My Days in Crete: More Greek Kindness.

I walked into a seafood restaurant, and a tall, athletic and skinny host named Nikitas invited me and asked if I wanted to make a reservation; I didn't know it then, but he was in the Greek military special forces and was half Cyprian. (Did you know Cyprus is the only other country in the world that speaks Greek? I think a territory in Macedonia also speaks Greek.) He was kind, and he really wanted me to feel at home. Nikitas had such a unique name, it took me awhile to remember it. The invitation set the tone of extending the great Greek Hospitality that Ianis and Marina showed me earlier.

There was another restaurant I went to often for coffee called Taverna Dimitra. The first thing I noticed was that there were two notebook computers, and they looked plugged in and like they were used a lot. I found out that the family had a daughter named Dimitra, and she graduated in computer science. Her fiance is Yiannis. Yiannis was also very hospitable and kind, and I built a relationship with that family. Yiannis is also a computer scientist.

I noticed that they were a happy family and that there was a peace and kindness in their house. And you could see that the children really benefited from a loving and good home. The son was a police officer. There was much to learn here. This is in stark contrast to the stress levels of Los Angeles.

What I love about the people of Crete is that they have time for you. And they want to know more about you. And they want to talk to you. And they want to develop a relationship with you. In Los Angeles, I feel so pressed for time all the time that I don't feel like I have time for others. Here, they make time for you.

I finally made it to a small village by the sea. Crete itself was an ancient kingdom by the sea. I was fascinated to know that I was on the island where the Minotaur once lived. And the people love to come and go, talking about Alexander the Great.

I can't say that there was any eye catching event I experienced at this village. It was quiet. Maybe that's what I needed. And the food was good.

I read a lot, which was one of the aim of my trips. I wanted to get through as many books as possible. I had 6 books, two of which I was half way through. I read on a feminist memoir on a woman who was sexually abused by her father. She gave birth to a dead baby. She was a good writer. I also read on bone healing. Then there was a book interviewing ultra liberal people, like a Black lesbian woman, who was trying to convince the American public it needed to change and admit it was racist. And guess what? The next book was on a civil war general, who fought for slavery. Now, I was reading on the dirty, bribery world of FIFA soccer. I don't think you're going to meet someone who reads this diversely.

People ask me why I spend my time reading on holidays, because I can do that at home. But that's not true. I have so many responsibilities; I really have to get away to make time for reading. I stress that again. You have to make time for reading; otherwise, it won't get done.

I was five minutes by the beach. One thing I didn't like about this village was that there were so many older people and no young single people. These older people were generally British. And I felt like I was stuck in a really large convalescent home.

The lady at the souvenir shop says she loves the British, because they're well mannered. She disliked Israelis and Russians the most. 

True. They were well mannered. But I didn't like the culture of these older British people. They were extremely self-absorbed and had lost their purpose for living a long time ago. They were there to get a few more years of excitement out of life, even though they couldn't do much, because their bodies were failing them. And then they were going to die. How sad to witness all this.

The only reason that they could travel was that their British Sterling Pound was strong, and once again, they had lost their purpose in life. Had they been earning Hungarian Forint, they couldn't travel. So, it wasn't anything special that they individually did to have more money. They were just benefitting off the British currency.

They reminded me of the trashy old Americans you see in Loreto, Mexico and throughout Cabo. It's not a good thing to lose your purpose to live and then try to extract your senior years in some beach town only to then die.

Russians are no longer allowed to the European Union. But I noticed a party illegally got through through Turkey. That was interesting. And they were typically Russian, wanting to show off their wealth.

* * *

Later in the week, I texted Ianis and Marina, remember the Greek couple who showed me incredible hospitality and told him where I was. Ianis picked me up. He came from the South and finished his business. The drive was three and a half hours. 

Ianis looked tired. Marina was tired. They had worked all day. They picked me up and we went to sit at a cafe on the coastal rocks, overlooking the Mediterranean sea during a red sunset. It was nice we were continuing the relationship.

