A small disclaimer: This story was written in German. My English isn't good enough to translate it properly, so I had to rely on the internet for help. Ironically, that's the one thing I could actually rely on. __________________________________________________________________________________________ Tuesday – Day 1: Communication Breakdown Tuesday. Internet gone. Landline gone. Netflix… somewhere in another dimension. The great silence begins. The first shock hits a week earlier, when I find out: the new provider needs “a little something.” Something. Probably a blood sacrifice. Maybe some druid in Peru has to bless a cable first. Or maybe the internet is delivered by carrier pigeon – and the damn thing is currently on parental leave. I get myself a mobile router. One of those devices that promises hope, but in my apartment – which is basically an architectural middle finger to any kind of wireless signal – it works about as well as a megaphone underwater. My place contains more reinforced concrete than a Soviet tank graveyard. Radio waves don't get through here. Reception? If I get any at all, it flickers like a candle in the wind. My text messages arrive at the speed of a shy sloth swimming backwards. Most of them make it eventually – but only on Mondays. From the Tuesday before. Making a phone call has become a spiritual exercise: you dial and pray. A tin-can telephone with a wet string would have better chances. Or smoke signals. I send one. Nobody answers. Wednesday – Day 2: Nomadism I walk through the apartment with the router in my hand like I'm attending a divining-rod workshop. If anyone saw me, they'd probably think I was some combination of Indiana Jones searching for the Holy Grail and Gandalf in a bathrobe performing a deranged summoning ritual. I'm looking for that one bar. One! But the reception is less stable than a relationship between two narcissists. I hold the thing over my head. By the window. In the bathroom. Nothing. The internet is now a game of chance. Except there's no chance of winning. You click on a website. It loads. Then it freezes. Then it crashes. Then the message appears: “No connection.” Thank you. I noticed. Thursday – Day 3: A Return to Prehistory The frustration has become physical. I growl. I swear. I start talking to the router. I name him Wilson. After the volleyball in Cast Away. Because it fits. I am stranded in the digital wilderness, my router is my only friend – and he doesn't answer me. Probably on purpose. Or out of spite. I start folding coffee filters and wonder how to build a fax machine from scratch. 1990 is calling. Oh, never mind. No reception. Friday – Day 4: Madness in HD Wilson is talking to me. I swear he is. Not out loud. But in the same passive-aggressive way as someone offering you a piece of bread while you're starving and then saying: “But don't eat it all.” I start channel-hopping through normal television. You know. Actual television. With commercials. After three commercials for hemorrhoid cream, dental implants and stair lifts, I know: I am in purgatory. And this is apparently prime time. Saturday – Day 5: The Digital Stone Age Internet usage has become a legend from a bygone era. I sit there, stare at the wall and wonder whether I could draw entire TV series in charcoal. “Here we see Season One of Breaking Bad. This is where they cook crack for the first time.” Wilson now even blinks when he's switched off. I'm not imagining it. I know what sarcasm looks like in LED. I try to negotiate with him. “Give me twenty minutes of Netflix and I'll give you a power socket all to yourself.” Nothing. Wilson answers with a flickering display of arrogance. Sunday – Day 6: Stockholm Syndrome I hate Wilson. And I love him. Like a toxic relationship with a 12-volt connection. He gives me internet. For a very short time. Like a drug dealer with a conscience: “Here. Two minutes of YouTube. And now piss off.” I sit on the sofa and talk to him. He sends signals. I interpret them like a shaman suffering from Wi-Fi trauma. And then, unbelievably: A website loads. Slowly. But it loads. Wilson, you miserable bastard. You're my only friend. And my greatest enemy. It's complicated. Monday – Day 7: Liberation The technician arrives. A human being. With tools. He opens the box. And suddenly… Internet. It flows. It rushes. I hear the voice of Netflix: “Welcome back. You have missed 14 shows.” I hug the technician. He steps away. Wilson is deposed. But I build him a little altar. Out of old LAN cables and my last text message. Because as much as he tormented me: He was there. Always. Useless. But there.