Fear & Loathing in Germany: World Cup Part 3
Fear & Loathing in Germany: World Cup 2006
Final Installment-Part3
by
Jim Marquez
Final Installment-Part3
by
Jim Marquez
June 22, Nuremburg: USA v. Ghana
*Third & last opening round match. 40 minutes outside new home base of Munich. Nurm a medieval town, wish we could’ve explored. The freakin’ trials were here, man! But badly hung over. No dicking around this time. Make for stadium.
And what a blessing: 10 minute commuter train/5 minute walk. Voila! ‘bout fuckin’ time we get to a match easy instead of the hell we went through back in Gelsenkirchen & Kasierslautern for the other two.
Stadium: half the crowd from the Italian match where we slapped some respect back into those turf-divers to a 1-1 tie. Great seats here, 10 rows behind goal, but sense air is flat. There’s no tingle in the groin. We heard Italy is already up 1-0 over Czech so a win here would advance us.
But we come out flat. That miracle of 5 days ago took a lot out of our boys. That listlessness transfers to the crowd. Try to holler, rile up the troops, but no go. Ghana is huge, smart, surprising how they control match. They go up 1-0 quickly, but we tie in minute 90. Life anew! We can do this after all!
Then last minute of stoppage time we get called for a non-existent take down in the box. Penalty Kick is awarded by German referee Markus Merk and we know then the fix is in. Germany will NOT let the U.S. make the next round. Damn near defeated them Cup ’02 in the semis. This is their revenge, for many things no doubt.
Second half Ghana takes out our captain Claudio Reyna, shattering his knee. The ref conveniently scratching his ass elsewhere and no red card pulled. The air is let out. All hope is lost for those that dared enter.
We watch Ghana jump for joy as they advance to play a sub-par Brazil. Joey & I stew. Miserable in our seats. Dark faces. Frustrated. Too old for this. Sulking & bitter. Off myself….
June 23, Munich:
*Consider blowing off Berlin for Budapest. Get email from Joey’s distant relatives, he’s half Austrian. They’re visiting from neighboring town. Let’s meet for coffee. Ok, do something civil.
*Great lady, 70, and her daughter, world trekkers, teachers, defenders of the old liberal guard. End up at posh tea garden. My brown buffalo-ness stands out like an empty pocket at a strip club. They foot the bill. Homemade apple strudel! At one point the grand dame says, “They spotted Bruno The Bear 20 miles from Nancy’s house.” What? Bruno’s still alive? I had forgotten him. Poor beast, I must see him! Touch him! We’re invited to spend weekend at Nancy’s with her family in Landsberg.
*That night hit the “Hofbrau House”; Hitler’s early, zanier days. And true to those ear splitting times, this historic beer hall, due the freaks that have descended upon it for the cup, have placed the joint teetering near the last rung of the Inferno.
I wept when I saw tables overstuffed with supporters from each country violently shouting each other down, jumping table to table, women dancing on said tables, much nudity, grinding, loopy & lascivious behavior. Flashes going off, stars exploding, chocolate-flavored cigars probing, banshee wails, beer steins pounding, primal; frightening.
Alle-fucking-luia!
June 25, Landsberg-45 minutes outside Munich:
*A village, really. Joey’s third cousin’s house, in the country, by a river. Time comes to pleasant halt. Picked up at station, fed with grand feast in their gardens; could hear the waters flowing beyond the trees. After, a hike into surrounding hills; then, off to a festival complete with oompa band & bonfire by river’s head; fireworks across the late darkening sky; the soft buzz of a summer night as we sat & smoked & chatted at local beer garden. Away from the carnal madness of Cologne & Munich, the insanity of the matches, the horror of travel days. Heart rate slows. Antennae down. Introduced to townspeople as “our American friends”; get smiles, handshakes, tips of the hat. Then, to sleep on clean sheets, on a bed! In my own room!
