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I, like many of my neo-hippy generation comrades, toured Europe the summer preceding my senior year at college with the itinerant yearning that infects the middle class. Unbeknownst to me, I had a congregation waiting for my divine word of travel once I returned home. Even those who did not know me that well (hangers-on or semi-acquaintances) converged on me for a slice of the wayward traveler. While most settled on inane questions regarding American products abroad (Do they have McDonald's in Europe?), a few wanted city criticisms. “So, what’s Berlin like?” someone with a tenuous association to me asked. “I don’t know,” I responded, but then added, “It's very painful,” belatedly. “You don’t know? I thought you went there.” He incorrectly inferred that because I could not compare Berlin with another city, or assess it in some ready-made conventional response, I had not been there. In reality (albeit, a very questionable reality), the three days I spent in Berlin were too bizarre to attribute to being a normal day in the capital of Germany. The only lederhosen I saw that weekend had the crotch area cut out of them and, oops, the gentleman forgot to wear underwear. I don’t know what Berlin is like because, if it were like that everyday, the economy would solely consist of wig manufacturers and Vodka sales.

Keith O'Brien was backpacking through Europe when he first got the news of the upcoming Berlin Love Parade. After 12 countries in seven weeks, Keith thought his whirlwind travel would pick up in this 12-hour EU outdoor rave. The whirlwind subsided to an air cast for a badly sprained ankle, but Keith didn't let that stop him. Party on. . Additional Resources Travel Links  Unique Lifestyles  Maps Of The World  Hospitals Worldwide  World Reference Desk Articles on Living Overseas  International Jobs Marketplace  Contact Keith O’Brien .

Nor could I image that half-naked (sometimes naked) hedonists run the German government on ecstasy. He neglected to register that I mentioned the experience was painful – due to a misstep on my part. That happened during the largest rave in the world called the Love Parade. I, joined by what seemed like every citizen in the EU, clogged up Europe’s railways in order to attend the party.
 

The 12-hour outdoor rave, which takes place in the middle of the Tiergarten, produces more trash and headaches than the WB Network. In search of a party, I, along with 1.299999 million other people, decided to make Berlin my home that weekend. Unfortunately, I underestimated the appeal of free love and techno (also gratis), so I held off inquiring about a hostel until two weeks before the event. Of those who spoke English well, they undoubtedly doubted their fluency when I asked for a room with a permanent roof. Like other exiles, I ended up in a makeshift camping ground where 10 Marks bought me a mattress on the plywood floor of a communal tent. My fellow boarders raved about the hot showers that lay 100 meters from our tent. I did not share their enthusiasm because I misplaced my towel back in Belfast and did not invest in another one due to acquired, deadly frugality.

Travel note: Cold German air does not dry warm American body in a pleasant manner.

Berlin transformed itself into the ultimate peripatetic destination that weekend, and we campers found ourselves right in the belly of the Bohemian beast. I arrived two nights prior to the parade in order to get my bearings (difficult due to the disorientation of being in 12 counties in 7 weeks).

I spent most of my pre Love Parade time around the campfire, participating in varied conversations. A very intoxicated South African man tried to explain why racism was necessary in his country. A cute red headed girl from the US and I tried to determine why the German standing before us cut his jeans, but left the leg parts on.

The only qualm I had with the Love Parade experience was that the DJs worked the crowd into a frenzy by rolling down the street in 1 of 53 floats. Those who enjoyed his set had to follow the speaker-enhanced Pied Piper down the street. I believe I was dancing to Agnelli and Nelson when the curb told my ankle that it wasn’t welcome in Germany.

“Crackle,” my ankle said, as it hit the curb at an awkward angle. Perhaps it was another one of the Rice Crispie chaps. Nonetheless, those little sprites never emoted the pain that came with their sounds.
 

Every year, Love Parade has a theme title that sums up the event’s communal feeling. That year’s theme was “One World, One Love Parade.” Unfortunately, this led me to incorrectly assume the lingua franca was love and compassion. Those who loved me would have assisted me to a medic tent. I really wished they had changed the title to “Ravers must assist a wounded man to become a true enlightened soul,” or perhaps just “Help me, Franz.” If this had happened in 1996 when the rave claimed “We Are One Family,” the situation might have changed (if our family had had decent health care).  I grimaced, I whimpered and I did everything but hide the fact that I was in pain, but no one appeared concerned. I had to walk about half-a-mile until I found a medic. He spoke English well, but he did not seem to understand it with the same capacity. I distinctly remember asking for some ice, but minutes later, found myself in a stretcher being led through the parade. I can ascertain two reasons for the misunderstanding: 1) German cubed ice is valued as much as American hip-hop ice... and proves to be scarcer. 2) They did not want the PR nightmare of having an American tourist dying of a sprained ankle because he wasn't rushed to the hospital.

The admitting doctor and I exchanged some insurance details (rather I gave, he nodded), and he left me to ponder my future … in the middle of a corridor. Thirty minutes passed before anyone interrupted my isolation. 

“You’re still here?” the admitting doctor asked.

“Yes,” I replied. He paused, I assume to scan his English vocabulary. While I have a bit of a hypochondria issue, I knew that this sprain did not necessitate his administering last rights. Regardless, it became apparent that he was about to say something that he didn’t normally say.
 

In his broken English, he explained that an explosion in the U-Bahn injured 80 people and that they were being rushed to the hospital, immediately. Therefore, my priority level was downgraded to stupid, clumsy foreigner. I wanted to tell him that I never asked to be taken to the hospital, but he focused his attention on the English instructions on the pamphlet for the air cast he gave me. He then instructed me to come back the next day to make sure that I did not have ligament damage. I assured him I would return, and we shook hands before I left the hospital. With the day still relatively young, I rejoined the party. The music paused for a second, looked at my ankle, shrugged, and went back to its job. So, I reconciled with the curb and rested my weary leg in front of me. The music blared into the night, and it seemed like summer would last forever.

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