Twilight, a Second Chance, and The Road East

  My father and I have shared a tumultuous relationship. We've never quite seen eye to eye. Though I can't quite pinpoint the impetus of our conflict, I can say that our strife has been somewhat ironic. We are two peas in a pod. To offer an illustration, my father was fired from his job as a history teacher at Washington College Academy 16 years before I was expelled there as a student. We have never followed easy paths. After restarting my grandfather's cabinet shop in Jonesborough, dad grew it into a flooring factory. I spent much of my youth following dad as he drove forklifts around the lumber yard, or tailing a variety of machines used in the production of hardwood flooring and custom moldings. I must confess to having resented the hard work, but it made me strong. By the time I reached my teens I could have run the business if I'd needed to. However, with that assertiveness came a willingness to contravene my fathers directives. By the time he left the family business to start a farm in Romania we were constantly at odds with one another. People always thought it was strange that dad left. When they regularly asked why he was there, I'd simply reply "He's growing potatoes for Jesus", but I always knew, deep down, that he was there because of me.

  Though my father was gone most of the time by my mid-teens my struggle against authority continued on. It seemingly made the American Dream practically unobtainable. I was a failure as a student, and assembled a criminal record. As a consequence, relationships were somewhat difficult to maintain. I'd become a loner, but even Han Solo had Chewbacca. So, during the summer of 2002, as I visited a former girlfriend of mine to collect my walking papers, I played with twin border collie/lab pups she'd brought home from the animal shelter. Though they were both great dogs, one was particularly bright, happy, and wild. I scooped her into my arms and named her on the spot. I didn't so much as ask Annaka as I did inform her that Daisy was going with me.

  Daisy traveled with me almost everywhere, and saw me eventually graduate from the University of Tennessee Chattanooga. Following University I founded a business that required lots of travel. Though I had a 20 country head start on my old girl, she still accompanied this convicted felon to 49 states and 34 countries on four continents. She never required much, just the occasional beer, a bit of brie, and a few bbq ribs.

Whether we were motorcycling across the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, camped in a German forest, or surviving the late December chill of Yukon Territory along the ALCAN highway, Daisy was always happy to be along for the ride. She was my best, and most loyal, friend.

  My motorcycle transport business, through equal parts hard work and social deprivation, was somewhat successful, and upon the Brexit vote pulverizing the Pound I was well positioned to import collectors bike from England to the U.S.. The first container load sold fairly well, and as I bought more this past Spring for the second, my father expressed interest in joining Daisy and I in England for my trip to Northern Romania. So, we met my father in London and we drove down towards Southampton to load the container with 27 motorcycles. It was just like the old days; dad operating the forklift while I did everything else. You couldn't have fit a pack of rolling papers in that 40 foot container by the time we had finished, much less another bike. We celebrated by visiting a patch of nearby Redwoods in New Forest National Park for a walk.
Old Daisy had a great afternoon among the giant trees. She investigated the multitudes of wandering horses, and even snatched a couple of Frisbee's to show off for a marginally terrified group of well heeled Arab teenagers. She didn't appear to be 15 years old. On that afternoon she was bright and youthful. A
marvelous hound that connected my troubled past with a successful present. On that afternoon she was a peacemaker.

  We continued on to catch a ferry bound for Normandy. My father is a history buff, and I enjoyed hearing his telling the story of the parlous raid of the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc as he, Daisy and I walked the crater riddled grounds there

in solitude. That night between Poine du Hoc and Omaha Beach we stopped for the evening and grilled out in typical Israel and Daisy fashion. Sausage, ribs, toast and brie. No beer for dad, but
Daisy and I managed drinking them without his help. Though we took hotels and stayed with friends of mine a few times, we camped out of the van at least five nights along the road east. It was nice to share my lifestyle with dad.

   After departing France we visited Henri Chapelle American cemetery in northern Belgium where my father visited his uncle's burial plot fulfilling a wish of his mother's that he pay his respects. We continued on to Zundert, Holland, birthplace of Vincent Van Gogh, to see where his Uncle John, working as a messenger for the 104th Timberwolves, met his end courtesy of a German sniper. After a bit of research I located a nearby museum dedicated to the Fighting Timberwolves and our trio of misfits went off in search of WWII relics and a better understanding of how John R Garland spent his final days. 

