Fear & Loathing in Germany: World Cup Part 2
Fear & Loathing In Germany: World Cup 2006
Part 2
by
Jim Marquez
*Tried downloading 100 photos to flash drive from new digital camera, 1G chip, in a cyber café run by, as all the these cafes in Europa, the Turks, Iranians, Pakistani, Indian, & Iraqis; they corner the Internet market. Good for them. But, with German technology, my photos get erased and my chip fried.
*Still need to work on new book. Damn drunk!
*Called KATRINA, my love, my future wife. I’m happy as hell to have met this goddess on train over from Amsterdam, elated to have snagged her number. Waited the requisite 3 days. This is the one. A real woman! And this is what I hear: “Sorry, the number you have reached is not in service.”
It’s official: God hates me.
June 15, Cologne:
*Hunters Take Shots At Bruno The Bear!
Vets spray bear piss, from a female they have at a zoo, to try to trap Bruno. He reportedly sniffs the wooded area, becomes disinterested, and lumbers off. Closer examination determines Bruno to be about 1 years old. Too young to care about girls but still hungry like the wolf. Bruno tears through hen houses, sheep pens, barns, and storage containers for grub while on his loopy ramble through southern Germany. Locals are incensed. Bounty on Bruno’s head upped to 50,000 Euros.
The brown buffalo, on the other hand likes the females, so for a quick 10 euro taxi ride outside of city center I hit the local, very legal brothel. “PASCHA”.
Pascha! Pascha! Pascha!
5 Euro entry fee. Class joint. 7 floors in a converted hotel, each room rented by the women for daily shifts. Dark hallways, carpeted walls, chandeliers, musty scent, sound proof, shhhhhh; this afternoon the place empty, relaxed. Stroll the floors at leisure. See the “Glory Hole” room. The “Dungeon”. The “Car Sex” room--yes, for extra cash you can have sex in the back seat of a VW Bug. I don’t even wanna know how the hell they got a car up five flights of stairs and squeezed into one of the rooms. Floors 5-7 is tranny heaven, from what I’m told, and there’s even a hair dresser & haberdashery for your grooming needs.
Bulgarian. 25 years old. 50 euros. Clean, comfortable, cozy; less rushed & manic as in The ‘Dam. My God, what convenience! I love PASCHUA!
After, have beer at one of the bars they have set up on each floor. Snacks too. Grinning Russian bartender says, “Don’t want to troll the hallways like some kind of deviant? Well, hell, buddy, meet some of the girls in our ‘bar setting’, just like picking up a chick out in the real world, only ours are smart enough to get paid for it! HAR! HAR! HAR!”
Must tell Joey.
June 16, Cologne:
*Can’t stay away from Starbucks. Second visit. Goddamn mystery what they really put in the coffee. Few days without it and the headaches come. You know what I mean.
*I like how the locals look at me: they’ve seen Americans before, the big, blonde, blue-eyed giants from the plains states, but never the bulky, Mexican-American from East Los Angeles; 4 world cups, 7 solo Euro treks, 200+ women under my belt; a battle scarred buffalo with blood-shot red eyes & a grumpy disposition.
*Two fan fests in Cologne every night for matches. One behind the cathedral closest to posh hotels and old rich fucks that only want one beer then go to sleep early. The other by the Rhine River, three minutes further walk, a drunkard’s wet dream: bar after bar lined up, ready for the plucking.
Here they have also have a gigantic plasma screen in a pent up area that holds exactly 5,000. Then, you’re cut off! The rest of us left to inebriated devices. Hoards scour the nether regions along with hundreds of police in riot gear; muzzled dogs strain their leashes, water cannons take aim, and tear gas riflemen pick targets.
War-like chants fill the air, drums beat, chairs tossed, bottles thrown, glass every-fucking-where; air horns blare, barkers sell everything from burnt Bratwurst to knock off souvenirs to weak whiskey; we slam into each other, tens of thousands caught on a blissful & unconscious boozed soaked wave called The World Cup!
