Harry – simply Harry! E-Book

Martin Gremmelspacher

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 666

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Sindeshausen, a fictitious small town in the mid-70s. Harry Fröhlich, 16, blond, long-haired. A loudmouth who rubs people up the wrong way, but also captivates others. A falling out with his parents causes him to run away. The following road movie develops into a trip in the truest sense of the word. Harry lets himself be driven by spontaneous ideas and half-baked dreams: Naive, cheeky and always over the top. Amsterdam, Spain, back to the local drug scene, juvenile detention with colleagues like "Ass" and "Jellyfish". With "Olsson" he finds a new guiding light and his dreams of faraway places and perfect dope take off. He becomes a specialist, traveling to India and Nepal. The reader learns and travels as if in a daze and with a lot of humor through the 70s and the cultural history of dope.

Leseprobe

HARRY – SIMPLY HARRY

A novel by Martin Gremmelspacher

“A Strawberry is a Berry”

Three weeks of house arrest. As a punishment, so to speak, because Harry had been constantly rebellious towards the class teacher. That's what it said in the letter that "Mr. Teacher," as Harry's father used to say, had given him to take home. Harry wasn't even asked about his point of view because the only valid truth was that of Lukas Strübel, the class teacher of the 10th grade.

Harry's father did not tolerate any backtalk, and his mother stood by in a bad mood, making pointed remarks just to make the situation worse than it really was.

A few months earlier, Harry had been banned from watching TV for an entire year due to a poor behavior grade. So while the family watched TV on the weekends, enjoying family shows and pretzel sticks, he had to spend the time by himself.

This time, Harry felt unfairly punished, and now he was quite sure that his teacher didn't like him. Despite his frequent absences, Harry received good marks, and no one could explain why. Lukas Strübel, in particular, had a problem with this, as frequent absences and good grades didn't fit into his logic at all. He was absolutely convinced that he would figure out Harry's "trick" eventually.

"A strawberry is a berry," he instructed the day before, contradicting Mario Tränkle's claim from two rows in front of Harry that it was a nut. However, Harry had read in a book about curious facts that a strawberry is not a berry but rather a multiple nut fruit, and he shouted his insight far too loudly into the classroom.

Lukas Strübel yanked on his left ear so hard that Harry could hardly stay in his chair. His blond, straight, long hair fell into his face, covering his blue eyes, and for a moment, he couldn't see anything and flailed his arms. In the commotion, he accidentally hit the slightly larger Strübel under the chin, leading him to pull even harder on Harry's ear. Strübel sent him out of the classroom for the remainder of the lesson, gave him two hours of detention, and handed him the letter to take home.

So, Harry was now sitting in his room, listening to music and contemplating three weeks of house arrest, thinking about school, about his teacher, and feeling annoyed that he had brought up the strawberries.

"Maybe the teacher is right," Harry thought, continuing to reflect. "But even if he is, he still doesn’t have to pull my ears. And even then," he mused, "he wouldn’t have had to punish me with two hours of detention."

But Harry was even more annoyed with his parents, whom he liked to call the "rents." He thought of his buddy Bertie Bachelle-Stroebelin, the lanky blond kid with the shiny black piano from Sonnrainstrasse. Bertie lived in a villa overlooking all of Sindeshausen. His parents would never have thought of punishing him additionally for two hours of detention.

The family believed that Bertie was already being punished with those two hours anyway, and whether the teacher was right at all remained to be seen.

They actually wanted to send their son to a Waldorf school, and Bertie told Harry one day that his parents completely avoided punishment. Instead, they always explained what the issue was and worked to find solutions.

„That’s how you learn to argue and justify," Bertie used to say and then he rocked slightly on his toes. Harry was lost in his thoughts, and his expression became sadder and sadder, his face seemed even narrower than usual. Because whenever Harry was sad, his head fell forward slightly and some of his hair fell onto his cheeks.

As he sat in the room, he remembered a movie about a boy who had moved in with his friend and his friend's family when he was 14. Harry wanted that too. He thought of the peaceful atmosphere when he visited Bertie, the pleasant ambiance in the house, and the quiet tone with which people spoke. He compared this to his own home: the loud talking, the door slamming, and the far too loud, constant admonishing.

