Eat loads of ham and cheese sandwiches for breakfast with chocolate corn flakes. Train to the Berlin wall. Walk into this tall glass building that has a silent sensation to it; reminiscent of theatrical depictions of heaven. On the other side of heaven is a river and on the river is a boat full of people. Realizing they are here to greet me, I put my hands up in the air in a celebratory manner. I wave humbly to my fans and the whole boat is moved to a standing ovation; women with rose-bowed hats raise their champagne glasses; children with balls of sun-cream on their noses clap their miniature hands disjointedly; and the driver releases a deep reverberating wail from the boat's horn.
After climbing over a fence we find ourselves in a small commune that has been smuggled out of Jamaica since the tearing down of the Berlin Wall. The walls are filled with vibrant graffiti and the ground is sandy. There are stalls selling chicken stew, orangina, curried rice, iced beers and t-shirts with ghetto blasters printed on them. A beach volley-ball net, a skate ramp, a concrete basketball court, a beach soccer stadium and a ping pong table. Rastafarians are making friends with people; challenging them to the sports; offering them drugs; and rhythmically calling out "Reggae see-deeee's, Cum get ya Reggae see-deeee's. Onlee five Euros."
I own the ping-pong table, easily beating Rastas, Brits, Germans and Poles. A whole new life reveals itself to me. A montage movie trailer: I see myself in four years, wearing a pair of worn out black sambas and a sleeveless top of a German punk band. My face, arms and legs are a rich brown; an indistinguishable tan from UV rays and lack of washing. I'm in a group of kids walking with bottles of cheap Vodka down a small street towards a house blaring with the sound of distorted guitars and blown-out speakers. Next I'm cycling over the grooves of the tram-lines sliding in and out of control through traffic to deliver flyers and small bags of speed. I'm stood on the roof of a building smoking a spliff and talking in German to a dirty-blond girl. We're watching the trails of cars and buses and ambulances mirroring the volatile meteor shower above us. I'm involved in a riot, a policeman is batting me down. I find a brick on the floor where I've fallen. I pick it up. I raise my arm. I am sat in a van, hands tied behind my back. I am dragged out of court. I am laid in a white room on a tough bed.
Get a McDonalds and it tastes like shit. Try on some overpriced woolen jumpers. Made in China not Tibet. See a pregnant woman working in a liquor store. Kick a piece of bread at an attractive woman who probably works in an office. Navigate a train to Potsdamer Platz. A bomb has exploded in a bus and there are fire engines everywhere. The whole situation is handed efficiently and hardly manages to disrupt our sight-seeing. Go to an affluent consumer complex; the walls are, again, made of glass and stretch up high into the sky like a skyscraper; the ceiling is a glass orb resembling that of a leisure centre; the water fountain is average; and the big screen televisions are showing trailers of childrens movies.
Drink a big German beer at a bar, tip the waiter, steal a mozzarella and tomato ciabatta, climb on a climbing frame, catch a train, catch a tram, run home, go to the kebab shop for some water, sit at the bar, play table football, meet a Polish guy and go up to his room for a joint.
Pitor is tall and lanky, he makes his money by smuggling cigarettes, designer clothes and marijuana around Europe. He gives his friend directions and sends him back to Poland with the money that Dan pays him for a box of fags. He rolls a big spliff and by the way he has lost his voice from shouting too much. He has a friendly but hoarse whisper. I experience vertigo as I tap out the ash from the seventh floor apartment. He is paranoid about the smell of smoke so he sprays a fake Lacoste aftershave all over himself, Dan, myself and the doorway. He stands on a stall to try and catch a moth in a plastic bag with a safety pin, but he falls over knocking me onto his bed.
We go downstairs and harass the debating team. They are playing table football and won't give us a game so Pitor shouts abuse at them in German. Eventually we get a game and they thrash us 8-2. Their talisman is an autistic child genius, with no bone structure, the fashion sense of a Charles Dickens novel and Tourettes. He is constantly jibing us in such a nerdy and inpenetrative way that in our stoned states me and Dan don't bother to mention his trembling arms and irreparable social incompetence.
Leave an empty bottle of water on the table as I walk to the lift. This annoys him.
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