There’s no better way to really understand a place or
time than when you are away from it. Currently, I am in an undisclosed
location, floating between this world and the next, and free from the regular constraints
of time and space. I think back to the past two months, the adventures, the
trials and tribulations, all the fucking red meat. It seems like a hundred
different worlds, all strung together by memory, and the long Strassen,
stretching out in front of me.
Did I
mention all the red meat?
Vegetarians
of Germany, my heart goes out to you. From Currywurst to Bratwurst, Blutwurst
to Weisswurst, Bockwurst to Gelbwurst; these line the aisles of every food
store in Berlin. All screaming at the stomach, ‘you will shit horrible for days
with us!’ Terrible. The meat is fine. But staring, often times slightly high from
Amsterdam weed, at the rows and rows of sausage at Netto like monotonous
rolling hills of swine flesh, I can only assume this is what any veggie
nightmare would look like.
There
are some vegetarian options, sure,
but for the gluten free, you, my friends, are in the Devil’s Den. Beer is
EVERYWHERE. And cheap, fine beer, indeed, no doubt—truly some of the greatest
beer I have ever tasted comes from the Fatherland.
Don’t forget the potatoes and
the bread. For you gluten-free people out there, get ready to only eat beets
and sauerkraut as your meals. Oh, and the broccoli. You guys can have some broccoli,
too, they like that.
These types of Germanic meals
says one thing about the people: Fortification. Meat, potatoes, and beer. All
you need for the war. Whichever one we are talking about—because with the German people,
life is a war. Whether it be to caught in the Wagnerian arms of the Weimer
Republic, or the booted insanity of Fascism led from crippling unemployment, to
tearing down a walled division between brothers and sisters, Germany (specifically
the Berliners) is at war all the time, even if it is with its own history.
I was drinking in Berlin: in
Prenzlauer Berg, Kreuzberg, Mitte, and Friedrichshain. I walked through the maze
paths of the Teirgarten, stood at Brandenburg Gate on the 25th anniversary
of the Wall coming down. Just after hearing Beethoven’s 9th Symphony
live at the Berlin Philharmoniker in full.
It was only in the late hours of
the night did I meet the angry youth of Berlin. Some outsiders, boys who had to
watch their mother’s cry when the GDR fell. All in one night none of your
property is worth anything and your currency is a joke. The West had won. Then there’s
the stories boys told me about their grandfathers being Nazi’s. Sitting there
on a bar stool right next to me, eyes almost brought to tears. “So you hate me
too?” one asked me. I stared him down serious. The last blood relative in
Germany had been my grandfather, killing Nazi’s. I said: “You are not
responsible for the sins of your fathers.” We drank whiskey on that note. Hell,
my bloodline could have killed some of his bloodline. Creepy thought.
There are always two sides to
any story. This kid was on the wrong side of history, even before he was born.
By the time Nirvana’s first
record was released, some these people were up-rooted, and tossed to the side.
Sure, the rich were fine in Pankow. But a whole working class had to leave in
1989, some to Wedding.
Oh, Wedding (pronounced V-edding).
Berlin’s Queens. One night I went out with some ‘actual’ German’s. They were
fine people, one a psychotherapist, the other, a writer. We all cliqued
immeadiatly. Plans were made; beers (endlessly available at the local bodegas)
were drunk. Three bars later, all of us ended up at some locals joint in Wedding at 4 in
the morning. I don’t have a phone or a clue where I am. At that point, it didn’t
really matter. This was one of my first adventures with folks from the country
itself. I couldn’t be happier. The Germans have a strange sense of humor and
the glasses of beer (mugs, really) came sloshing our way. How strange is their ‘humor’?
Example 1: "schadenfreude". There is no other
word in any language that shares its definition. It is the ability to find pleasure
in other peoples’ misfortune. I had encountered several instances of this
phenomenon while out in the night. Some German locals explained I didn’t ‘look
German’, and that ‘outsiders were not welcome’. When I asked what exactly I did look like, the answer was ‘not from
here.’
The German new friends I made
were not like this, of course. They were gregarious after 12 beers, laughing and
telling stories in their native tongue. I just sort of sat there, trapped
behind a glass wall of language. Then I realize how much language separates us.
All those language classes I ignored in college. I want to know all languages
now. I want to become a walking Berlitz.
I go to the bathroom. Pissing, I
reflect on my life back in Brooklyn, think about the friends I left behind and
people I knew. I thought of the petty dramas. I remember the amazing parties my
collective threw. I smiled and zipped up. What time could it be? 4? 5? Did it
matter?
I walked out of the bathroom.
Everyone was gone.
“No,” I whispered. I went to the
door, past the looming locals watching me cross the room. I burst outside.
Still dark. But they were gone. All of them, including the strange
passive-aggressive Irishman we picked up along the way, nowhere to be seen. I
feel the bitter cold chill my bones. My jacket was inside. That was the first
revelation. The second was that I had no idea where I was in the city of Berlin.
The 3rd—I didn’t have a phone. There was no choice now.
I went back into the bar and one
foot in the record scratched. All of the men, large, working men in hoodies and
plaid (not the Seattle 90’s version of any of that), stared me down. I go to
the barmaid (I can say this gender stereotype of ‘barmaid’. She was a badly
tanned woman squeezed into a tight, under fitting Bavarian beer girl outfit).
“Ein Bier, bitte?” I ask. She gruffly
points to selection I also cannot understand. I gesture to the first one. She
slams the mug in front of me, when I am approached by a burly Aryan who saddles
right up next to me. Eyes locked on me, his face sweaty red-pink and twisted,
as if he smells something terrible. I do the only thing I can do, still pickled
drunk from my disappeared German friends. I turn to him, raise my glass,
wrinkle my face the same.
“Prost,” I say. He meets my beer
glass with a clank and downs half of his. I down half of mine. It’s like
a Japanese showdown, the two warriors emulating each other’s stances before the
battle. It’s me or him. And he’s built like a tank, 6’5”, 300 pounds easily.
Me, 5’11”, 180. But I am brave.
He starts in, bad pronunciation
and all. “No English!” He exclaims.
I smile meekly. He must be referring
to the previously disappeared party antics hours before. I remember him leering
at us the entire time we walked into his bar. I know how this goes. Hell, we
used to play Cyndi Lauper on the regular on The Subway Bar’s jukebox back
in the day, much to many of the regulars chagrin. He repeats: “No English. This
is Germany!”
I wipe some of the spittle of my
nose. Now I get it. Foreigner in a foreign land. I’ve been in Barcelona after Iraq
War II. I’ve been to Paris. But never had I felt more like an outsider, and
reminded of that fact, than in Berlin.
The giant continues. I get it. I
get it. Simply because I was ‘over it’, I break from this man’s tirade (at this
point barking at me in German) and go to the jukebox. Music, I figure, is the
only solution between the cultures. One of the first records in the juke was
Beastie Boys “License To Ill”. It was also the 2nd record I ever
owned (the first, “Raisin’ Hell” RunDMC). I pick “No Sleep ‘Till Brooklyn.”
The song blares loud. I walk
back proud and pound my beer. If this guy is going to punch, this was his last
chance. He doesn’t. He takes a moment, listens to the beat. Then he blurts out,
right at the chorus: “No sleep ‘till!”
“That’s where I live,” I say in
plain English, slamming down my mug. I nod my head to the giant and walk right
out into the black night. I don’t know what direction to walk in, or how long
it will take. I was going to make it home one way or another.
Till next time: The Final
Summation Part Two (The Berlin Edition #5)
VEGGIE NIGHTMARE!!!!!!
THE SINS OF OUR FATHERS.
"WHERE I LIVE."
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