Harry didn't even notice that the music had stopped quite a while ago; he was too lost in his thoughts. Then he had an idea: he went into the kitchen, picked up one of the large blue bin liners that were under the sink, and disappeared back into his room. He hopedthat father wouldn't notice anything now.

He quickly took some clothes out of the wardrobe, stuffed everything into the bin bag, put on his jacket, and went into the living room where his father was watching the news. He mentioned something about records he had to get back from his buddy Caspar downstairs on the second floor of the apartment building. Now he ran down the stairs at a fast pace, taking two or three steps at a time. He fetched his rucksack from the cellar, stuffed his sleeping bag into it along with the other things from the bin bag, threw the cellar key into the letterbox, and carefully sneaked out of the house.

Hopefully it won't rain again soon, he thought, walking close to a wall. The four-lane road to the Sindeshausen interchange was nearby. If he managed to stop a car now, he could be in Frankfurt in 90 minutes. While he was trying to thumb a ride, a bell rang in the apartment. Harry's mother stared at the phone and shouted toward the living room, "Who is that at this time of night?" She carefully picked up the receiver and said her name: "Fröhlich?" Then she heard a youthful voice at theend of the line. "Ah, Caspar - it's you! Wonna talk to Harry? Wasn't he just going to get his records from you?"

At that moment, Harry got into a dark blue VW heading for Frankfurt am Main. The young couple from Sindeshausen wanted to take a relative to Frankfurt Airport before continuing on to Düsseldorf. Harry spontaneously decided to go to Düsseldorf and then hitchhike on to Hamburg. He got in, and the car drove off into the night.

At the same moment, Harry's parents got into their Volkswagen and drove along the highway to look for Harry.

Hamburg, Harry thought.A real big city,he thought happily.That's where I want to go.

His parents turned back after they couldn't see their son anywhere, thinking that perhaps he had gone to a friend's house nearby. They drove home, hoping he would be back soon.Hours later, Harry got tiredly out of the VW in Düsseldorf.

Shortly afterward, he was standing on an arterial road again, in a classic hitchhiking position, when a souped-up man in his late thirties pulled up next to him in a dark green Ford Taunus 3.0, squealing to a stop.

"Hamburg?" asked Harry. "Get in!" the guy called with a grin, urging him to hurry.

The ride turned into a kind of car race. The driver wanted to show off what his car could do. He tailgated and honked, and whenever things got particularly close, he simply overtook on the far right, on the hard shoulder, causing dust to swirl up and small stones to hit the bodywork from below. "This car has only just come onto the market - 24 liters of super for 100 kilometers at a top speed of 230! There's a lot of fuel flowing through. And that's when you realize that the freeway has bends!" he ranted non-stop, his eyes glazed.

They reached the Hanseatic city around half past three in the morning. Harry got out and quickly said goodbye. A cold wind blew against him, and it was raining. His sleeping bag, which he had tied to his rucksack with a string, was wet. All around him were harbour buildings and dirty factory halls, with rusty junk scattered everywhere. There was nowhere to sleep for miles. Just wind and rain. Where had the racing driver dropped him off?

Harry was looking for a shortcut toward the city center. A huge pile of oil-smeared train wheels blocked his way. Finding a dry corner just to sleep it off was out of the question. The car enthusiast had let him off in the middle of the dirtiest part of a Hamburg harbour area.Probably out of revenge, Harry thought grimly. "Probably because I wasn't impressed by a top speed of 230 kilometers per hour and a fuel consumption of 24 liters per 100 kilometers."

A group of workers approached him in the early morning mist. Harry shivered as they all glanced over at him, whispering and grinning as if on cue. He tried to look as if he knew his way around, even though he had no idea what someone familiar with this neighbourhood looked like. He was primarily attempting to hide his uncertainty. Would he be able to find his way out without asking anyone for help? He had been looking for a shortcut to the city center for an hour. Kilometers away, in the damp morning chill, he spotted a huge black bridge crossing a wide river.

It had to be the Elbe. Harry thought, and he realized that there was a freeway leading over this huge, black iron bridge. To him, the city seemed unreachable. At some point, he managed to find at least a road that led out of Hamburg. It was marked "Autobahn Bremen," and Harry decided to leave Hamburg behind before he had even seen the city.