They ordered ice cream. I ordered a glass of red wine. We talked. We caught up. There was small talk and bigger talk and everything in between.

After Ianis ate the ice cream, he looked so happy. He woke up and became more alert. He also adds: "I really needed that."

Ianis then tells me to meet him on the island of Santorini tomorrow. I have to wake up at 6 in the morning to do it. (Everyone who knows me, knows I'm not a morning person.) I agree. I'll do it. He says I only have to pay for the ferry ride, which is actually dear.

I wasn't planning on going to Santorini. I heard it was expensive. I remember it was an Instagram paradise. Why not?

Ianis paid for my wine. I say I'll see him soon. We say goodbye.

He texts me later not to come, because Marina will not come. I told him, I'll still come. I sleep early. 

I ask Nikitas if he ever went to Santorini. He says he has not.

I ask Yiannis, the computer scientist, if he ever went to Santorini. He says, "No. Never. I heard it's expensive."

I slept earlier. Well, I was going to Santorini tomorrow. I didn't know it then, but the Lord was with me wherever I went in Greece.

Former City Attorney, Robert Tafoya, Suspected of Orchestrating Bribe Payment Scheme to City Public Officials

Former City Attorney of Baldwin Park, Robert Tafoya, is suspected of orchestrating bribe payments of at least $70,000 to former city council member, Ricardo Pacheco. Yesterday, the FBI arrested former Compton City Council Member, Isaac Galvan, who was also being held in prison for charges of election fraud. Allegedly, Galvin was the middle man to bribe Pacheco with $70,000 of Yichang Bai's money. Bai bribed Pacheco so that Pacheco could vote for him and his company to receive a license to sell marijuana in the City. Bai was also arrested by the FBI. You can read the details of the arrest from the Department of Justice here.

According to Roger Hernandez, former California Assemblyman, around December of 2018, Galvan learned how to conceal the bribe payments from Tafoya. Galvan would sit in Tafoya's office, and Tafoya would mastermind the scheme in order to conceal the bribe payments to Pacheco. Tafoya then directed Glavan on what to do.

The DOJ reports that one way this would be done is as follows. "Bai collected checks from third parties who owed him money and then – at Galvan’s direction – gave Galvan the checks with blank payee lines. Galvan then gave the checks to Pacheco, who then arranged for them to be cashed, either by him or third parties."

Hernandez said that Galvan and Tafoya would also wine and dine clients, like Bai, at luxury steak restaurants like Morton's. On average, the cost of dinner for one person at Morton's is a $120. 

Pacheco, who has already pled guilty to bribery, has had his sentencing date continued by 9 months. The continuance suggests that the FBI has increased their list of suspects. The previous Department of Justice press release accused Council Member Monica Garcia and former Mayor Manuel Lozano of also being involved in the bribery scheme. It appears that more arrests will be coming soon.

Radical Greek Hospitality: A Mirror to My Own Flaws

1:45 in the morning. Heraklion, Crete, Greece. The owner of the hotel slams the door in my face and tells me that if I don't leave soon, she's calling the police. They don't have 24-hour-reception. I woke her up. She tells me I don't have a booking. I tell her I do and that their must be some mistake. If she would only give me the WiFi code, we could sort it out. She repeats herself, if I don't leave, she'll call the police. I tell her, do whatever you want. It wouldn't be the first time people needlessly call the police on me. I didn't know it then, but the Lord was with me.

I think to myself, Why the Hell did I chose to come to Greece? What a mistake.

I have luggage to drag around and no place to stay. I better look for a hotel and try to figure out what happened. 

I'm tired. It's a three and an half an hour flight from Amsterdam to Crete. Think about the time to get to the airport and check in. I think checking into the airport takes a lot more energy than I realized. 

I also flew on some budget airline. They crammed us into the small seats like sardines in a can. I sat next to a fat Aryan guy, perhaps Dutch, perhaps German. His body fat spilled over into my space. He was eating a lot of potato chips and licking his fingers after eating enough of them.

