Leaving Berlin.

Leaving Berlin after five days, four of which were production, for the fair city of Amsterdam, where my wife will join me and we will wallow in Dutch Masters--art, not cheap cigars.

I've enjoyed Berlin--as I mentioned in previous posts, their overt contrition and public memorials to their genocide is admirable. Still, yesterday, when we traveled east past broad expanses of rail yards, seeing those tracks--those very tracks that led to death, well, it chilled me.

Just like the chill I get each time I pass the spot on the Grand Central Parkway where my Gypsy cab-driver spun out of control and into a concrete barrier and almost killed me.

I'll always feel a little pain there.

And here, too. 

There are some things, well, no matter how you try, they're imprinted. Like a salmon returning to his birth-river to spawn.

I felt at home in Germany, much of the time. The greetings I received for being a "Tannenbaum," were spontaneous, friendly and fun.

Still, there's that crash. 

I can't get over.