xangst

I met this dude from Madagascar on the boat ride between Sweden and Germany.  He was a cool looking guy with dread-locks and rainbow colored clothing.  There was a nice bar area on the boat and everyone was making their way to it.  The protocol was to order a tall beer, probably Stella Artois or something.  Once the beer started flowing, we started talking about our individual journeys.  He was on his way to Berlin to hook up with some relatives.  He lived in Gothenburg, Sweden and had lived there for most of his life.  Apparently, his family had migrated up from Madagascar to Sweden to find work and a better way of life. Sweden, especially Gothenburg, was fast becoming a multi-racial country.  This guy had been there awhile, so he was quite assimilated.  The newer arrivals were being met with some racial backlash, but for the most part, indifference was the order of the day during the 90’s. 

            As we chatted and drank the night away, the boat started its long journey over the Baltic Sea.  It was exciting to think that we were now crossing the great Baltic Sea.  After all, this was the sea that the Germans had fought fiercely to protect during WWII.  It was also the site where the Russians defended against the Swedes during the Great Northern War in the 1700’s.  It was then, under Peter the Great, that Russia began to take its rightful place on the world stage.  This sea had seen it all, right up until the Cold War ended.  So here we were, a couple of new comrades making our own journey across.  It was definitely a moment to think about.  This was going to be my first time visiting Germany.  I was a little fearful as to the reception I would receive.  In a sense I over-prepared myself for my German visit, ultimately setting myself up for a complete culture shock.  I would go into Germany with somewhat negative presumptions about its people and its past.  These preconceived thoughts would alter my initial mindset, yet would also reinforce some of my ideas. 

            Once the boat docked, we soon transferred to a train bound for Berlin.  Here is when I made first contact with the German masses.  Right off the bat, I noticed something was unusual.  The people were definitely more stoic in manner and appearance.  Not realizing this was their natural way; I soon started to take offense.  My friend didn’t seem fazed at all.  I guessed he was used to it.  The people on the train stared at the interaction between me and my Madagascar friend.  I went straight for the race card in my mind, thinking that nothing had changed here in Germany since the days of Hitler.  Obviously this was quite naive and marked the beginning of my culture shock experience.  I automatically assumed that these people didn’t approve of my conversing with a black man and showed their disdain with nasty looks and scowling stares. 

            We neared the great city and I started to stare out the window, watching everything move past me.  One thing I noticed right away was the graffiti.  It was everywhere on the walls and bridges.  This was a common sight across Europe, especially when entering the cities by train.  We soon passed the Reichstag and I noticed that something was going on there.  A white sheet material covered the entire building.  It was a though the building was covered by a big white mask.  I automatically jumped to the nearest racial conclusion.  This must be some kind of ritual practiced by the local white supremacists.  Of course, I was way off base.  I found out later that the artist Christo was behind the masking of the building.  But at that moment, I was starting to create a narrow-minded picture in my head.  At the center of this picture was an unchanged German state, still wallowing in the bitter past.

            With my mind racing, we finally pulled into the station.  Here is where the fun really began.  We had not landed at the modern West Berlin terminal.  Our final stop was the East Berlin station.  It was the mid-nineties and this side of the city was still trying to catch up to its western cousin.  All of the buildings were quite drab in appearance and looked as if they were from another age.  In fact, the whole atmosphere seemed to cling to the days right after WWII, with everything frozen in time.  This was especially true of the people working at the train station.  My friend and I started to work our way up to the counter to find out how to get to the other side, to the modern world.  My friend went first.  Then something happened that seemed to justify all of my mixed thoughts about this strange city.  The man behind the counter refused to help my friend with any of his questions.  It was a mad scenario.  They would not talk to him.  They would not even acknowledge his existence.  I freaked out.  My American arrogance kicked in and soon I was up at the counter defending my friend.  I demanded that he be helped and that his questions be answered.  They were clearly taken aback by my aggressive stance.  Whether to keep things calm or just finally giving in, they quickly helped my friend and then myself.  The crowd seemed to usher us away after this ordeal and we soon found our way to our connecting train to the other side of the city.  By this time, the culture shock was kicking into high gear.  I was immediately on the defensive and now looked for troubling signs of aggression from the people.  My friend still seemed quite calm, as though everything happening was the norm.

            Once we reached the West Side, everything chilled a bit.  We walked around for awhile and I noticed the people staring again.  Maybe I was just paranoid by this point.  But hey, that is what was going through my mind at the time.  On the subway, my friend suddenly jumped up and went over to another black guy.  This was his cousin, the one he was coming to see.  They started talking in their own language and soon bid me farewell.  I was now alone.  I went back up to the street to finish my tour of the city.  Now the stares were gone and everyone appeared to be smiling at me.  It was as if a dark cloud had lifted off my shoulder and all was good now.  They readily accepted me as a visitor of their lovely city and what was theirs was now mine.  Perhaps this was my paranoid mind at work, who knows.  In my mind the damage had been done.  I didn’t feel welcome here and my plans to stay the night were out the window. 