*Next day, despite heat, husband takes us to two former concentration camps hidden in back fields. Yet more not taught in American schools. Amazing! The old man’s father was a political prisoner at Dachau before the war. He managed to escape.
*Here, by the river now, getting dark, storm coming. This town an absolute treasure. Sedate. So unexpected. Best part of trek. I-don’t-want-to-leave! It’s cooling off fast. No Bruno in sight. The family inside, Joey out for stroll. Decided to forgo Budapest. Make a b-line for Berlin. An incredible journey so far. Money’s tight.
June 26, Midnight Train to Berlin:
*Munich station waiting for train. Hellacious thunder & lightning overhead. Buy wine, beers, Jagermeister for 8 hour trek north. Fuck sleep! We’re off. Booze goes annoyingly fast. Smoke hash in WC. Hit bar car. There’s a party. Private stock passed around. 16 year old women exercising their legal rights to pick up on car load of drunken, singing internationals. A joyous journey to the nation's capital.
*Pull in 8 am. Hostel far from city center. Not good. “TAXI!” It’s 7 stories high. 800 beds. Blue pastel on every floor. Casino-pattern carpet! Bad, early 80s tunes in hallway speakers 24/7. And one working elevator. Drudgery. Running on fumes. Crap room w/bunks. Pass out.
June 26-June 30, Berlin:
*Huge-fuckin’-city. Manic. Expensive. Wicked. Over these days life becomes a dizzying, whiskey splashed blur. Touring is out of the question as daylight hours are reserved for hibernation. Everyday I come to I check to see if Joey’s still alive in the top bunk then see if our gear has not been stolen by the Ukrainian kid who’s been hiding out nights in our room and disappearing whenever the house manager knocks. There’s also an Italian, but he too is just a kid, we stay cordial.
Gallons of water are consumed as much as the alcohol. A long, freezing shower is a must too, and since I get up so late there’s no line. Laundry done in the sink hangs on window sill. The hallways are empty; our schedule’s a vampire’s, feels as if we’re the only ones there. Lunch is a greasy doner kebab; soaks up the booze and gives you energy. Then it’s off to the next match at the fan zone set up behind the Brandenburg Gate.
Security horrific but oddly manageable. It’s a 2-mile stretch of movie-screen size plasma TVs, beer gardens, carnival rides, DJs, stages, & bars. And the young women come to dance and drink and enjoy the afternoon/evening matches. Every night’s favorite to win I buy their nation’s flag and wear it across my back. Our own team crapped out, might as well make new friends. I do, but can’t keep up with Joey. Masher!
*The only people who bother to email me are an ex-girlfriend, Emmeric J Konrad, Paul Whitehead & Linda Ford. Oh, and my brother. A surprise. During this time also I manage to read “The Brown Buffalo” by Oscar Zeta Acosta.
*The nights get interesting because of “Mitte” or “Center City” off Friedestrausse. An artist’s haven at one point, now more commercial, but still filled with underground galleries, bars and gorgeous Russian-meth addicted prostitutes who openly ply their wares and will unzip you in front of crowded cafes and massage you into going with them. Place reminds me a lot of the Downtown L.A. art scene but without the hot & legal prostys and the fact that cops here don’t care if you drink or “smoke” in public.
Though they have mini-raves at the fests after the last match of the night, thousands, the park rocking, it is only until they decide enough is enough and push you out, so it is back to here, in this “artist district”-though you’d be hard pressed to find any actual artists-where all the serious drinking, drug play and sex come to fruition, away from prying eyes, away from the normals who bed down early for the night and want to tour, of all things, in the morning. And even though Joey and I tried other parts of Berlin, way in the fuck out there, getting lost, taking metros the wrong way, taxi drivers trying to stiff us, where we’d remain for at least one drink to justify the bullshit we had to go through in order to get to some kind of “party” area, it was always back the Mitte.
True to German eccentricities, a beach is set up behind the used-to-be-cool “Troches Gallery” complete with sand. EVERYWHERE! Gin joints surround this staging area and stay open 24h. Zombies float back and forth. Coked up. High on Hash. Blind drunk. Erections & hardened nipples leading the way.