Anyways, trying to figure things out, around the corner, I see a couple, who seem to be enjoying themselves. One guy is in his 40s and in his underwear and hairy and cheery. The woman is dressed in a sleeveless bright blue dress. She's blonde with brown eyes. She looks like she's wearing an ancient Greek dress. Both of them radiate happiness and cheer.

I knock on their door and say, "Excuse me. Do you speak English?"

The guy says, "Yes."

"Can I get your WiFi code? My hotel says I don't have a booking. I need the WiFi to see if this is correct."

"I'll get you the code. Come on in." 

Remember; it's 2 AM. They found me on the street.

The woman studies me. She can see I'm agitated and anxious. She hears about me not having a hotel and how the owner threatened to call the police on me. She says, "Don't worry about it. We'll find you a hotel for the night."

They offer me a drink of strong and fine alcohol in a shot glass. I down it. The host tells me, "Don't do that. Too fast. You have to enjoy it."

"I'm sorry. It's stressful."

"Don't worry. We're here now. Everything will be ok."

They call around to find me a hotel. They can't find anything.

They say, "It's ok. We'll bring you some bed sheets. You can stay on our couch tonight." 

Wow - I think. You barely met me. It's 2AM. You found me on the streets.

The guy says, "Have a drink. Relax. Everything is ok now."

We talk until 3 AM. His name is Yiannis (John in English) and her name is Marina. Yiannis makes wine and is a jack of all trades, which include driving buses, cars, fixing brakes, and producing olive oil. Marina owns a hotel. I give them Korean noodles, the one that's popular with Korean actors and K-pop stars. I tell them it's not regular instant ramen. I would've given them my Californian wine, but it's missing from my bag.

We wake up the next morning. Everyone is tired. I apologize to Marina and say, "I'm so sorry to inconvenience you." I feel so bad, when I see how tired they are.

She hugs me and kisses me on the cheek and says, "Don't you worry about it. We all need help some times."

I feel shame. I feel humiliated. I know I wouldn't be happy if someone made me lose my sleep. And here I was, a stranger, knocking on the door of people, at 2AM in the morning, on the streets. Her response confronts me with this thought: You need to rethink your values on being inconvenienced. Anyone can be hospitable when it's on their terms. Real hospitality can be real inconvenience.

* * *

The Jewish and Christian people tell this story. Around 3,400 years ago, Hebrew spies visited a Gentile prostitute named Rahab, who lived in the city walls. Could the spies imagine someone less clean? A prostitute. A Gentile. An outsider.

Rahab was clearly an outcast by her own people. She couldn't even live in the city. That's why she lived in the border of it, in a wall. But like so many outcasts, she was an observer and understood how people thought.

When the Hebrew spies arrived, God has already told her to protect them. She tricked the soldiers looking for them by hiding them on the roof, under bundles of flax. The spies promise her, "we will treat you kindly and faithfully when the Lord gives us the land.” (Joshua 2:14, NIV).

After the Israelites capture Jericho, Rahab and her family were saved. She converts to Judaism and receives God's blessing. She ultimately ends up as ancestor of Jesus. So, an outcast gets a new family.

The writer of the Book of Hebrews exalts her as a saint, because of her faith. Goes to show you, we're all only one step away from living a life of faith, if a prostitute can convert to a saint through her faith and hospitality and through an act that saves the lives of the spies. Ultimately, she brings salvation to the City of Jericho.

* * *

The next morning, the three of us have coffee. I really need a coffee. They really need a coffee. We sit at a cafe on a small cliff, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The refreshing and salty sea breeze was blowing through the City, through our hair, through the cafe.

I pay for coffee.

Later on, Yiannis calls me in the late afternoon and tells me to meet him at a restaurant. He buys me a glass of sweet Greek wine. We chat. He tells me he's having a problem. He can't exchange his Norwegian money for Euros. 

He's in a hurry. He has to take a trip three and a half hours South of Crete. (By the way, Crete is a large island; the 22nd largest island in the world.) 

We part ways. Yiannis and Marina had to go South. I had to find a place to stay.