Before leaving Berlin, my one goal was to see the remnants of  The Wall.  Obviously I couldn’t leave without seeing this famous site.  Pieces of The Wall had been left up as a reminder of the past and the many lives lost because of it.  It was an eerie sight.  There were quotes and sayings all over the remaining pieces of  The Wall.  At my feet were makeshift tombstones lying flat all over the place.  On those slabs were the names of the lives lost trying to get over The Wall from the East to the West.  They seemed to represent the final resting spots for these poor souls searching for freedom.  I soon realized that some of the victims were children.  They too had been shot down in cold blood by the Russians manning The Wall.  It looked as if some had made it over the wall, only to be pinpointed by a sharpshooter, then struck down as they ran away from The Wall.  To walk along The Wall and see how history unfolded over the 30-odd years that it existed was a great experience.  The experience really gave me a feeling of gratitude for the easy life I was now living.  I would never know this type of hardship.  I would never feel the fear of being gunned down in search of freedom.  It was a true soul-searching moment and I took it all in. 

After my time at the Wall, I tried to search out Hitler’s bunker, but never found the exact spot.  I did come across a field that a local said was the spot, but I never knew for sure.  I stared out across the field thinking about the events of that fateful day when his grotesque world was collapsing around him.  His reign was over and the only thing remaining was a fenced off field for people like me to stare across.  Another site in the city also caught my eye.  In fact, you couldn’t miss it and that was exactly the point.  In the middle of the busy city center of West Berlin was a bombed-out old church.  Most of the structure still stood, except for the roof where the sunlight now shone through.  It was indeed a stark reminder of the effects of WWII on this once beautiful city.

My time was over in Berlin and I had decided not to stay the night.  I wanted to leave this place of mixed emotions and try to find a less complicated scenario. Budapest was my next stop.  I yearned to rid myself of Germany, never looking back.  I know that my culture-shocked and paranoid mind took me down the wrong path many times during my visit to Germany.  Yet, I was still not ready to overcome these thoughts and embrace the country as I should.  I was scared and at that moment only wanted to flee.  Perhaps my views would change when I ventured back across the border again one day.

We were nearing the end of our month-long trip backpacking around Europe, and the mighty city of Madrid was our last stop.  At least it was for me, I was quickly running out of money and had to head back to the States after Madrid.  My pal, Khan, still had some bread left, so he was going to stay an extra week.  Yet, this was it for me and damned if I wasn’t going to enjoy our last official stop on our European tour.

Upon entering the city, we immediately checked into an apartment-hostel.  In reality, they are called hostels but you are really staying in the extra rooms of someone’s house.  An elderly couple was in charge of the one we checked into.  They seemed very nice at first, yet did apply a strict curfew to their rooms.  I believe we had to be in by 1am; otherwise the doors would be locked.  With this in the back of our minds, we headed out on the town to see the sights of the night.  First stop: Burger King.  No, we weren’t hungry, though we did grab a bite to eat there as well.  The main reason was to drink beer.  Yes, that is right, we went to BK to drink beer.  It was great.  You could order a 24oz draft beer for a couple of bucks.  We saw this as excellent value, especially since we were down to our last few bills.

The plan was to go to BK and get a head start on the night’s drinking in a very cheap way.  Once we had satisfied ourselves with enough beer, we would then head out to the clubs for dancing.  In fact, when we went up to the counter to order our first beers, we stayed standing a little to the right of the main counter, drinking away.  So in effect, we created a bar scene atmosphere right there in BK.  Before too long, a few other patrons joined us in beers and conversation.  This soon forced the management of the place to close off a section of the counter to accommodate it’s new “bar” patrons.  It was really a trip, drinking big beers and sharing some great conversation in the middle of a BK.  Only in Europe could you experience something like this.

As our group grew larger, we soon noticed 2 lovely American girls from Chicago.  The 4 of us hit it off right from the start.  They too were backpacking around Europe in search of adventure and good times.  After a few drinks at BK, the four of us now headed off as one group to hit the club scene.  We had a blast that night.  One of the more memorable spots was a jazzed up club in the heart of Madrid.  It was here that we proceeded to dance a good portion of the night away.  One dance I remember doing was the “Macarena”.  At the time, this song was hot in Europe and hadn’t even made it’s way over to the States yet.  So, in essence, we got to dance the “Macarena” before anyone back home.

