Berlin, Germany, October 18th 2008. The two weeks in Berlin flew by, but the hauptbanhof gave me this little gem as a parting gift right before I got on the train to Frankfurt-am-Main.  I hear Arthur Russell’s World of Echo plus football hooligans, drunk and rowdy at 12:30 in the afternoon.  I try to imagine a world of echo where echo and reverb are the norm, where no matter what room you are in it always sounds like you are speaking in a cavernous warehouse, and everything is indistinct and tinged with nostalgia.  But it’s hard.

I stood on the platform and waited for our man Hans, with whom arrangements had been made for me to exchange some moneys for a cheap ticket that he had acquired.  Look for the blonde man who appears to have one arm, I was told.  Sure enough, he was there, his right jacket sleeve dangling empty.  A football injury, he claimed.  I’m not so sure.  The drop was made, and I waited for the second mystery passenger, an older German who spoke no English but with whom I was able to communicate in broken Spanish.  (My broken Spanish; His Spanish was perfect.)

Off to Frankfurt.  Farewell, Berlin, I’ll be back.