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Brandenberg Gate

A picture of a picture of a picture of history

Not sure what’s going on here

The Berlin Wall

Tango by the River Spree

Kreuzberg

Sunrise over Munich

Odeonplatz, Munich

Prost!

Dublin

Slainte!

Temple Bar, Dublin

Exit

Stage

Left

Transatlantic West

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“Traveler’s Song” – The Fruit Bats

“Out in the world when your only friend is a traveler’s song/When your time and your money and your best girl are gone.”

Where to begin about the ending of this whole wonderful rigamarole? How to reflect 5,000 miles from where I was? Contrivedly, probably, but I will try.

First there was a whirlwind tour of that gritty, pretty city, Berlin. I found a kind friend’s flat, dropped my bag and headed straight to the center as I hadn’t much time: two nights and it was already evening. The train wound through still un-built ruins of WWII into Berlin’s Hauptbanhof, the busiest train station in Europe. I walked out into the cool, gray evening straight to Brandenberg Gate, symbol of peace, spoil and survivor of war. Today you can walk freely through, east, west, north and south; young guys dressed as American and British troops stamp tourists “visas” for a fee, waive flags. Napolean and Hitler are history.

A lone guard patrolled the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe telling people not to stand on the concrete blocks. A five-minute walk away stood a thin, crumbling remnant of the Berlin Wall. It looked sinister but also so fragile — a sad testament to the fact that walls don’t solve the problems of division.

I meandered further, down toward the River Spree where a crowd gathered in the Lustgarten at the columned entrance to the city’s Old Museum. A giant neon for an ancient art exhibition read: “ALL ART HAS BEEN CONTEMPORARY.” The evening’s last light wrapped itself around the Berliner Dom church, a band of bright peach atop the turquoise metal dome.

I followed the river for awhile, had a beer, watched tango dancers embrace and glide by the water. I ate slowly and headed back out. Met an actor from New Jersey (A.K.A. Sgt. McLean) in the subway station. I asked for directions, he was headed to the same area, “long story long” we headed to the same club in a formerly abandoned building. Inside, artists, DJs, hipsters, travelers, and other nefarious characters mingled and danced in a seemingly autonomous enclave in the middle of the city. We left at dawn. I got off the subway at Berlin’s famous K-Dom street. Once above, the bombed steeple of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church stood eerily in the soft morning light, construction cranes hanging idly around. The old and the new; another stark reminder of war’s indiscriminate destruction.

After a brief sleep I headed back out roaming the former east side, Kreuzberg and the Kottbusser Tor bridge that separated but now unites Berlin. I walked by the East Side Gallery where a riverside stretch of the Wall is covered with incendiary art turning a tool of hate into a bright symbol of life. I explored Gorlitzer and eventually out to Prenzlauer Berg where I ate a delicious orange risotto with celery and red peppercorns at Slow Imbiss. And a glass of white wine, then a tram, a short train and a bit more sleep.

Woke up with precious little time left to see the New Berlin Gallery before catching my ride back to Munich. Such was my luck, the museum had a huge Dada and John Heartfield exhibition, not to mention Klaus Staeck; biting, brilliant, satirical, beautiful art using the very tools of the war and propaganda machines against themselves. Was inspired, ate a kebap, watched a summer squall blow rain into the city. Caught a train and then a BMW on the autobahn back to my temporary Bavarian home. My lovely hosts greeted me with new vinyl, a glass of wine and a wonderful meal.

Then came my last few days in Europe. There were beer gardens, of course, more aimless urban wandering, a visit to the Neue Pinakothek where paintings by Klimt, Van Gogh, Degas, Cézanne, Gauguin, Matisse, Manet and Monet greeted my eyes and pleased my spirit. A last sidewalk dinner with friends (maybe the best lamb I’ve ever eaten), Manhattans and cigarettes as we distilled the virtues and vices of the world. Then it was goodbye to Bavaria and tschüs to my fruende (danke Seth & Nadege!). Then to the bus, to the train, to the airport, to the plane.

I spent one too-brief night in Dublin. Drank two Guinness, one Jameson and crossed the bridge back to a short sleep. Chewed a cup of Nescafe in the morning and found my way to the delayed plane waiting to take me home. And then, suddenly, it was over. It wasn’t the grandest or the most adventurous adventure, but damnit, it was fun.

So now the retrospecticus, the recollections, regrets and revelery. First, music:

“You Only Live Once” – The Strokes

I lament that I did not see France, Italy, Greece, Eastern Europe, the Netherlands, Scandinavia, the UK, etc. Ah well, they’ve been there thousands, nay, millions of years. They’ll be there when I have enough dollars to return. There’s just too much to see in Europe: the ruins and the restoration; the tradition and transcendence; the tragic and beautiful history; the classy and the trashy; the humor and the humorless; the languages and senses of history as both part and parcel of an elusive whole. As one man I met appropriately said of Europe, “So many small countries with so many big personalities.”

To every stranger who showed so much kindness and hospitality to a traveler, thank you. To every hand that ever handed me a glass of wine, every farmer and artisan who produced the cheese I ate, every conductor, driver, captain and pilot who saw me through it safely. To everyone who opened up their home and life, thank you: I am a richer person for it all.

I will miss Europe’s ornate cities, the lovely plazas, the fountains and promenades, the romance. I will miss the music of the streets, the accordion player wooing lovers on the bridge, the tables the people gather around for such wonderful, leisurely meals. I raise a goodbye glass to you, Europe, whoever you are: Here’s to your style and Godspeed on your journey toward a complicated but magnificent union. Thanks and ciao, friends!

The time spent living freely, answering only to the whim and happenstance of myself at a particular moment surely was sweet. As the modern economy still shook from a blow to its core, I wandered working only a little for food and bed, relaxing and worrying less about moving so fast and accruing so much and scrapping so haplessly for the last free money. It seemed a fitting way to endure this so-called crisis. The hardship is of course all too real for too many vulnerable people, but we in the perpetual motion of the Western world needed a good helping of home-cooked humble pie; a walk in the park when we once went to a bad movie; an evening spent making dinner instead of watching fools fake reality on TV; a bike ride where once we drove; a morning spent alone when once we fumbled for numbers on our phones; a sense of community when it was once everybody for themselves.

To be part of the world at such a particularly hectic point in time and to have lived only from what I could carry felt an apt answer to the economic jitters of our excess, shortsightedness and material clutter. I don’t have any particular insight other than being able to say it was a breath of fresh air. No phone, no job, just a dwindling bank account clock above my days, a camera to follow, a journal to wax terribly poetically in, a hat I still have (not without near losses), a few souvenirs, postcards, memorable meals, impassioned conversations, new friends, strange encounters, love letters, scenic views. Good livin’.

Four planes later and I found myself fortunate to be back in my good girl’s good graces and again around family, friends and a familiar landscape to put me at ease. So here I am, compelled home by love and money. This transient American now has a proper job. There is even still some summer left, still time to savor all that is short and sweet. So disfrutas, amigos! See you out there in the scenic world. I’ll leave you with a video from my moment of fame as a Portuguese rock star and a song to close the curtain to. Exit, stage West.

“After the Curtain” – Beirut

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