Oh dude its donnerstag / it must be Doner kebab.
I watched a man in his late fifties being fed pasta by his girlfriend in her early-twenties. I'm sure it was a romantic gesture between the two of them, but to me it looked like an elderly man who couldn't feed himself.
Every Asian restaurant in Friedrichshain serves Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese and Sushi on the same menu.
A gutter punk holding a bottle of vodka slipped by a table and whispered "Excuse me, I'll take this
" as he grabbed a package of tobacco from a diner. The diner was stunned and ran after him. After a two-minute conversation the diner rolled a cigarette for the anarchist and returned with his package of tobacco.
There was a fliers for the following cover bands: Bad Brians, Deaf Kennedys, Manual Kant. I saw an Irish Punk band perform. That's a fun genre of music. They played Hava Nagila.
I saw some graffiti on Weserstraße "Klasse Krasse gegen Klasse." The Marxist slogan “Class against Class” to ”Crass against Class”: The eternal struggle between fart jokes and high art.
Someone tagged "Die Yuppie Scum" which I think is German for "The Yuppie Scum."
Inside of a restaurant known for German tapas and pork knuckle I was offered a spa treatment by the "mobile neck massage unit."
We went on a farce finding mission.
"Why are you here?"
"We thought this was a mall but it isn't."
We arrived at embassy after long delay through the Reichstag. Cameroonian security guard told us we were at the wrong place.
We woke up late. Ate a Turkish wurst and took a forty minute U-bahn to the ZOB. We couldn't get on the bus in two hours. We got in a fight about waking up earlier. I ate the ice cream version of a coconut candy bar. We got on to the bus with our fraudulent tickets. An orthodox family sat next to Sudanese man. A Turkish baby continued to cry in both her parents arms. An American girl told her friend she's been here almost nine months. By the time we got the airport the bus filled we worried if we were getting kicked off . We weren't.
Errant wireless signals as we travel in the slow lane of the autobahn. Wishing we were blasting some regional Bolivian folk music to parallel the memory of Kraftwerk on the roadless Andean highlands.
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