At a corner meet 25 year old German chick, just off work from the fest. Exhausted. Drunk. Wants to smoke. I say, Joey has some shit. She says, where’s your hotel? I’ll go back with you guys. Cool. But where the fuck is Joey? Out gallivanting, hitting on everything that breathes. She coos into my ear, my boyfriend doesn’t know how to take care of my needs. Really, now? That bastard! So where’s your friend? Let me look, I say. Wait here. I run, poke my head into every bar on the street. Check the paddy wagon-tank they got parked off to the side. Run down to the river. Fuck! Come back, she’s still there, nice surprise. I’m hungry, she says. Let’s grab a salad, I offer. Sure. Pop into Kabob shop. Eat, buy big beers, flirt, graphic talk about oral sex; I’m outstanding by the way, I assure. Is your friend coming back? I really want to get high and fuck around. I implore, We don't need him. Yes, we do. No we don’t, it’s fine, let’s go take a walk by the river, I urge. And, we did.
After: And where the hell were you, man? Dude, there was this Mongolian chick. 19 years old! You bastard! We finish the night, as we did in Cologne on every other night, at this tiny Spanish tapas bar that closed at 5am. Got to be familiar faces, Flamenco cranking, friendly with the jefe, free drinks.
Ah, Cologne…
June 17, Kaiserslautern, Germany. 3 1/2 hours by train from Cologne. USA v Italy:
*Pre-game fest outstanding. Hundreds of thousands on streets. Slow moving train of fire breathing flesh. Hot like a bastard. Italians en masse. Street-wide national flags. Carnival parade pushes through. Alcohol splashed spectators. Foul trash-talking by both sides. And again, come match time, there are no stadium shuttles, no officials, no direction other than two volunteers saying “just a few minutes walk over there”. Turns out to be a 4 kilometer walk, up hill, and they don’t even bother blocking off the streets so we have to dodge traffic along the way. Barbarous…
Stadium holds 46,000. Surprisingly about 30,000 Americans. And we absolutely crushed the hell out of those turf-diving-pay-the-referee-bash- our-guys-in-the-faces-half-the-team-under-investigation-back-in-the-old country embarrassment that call themselves Team Italy. What a joke they are! We steamrolled over them. Put the fear of God in them. Outmanned them even though we played shorthanded due to obvious FIFA match fixing calls that would have never gone against Brazil or England or Mexico. And, just like the old days, put a stop to them dead in their tracks. 1-1. We were the only team Italy could NOT beat during their tournament run and ultimate World Cup championship.
The world witnessed true greatness on the pitch this day. Kesey Keller, our goalie, egged us on, and we responded by throwing seat cushions at the refs, money, beers, hats, fights broke out in the stands, shit they never showed on TV. A feral & ferocious air took over as we hollered, screeched, pounded the seats, stomped the ground, banged the drums; it became shamanistic, our voices carrying, penetrating another plane. Our boys took shit and flung it right back, saying fuck you; you will not get away with this!
Four world cups I’ve been to personally, and that’s the best goddamn play I have seen in 16 years of this madness. It was glorious. I was never prouder to be an American. WE DID NOT QUIT AND THEY COULD NOT BEAT US!
And there was nothing the Italian supporters could do about it. They didn’t expect this play, this support. How quiet they were at the end of the match as we shuffled back down the hill. They knew their team tried to pull the same boring bullshit they’re famous for, but this time it didn’t work, and they were speechless. We CAN play at the European level. If we beat Ghana the next match, and Italy beats the Czechs we move on.
A slow train, 5-freaking-hours for some goddamn reason, back to Cologne, is interminable.
June 18, Cologne:
*Tour the “El De Building”. The official Gestapo headquarters of the secret police 1935-1945. The cells still there, the interrogation room, the executioner’s courtyard outback, as are the prisoner’s scribbling on the walls. The archives; films, photos, documents are astounding to behold.
*Pascha again! Thai. 19. Wow. Think I’m in love. No, seriously…
*Must work on new book damn you!
June 19, Cologne:
*Tomorrow England v Sweden in Cologne. Tonight, 40,000 Englishmen storm city. A rowdy, frightening & joyous scene. Think last reel in “Ten Commandments”. Golden Calf time.