*On one of these nights (and time has become smoke trailing dramatically from the end of a lit cigarette, as we usually hang onto whoever we’re crying all over ‘til the sun rises and shield our eyes as we wolf down large chicken kebabs and hail bored Turkish taxi drivers to take us back home only to have the morning crew at the hostel shake their heads and mumble something in German and point) I actually managed to have a date, of sorts, with a real lady.
Call her “Emily”; an old friend of Emmeric Konrad’s. Emmeric, a gentleman, was kind enough to give Emily a call and told her I was in town. I called post haste (she had a sweet voice that could melt the coldest of hearts), and here we are, Joey and I, looking all over the Mitte for this gallery where we’re supposed to meet.
A stunning woman. We’re on our best behavior. Even washed behind my ears. After the show we end up at this groggily suitable café and sit in the back and laugh and talk loud and drink many drinks. Regale each other with stories of life on the road, tales of Emmeric, the “horrors” of being an artist. And I order away, not thinking of the bill. My God, can I be more fucking bourgeois? But you know what? Fuck it, man, it feels great. I deserve this. Yeehaw!
Getting late, photos taken, more drinks called for, but she must leave early. No, no, no, yes, yes, yes; ok, sweetie, ok. Flirtatious & lurid lobs are served up as we escort her down the street and she makes a mad dash for the ever present taxi and not a moment too soon. Ah, what a lady!
*Another night finds us forming a relentless conga line at the fest with the Brazilians as we watched them defeat Ghana. Bastards! We could’ve beat Brazil. The dancing & free flowing booze stuffed into our hands goes on for hours. Hey, it’s the Brazilians, enough said…
*Another night has us in the midst of a celebration as the surprising team of the tourney, Germany, crushes Argentina and advances. Mayhem. Roman candles exploding in the crowd. Hugging & kissing. Crying. Disbelief. An estimated 700,000 imploded. The city splits at the seams. Horns & cheers fill the air. Civilization at a standstill. Unabashed emotion is rare for the typical German. But not tonight. Fuck no! It’s the end days...staggering the amount of passion & pride. I’m envious.
And as we careen down the Unter den Liden, past the Hotel Adlon where heads of state sleep, past the British Embassy with their armed-to-the-teeth security, dodging parading hoards, we see him. Standing guard in front of a cheesy, overpriced souvenir shop.
Bruno The Bear!
10 feet tall! Wearing a team jersey. A giant stuffed toy. Passer-bys point and children run up to hug him and scream “Bruno! Bruno!” and we foreigners take pictures and gawk. Fuckin’ Bruno. Is this where you been hiding? Seems so long ago we met. On tip toes I reach, give him a peck on his furry cheek, pose for a photo. Then, crack open a bottle of Berliner Beer. Nasty, but it gets the job done. And I guess that’s all that can be said for a lot of things.
July 1, Berlin:
*Soul numbing hangover. Over lunch can barely read the headlines: Bruno The Bear Is Dead!
Aww fuck!
100, 000 Euros went to some Swiss hunter.
Damn You! Why did you have to go and fuckin’ die? Am I the last of the beasts then? A brown buffalo lost among the animals?
B-R-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-N-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!
*Later to Mitte. Pounding salsa club. Last night in Germany. 3am. Joey’s bouncing off the walls. A Polish girl: Can I buy you a drink? I offer. Yes, come sit with me and my girlfriend. You’re so pretty. That is nice. Thank you. Do you have fire? Of course, love. Few minutes later: Let’s go to the bar, I say, I need another drink. Ok by me. So, how old are you anyway? I am 18. Sure you are, honey. She says, My friend does not like you. They never do. Let’s go outside, I suggest. Get some air. But my friend. It’s ok, she can watch. And we did.
July 2, Berlin:
*Morning get two hours sleep. Leave Joey a note: Hold the line, son! Hold the motherfuckin' line!
