Copenhagen, Denmark (1989).
Previously: 40 Years in Beer, Part Twenty-One: Those legendary working beers with the FDJ in the GDR.
There was a faint glow, and an aura of something flickering amid barely discernible sounds of distant people conversing in an alien language. Apparently a herd of elephants camped somewhere to the rear, occasionally bellowing fair warning.
Flat on my back and shirtless, but providentially still wearing pants, I felt sore all over, like I’d just finished running a marathon or boxing a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson.
It seemed I was marooned in a foreign land, emerging from the haze of a mysterious coma, but in fact the coma was self-induced and the destination purposeful, even if the precise whys and wherefores remained elusive.
24 hours earlier I’d spent a final evening in rigid, doomed East Berlin, drinking voluminous quantities of Wernesgrüner Pils with my friend and workmate ...
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