One Up, One Love, One Beer
Dear Chewey –
My penchant for using double entendres in blog titles went into overdrive with this one, as the events of the last two days somehow allowed me to blend George Thorogood and Bob Marley…two of your favorites.
Berlin has been a remarkable run of unusually funny and memorable events. Given my short time here, I suppose I’m a bit surprised by that, only to then consider what I’ve been through at this point in my eight-month journey, which instantly restores my credulity.
1Up
Berlin wears graffiti like a badge, and nowhere is that more true than with the mysterious crew known as 1UP, aka One United Power. They’ve been painting their name across this city since the early 2000s, splashing it on train cars, rooftops, and tucked-away corners where you least expect it. They move in “actions,” covering walls in minutes with paint rollers, spray cans, even fire extinguishers filled with color, and then vanish back into the crowd like graffiti ninjas.
As you know, Avery loves graffiti art, and she had specifically asked me to find one of their pieces and send her a picture. So there I was, wandering Berlin like some kind of low-budget Indiana Jones, except instead of looking for the Holy Grail, I was hunting for blocky spray paint letters.
And my quest took me to the East Side Gallery of Berlin. Hijinks ensued…
1Love
Of course, the hunt didn’t go smoothly. A wrong turn courtesy of Google Maps dropped me square in the middle of YAAM, which apparently is a large Jamaican and African youth hangout. Assuming all of the colorful works of art I was seeing were part of the East Side Gallery, I continued to walk, uninvited, deeper and deeper into YAAM, all while Bruce Springsteen’s “Secret Garden” blasted through my AirPods. Before long, realizing I was nearing the end of the YAAM road with no East Side Gallery in sight, I turned around and recognized that I was quickly being encircled by a sizable group of African and Jamaican youths. My initial thought was, “Well, this is how the Berlin chapter of my story ends, starring me on an episode of Wrong Turn: Google Maps Edition.” It became abundantly clear that not too many middle-aged white men show up to their party village.
As I reluctantly silenced The Boss and his love ballad, it hit me that these guys had been trying to flag me down for a while. I straightened up, turned on my corporate charm, and launched into awkward small talk powered by my shiny new HR bachelor’s degree which, in hindsight, was the verbal equivalent of pulling out a laminated flow chart at a keg party. To my relief, the stern looks I had mistaken for impending doom broke into grins, fists shot out for bumps, and soon the whole group was laughing at my wrong-turn saga. Then came the offers: “Hey, the party starts in thirty minutes, man. We got the best weed in Berlin, my friend!” I politely declined, which somehow catapulted me from “lost tourist dad” to honorary party guest. Suddenly I was no longer the guy who wandered in with Bruce Springsteen on shuffle, and was even getting compliments like “nuff respect.”
No, I didn’t smoke weed, but rather I passed a “love doobie” to the group, and I stuck around to chat with them about what their place was all about. I stayed for the beginning of the party night, all while trying not to play the part of Clark Griswold after taking a wrong turn in St. Louis. I had a great time, and as night closed (for me….just for me; those guys weren’t going anywhere and were likely to be there all night), I dished out my final goodbye fist bump, once again politely declining their kind gesture of a parting hit on a joint the size of Simon Birch (credit: Stuber). All I could think was: “Had this been the site of Checkpoint Charlie, the Cold War would have never started.”
1Beer
Sunday brought a different kind of unity, the kind forged over a pint glass. After a five-hour train ride from Munich, I did the tourist circuit: a Spree riverboat cruise past Berlin’s political landmarks and a long-awaited walk to the Brandenburg Gate, where I replayed Reagan’s “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall” speech in my head.
By evening, I was toast. Case in point: I returned to my hotel to grab coffee and nearly found out firsthand how a hotel deposit really works when you damage something. While juggling a phone call, I tried to set my piping hot mug on a table outside my sliding glass door and nearly plunged it straight through the window. (In my defense, the glass was so clear it deserved its own TripAdvisor award for cleanliness.) After mopping up the mess and running my hand under cool water to soothe what felt suspiciously like second-degree burns, I decided it was safer to go find a spot to watch the upcoming NFL games. I mean, how much trouble could I get into just sitting and watching football, right?
(Side note: early NFL games here are like watching six Monday Night Football games simultaneously. It’s pretty great.)
So I Googled local establishments brave enough to play American football over European futbol, and to my delight, a nearby spot called Belushi’s popped up. I figured I’d nurse one quiet beer and call it a night.
That plan lasted about three minutes. Out of nowhere, four Icelandic gin distillers “invaded” my oversized table like a Viking raid in skinny jeans. Their ringleader, Birgir (aka “Biggie”), spoke English so flawlessly that I backhand complimented him by asking where he lived in America, which triggered howls of laughter and simultaneous strokes of their lush beards.
They were all bartenders, and before I knew it, I had beers in both hands and a shot of Jäger chasing me, while Biggie waxed poetic about the Electoral College with more accuracy than CNN. We swapped contacts, and he insisted I come visit his distillery in Iceland, reminding me of Icelandair’s layover program as he detailed the complexity of his gin. It’s safe to say that I liked Biggie, and honestly, Chewey, I’m not sure what was more impressive: his knowledge of U.S. politics or the wool sweater his face had decided to knit.
Chewey, Berlin gave me graffiti ninjas, Marley-approved fist bumps, and a table full of Icelandic Vikings. Wrong turns led to right encounters, and even exhaustion turned into a party.
Oh, and by the way… mission accomplished: I finally found that 1UP graffiti. Rather expectedly, I had walked past it well before stumbling into YAAM. But hey, then I wouldn’t have had that part of the story, and that would have really ruined my double entendre.