*New Berlin Hofbanhauf is a freakin’ palace. Talk about the Jetsons. 8 hours & hung over back to Amsterdam on the screeching-baby-in-a-foreign-language-with-no-air-conditioning-express.
*I have 2 hours in town once I get there, so I stuff my bags in a locker, tie the stars & stripes around my neck and run into Red Light across the street. It’s 106 degrees. Fuckin' Madness!
Who? Where? Ah, here we go. Thai. Little older (mid-20s) than I prefer but time is short. I insist on keeping the flag on…
I scamper recklessly through trams & bicycles, my flag fluttering behind me. I grab my gear and stowaway on a commuter headed to the airport. I hope.
*45 minutes to London. I hate London. Goddamn noise & traffic reminds me of what awaits in L.A. I’m the only one in the hostel bar 'til 4am. I don' t want to hit on women. I don't want to talk to anybody. I don't want to be near people. I don’t give a fuck.
July 3, London:
At Heathrow bumped up to “Business Class” . Yes! First time in my life! Champagne anyone? 13 hours later stuck in endless customs line @ LAX. Entire clans from other nations with steamer trunks, wheel chairs, IVs dangling & 3-seater baby strollers are backing up, pushing & squealing to get in. No AC. They do that on purpose.
“They flagged you, sir.”
“What?”
“Hold on.”
“Why?”
“Oh, never mind.”
“What?”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Who do you write for?”
“The Arts District Citizen.”
“Never heard of ‘em. Welcome to America. Next!”
books by Jim Marquez can be found at www.lulu.com/jimmarquez
June 25, Landsberg-45 minutes outside Munich:
*A village, really. Joey’s third cousin’s house, in the country, by a river. Time comes to pleasant halt. Picked up at station, fed with grand feast in their gardens; could hear the waters flowing beyond the trees. After, a hike into surrounding hills; then, off to a festival complete with oompa band & bonfire by river’s head; fireworks across the late darkening sky; the soft buzz of a summer night as we sat & smoked & chatted at local beer garden. Away from the carnal madness of Cologne & Munich, the insanity of the matches, the horror of travel days. Heart rate slows. Antennae down. Introduced to townspeople as “our American friends”; get smiles, handshakes, tips of the hat. Then, to sleep on clean sheets, on a bed! In my own room!
*Next day, despite heat, husband takes us to two former concentration camps hidden in back fields. Yet more not taught in American schools. Amazing! The old man’s father was a political prisoner at Dachau before the war. He managed to escape.
*Here, by the river now, getting dark, storm coming. This town an absolute treasure. Sedate. So unexpected. Best part of trek. I-don’t-want-to-leave! It’s cooling off fast. No Bruno in sight. The family inside, Joey out for stroll. Decided to forgo Budapest. Make a b-line for Berlin. An incredible journey so far. Money’s tight.
June 26, Midnight Train to Berlin:
*Munich station waiting for train. Hellacious thunder & lightning overhead. Buy wine, beers, Jagermeister for 8 hour trek north. Fuck sleep! We’re off. Booze goes annoyingly fast. Smoke hash in WC. Hit bar car. There’s a party. Private stock passed around. 16 year old women exercising their legal rights to pick up on car load of drunken, singing internationals. A joyous journey to the nation's capital.
*Pull in 8 am. Hostel far from city center. Not good. “TAXI!” It’s 7 stories high. 800 beds. Blue pastel on every floor. Casino-pattern carpet! Bad, early 80s tunes in hallway speakers 24/7. And one working elevator. Drudgery. Running on fumes. Crap room w/bunks. Pass out.
June 26-June 30, Berlin:
*Huge-fuckin’-city. Manic. Expensive. Wicked. Over these days life becomes a dizzying, whiskey splashed blur. Touring is out of the question as daylight hours are reserved for hibernation. Everyday I come to I check to see if Joey’s still alive in the top bunk then see if our gear has not been stolen by the Ukrainian kid who’s been hiding out nights in our room and disappearing whenever the house manager knocks. There’s also an Italian, but he too is just a kid, we stay cordial.