* * *

When I retell this story to the Greek people, their response is that they didn't think such hospitality was shown anymore. Perhaps, 20 years ago. They're proud to know that such hospitality is still practiced. I wonder, when they hear this story, could they see the Lord was with me? I didn't even know at the time.

Meeting Van Gogh and the Next Generation in Amsterdam

Van Gogh allegedly shot himself in the chest after he painted some tree roots. He died two days later. The doctors couldn’t save him. What I immediately notice about the root painting, which I posted for you, is that it’s a lot more abstract and different than his other works. 

The Van Gogh Museum was booked out for 10 days. I was so sad to learn this. I came all the way to Amsterdam, only to find out I couldn’t get in. But somehow I talked my way into it. (That’s what lawyers do, right? Talk. Talk. And talk some more.)

I spent 4 hours in the Museum. Any longer, and I would feel fatigue and frustration. That’s all the processing power I have in me. I felt like looking at each of his paintings, that I knew something of the man and what he was going through. 

It reminded me too about how much mental health issues are also correlated with geniuses. I read once that geniuses suffer from a disproportionate amount of mental health issues, namely depression. 

I felt so sad that Van Gogh ended his life in the same year he was starting to become well known. I believe he would’ve made it big in his lifetime, if he kept going. It was tragic to see that even though he created all these beautiful paintings, he thought of himself as a failure. Horrible. 

 * * * 

Back at the hostel, young people are smoking weed in the smoking room. I meet Danish, French, German, American, and Israeli people. I stayed at the Flying Pig Hostel in Uptown. Very great location and atmosphere.

I only kept in touch with one guy, a German named Max. He's only 18 and really tall and skinny and likes to do climbing and biking. He seems quiet but is nice and outgoing and enjoys photography. He tells me he's going to be an engineer.

 

Out of everyone in the group, he's the only one who wants to take a group picture. That gets my attention.

I don’t like the French guy. Well, at first, I kind of did. He was charming enough. But there’s this blonde American girl. Maybe 22. She would look prettier, but she keeps drinking vodka all the time from the bottle. Night after night. I feel so bad for her. She tells me, in her strong American accent, she has a problem but can’t stop.  

I tell her it usually has to do with trauma. She tells me that she has a lot to work on her past. She alludes to being abused.

She sits by me and tells me that she hasn’t had sex in so long. At that point, I thank her for her time and excuse myself. 

The French guy, a nerd, 22, engineer, scrawny and puny gets all excited by the opportunity. He takes her to the local park. 

When he comes back, he tells me that he’s a mighty Don Juan, because he had sex with the girl in the park. He also says he’s a knight in shiny armor, because he protected her from some black guy, who wanted to touch her. 

I was thinking, The only person she needs protection from is you. I was disgusted. Poor girl. 

A lot of the young people there just wanted to numb out. I didn’t get it. They all seemed to come from upper class families. I don’t get why they wanted to numb out. Another spoiled Western World problem and issues with the next generation.  

* * *

I ate seafood at a local Dutch, posh restaurant. I ate at the table on the sidewalk. Some Italian waiter gets me to order choice shrimp and crab and oysters. The oysters are fantastic. I really love the smaller Dutch prawns from the North Sea. They’re sweet and salty and smell fresh, like the ocean is still in them. 

The waiter is sly. He says that I need champagne to wash down my oysters and crab and shrimp . I tell him I’m on a budget. He says, “You’re on holiday. Don’t worry about it.” I ordered Italian bubbles instead. Isn’t life just one big negotiation? No champagne. But ok to bubbles.  

At some point, me sitting outside, and cracking crab legs and crab carapaces and peeling shrimp shells and sucking the brains out of the crayfish heads, while washing down my meal with bubbles, is bringing in a lot of clients. Some girl sees it. Likes it. Wants it. Sees the ritual of it all. And then convinces her man to buy it. Soon, I bring in 4 to 5 sets of clients.

The bill was a lot. I felt like I lost my arm. I ask them for a discount since I brought in a lot of clients. They laugh and smile. No discount, though.   

