[ JI has moved north from southern Europe  [' Give The Drummer Some' Part 1] where .."only the French vineyards put their souls into the mix. Not the Italians, and certainly not the Spaniards .."]  ....

So I try to pick up the thread now.  On a bus to Prague via Berlin.  Toblerone bar half-eaten, minidisc at half-power, water half-empty, wallet jam-packed with various used ticket stubs, including the UEFA Berlin vs. Aberdeen game(1-0 Berlin).  I am a bit worried, and not because of the weather.  I'm still wondering if Gordon Lightfoot's recent surgery means there won't be a world tour next year.

Over a decade later, and side two of Jane Addiction`s "Ritual De Lo Habitual" remains the ideal soundtrack to your oblivion of choice.  I left the Pusan-indoctrinated Germans behind along with a non-consummated Oktoberfest.  Neither my bank account or my liver can stop thanking me.

I'm looking around the bus, and everybody's got their passport out.  They're on the lookout for the Czech fuzz, but I'm more than confident with my handy dandy Canadian Passport; the best bad luck repellent on the market (apparently one of the most forged, I'm told). I hand it over to Chester the border pig, and surely we're as good as on our way... surely?

Nope.  Cut to the same guy muttering something about "no visa", motioning for me to follow him, and I STILL haven't panicked yet.  It's not in the cards for me.

I'm soon surrounded by three Roscoe P. Coltranes, and it's pretty evident that the General Lee is out of gas.  Flash points in the direction I came from:

"Altenburg... 500 meters, visa Dresden, no problem, one day."

I haven't got a mirror on me, but I'm sure the look on my face is similar to Daffy's after Elmer says:

"But I haven't got a wicence to shoot a fwickaseein wabbit...'

I sort of calmly accept my fate, all the while muttering under my breath: "Velvet Revolution my ass!" Altenburg is more like 2000 meters away.

I steel myself; it's now 6pm on a Saturday.  If there was a snowball's chance in hell that ANY embassy was open on Sunday, I'm sure it wouldn't be the Czech. So, no problem, I'll just spend the night in Dresden. I've got my inflatable pillow just in case the flood gives an encore presentation for us late-comers.

I settle on a hostel that's 'shades of Christiana' (cue Journal entry).

[22nd September/2002

Imagine a world where Nixon DIDN'T get the boot.  Art serfs not only survived the 60's to middle age, they proliferated, kept their Haight-Ashbury, and that was that. 

'That' being this place "Christiana" in Copenhagen, but on a dreary day like today, they're keeping it indoors so far.  Lots of rainbow graffiti, and signs posted every-so-often indicating that the residents would rather you didn't take any pictures of them.

If the tourists would make the trek here, it would become just another Amsterdam--they've got all the hemp paraphernalia, they're just missing the numbers. Renovated lofts with satellite dishes provide all the incongruity you need, but they're ALMOST out of sight.]

--BACK TO THE PRESENT--

Around the hostel, it's a throwback to grade nine. Poseurs with spit-shined docs and 200€ leathers, all drinking the cheapest hooch they can find.  There isn't a single square inch of brick untouched by paint.  One of my favourites reads: "Fuck the Norm".

I might have suggested to the would-be Picasso-cum-Chuck D that the use of a magic marker might have otherwise removed the taint of hypocrisy from his scribe, but fuck it.  I was fifteen once, too.

The day belongs to the night in Dresden; you can actually buy postcards of the recent flood, and the damage is still evident wherever you look.  The S-bahn is shut down, and many roads have collapsed.  If I could exchange the pithy pieces of the Berlin wall I picked up for a restored Dresden, I'd do it yesterday. Flood or no flood, it's still a beautiful city.

It hasn't stopped raining yet.  Such weather might have dampened my spirits if not for the inspired Konglish inscription of my Migliore-purchased (and proud of it!!!) sweatshirt, which, to the best of my knowledge, is actually quite rare.  IT reads:

"Mashimaro is just like a lump of marshmallow in a dumped Choco-pie.  He dishonests the reality for hiding a loneliness and a misery of his existance. And he looks for meaning of himself through nonsense action.

What can Change a bad day into a good one is... Mashimaro."

My mantra for the new millennium. 

[.... Stay tuned for the final chapter in three weeks...].