By the end of the night, we had obviously passed our hostel curfew.  The girls also asked if they could stay with us, since they had not checked in anywhere and needed a place to crash.  Once back at the hostel, we finally managed to wake up the elderly couple.  They were not happy and kept referring to the curfew.  Needless to say, we got past this lecture and made our way to our room.  The next part of the plan was sneaking the girls in.  We knew darn well that the couple would disapprove of this action.  They would see this as trying to pay for a room for 2 and having 2 more come along for free.  We didn’t see it that way –we saw the girls as guests to the room we already paid for.

Initially, all seemed to go well.  We managed to get the girls in without creating much of a stir.  However, 10 minutes later, in came the couple shouting and screaming that we were trying to cheat them.  They immediately told the girls to leave and even threatened to evict us if we didn’t follow the rules.  We obviously didn’t want to lose our beds, so we told the girls to take off.  Unfortunately, the girls had to sleep outside for the night in a park down the street.  These things happen when you are packing around Europe.  Sometimes you have to brave the elements.  When this occurs, it is best to drink a few beers, so that it will be easier to pass out on the hard earth.  Before they went off into the night, we told them to meet us the next day to go to a bullfight.

To our surprise, the girls did show up the next day, though they looked a little rough from their sleepless night.  The big day was upon us.  One of my goals on this trip was to see a real-life Spanish bullfight.  I wanted to see what Hemingway had seen.  I wanted to feel the excitement of the fight as Ernest had so soulfully described it in his many novels.  We headed off to the Madrid arena with a sense of thrill in our step.  We didn’t know what to expect.  All we knew was that people cheered the killing of bulls.  It was a horrible image to see an animal being treated so cruelly, all at the expense of entertainment.  Yet, it was a revered pastime, with a very loyal following.  Hey, if the locals were good with it, then maybe I could be too.  We were about to find out.

The arena was an awesome Coliseum-like structure.  On this day, there were going to be 3 matadors engaging with the bulls.  Outside, there were souvenir tents everywhere.  I bought a cool poster with the date and names of the matadors.  We soon entered the packed arena and found our seats on the sunny side.  The sunny side was where the cheaper seats were, with the shady side being more comfortable and therefore more expensive.  Once seated, we quickly ordered a few bottles of San Miguel from a man walking around with a bucket of beer on his shoulder.  At that moment, you couldn’t ask for a better scenario –sipping cold beers with great company and waiting for the excitement of a bullfight to begin.

When the event started, our eyes quickly focused on the first bull in the arena.  This would be the first of six bulls to face the sword.  The matador had yet to make his entrance.  As the bull made his way around the circle of sand on the floor of the arena, a few men on armored horses entered the scene.  I soon found out that it was their job to weaken the bull with mortal wounds by piercing the bull with long heavy swords.  So, this wasn’t going to be a fair fight between the bull and the matador.  By the time the matador entered the ring, the bull would be half in the bag and ultimately bleeding to death.  Thus, it was only in this near-death state that the matador could have any chance of slaying the bull single-handedly.

The matador entered the ring with all the majesty of a sitting king.  He had his trademark red cape and began to showoff his skill with it.  He taunted the bull in every direction.  It was a magnificent display of hypnosis between man and beast.  The final moment soon arrived and the man rose up with the shining sword to strike down the helpless beast.  You could see the blade going deep into the neck area of the bull.  As the sword was pulled out slowly, you could see the life of the bull withering away.  Once the matador moved away, the bull made a few drunken steps and collapsed into the dust of the afternoon.

Seeing the first bull die, I felt nothing but pity for the bull and hatred towards the matador.  Yet, as the show continued, I began to look past the unnecessary act of death and started to admire the skill of the matadors.  This is what the crowd was there to see.  They wanted to see the skill of the matador in full display.  They did not care about the fate of the bull. They only cared for the thrill of the moment and the skill level at which it were executed by the matador.  When the matador displayed a flawless act of killing, the crowd went wild with praise.  The matador was then given permission to cut off the ears of the bull.  He would then present the ear to the local political official overseeing the event.  One time, he threw the ear into the crowd and I almost managed to catch it.  On the flip side, when the matador was slightly grazed by the horns of the bull, the crowd would boo him for being too slow and not graceful enough.  As for the rest of the bull, I learned that the meat goes to the poorer sections of town.

We were emotionally drained by the time the last bull was dragged out of the arena by the team of horses.  It had been an exceptional experience to see how and why this ancient sport still thrived in our modern world.  Later that night we bid farewell to the girls from Chicago and soon said goodbye to Madrid as well.   I would eventually manage to get the poster home in good enough shape to frame it and stick it on the wall.  Now, when I look at it, I always go back to that exciting day of life and death.