Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
We crossed Northern Italy into the Alps, staying at a youth hostel on the top of a mountain
and riding the next day into Munich, where David retained his tact, rising above rancor or
regret. “I think you may be one of the best motorcyclists in Europe, but I can't ride with you
anymore. It hurts my back, and it's scary.”
I matched his simple honesty with understanding. “I think I've had enough too.” I had no
plan for shipping the thing back—hadn't even thought that far, typically of the day and age.
Shipping it would cost hundreds more and present another thousand miles from New York to
the Midwest, which would have been incredibly cool a few months ago but at that point the
idea sagged with fatigue. So who knows? Maybe I was well into transit too.
We rode to the Neumann Center that operated as a youth hostel around Europe then, and
you didn't have to be Catholic; but it didn't hurt. Where was Bruno when we needed him?
The woman said to come back after three, so we cruised down to Schwabbing, the hip action
boulevard of those happening times. Even then the Germans were a goosestep ahead, among
the first to embrace post-existential nihilism in a holdover beatnik, chain-smoking, heroin-
addled, tattooed radical world on the burnt edge of the hippie world. Schwabbing was lined
with action places to drink, dance, eat, smoke, drink more and simply be. The angled parking
places along the boulevard were a popular place to sell vehicles adequately hip to appeal to
that market. So I angled in and put a sign on my handlebars.
For Sale
. It felt like treachery.
Did I really want to do this? But a gregarious voice coming up the promenade interrupted
my doubts. “You can't sell that thing here! I mean of course you can. We are free to do what we
want to do. But that motorcycle—it is beautiful, by the way—is British. I would buy it myself,
but fucking Britain, excuse me, refuses to join the Common Market. If anybody in Europe
buys it, he'll have to pay a 33% tax. That's right. I said 33%. How much do you want?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Hmm. A bit high. Way too high with the tax. You know.” His name was Dolph Dieter
Helmann, but we could call him Dolph Dieter. “Oh, fuck, you know. Just call me Dolph. Why
do you want to sell such a beautiful moto?”
“I don't, really. I need the money.”
“Ah, yes. The money. Everybody needs it. And I suppose you are very tired of riding it. All
the Americans end up here with their flashy motorcycles tired of riding them and willing to
sell them very cheap.” Dolph sounded like a set up. David stared at an obvious former Nazi.
The Thousand Year Reich had marched up Schwabbing only thirty years ago. Dolph was about
mid-thirties, too young, except for the Hitler Youth Corps. David couldn't help it, as his mor-
bid motivation went to mordantly awkward compulsion. Maybe some things are necessary.
“Are you a Nazi?” The question sounded aggressive, even hostile and marginally stupid,
out of place and time, but the subject lingered beyond place and time. It drifted in the ether
like a mist, a sticky one that would not dissipate, a tangible essence in its consequence. And
odd as David's sensibilities were, this
was
the very same boulevard where thousands upon