Gallons of water are consumed as much as the alcohol. A long, freezing shower is a must too, and since I get up so late there’s no line. Laundry done in the sink hangs on window sill. The hallways are empty; our schedule’s a vampire’s, feels as if we’re the only ones there. Lunch is a greasy doner kebab; soaks up the booze and gives you energy. Then it’s off to the next match at the fan zone set up behind the Brandenburg Gate.
Security horrific but oddly manageable. It’s a 2-mile stretch of movie-screen size plasma TVs, beer gardens, carnival rides, DJs, stages, & bars. And the young women come to dance and drink and enjoy the afternoon/evening matches. Every night’s favorite to win I buy their nation’s flag and wear it across my back. Our own team crapped out, might as well make new friends. I do, but can’t keep up with Joey. Masher!
*The only people who bother to email me are an ex-girlfriend, Emmeric J Konrad, Paul Whitehead & Linda Ford. Oh, and my brother. A surprise. During this time also I manage to read “The Brown Buffalo” by Oscar Zeta Acosta.
*The nights get interesting because of “Mitte” or “Center City” off Friedestrausse. An artist’s haven at one point, now more commercial, but still filled with underground galleries, bars and gorgeous Russian-meth addicted prostitutes who openly ply their wares and will unzip you in front of crowded cafes and massage you into going with them. Place reminds me a lot of the Downtown L.A. art scene but without the hot & legal prostys and the fact that cops here don’t care if you drink or “smoke” in public.
Though they have mini-raves at the fests after the last match of the night, thousands, the park rocking, it is only until they decide enough is enough and push you out, so it is back to here, in this “artist district”-though you’d be hard pressed to find any actual artists-where all the serious drinking, drug play and sex come to fruition, away from prying eyes, away from the normals who bed down early for the night and want to tour, of all things, in the morning. And even though Joey and I tried other parts of Berlin, way in the fuck out there, getting lost, taking metros the wrong way, taxi drivers trying to stiff us, where we’d remain for at least one drink to justify the bullshit we had to go through in order to get to some kind of “party” area, it was always back the Mitte.
True to German eccentricities, a beach is set up behind the used-to-be-cool “Troches Gallery” complete with sand. EVERYWHERE! Gin joints surround this staging area and stay open 24h. Zombies float back and forth. Coked up. High on Hash. Blind drunk. Erections & hardened nipples leading the way.
*On one of these nights (and time has become smoke trailing dramatically from the end of a lit cigarette, as we usually hang onto whoever we’re crying all over ‘til the sun rises and shield our eyes as we wolf down large chicken kebabs and hail bored Turkish taxi drivers to take us back home only to have the morning crew at the hostel shake their heads and mumble something in German and point) I actually managed to have a date, of sorts, with a real lady.
Call her “Emily”; an old friend of Emmeric Konrad’s. Emmeric, a gentleman, was kind enough to give Emily a call and told her I was in town. I called post haste (she had a sweet voice that could melt the coldest of hearts), and here we are, Joey and I, looking all over the Mitte for this gallery where we’re supposed to meet.
A stunning woman. We’re on our best behavior. Even washed behind my ears. After the show we end up at this groggily suitable café and sit in the back and laugh and talk loud and drink many drinks. Regale each other with stories of life on the road, tales of Emmeric, the “horrors” of being an artist. And I order away, not thinking of the bill. My God, can I be more fucking bourgeois? But you know what? Fuck it, man, it feels great. I deserve this. Yeehaw!
Getting late, photos taken, more drinks called for, but she must leave early. No, no, no, yes, yes, yes; ok, sweetie, ok. Flirtatious & lurid lobs are served up as we escort her down the street and she makes a mad dash for the ever present taxi and not a moment too soon. Ah, what a lady!
