees a pair of sand-colored linen shorts. He imagines pulling the shorts off Nana, hears her giggle, sees her in her panties, savors her seductive allure. His happiness is important to her. The shop smells of leather and patchouli. The saleswoman, working alone, seems like she’s from another planet. As if she’s hiding among the stacks of clothes, waiting for some kind of interstellar countdown. Sten notices a nose piercing and tribal tattoos that make him think of Mad Max.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” she asks mockingly. Her hair is a wild cloud of shimmering silver strands. Sten points to the object of his desire. The saleswoman is merciful: “She’ll look beautiful in them.”

Nana understands the fantasy. She loves to precisely acknowledge the attention that is so deeply rooted in Sten’s erotic inventiveness. She snuggles up to him, takes his hands, and places them on her hips. She kisses his neck. It fills her with joy to feel him like this; I won’t say how. In her mind, she says this and that to make him even more aroused, but she doesn’t yet dare to utter the words that would unleash so much.

A late summer that seems endless invites a yawning laissez-faire attitude. Life feels as if someone has slowed time down to a pleasantly languid deceleration. The atmosphere is defined by a distinctive mix of hops, suntan lotion, cigarette smoke, and the musty, stored-room smell of those single-row, half-timbered buildings that have been familiar to us locals since childhood. Nana and Sten stroll along the completely overcrowded Drosselgasse, lined on one side with pubs and on the other with the river promenade. A street musician sings Bob Dylan songs with a North Hessian accent. A flamenco guitarist offers only half-hearted flamboyance. Freshmen practice freedom on cobblestones. Indie pop spills from the “City River.” Wavy lines, spirals, an unfinished Saturn drawn in chalk on the pavement.

Pub names like “Last Penny” and “Payday” are reminders of the American occupation era. After the Korean War, armored troops of the 11th Armored Cavalry (Blackhorse Regiment) were stationed in Hersfeld and Fulda (Gap Sector) at Fort Knox, Kentucky. In their free time, the GIs fanned out and left their mark on the rural tranquility with their party scene. James Brown, Ray Charles, and Aretha Franklin toured Germany. In postwar colloquial speech, the area was known as the “Bronx on the Eder.” In any serious historical analysis, “Eder’s Reeperbahn” would have been more fitting. Fishermen, rafters, and boat builders (hence the regional specialty “boat builder’s bread”) had their own villages along the “wet mile.” The decoration of various log flumes testifies to the Ripar community and the riverine guild crafts with nets, ropes, fish traps (small fish weirs) – and depictions of Saint John Nepomuk, who watched over the brotherhood. Who was allowed to fish and float timber; who could cast the nets into which “Riselboden” (flat gravel section)? Some lanterns swing from antique raft hooks. On some gables, the fishermen’s sign and guild symbol – two intersecting arches – are still visible. The inn’s name, “Zur Pechsträhne” (At the Pitch Streak), recalls that rafters blackened their steering lines and work ropes with pitch.

Nowhere is the rural cosmopolitanism more evident than in this quarter. Here, the cosmopolitan, made-up provinces perform. In front of “Leo’s Dive,” someone spills their beer. In the “Nectar Bar,” the Kassel blues band “Gallaghers” is playing. Nana revels in the energy of all these people—the vibrant potential. She plops down on a stool in front of the “Stollen,” a medieval vaulted cellar where ice was once stored.

The alleyway in the last light. Nana registers the faintest affability from a former lover who spreads himself out near her without noticing her. She wonders at herself. How could she have? She can barely remember any details. Spaghetti straps slip off Nana’s shoulders; the fabric itself is barely more than a whisper.

Three women toast each other frenetically. Suddenly, the scent of limes, roasted corn, and wood polish reaches Nana, only to vanish again just as quickly. “Let’s grab a drink at the ’garden shed,’” Sten suggests. They’d both been there since they were thirteen. Nana knows her name has been high on Sten’s list for a long time, whereas she hadn’t even considered him before. Now she doesn’t understand why. He’s got it all.

The “garden shed” has been all sorts of things, even a youth café at one point. The gloomy log cabin interior hasn’t been updated since their cowboy boot wedding. The brass baseboard at the bar is legendary. Currently, a family from Seville runs the “garden shed” as a tapas bar. Sten asks, “Would you like tocino frito?”

Nana sniffs, closes her eyes briefly, and says, deliberately formal and a little theatrically, “Sherry and bacon—a combination right up my alley.”

She sits down on a bench, and he settles down next to her. They both experience a magnificent moment of erotic convergence. They’re head over heels for each other; everything else is just a matter of time.

The waitress, undoubtedly the innkeeper’s daughter, asks the usual questions. Nana takes the initiative again:

“A Fino for me—and I’m sure for you too?”

Sten nods in agreement before adding a note.

“Or we could have an Amontillado. Or an Oloroso.”

“Sten... you just want to show off that you know what you’re talking about.”

He raises his hands defensively.

Nana touches him tenderly.

“We’ll start with a Fino Inocente and some dados de tocino frito.”

“Who’s showing off here?” Sten asks.

Ten minutes later, the two are feeding each other bacon. Nana finally sucks on one of Sten’s greasy fingers to make the plan for the rest of the evening crystal clear.