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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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).