Stampeding madmen fill the streets by the river. Tables, chairs, patio umbrellas take flight, sail through storefronts. Scaling 100 foot high water fountain in town square then cliff diving into drunken masses below. Running naked through bars. Again, unfathomable piles of bottles, glass, car parts, furniture, food, trashcans, souvenir stands, fencing, piss, bodies, vomit, hollering national pride tunes, insults, foulness, all related to the war. “THERE WERE FIVE GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR! FIVE GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR. THEN THE RAF TOOK TO THE SKIES AND NOW THERE WERE FOUR GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR! FOUR …”
Deafening, giddy, snarling, fuckin’ tribal, man, and the police, to their credit, let them do whatever the hell they wanted. Oh sure, you saw Brits being discreetly muffled, thumped on the head, hog tied and dragged off by the troops, but despite the carnage there were no outright riots.
Joey & I stood at a corner. Every other nation’s supporter had taken refuge. Brave Swedes though encountered walls of Brits and spitting and cursing contests began, pushing, shoving, blurry swings and misses. I tied my Stars & Stripes around my neck. Somebody had to represent. Walk confidently into their midst…
“OY! ALLIES TO THE END, MATE!” Bear hugged, kissed on the cheek. Beers put into my hand. Slaps on the back. Photos taken. More beers in hand. Hugs. Raucous laughter. “BEST MATCH OF THE TOURNEY THE OTHER DAY BOYS! WAY TO SHOW THEM OPERA-DIVING DIVAS!” High fives. Handshakes. Smiles all around. “SAY ‘ALLO TO THE MISSUS WILL YA? SHE’S NEVER SPOKEN TO A REAL YANK BEFORE!” Man shoves his cell in my hand! More beers. “GOOD TO REPRESENT YOUR COLORS, LAD! NO OTHER AMERICANS OUT HERE!” More beers. Photos. Video. Hundreds of men, women, children, jumping on us, grabbing hands, kisses, hugs, wanting to pose with the flag, touch the flag, my hat, my hair, I felt like freakin’ Jesus! I felt like a rock star! Flabbergasted by response. In-fucking-credible!
6am. Joey & I the last staggering the streets. Out drank the English! Hoof prints and wreckage everywhere. Not a soul in sight. Joey bet me 2 euros I couldn’t climb the water fountain, and we were promptly arrested by German Police. Thought we were English. Passports shown. Laughter. Sent on our way. But not before jovial photos taken of arresting officers.
June 20: Last Day, Cologne:
*At station reserving seats on ICE train to Munich I hear, “Hey Jimmy!” I freeze. Who the fuck knows me here? Not good. Turn: pretty Asian girl in pink wool cap, smiling, waving me over with shopping bag in hand. Joey says, “You’re on your own, pal” I approach. Don’t recognize her. “It’s me! From Pascha!” What? Good God. Didn’t recognize her, you know, with clothes on. We do the kiss-on-each-cheek-Euro-greeting-thing. Um, that’s a pretty hat. Thank you, sweetie. So, how’s it going? Great, just getting some shopping done. How about you? Heading for Munich tomorrow. Really? So soon? Yes. You come see me later, we make love for real. What, for free? Cool.
Take Joey this time. Give him lowdown. I sit at bar, chill. Within 15 minutes he’s back. “All done!” What? You animal! “You find that chick of yours?” I just got here, man. Let me finish my drink for the love of God!
“I thought I heard your voice, saying ‘Hi’ to all the girls, what a gentleman! Now get inside!” I ask her to put on the pink wool cap. We go bareback. “Come in me,” she breathes into my ear. And, I did.
June 21, Munich:
*Gorgeous trek east across countryside. Did I see Bruno looping across a stream? Horrid walk though from train station-nasty humidity-not to find hostel, but actual hotel. Reserved: two beds, balcony. 80 euros. No AC though.
*Conservative town. Tough to find late night bars. Ask, poke around, tip doorman at swanky joint, then, happily stumble into an Irish pub of all places. Pumping international crowd. Loose Aussies. Hammered English chicks. Perfect. Put Levi’s Denim Jacket on hook with other coats, raining out. Order double Jameson-rocks. Turn back. Gone! Dammit! Find out this brand of clothing most stolen in Germany. Bartender mortified, says, drinks on the house all night! Well, if you insist…
Home early. 3am. Joey crashes. I sit on balcony, crack open Joey’s magic bag, pack some bowls, light up, slip on headphones, listen to soundtrack of “Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas”, and ride the wave…a man at peace.