I tell myself it’s ok. I was eating nothing but pork and beef in Germany. So maybe, it’s ok.

 

 * * * 

The French guy asked what I did. I told him I ate a seafood restaurant. I asked him what he ate. He said just supermarket bread and jam. He looked angry and envious. I don’t know where he’s spending his money. But it’s not so hard to save up for a nice meal. So, I don’t feel sorry for him. I think this guy’s life runs on being angry and envious.

 

The next day, I eat at the seafood restaurant again. And they compliment me with 12 French oysters. They make a mistake on the bill. They accidentally gave me a free champagne they want me to pay for. I ordered bubbles, not expensive champagne. Apparently, it was from a fine French bottle. 

The shift supervisor didn’t seem too happy. And he told the waiter to not make that kind of mistake again in front of me. This is the Dutch for you. They’re super direct and sometimes it is cold and cruel, especially when all this is happening in front of me. See; there’s a dual personality about them.

I leave feeling guilty about the whole event. I didn’t want to leave it like this. They were a nice restaurant. They’re staff were wonderful. I didn’t spend much there that day. So, I made a decision. Not only did I make the decision. I made a decision not to rethink that decision. 

I walk back there during the sunset from my hostel. I give the staff all a big tip. They’re all smiling and celebrating now. 

I could have left and left it like that. I wasn't coming back soon. But that would be wrong.

I wondered if they picked up on the fact that it was a redistribution of wealth from the store to employees. Eh – who cares? Everyone is happy. I’m sure, even the house. 

* * * 

 

I got into a pissing match with a tall and young and know-it-all-German guy. He had this attitude he could push around some small, nice-looking Asian guy and reminded me of some Frat boy. (And in case you're wondering, I never had a problem with frat people in university. But he did have attitude.) Well, meekness is not weakness. Needless to say, he lost to me in the match. Hope he learned his lesson. He didn't know what he was getting himself into.

 

* * *

One shock I had was that Amsterdam was super expensive. It was twice the price of Germany. And I realize, wherever you hear a lot of Americans, the prices are going to be high. It’s because they’ll pay it. Americans create tourist traps, wherever they go;. I heard American everywhere. 

Oh, also, I met an Israeli guy. I helped him book his flight back home to Tel Aviv. He was so sad. He looked brokenhearted. I asked, “What’s wrong?” 

He answered, “I was supposed to have traveled 4 weeks. I spent all my money in Amsterdam in 4 days. I don’t know where it all went.” 

I nodded. Yes. Amsterdam was cruelly expensive, because it could be. I was happy to leave, because of the prices. I was sad to leave, because of all the kind and friendly Dutch people I met. I’ll remember all the Dutch people, who greeted me with their warm and welcoming smile.

 

Before I left, Aaron, an Irish guy, who works there, sits with me and chats and tells me about his life. It was very lovely and a nice way to leave Amsterdam and the hostel.

Time to decide where’s next. I found a cheaper flight from Amsterdam to Crete, Greece. I was going to Greece next. I told myself, stay on course. You made a decision. Stick to it.

Schizophrenic Amsterdam

A lady in a bikini, outside of a window, dances smiles and points and curls her index finger to tell me to come in. She smiles with her lips. But I can see, she's dead inside. They're from Africa, South America, Eastern Europe, but not from the Netherlands. The red light makes their skin glow. They're in the glass window. They wink. They smile. They ask you to come in. You can be Prince Hamlet tonight. She’ll make you believe you are. All for a price.

There’s a long line of people, who want to watch the live sex show. 60 euros for a full show. 5 euros for a quick show. The full show even gives you a drink while you’re watching. Did I tell you that there’s also a church right by the red light district?

Sin and repent. Repent and sin. Feel worthless. Feel worthy. Feel shame again. Then pretend that nothing happened. 

After about 30 minutes of walking around, we all find the whole thing sad and depressing. We leave to get a drink. Amsterdam has it all for you, drugs, prostitutes, arts, culture, and beauty.  