Hitchhiking in his cool way, with one leg on the road and his thumb outstretched toward Bremen. Harry thought that was great. He felt like a globetrotter and wished that one of his buddies could see him from one of the passing cars and then tell everyone at school that Harry was in Hamburg. He was completely absorbed in his daydream and didn't notice that a Ford Transit Ecoline had stopped behind him.

Two quirky individuals from Hamburg were sitting inside and had to awkwardly roll down the window to call out to Harry. "Amsterdam!" shouted the blonde woman, looking back out of the window.

Amsterdam and Bolle in the Crackhouse

Harry ran over, got in, and immediately decided to continue with them to

Amsterdam. Inside, it smelled of cigarette smoke and incense. The car was a converted camper van and very comfortably furnished. Everything was covered with a colourful fabric and red velvet and there were three small oriental rugs on the floor.

While loud music blared from the rather large speakers, Harry spread out his sleeping bag to dry and then sat down on the mattress, which was covered with an Indian cloth. Many small, round mirrors were sewn into it and Harry admired the colourful patterns around them. After a few kilometers, they stopped at a parking lot behind trees. The driver opened his door and turned to Harry.

"We're Cindy and Bert!" he explained, before he and his companion got out and Harry pushed open the side door from the outside.

And before Harry could grin at the names, thinking of the pop singers Cindy and Bert, Bert added that they were actually called something else, but all their friends called them that because they looked so much like the real Bert and Cindy.

"I'm Harry!" he introduced himself and held out his hand in greeting. But Cindy and Bert were already busy unpacking a few bags of food. Harry had been invited and was enjoying himself: Chicken, various types of sausage, cheese, bread rolls, chocolate, a bottle of water and orange juice. Helearned that the two of them had grown up in England and had played together in the sandpit as children.

Their parents were also good friends and when one family moved to Germany 15 years ago, the other followed two years later.

"Now we all live in a large house with four apartments in Worpswede between Bremen and Hamburg," explained Cindy.

"Well - actually quite close to Bremen," Bert remarked. Harry now noticed a slight English accent. "Worpswede is a great place - not far from the sea, close to Bremen, and not that far from Hamburg," Bert interjected. "Lots of artists live there. Our parents all paint."

"Yes - it only takes four hours to Amsterdam too!" laughed Cindy. "And you? What are you doing?" She looked Harry straight in the eye and discovered a sense of unease.

"Me?" Harry said in surprise. "I ran away from home. I've had it with them. They should just leave me alone." He said this as cool as he could.

"What happened?" Cindy asked worriedly and with a subtle grin on her lips.

"Yes, what was it that made you run away?" Bertie also wanted to know and looked sternly at Harry.

"Yeah, I'm just fed up and everything - let them fuck off."

"Yes, and why is that?"

"Because they're all assholes. I'm not going to let them patronize me all the time."

"Aren't you going to tell us what happened? I mean..."

"School and stuff..." Harry interrupted.

"Yes, but what are you doing now? You're out on the street now if you're not on the bus with us," Cindy worried.

"I'll find something. I also know someone in Amsterdam," Harry lied.

"You know someone in Amsterdam? Relatives or something? Well, then you're in good hands."

"Yes, it is. I don't have a problem," Harry replied uncertainly as Cindy packed up the bags and bottles again.

"What kind of music are you listening to?" asked Bertie as he climbed back into his driver's seat.

"Genesis, Moody Blues, Wishbone Ash, Pink Floyd, Mike Oldfield and so on. "

"Genesis has released a new record," Bertie knew.

"Oh yeah, great! I only know Selling England By The Pound, Foxtrot and Nursery Crime. What's the new one called?"

"The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway." Bertie started the car.

"What?"

"The title! The new one is called The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway," Bertie shouted from the front.

"I see! And? Is it as good as Selling England?"

"I don't know, I haven't heard it yet, but I know it was released!"

Harry made himself comfortable again and waited for the border with The Netherlands. He was afraid of that. The two customs officers directed the transit to the waiting area and looked inside. Then they wondered about the smell in the car, waved two colleagues over and everyone had to get out. Their IDs were checked and two travel bags were searched. Harry froze.

