Faced with a silly American seeking to make conversation on the basis of a Western Hemisphere commonality my second waitress this evening (the first departed for Feierabend) at a Mexican restaurant in Berlin says she speaks only a little Spanish. „Where are you from?“ asked I. „Griechenland“ comes the answer. Varoufakis is suddenly thrown into perspective. I am reminded of the Latvians from Denmark I met at Chernobyl.
Four years ago at my high tech workplace in high rent South of Market San Francisco I approvingly noted to a coworker that she’d used the word „capitalism“ in the conversation. This recognition, though well intended, had the effect of stifling further conversation, though coworkers continued to avail themselves of the „free“ low-cal lactose-free muesli and aluminum cans of flavored sparkling water.
There are times when I feel I’d gladly sacrifice this life as a sort of practice, a rehearsal life lived in the company of the psychotic, with the understanding that my „real“ life was yet to come. Alas, there is no indication that this is to be the case.