Every corner smells like marijuana smoke. There’s throngs of tourists. I hear Americans everywhere. For some reason, I find it annoying to hear that Yankee accent, so loud and clueless, all the time.

Amsterdam is the most Schizophrenic city I’ve been to and so clearly so. There’s pink and red flowers and canals and water. I can see why it’s called the Venice of the North. It’s beautiful and charming. But Amsterdam has such an ugly side to it. One wonders how these two personalities live side by side with each other.
 
* * * 

I came to Amsterdam, because I’ve never been to the Netherlands. My first proper boss in New Zealand was Dutch. I liked him a lot. He gave me a chance, even when I wasn’t confident I could get the job done. Because of him, I got my first full time job in New Zealand. Because of him, I became a resident of New Zealand. In fact, “Zealand” is a Dutch word. It means sea–land. My Dutch boss even gave me his family recipe for Dutch donuts.

I wanted to understand the Dutch better. So, it was time to go Amsterdam.

I took the 1 o’clock speed train out of Gottingen to Amsterdam. Across me was a young, 22 year old, shy German guy, who wanted to talk to me. He wore glasses and had cool gadgets. He was going with his girlfriend to Amsterdam, just for one night. The German guy’s name was Lucas and he was a mechanic, who liked Lacoste designer clothes.

He did everything indirectly to get my attention. No one was taking my phone call back home, while I was riding the speed train to Amsterdam from Germany. So, why not? I bought an overpriced coffee at the train kitchen, introduced myself, and started talking to him and his girlfriend.

We talked about what to do in Amsterdam. They told me that they were going to stay near Anne Frank’s house. Her diary was mandatory reading in junior high, and I think even high school.

I asked them about their favorite countries in Europe. She was from Poland. So, they told me Warsaw. I still had no plans as to where I was going.

You know when the train gets into the Netherlands. The buildings are softer and cuter and friendlier and more cubish. It was like Pablo Picasso was their architect. German roofs, in contrast, announce that their German. They’re a dark blue and made of metal and so austere and strong and tough. They tell you, they can weather any storm. I’d say the Dutch houses are much more inviting.

* * *
Five hours later, about 290 miles away, I arrive into Amsterdam Train Station.

A friendly and lovely Dutch lady tells me she makes her fried dough with love. She takes the time out to help me find my hostel. I check into my hostel. It’s in Uptown. I stayed at the Flying Pig Hostel in Uptown. Very great location and atmosphere.

 Uptown is lovely and charming and nothing like central Amsterdam with its red light district. I’m by the museums and the art galleries.

After, I sit down by a river at a bistro for dinner. The waiters are Dutch. That’s cool. I like meeting Dutch people. They’re all so tall. Did you know the Netherlands has the tallest people in the world?

They young waiters teach me Dutch words. I know a few. They’re so happy I’m trying to learn. They’re very warm. After eating an appetizer and amazing crunchy white bread, baked really crispy, they ask me to come back.

I’m in Amsterdam. Three more weeks of travel.

Germany's Mental Health Crisis

4 AM. Hanover Train Station. Trying to get some sleep in a hard, plastic, red chair. An African woman, maybe in her 50s, bad skin, bad hair, rotten teeth, cusses and screams at me in English, not German. She throws a McDonald’s cheeseburger against my left chest. I feel it hit my left pectoral. The red ketchup stains my cobalt blue shirt. I feel her rage. Searing. Intense.

A beautiful blonde German girl, with milk white skin, maybe 22, watches horrified. So does the German girl’s boyfriend. She comes to me. She hands me some tissue and some hand sanitizer to clean myself up. She says she’s sorry. I say, “Danke schoen.” (Thank you.)

Other Germans, all Aryans, all young, almost all blonde with blue eyes, are in shock this assault happened. They sympathize.

To be clear, I said nothing to this lady. I was just trying to sleep. I said nothing. I didn’t even make eye contact. I said nothing to her. She sat next to me for awhile, eating her McDonald's. I was trying to sleep. Some sleep. Any sleep. I’ve been traveling for over 20 to 30 hours without sleep.

