A still mysterious 1980 Berlin, Friedrichstraße, misplaced love and a lost Guernica poster. A melancholic reminisce which got mixed up and resonated with last Sunday evening’s rueful Rufus Wainright love songs. What an absolute hopeless and helpless romantic! And I got confused, wore pink and made so many new friends. Is there a better baritone; are there sadder songs or more adoring fans? He’s so not the tit man his father said he was. But we’ll always have Berlin. The Potsdam sniffer dogs, Nazi sub-machine guns and frightening passport check when abandoned by our West German train crew for a newer, harder and more square jawed eastern set of replacements who took us the last few hours to Hitler central.
I wasn’t in love with her, I wish I had been, it was her best friend whom I followed puppy dog like for two years, too many years. She was Bláthnaid and I was blown away by her blue mascara and Kate Bush witchy women thing. But she never wanted me like Rufus wanted, and Uná and I acted out our Berlin berlitz. Arrivé par le Zoo, we promptly fell into wine, kisses and then an open top tour of the walled city, and back to the Kudam for feigned frightful sex, yes sex, the very first time the dammed thing has raised it’s beautiful head (of which there was sadly none) on this sacred blog. We sexed, sexed more and drank German coffee and wine, and then a little more until we were sore and went out visiting more places of interest.
This was a time when the U-bahn went under the bad communist East and if you looked closely, as close as you can in the underground gloom of a metro, well you could see armed guards making sure that evil Easterners wouldn’t jump on board a fast moving tube. Although, Checkpoint Charlie( pre rampant cocaine folks), showed us many innovative ways of escaping the dreaded east, including 007 like sports cars which with collapsing windscreens could whizz you under barriers to freedom. So the meanies were over there in the gloom, and we were free to listen to David Bowie, Iggy Pop and Lou Reed, cause they’d had a Berlin heroin moment before it was chic.
If you ran fast enough, really fast and really drunk, you could do a 360 in an u-Bahn tunnel, well Uná said I could and you weren’t there to say “impossible” but now you can whisper implausible. She was gorgeous and I was a fool. She worked on the KuDam, in their Harrods, and lived in a mahogany cubby hole just off it. I loved the smell and taste of separation angst which you got from families divided in Berlin. We held hands and whispered and she laughed at my working class German, my swabish, my shize deutsch and never used her exquisite German when I was present.
But all lousy love stories come to a sad ending as this abortive misery did months later when I found out. I loved her really, but that Bláthnaid bitch blocked my love waves and I forgot my Guernica poster in her mahogany flat.