To be continued…
books by me can be found at
http://www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez
Part 2
by
Jim Marquez
*Tried downloading 100 photos to flash drive from new digital camera, 1G chip, in a cyber café run by, as all the these cafes in Europa, the Turks, Iranians, Pakistani, Indian, & Iraqis; they corner the Internet market. Good for them. But, with German technology, my photos get erased and my chip fried.
*Still need to work on new book. Damn drunk!
*Called KATRINA, my love, my future wife. I’m happy as hell to have met this goddess on train over from Amsterdam, elated to have snagged her number. Waited the requisite 3 days. This is the one. A real woman! And this is what I hear: “Sorry, the number you have reached is not in service.”
It’s official: God hates me.
June 15, Cologne:
*Hunters Take Shots At Bruno The Bear!
Vets spray bear piss, from a female they have at a zoo, to try to trap Bruno. He reportedly sniffs the wooded area, becomes disinterested, and lumbers off. Closer examination determines Bruno to be about 1 years old. Too young to care about girls but still hungry like the wolf. Bruno tears through hen houses, sheep pens, barns, and storage containers for grub while on his loopy ramble through southern Germany. Locals are incensed. Bounty on Bruno’s head upped to 50,000 Euros.
The brown buffalo, on the other hand likes the females, so for a quick 10 euro taxi ride outside of city center I hit the local, very legal brothel. “PASCHA”.
Pascha! Pascha! Pascha!
5 Euro entry fee. Class joint. 7 floors in a converted hotel, each room rented by the women for daily shifts. Dark hallways, carpeted walls, chandeliers, musty scent, sound proof, shhhhhh; this afternoon the place empty, relaxed. Stroll the floors at leisure. See the “Glory Hole” room. The “Dungeon”. The “Car Sex” room--yes, for extra cash you can have sex in the back seat of a VW Bug. I don’t even wanna know how the hell they got a car up five flights of stairs and squeezed into one of the rooms. Floors 5-7 is tranny heaven, from what I’m told, and there’s even a hair dresser & haberdashery for your grooming needs.
Bulgarian. 25 years old. 50 euros. Clean, comfortable, cozy; less rushed & manic as in The ‘Dam. My God, what convenience! I love PASCHUA!
After, have beer at one of the bars they have set up on each floor. Snacks too. Grinning Russian bartender says, “Don’t want to troll the hallways like some kind of deviant? Well, hell, buddy, meet some of the girls in our ‘bar setting’, just like picking up a chick out in the real world, only ours are smart enough to get paid for it! HAR! HAR! HAR!”
Must tell Joey.
June 16, Cologne:
*Can’t stay away from Starbucks. Second visit. Goddamn mystery what they really put in the coffee. Few days without it and the headaches come. You know what I mean.
*I like how the locals look at me: they’ve seen Americans before, the big, blonde, blue-eyed giants from the plains states, but never the bulky, Mexican-American from East Los Angeles; 4 world cups, 7 solo Euro treks, 200+ women under my belt; a battle scarred buffalo with blood-shot red eyes & a grumpy disposition.
*Two fan fests in Cologne every night for matches. One behind the cathedral closest to posh hotels and old rich fucks that only want one beer then go to sleep early. The other by the Rhine River, three minutes further walk, a drunkard’s wet dream: bar after bar lined up, ready for the plucking.
Here they have also have a gigantic plasma screen in a pent up area that holds exactly 5,000. Then, you’re cut off! The rest of us left to inebriated devices. Hoards scour the nether regions along with hundreds of police in riot gear; muzzled dogs strain their leashes, water cannons take aim, and tear gas riflemen pick targets.
War-like chants fill the air, drums beat, chairs tossed, bottles thrown, glass every-fucking-where; air horns blare, barkers sell everything from burnt Bratwurst to knock off souvenirs to weak whiskey; we slam into each other, tens of thousands caught on a blissful & unconscious boozed soaked wave called The World Cup!
