Letter from Germany November 1992

Folks,

 

Did you ever think you would end up helping a former Socialist artist from Poland fill out his US back taxes from five years ago? Yeah, I used to be naive, too.

 

The ongoing search for nachos looks promising. Turns out that a prediliction to read has a side benefit of providing access to some US military bases here in Berlin. It used to be that an American passport was enough to gain access, but these days a military ID is required. These days the hard part is getting on to the base. Darn Red Army Faction.

 

Fortunately, I previously procured library priviliges at the main base in town, and this golden ticket gets me in to other bases that have a small library. All I need to do is show a passport and a book to return, and I am allowed in. Apparently, our national overseas security is somehow tied in with not having any overdue books. Once on base, most library visits are followed by a trip to the convenience store.

 

At the superette, the 100% military ID check is quite relaxed as folks assume one must have proper ID have gotten on to the base. This small loophole has allowed me to stock up on tortilla chips and salsa.

 

On a recent visit, I struck up a conversation with a new clerk. When I mentioned I was a juggling teacher at a circus school in Kreuzberg, his next question was, “Were you at Banyoles?”

 

Banyoles is the small Spanish city that hosted the European juggling festival this past August. This is a question that maybe 2000 people in Europe might ask and be able to answer in the affirmitive. Only a few more than that would know what he was talking about. Fortunately, I did.

 

Cementing the cosmic connection, we had both resided in San Francisco at different times. I responded, “near City College” when he asked me where in Santa Barbara I used to live. Without a pause, he said “The mesa, huh.”

 

It seems like we are going to get along, and I have an inside connection at the PX. Present fantasies include a never-ending supply of nachos, root beer, real chocolate-chip cookies, and a bottomless pitcher of maple syrup.

 

Who needs a phone when subway rides can be so entertaining? Was sitting across from a guy who had Doritos sticking out of his shopping bag. This was, of course, a natural invitation to begin a conversation, so I jumped right in, asking him how he had procured such a rare item. What should not have been a surprise, he was a US soldier. This shifted the entire conversation into an op-sec matter of international protection. A lull in the conversation left him vulnerable to the ramblings of a stoned German freak which lasted until the brave trooper disembarked.

 

After the GI departed, the stoned German shifted his focus, and started acid rapping me about when the Americans were going to leave Berlin. I was impressed—not only with the smooth segue he made from the soldier and the civilian—but also with the fact that I could understand acid rapping in German. His non-stop monologue consisted of asking when the Americans were leaving, how he had drunk something with a strange, unknown pill at a café, and the fact that he could make spiders appear and disappear at will.

 

We approached the main downtown train stop. I considered reminding him that this was his stop, figuring that since all the other freaks get off here, he must also want to detrain. Decided this was rude, and my new friend kept on riding and rapping. I’d never seen a freak ride away from the Zoologischer Garten before, and figured he was just riding the U-Bahn because it was cold outside.

 

At the next stop he made signs like he was about to get off, but first had to finish telling me something important. The average time a subway car has its doors open per stop is about twenty seconds. His tale, however, took much longer than twenty seconds, and he was going to finish it—with his own interruptions and everything. After about a minute, this underground prophet tied all his loose ends together, disappeared a spider one last time, calmly got up, and exited just before the doors closed and the train sped off.

 

I was marveling at the cosmic timing of acid heads when a third passenger leaned over and asked, “Do you know that person?"

 

Not sure how effective my attempts at a Teutonic accent are working. I think I managed a guffaw with a hint of an umlaut.

 

take care, Tödd

 

copyright 1992 by Todd Strong

 

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