The matador was suddenly knocked to the floor. He rolled desperately between the bull’s horns and hooves and the banderilleros returned, urgently trying to distract the bull. It reluctantly moved away from the helpless target and stood frustrated, dazzled by the return of three forgotten capes.
The matador stood. He had lost one of his shoes. It was small and dainty, for dancing.
Berlin
Rain crashed on the tin roof of a small caravan dispensing draught beer. Claire and I huddled beneath it, sipping Becks from refundable plastic cups. Dance music thumped from neat piles of speakers lining both sides of Strasse des 17 Juni, played by DJs now frantically trying to cover their equipment. A ray of sunshine escaped from a crack in the black clouds, reflecting gold streaks off the tarmac. The trickle of people gyrating between the intermingling sounds pulled out umbrellas and danced through the downpour.
Less than a week after the World Cup, 1.2 million people thronged their way through the same street, following trucks bearing excessively large, water cooled sound systems, DJs and semi-clad dancers. They left two metric tons of debris in their wake, passed an estimated 750 000 litres of urine into the adjoining Tiergarten Park – damaging the roots of centuries old trees – and consumed an inestimable quantity of drugs, monitored by 50 “love guards” distributing earplugs, ice spray, glucose tablets and contraceptives. The Love Parade had returned to Berlin, after a two year hiatus. The festivities Claire and I watched were a small taste of this bad craziness.
We had arrived in Berlin earlier that afternoon, and made our way to A&O Zoo, our dismal hostel. After edging our way through a queue at reception, we were pointed towards bare mattresses atop aging bunk beds, reserved months in advance. We stowed our packs and went out walking. Continue reading Berlin>>