At a corner meet 25 year old German chick, just off work from the fest. Exhausted. Drunk. Wants to smoke. I say, Joey has some shit. She says, where’s your hotel? I’ll go back with you guys. Cool. But where the fuck is Joey? Out gallivanting, hitting on everything that breathes. She coos into my ear, my boyfriend doesn’t know how to take care of my needs. Really, now? That bastard! So where’s your friend? Let me look, I say. Wait here. I run, poke my head into every bar on the street. Check the paddy wagon-tank they got parked off to the side. Run down to the river. Fuck! Come back, she’s still there, nice surprise. I’m hungry, she says. Let’s grab a salad, I offer. Sure. Pop into Kabob shop. Eat, buy big beers, flirt, graphic talk about oral sex; I’m outstanding by the way, I assure. Is your friend coming back? I really want to get high and fuck around. I implore, We don't need him. Yes, we do. No we don’t, it’s fine, let’s go take a walk by the river, I urge. And, we did.
After: And where the hell were you, man? Dude, there was this Mongolian chick. 19 years old! You bastard! We finish the night, as we did in Cologne on every other night, at this tiny Spanish tapas bar that closed at 5am. Got to be familiar faces, Flamenco cranking, friendly with the jefe, free drinks.
Ah, Cologne…
June 17, Kaiserslautern, Germany. 3 1/2 hours by train from Cologne. USA v Italy:
*Pre-game fest outstanding. Hundreds of thousands on streets. Slow moving train of fire breathing flesh. Hot like a bastard. Italians en masse. Street-wide national flags. Carnival parade pushes through. Alcohol splashed spectators. Foul trash-talking by both sides. And again, come match time, there are no stadium shuttles, no officials, no direction other than two volunteers saying “just a few minutes walk over there”. Turns out to be a 4 kilometer walk, up hill, and they don’t even bother blocking off the streets so we have to dodge traffic along the way. Barbarous…
Stadium holds 46,000. Surprisingly about 30,000 Americans. And we absolutely crushed the hell out of those turf-diving-pay-the-referee-bash- our-guys-in-the-faces-half-the-team-under-investigation-back-in-the-old country embarrassment that call themselves Team Italy. What a joke they are! We steamrolled over them. Put the fear of God in them. Outmanned them even though we played shorthanded due to obvious FIFA match fixing calls that would have never gone against Brazil or England or Mexico. And, just like the old days, put a stop to them dead in their tracks. 1-1. We were the only team Italy could NOT beat during their tournament run and ultimate World Cup championship.
The world witnessed true greatness on the pitch this day. Kesey Keller, our goalie, egged us on, and we responded by throwing seat cushions at the refs, money, beers, hats, fights broke out in the stands, shit they never showed on TV. A feral & ferocious air took over as we hollered, screeched, pounded the seats, stomped the ground, banged the drums; it became shamanistic, our voices carrying, penetrating another plane. Our boys took shit and flung it right back, saying fuck you; you will not get away with this!
Four world cups I’ve been to personally, and that’s the best goddamn play I have seen in 16 years of this madness. It was glorious. I was never prouder to be an American. WE DID NOT QUIT AND THEY COULD NOT BEAT US!
And there was nothing the Italian supporters could do about it. They didn’t expect this play, this support. How quiet they were at the end of the match as we shuffled back down the hill. They knew their team tried to pull the same boring bullshit they’re famous for, but this time it didn’t work, and they were speechless. We CAN play at the European level. If we beat Ghana the next match, and Italy beats the Czechs we move on.
A slow train, 5-freaking-hours for some goddamn reason, back to Cologne, is interminable.
June 18, Cologne:
*Tour the “El De Building”. The official Gestapo headquarters of the secret police 1935-1945. The cells still there, the interrogation room, the executioner’s courtyard outback, as are the prisoner’s scribbling on the walls. The archives; films, photos, documents are astounding to behold.
*Pascha again! Thai. 19. Wow. Think I’m in love. No, seriously…
*Must work on new book damn you!
June 19, Cologne:
*Tomorrow England v Sweden in Cologne. Tonight, 40,000 Englishmen storm city. A rowdy, frightening & joyous scene. Think last reel in “Ten Commandments”. Golden Calf time.
