tenth - 13 specimens of an introverted journey
Write, write, write. Work, work, work. Eat, eat, eat. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Wake up when the alarm barks, I keep telling myself. Keep up to date. Keep on going. Keep it together. Keep up your face. Keep up your body. Keep shaving and keep tweezing. One day at a time, until the days are attached into chains of weeks. You have a reputation. You have responsibilities.
My train pulls into Mieste, a small, East-German town; it is a dorf of a few thousand people, some still living behind an invisible wall. I am visiting a colleague who has invited Americans to experience a real town living out its own history, a haven from an all-enveloping global 'progress.' He has six Americans in tow. The neighbours watch curiously from the windows at our small parade down the streets. One yells enthusiastically, "Herr Joey! You've brought Americans!" He sees me. "Ach, and a Japanese as well!"
We come bearing gifts of our culture: beer bongs, vomit, wild laughter. Everyone throws up during the weekend, mostly in the local bar. There is a broken hand, two bloody noses, and other minor casualties. I watch from the sidelines, an uneasy participant in this competitive fraternity.
A local family teaches us the art of asparagus hunting. White nubs poke through mounds of fresh farm dirt, and using a hoe and chisel, we dig them out for a few hours, later tossing them into a large metal pot. The mother of the family cooks us a wonderful meal, while the father pours us shots of fiery absinthe and a strong peppery alcohol similar to Jägermeister.
Hugs are exchanged, strange memories formed, and we all have email addresses. One of our company drunkly falls into a pond, and we strip him naked so he can wash all the green pond scum off of his body and hair. The mother dresses him in a jean jacket and her husband's pajamas. She says that he can keep the towels.
Now I am in Berlin staring at Angela Merkel from the glass interior of the Reichstag. She is burning in a red dress. Cherry red without the lacquer. She is observing a speech by other members of parliament. Her gaze is confident, but I can't help but wonder if she's thinking, "What the hell am I doing here."
Welcome to Germany. Welcome to Berlin. Welcome to the Reichstag. I mean, Wilkommen. Bureaucratic speeches. Logistical speeches. Emotional speeches. Speeches of gratitude. I feel German because...I am German because...Ich fühle mich Deutsch, weil...Ich bin Deutscher, weil... Following all the talk, we are invited to a BBQ party at an ambassador's house who is out of town. The setup is just like high school graduation in the States. American flags decorate the neatly trimmed lawns. Hip hop blares for a young white audience. Hot dogs (Wurst) and hamburgers (in Brötchen) are served. It's a close simulation. Oh, and no liquor. I thought we were in Germany?
"Hey, you! What are you taking pictures of?"
I respond to the plain clothes security officer, "the house."
"Well, stop. No pictures allowed."
I meet up with the Scottish artist, Andrew in Berlin. I fall asleep with two of my friends in his studio after a night at a pub. He tries kicking us awake. He is mad. "WAKE UP! THERE'S MORE BEER!" He spits on us but with no response. Did I mention he was Scottish?
The rest of the weekend is a blur, dancing at a gay punk bar, followed by more dancing at a club where the sun greets the river, rising at the tip of your feet. A wall of glass. More dancing at Panorama Bar. Everyone is tweaked out at 7 in the morning except yourself. Sometimes you ask yourself why. Fast forward several hours. Riding a train to Prague. Another to Kutna Hora. Cheap Czech beers under the sun next to a church decorated in bones. Not just any bones. They are remnants of those that died during war and the Plague. They are soaked in tragedy and arranged in almost a kitsch style. I take another bite of my fried cheese.
I meet up with a good friend. We have a good rendezvous track record. Dec, 8th - Berlin. Jan, 1st - Prague. Feb, 25 - Cologne. We will be seeing each other in Croatia soon. She introduces me to her Norwegian artist friend. He once went to the Norwegian court dressed in full army uniform. He began undressing until only a metal helmet remained on the curve of his head. It was a performance to fight mandatory army duty. He was born into this costume, and he wanted out. The court allowed it. It worked. He was excused from the army.
The wind blew through her hair as the three of us rested our chins obediently on the window ledges. The countryside smeared into a colorful mush.
My fizzy beverage exploded upon the twist of the cap, and I thought, "Well what a perfectly awful moment for a photograph." We shared a farewell hug, and I returned to Cologne.