after the Wall came down, I was in a backing band on a Golden Oldie tour, with a high-rise hotel room to myself overlooking Alexanderplatz. I was greenhorn lonely and homesick until The Troggs took me under their wing. Out for a walk with Reg Presley, we cut through a casino lobby, trying to get out of the cold. I’ve never known a summer in Berlin, each time I’ve been there’s that raw wind blowing and the trees bare and brown. Presley was telling me about crop circles and other reality irregularities; I think he ended up writing a book about them. It was before he made a pile from royalties on one of his love songs, before he could say no to the Euro gigs if he didn’t feel like going. We killed an hour at the casino bar, waiting for the bus. And I remember thinking, this is pretty cool. A quarter century later, I stumble out from the U-Bahn exit with my kids hunting for a tram connection. We disturb a Japanese film crew, furtive – no permits – in the dark, get shushed and waved away, and I see the hotel and the tower against the winter sky and I remember. I don’t feel as though any of what’s happened has been under my control. And I wouldn’t change a thing. It rolls by. Until the next time, Alexanderplatz.