Stampeding madmen fill the streets by the river. Tables, chairs, patio umbrellas take flight, sail through storefronts. Scaling 100 foot high water fountain in town square then cliff diving into drunken masses below. Running naked through bars. Again, unfathomable piles of bottles, glass, car parts, furniture, food, trashcans, souvenir stands, fencing, piss, bodies, vomit, hollering national pride tunes, insults, foulness, all related to the war. “THERE WERE FIVE GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR! FIVE GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR. THEN THE RAF TOOK TO THE SKIES AND NOW THERE WERE FOUR GERMAN BOMBERS IN THE AIR! FOUR …”
Deafening, giddy, snarling, fuckin’ tribal, man, and the police, to their credit, let them do whatever the hell they wanted. Oh sure, you saw Brits being discreetly muffled, thumped on the head, hog tied and dragged off by the troops, but despite the carnage there were no outright riots.
Joey & I stood at a corner. Every other nation’s supporter had taken refuge. Brave Swedes though encountered walls of Brits and spitting and cursing contests began, pushing, shoving, blurry swings and misses. I tied my Stars & Stripes around my neck. Somebody had to represent. Walk confidently into their midst…
“OY! ALLIES TO THE END, MATE!” Bear hugged, kissed on the cheek. Beers put into my hand. Slaps on the back. Photos taken. More beers in hand. Hugs. Raucous laughter. “BEST MATCH OF THE TOURNEY THE OTHER DAY BOYS! WAY TO SHOW THEM OPERA-DIVING DIVAS!” High fives. Handshakes. Smiles all around. “SAY ‘ALLO TO THE MISSUS WILL YA? SHE’S NEVER SPOKEN TO A REAL YANK BEFORE!” Man shoves his cell in my hand! More beers. “GOOD TO REPRESENT YOUR COLORS, LAD! NO OTHER AMERICANS OUT HERE!” More beers. Photos. Video. Hundreds of men, women, children, jumping on us, grabbing hands, kisses, hugs, wanting to pose with the flag, touch the flag, my hat, my hair, I felt like freakin’ Jesus! I felt like a rock star! Flabbergasted by response. In-fucking-credible!
6am. Joey & I the last staggering the streets. Out drank the English! Hoof prints and wreckage everywhere. Not a soul in sight. Joey bet me 2 euros I couldn’t climb the water fountain, and we were promptly arrested by German Police. Thought we were English. Passports shown. Laughter. Sent on our way. But not before jovial photos taken of arresting officers.
June 20: Last Day, Cologne:
*At station reserving seats on ICE train to Munich I hear, “Hey Jimmy!” I freeze. Who the fuck knows me here? Not good. Turn: pretty Asian girl in pink wool cap, smiling, waving me over with shopping bag in hand. Joey says, “You’re on your own, pal” I approach. Don’t recognize her. “It’s me! From Pascha!” What? Good God. Didn’t recognize her, you know, with clothes on. We do the kiss-on-each-cheek-Euro-greeting-thing. Um, that’s a pretty hat. Thank you, sweetie. So, how’s it going? Great, just getting some shopping done. How about you? Heading for Munich tomorrow. Really? So soon? Yes. You come see me later, we make love for real. What, for free? Cool.
Take Joey this time. Give him lowdown. I sit at bar, chill. Within 15 minutes he’s back. “All done!” What? You animal! “You find that chick of yours?” I just got here, man. Let me finish my drink for the love of God!
“I thought I heard your voice, saying ‘Hi’ to all the girls, what a gentleman! Now get inside!” I ask her to put on the pink wool cap. We go bareback. “Come in me,” she breathes into my ear. And, I did.
June 21, Munich:
*Gorgeous trek east across countryside. Did I see Bruno looping across a stream? Horrid walk though from train station-nasty humidity-not to find hostel, but actual hotel. Reserved: two beds, balcony. 80 euros. No AC though.
*Conservative town. Tough to find late night bars. Ask, poke around, tip doorman at swanky joint, then, happily stumble into an Irish pub of all places. Pumping international crowd. Loose Aussies. Hammered English chicks. Perfect. Put Levi’s Denim Jacket on hook with other coats, raining out. Order double Jameson-rocks. Turn back. Gone! Dammit! Find out this brand of clothing most stolen in Germany. Bartender mortified, says, drinks on the house all night! Well, if you insist…
Home early. 3am. Joey crashes. I sit on balcony, crack open Joey’s magic bag, pack some bowls, light up, slip on headphones, listen to soundtrack of “Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas”, and ride the wave…a man at peace.
To be continued…
books by me can be found at
http://www.LuLu.com/JimMarquez
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