Die fetten Jahren sind

“The television event America has been waiting for.” The ABC promo teased me and prodded me and let me know exactly where I stood in regards to American culture. I hadn’t even heard of the show that was being featured, much less did I realize there was an episode all of America had set in their collective calendars to catch.

I finally, completely, unpacked my suitcase from the big move this past week. After sifting through red-yellow-black Hula necklaces and tiny boxes that, when wound, play Motzart’s “Nachtmusik”, I found myself scraping up dust from chunks of the Berlin Wall and glitter that had fallen off of children’s goodbye cards, all forming a collective mosaic at the bottom of my suitcase. It’s amazing how a box full of nothing can mean the world to some peole.

I still haven’t hung memories on the wall or scattered my shelves with souveniers from Europe. They are all sitting in a large drawer next to my desk in an ordered heap of memories. It’s unusual because hanging trinkets and dangling momentos is my thing.

I’m happy here in New York. Really. I am. But I’m allowed to be sentimental, right? I’m allowed to wake up at night and not know exactly where I am, thinking I’m back in good old Lenbachstr 1 with Ulla and the Happy Pig beneath me and Duc down at the foodmart, talking to me about girls and asking me for English mini-lessons. I loved that neighborhood.

The other day, New Mexico State University came across my desk at work and it reminded me of this guy from the Kiez - he was from New Mexico and was always wearing an NMSU hat. We got to talking one night at the pub, I’d always seen him around, really friendly guy, but he invited me out to his buddy’s bookstore - there was a party going on. Really, a party in the bookstore. Full bar and everything. So whenever conversation died down, you just picked up a book and either a) removed yourself from the social pressures or b) elicited a new conversation with your book choice. And somehow through it all, and this is really the catch, it remained totally unpretentious. Eitherwho, so this guy named Boris gets on stage with his guitar. I’d seen him around a bit as well. He led a Russian Rock/Punk band called The Flashbacks, easily my most favoritest band in Berlin. But he get’s on stage, just him and his guitar on this little home-made box of an elevated stage, and he breaks into Katjusha. Everything in the room stopped: all eyes and ears and every-other-sense organ were on Boris. A band had played earlier, but to the usual party affair of background music / nice filler. But this… it was the only time in my life that I’ve ever seen that kind of reaction from on audience in regards to the musician, myself included in the bunch. But I digress…

As I mentioned, I’m happy here in New York. I am. Really.