As a young man I broke away from my sheltered upbringing by leaving the lakes and beaches of home, heading to the ruins of Dresden with a notebook and a backpack sized for a mule. I met a premature mentor carrying a guitar and possessing a shaky voice. With the promise of hat money, and hopes of camaraderie with Russian violinists, I would roleplay the novice traveler and supply cheap wine and sliced bread, both of which were as peculiar here as I was, but also received well enough. My offerings were always ingested quickly for easy knowledge and simple satisfaction by us “newest locals,” as we became known. What we should’ve done is pitched a tent under an apple tree and eaten until we were full. It would’ve been cheaper, healthier, and less shameful. That is unless you arrived here by hopping trains you thought were bound for Amsterdam, and what you seek is mental health through wrong behavior and cheapness. Most likely I had to find myself first in Dresden because surviving a frightening encounter with gutter kids promises I would not be shocked by razors and guns in the street aisles of a city where not everyone was a target for mayhem. Save for me, who stands around filing Gilders into an enlarged wallet, inviting a daylight attack. Score for the addict with street skill who knows better and gives others negligent tutorials in travel safety. So as fate would have it, this small town pupil was going to learn real quick the value of common sense in street knowledge.
As we would have it, the duo of songwriter and student were going to be poised and pure for communication, whether chomping apples in the park or performing for others headed home after hearing tales of badge and gun from Midwesterners.
The great thing about the turned back clock of Dresden is that everyone sticks out from the crowd, by astonishment perhaps for which century they live in and in this fabled country. Each individual steps aside in an instant for others, where time may pass by them undisturbed, if not only for their own countrymen then for those in awe of their history.
When I finally sat down with an individual for conversation, my noteworthy translator, drunk and broken, yet kind, was able to relay a story of homelessness and struggle. She was a mother trying to find dignity within a shelter, within a city of fallout. The composure in her voice was genuine, as was the trembling in her hands that revealed her need to convey her struggle with poverty. The wonder in her counterparts eyes assures her that we understand struggle if only in anguish. Her instincts for care and dignity forced her to award my understanding by taking her gloves off for my own clasped and frigid hands. Her voice then trembled when saying in English “you are good, keep these.” Adoring her kindness towards my unfamiliarity with outward struggles, I remembered how far I was from my own family and how close to homelessness I was right then. I realized, if true affection of a person is from insight into circumstances one can relate to, than disparity must come from imagination and exploration that is unique. The notion that people are the same wherever you go is in contrast with whom you are willing to associate. I had decided to see a different side of this life, to roam outside my comfort zone, to be brave and inviting.
As a great appreciator of music I thought it would be cool to bum around with Micky, a Vietnam Veteran, Haight Ashbury resident, Woodstock attendee with an insatiable thirst for wine. His songwriting was on the whole thoughtful, but in distress and was simple in structure. The interesting aspect of his playing is how down to earth he was, I mean literally he was weighed down by forces that would not allow him to rise above his insecurities. Stopping mid song to swig the bottle, eyes rolling to the back of his head to then be affixed always on my right ear as I searched for light in his eyes like I occasionally found in his music. I admired his ability to read people, as I learned to read his body language for ill and for trust. Agitation, short answers, and no eye (or ear) contact meant the brood was to be avoided. Placing his hand to brush down on his mustache while covering his mouth and giving me platform to speak meant the flock was steering the right course. These subtle hints on judging character fell onto Micky, but later in life would fall onto individuals for me to decide whether to flee or embrace.
It is important to note that I was met with kindness, for the most part, throughout Europe. Men and women would pick me up hitchhiking, students invited me to flop in their dorm room, travelers and locals shared fresh bread and advice on what to do for free, and most people had a positive opinion of Americans at that time. It could be that people generally had a positive opinion of me because my rhetoric abilities were limited to social and psychological witness of my immediate surroundings and were not very broad about the world. I didn’t pretend to know and I didn’t know at that time I was trying to survive psychologically. My sheltered, small town, seemingly normal upbringing was guarding me from being overloaded with stimulus and information that would eventually cause several psychotic breaks for me as a young man. The antithesis of being shown too much too fast.
Francis Erich McElroy 