*Another night finds us forming a relentless conga line at the fest with the Brazilians as we watched them defeat Ghana. Bastards! We could’ve beat Brazil. The dancing & free flowing booze stuffed into our hands goes on for hours. Hey, it’s the Brazilians, enough said…
*Another night has us in the midst of a celebration as the surprising team of the tourney, Germany, crushes Argentina and advances. Mayhem. Roman candles exploding in the crowd. Hugging & kissing. Crying. Disbelief. An estimated 700,000 imploded. The city splits at the seams. Horns & cheers fill the air. Civilization at a standstill. Unabashed emotion is rare for the typical German. But not tonight. Fuck no! It’s the end days...staggering the amount of passion & pride. I’m envious.
And as we careen down the Unter den Liden, past the Hotel Adlon where heads of state sleep, past the British Embassy with their armed-to-the-teeth security, dodging parading hoards, we see him. Standing guard in front of a cheesy, overpriced souvenir shop.
Bruno The Bear!
10 feet tall! Wearing a team jersey. A giant stuffed toy. Passer-bys point and children run up to hug him and scream “Bruno! Bruno!” and we foreigners take pictures and gawk. Fuckin’ Bruno. Is this where you been hiding? Seems so long ago we met. On tip toes I reach, give him a peck on his furry cheek, pose for a photo. Then, crack open a bottle of Berliner Beer. Nasty, but it gets the job done. And I guess that’s all that can be said for a lot of things.
July 1, Berlin:
*Soul numbing hangover. Over lunch can barely read the headlines: Bruno The Bear Is Dead!
Aww fuck!
100, 000 Euros went to some Swiss hunter.
Damn You! Why did you have to go and fuckin’ die? Am I the last of the beasts then? A brown buffalo lost among the animals?
B-R-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-N-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!
*Later to Mitte. Pounding salsa club. Last night in Germany. 3am. Joey’s bouncing off the walls. A Polish girl: Can I buy you a drink? I offer. Yes, come sit with me and my girlfriend. You’re so pretty. That is nice. Thank you. Do you have fire? Of course, love. Few minutes later: Let’s go to the bar, I say, I need another drink. Ok by me. So, how old are you anyway? I am 18. Sure you are, honey. She says, My friend does not like you. They never do. Let’s go outside, I suggest. Get some air. But my friend. It’s ok, she can watch. And we did.
July 2, Berlin:
*Morning get two hours sleep. Leave Joey a note: Hold the line, son! Hold the motherfuckin' line!
*New Berlin Hofbanhauf is a freakin’ palace. Talk about the Jetsons. 8 hours & hung over back to Amsterdam on the screeching-baby-in-a-foreign-language-with-no-air-conditioning-express.
*I have 2 hours in town once I get there, so I stuff my bags in a locker, tie the stars & stripes around my neck and run into Red Light across the street. It’s 106 degrees. Fuckin' Madness!
Who? Where? Ah, here we go. Thai. Little older (mid-20s) than I prefer but time is short. I insist on keeping the flag on…
I scamper recklessly through trams & bicycles, my flag fluttering behind me. I grab my gear and stowaway on a commuter headed to the airport. I hope.
*45 minutes to London. I hate London. Goddamn noise & traffic reminds me of what awaits in L.A. I’m the only one in the hostel bar 'til 4am. I don' t want to hit on women. I don't want to talk to anybody. I don't want to be near people. I don’t give a fuck.
July 3, London:
At Heathrow bumped up to “Business Class” . Yes! First time in my life! Champagne anyone? 13 hours later stuck in endless customs line @ LAX. Entire clans from other nations with steamer trunks, wheel chairs, IVs dangling & 3-seater baby strollers are backing up, pushing & squealing to get in. No AC. They do that on purpose.
“They flagged you, sir.”
“What?”
“Hold on.”
“Why?”
“Oh, never mind.”
“What?”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Who do you write for?”
“The Arts District Citizen.”
“Never heard of ‘em. Welcome to America. Next!”
books by Jim Marquez can be found at www.lulu.com/jimmarquez
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