  The Military History Museum, in Achtmaal, Netherlands, was curated by a friendly fellow

named Charles. In addition to keeping a stunningly complete collection of European theater WWII hardware, of which made my father practically giddy, he also had a little guest shed, complete with grill, shower, and German Luftwaffe training aircraft, in which he invited us to stay. We managed to bridge the language barrier with a certain ease, and as a warm afternoon culminated in a crimson sunset we shared a crude, smile filled, dinner of brie, bread, chops, and kababs with our generous Dutch host and the ghosts of Uncle John, and other young men from the 104th Infantry Division Fighting Timberwolves. It was the happiest I'd seen my father in a long time, maybe ever. The red sky of mid-evening gave way to a still, but cool, night. I finished my last beer and pulled my bedding out to the grass, Daisy in tow, and slept beneath the stars. It was the happiest I'd been in a long time too.

  The sun awoke me early and Charles greeted me with a strong cup of coffee. After the old man showered, we said our goodbyes, loaded the van, and set our course for Berlin. The early start allowed us to arrive in Die Hauptstadt that same evening. It was Dad's first, Daisy's fourth, and my sixth trip to Berlin.

Krausnickstrasse is round the corner from the Jewish synagogue, about half a mile from the Brandenburg Gates as the Hooded Crow flies. It was one of the better preserved parts of East Germany during the GDR's tenure of control, and these days it takes a keen eye to spot evidence that this had ever been an oppressed area. However, there is something profoundly unique about those that call Knausnickstrasse home. Back in late winter of 2014, on my second visit to Berlin, I pulled my laden Yamaha through Berlin's high streets onto Oranienburgerstrasse in search of reasonably priced food and beer following a depressing trip to Kiev. I eventually found my way to Krausnickstrasse, and the Anne Koschke gastropub. After devouring a bowl of soup and a sandwich I visited the corner shop and bought a couple of beers to drink as I tried to find a place to stay. I was in the midst of

Gudrun, Brigit, and old Daisy enjoying Krausnickstrasse

guzzling my first .5 liter Erdinger while scanning my Romanian smart phone to find the night's accommodations when I heard, "Hey, motorcycle man, where do you go?" Brigit and her friend Gudrun were perched upon the steps leading up to their building across the street drinking beers of their own. I joined them and we quickly became friends. On every subsequent trip to Berlin I have made my way back to Krausnickstrasse. It is a special place in a special town. So, in addition to having dragged my old girl Daisy and my buddy, Arie, to Brigit's place to clean clothes, regroup, and have a central hub of German operation, on this trip I had my father. We were treated like family.

 After resting, eating, and cleaning we said our goodbyes, and pushed out of Berlin headed on to Poland. On our way out of town we attempted to visit Checkpoint Charlie, only to find a police blockade. A parade of fascist assholes had just passed through the heart of Berlin, and ended at the Checkpoint. Every policeman in town must have been on duty to prevent altercations. I'm all for free speech, but I cannot deny having felt the desire to see Nazis on the ground bleeding. My father said, "let's go son, there's nothing good to see here", and we turned from the spot of history that he and I had shared in the Fall of 1989, watching on from East Tennessee, as freedom came to Eastern Europe. I found it perverse that we were there in person to see a portion of its departure. God help us.

  Poland came and went with a night in an Orthodox Church's parking lot, and we then attempted to choose the least used Ukrainian border crossing. No such thing really exists these days, and both we visited were backed up for miles, so we joined in the waiting.

 Eastern European border crossings, particularly those on the very periphery of the EU, are not unlike backroom Asian Fight Clubs. They are rude, crude, and comprised almost entirely of shady characters with dastardly motives. If one hopes to make it through, it's best to leave any sense of decency behind. The meek will be pushed, pulled, shuffled, leaped over, and generally disregarded. It's an environment that incubates the worst human impulses and actions. I've had my share of difficult border experiences, from being beaten by Israeli military, to shaken down by crooked Hondurans, and shot at by extraordinarily difficult Argentines. However, this attempt to cross from Poland into Ukraine proved to be the most frustrating of the lot.

   To be continued.....