Hanover Train Station doesn’t feel safe at this time. I see drug addicts, prostitutes, and Johns everywhere. It wasn’t the Germany I left 5 and a half years ago.

But maybe that was the problem. I refused to acknowledge her. Would I have, if I found her beautiful? Who knows? Someone who could validate us. But isn’t that what we do in our busy worlds, with time so precious. We just pretend that the stranger isn’t there. And maybe that’s now culturally acceptable, because strangers can find it weird when you try to strike up a conversation.

I think that’s why she threw food at me. First the French fries, which I dodged. Then the cheeseburger. Everyone found it clearly uncivil and rude.

I didn’t mean to ignore her. It wasn’t like I was doing it on purpose. I was just minding my own business. I was tired. I needed sleep and wanted sleep.

But I’m sure, being physically present but invisible, unrecognized, and unacknowledged, is and was painful. But some are mentally unwell. And this is what happens to them. So, she did what she had to, to get her acknowledgment. And she got it.

You might think I’m reading into it too much. But I don’t think so. Did you know in Zula, a South African tribe I met, they’re hello is “Sawubona!” It means literally, “I see you!” They believe we both and only exist, because we both acknowledge each other.

Well; in Germany and the USA, this has been erased in our minds. It matters what others could do for us. Time is money. Money is time. And you don’t want certain people in your space. And we all mind our own business. What happens to you is your problem. What happens to me is my problem. Am I my brother’s keeper? Definitely a clash of cultures ensuing.

 Another thing. When I tell this story. People ask me if it was a German who assaulted me and quickly point out it: See; it was a refugee.

I can’t say I’m above this. Maybe it was good thing it happened to me. It’s made me think about this issue.

About 30 minutes later, the mentally unwell woman came back with a lighted cigarette and its red hot ember cherry. Everyone around her moved and ran away. The police came this time.

* * *

I ended up in this mess, because of a series of things that went wrong, which seems to happen, when I start my trips. It's almost like a form of destructive compound interest. Story of my life. One thing that went wrong was that the Lufthansa flight was late, making me miss my last train.

Since the bankruptcy of Air Berlin – Lufthansa has become a terrible airline, with terrible customer service. The problem is that it’s the major airline from the USA to Germany.

* * *

I went to six hotels in Hanover that night. All of them were booked. The sixth one, the last room was booked by someone who got there five minutes earlier than me. He was so gleeful with himself.

I was irritable to have lost out. He was old and fat and middle age and balding and German. I wondered if he was also in Hanover for the prostitutes, which I saw many of. And there were many men like him too. He definitely looked excited to be there. He was no Prince Hamlet, wasn’t meant to be, and never will be.

There was a certain cruelty and ugliness about the John–looking–guy and the hotel receptionist. They didn’t care I didn’t have a place to stay. I was homeless tonight.

* * *

Later in the trip, I stayed at a hotel in Goettingen. There was a mentally unwell woman in our hostel. She was again in her 50s. She talked to herself a lot. She banged on my wall, when I talked on the phone. She screamed a lot. She knew she wasn’t well, but she couldn’t control herself.

At first we thought she was from Lithuania. It turns out she was a Ukrainian refuge. The Germans tells me there’s a lot of these Ukrainian refugees now. Allegedly, these refugees all know someone who’s died. The hotel kicked her out the next morning.

I told you. No one wants them in their space.

* * *
Germany definitely has a mental health crisis. Germany’s suicide rate is at 12.3 per 100,000 persons. “Of the G7 countries, the USA had the highest" at 16.1. New Zealand is at 10.2. South Korea is even worse, at 32.5.

In 2009, Greece’s suicide rate was only 2.9. Now, it’s at around 5.1. Still low, but has gone up. How did it almost double in 14 years? Regardless, maybe it’s time to go to Greece.

* * *  
Issues regarding mental health appears to be a theme in this trip. Hospitality, or the lack of it, was also becoming a recurrent theme.