Berlin Sympathy

Over the last two years, I'd become one of the Company's strongest employees, and when management in America heard I was quitting, they gave me some options. They told me I could elect where I wanted to work, either in Texas, Seattle, Sacramento, or Amsterdam. Deciding to stay on, I chose Amsterdam, and they wasted no time getting us there.

I was pleased to find the manager, Al Mitchel, was glad to have me in Holland and offered us a room in his house. Well, Al didn't live in a house, but above the Hard Rock Café in Amsterdam's “Red-Light District.”

Next door to his place but one on the left was Suzie's, the Hell’s Angels Bar, owned and run by a loose woman named Suzie. Now and then, Al and I would knock a few down in there. Suzie's wasn't much to look at from either the outside or inside, just a bar and stools with a few wooden tables and chairs, without much decoration. It served its purpose, though its clients were as scarce as the decor.

Occasionally, a Hell's Angel would visit Suzie's as they passed through.

I often sat on the window ledge of Al's flat to watch everyday life in the Red-Light District pass beneath me, with “Swimming in Your Ocean” by Crash Test Dummies, usually cranked on the stereo.

Directly across the canal, which ran past the front of the Hard Rock, was a white building with the date it was built proudly displayed on its white frontage. Near the date, 1642, was embossed the image of two Negro slaves and a big palm leaf. The building had been used as a slave house where slaves were kept following their arrival from Africa.

To say life in Amsterdam's Red-Light District was radical would be an understatement. Some of the things I saw amused, amazed, delighted, and saddened me. Again and again, while I wandered the city checking things out, I’d see young men from mainly African cultures sizing me up. When I was in their vicinity, they'd approach me. They'd walk up to me with a bright smile and ask openly among the crowd, "Coke, crack, smack?”

I'd smile back and say, "No thanks, mate."

Determined to get a sale, they'd follow me and say, "C'mon, man. It's the best in Amsterdam!”

It didn't matter which day it was, nor which person was offering, they all had the best in Amsterdam, and theirs was always the cheapest.

One night I did try some, and I must admit, it was great. Al had taken me on a night-time sight see. We were parked up and chatting in the front of his car when an African fella came riding along on a bicycle and stopped to ask through his open window, "Coke, crack, smack?"

Al asked to see what sort of cocaine he had. The bloke reached into his jacket pocket, stuck his fist through the window, and under Al's nose opened up his hand to reveal two impressive white rocks. My boss bought them, the fella rode away, and once more blended with the night.

Arriving at the Hard Rock in the mid-morning, I was pleased to find a man busking at the front. I asked him if he could play 'Dirty Old Town' by The Pogues. He told me he could.

I said, "Well, just hang on a minute."

I raced upstairs to where I had the words on the inside of a CD cover, grabbed it, and went back down to join the busker in a song. We sang Dirty Old Town together, and I ended up with his guitar. I played a few songs and joked around with the audience, had a good laugh, and a great time.

After a couple of months of working in Holland, another bloke named Bart and I took a load to Berlin on what was known in the Company as a road trip. It was now nearing the end of 1995 and the beginning of winter in Europe. We had a bit of money when we left Holland, but it was a long journey with lots of places to spend. When we arrived in Berlin, we were almost broke. Our lack of cash didn’t bother me because it was usually easy to make more. Although the weather in Holland was definitely cooling down, it wasn't too bad, so imagine my shock when we arrived in Berlin, and it was snowing.

I didn't carry bedding as I relied on hotel rooms whenever I went on a road trip, but this particular week everywhere was full. We tried unsuccessfully to make a couple of sales, but I’d never found it so difficult.

After fuelling up the van, eating, and having something to drink, there was little money left. We spent the first few hours trying to find somewhere to stay, but the best we found was a room for two hundred fifty marks per night. Apparently, there was some sort of a convention in town, and just about everywhere was booked.

I spotted a sophisticated-looking blonde woman dressed in crisp blue jeans, a neat lemon-coloured jumper, and stylish, black shoes. She was standing at the side of the street holding a black umbrella in one hand and a black phone in the other.

I asked her, "Excuse me, do you know where I can get a room for the night for under a hundred marks?”

Her answer startled me, "You can stay with me for a hundred marks."

I would have happily taken her up on her offer. She was pretty, but when I asked, “For both of us?”

She looked at me in silence and slowly shook her head no.

Before we knew it, it was ten o'clock at night. It was icy and snowing heavily. Bart was huddled up in the front bucket seat, and I was curled up in the back on top of the boxes. The heater was broken. It was way too cold to sleep, and we had to do something about it.