He tried to look indifferent, but he felt he couldn't and sauntered away from the vehicle. He turned and looked down the road to where they had come from. He watched other drivers as they were waved through, one by one, over to the Netherlands. Harry recognized one of the officers talking excitedly on the phone behind a window of the customs house. He was sure that this officer was also looking in his direction. His heart was pounding.

"Harry! Come on, now!" someone shouted. Relieved, Harry saw Bertie coming towardshim, waving the ID´s in his hand. "Come on now, we have to go! This is the third time we've called you."

Harry hurried. He hadn't noticed that he had already walked a good 50 meters away from the vehicle.

"They only had a quick look," said Cindy.

"You walked off almost as soon as they finished," Bertie called as he got in. "We've disposed the garbage in the meantime."

Harry felt good again as soon as Bertie set off. The biggest hurdle had now been overcome. He felt free and a few hours later the red transit arrived in Amsterdam.

Right in front of the main station, at Damrak, the two of them let him out of the car.

"We're going on there now, it's great for you here because it's very close to downtown and you can easily get picked up from here."

Harry walked a little unsteadily first into the main station, then out again, walked a little way up the street towards the Dam and sat down on a stone bench by the inner harbour and watched the people boarding the sightseeing boats for the evening lights tour.

Harry didn't know what he was doing here. He didn't know the first thing about this town and he didn't know anyone.

Now he was annoyed that he had lied to Cindy and Bertie. Surely he could have stayed with them.

The size of the city impressed him, as it was the first time he had been to such a large town. He couldn't count Hamburg. Apart from a few rusty factory buildings and the big black bridge, he hadn't seen much.

Amsterdam, the capital of drugs. Harry had already heard that, and it sounded exciting.A good way to make a name for himself at home with his buddies.

When I tell them I hung out in Amsterdam with all the cool guys and dealers. Wow, everyone listens to me and is bursting with envy. Especially Gerd, who's always showing off and selling spices, always mixed differently, as weed to his fellowstudents.

In Amsterdam, near the central station, Harry only had to walk down a few streets, and he was offered everything that could be found under the sky. Hashish, coke, heroin and LSD, opium and psilocybin, which Harry had never heard of. Hookers sat in pink-lit shop windows and the later the evening got, the more colourful everything became and the more customers and curious tourists populated the neighbourhood.

By 10 p.m., the streets were as full as a fairground. In between, he kept coming across small groups of German or French freaks. A couple of guys sitting on a canal lighting a joint invited Harry to smoke along as he passed by.

This is paradise, Harry thought. He took a deep drag from the joint, inhaled deeply and - nothing. Because Harry had never smoked hashish before, his body had not yet been able to react and there was still no effect.

Of course, the boys at the canal weren't supposed to realize that it was Harry's very first time. And because he already knew that you have to smoke a few times over a certain period of time before you feel any effect, he first behaved as he imagined someone who was stoned would behave. His speech was a little slurred and he tried to put on a silver face.

Harry must have wowed the boys. Probably surprised that their dope worked so well, one of them slapped him on the shoulder and praised his own dope above all else.

"Man," he finally said. "I'd like to be as stoned as you are."

Harry was proud, felt important and everyone looked at him and laughed.

Wow, he thought.If only Gerd could see that. Then he walked on: from the Dam up the Damrak via the Heiligenweg, over to the Spuiplein then along the Leidsestraat. Somewhere in the hustle and bustle of the orange and yellow illuminated city, right at the top, on the Leidseplein, where the jugglers meet to put on their shows, Harry asked for directions to the Vondelpark, because it was the Mecca of backpackers from all over the world. That's what the Düsseldorfers on the canal had told him. Freaks sat or lay under bridges and behind hedges and bushes. Stoned, on LSD or just sitting, with a cool look on their faces.

"Acid," someone whispered directly behind Harry. "Acid, do you like some acid? Where you come from?"

"I am from Germany," Harry introduced himself politely.

"Yes, then we can speak German, can't we? I'm Carlo, do you need an acid?"

"Acid?" Harry replied.

"Sure ey! Have no idea, do you?" replied Carlo in the best Berlin slang.

"Of course I know," Harry lied. "I've been here for four weeks now."

"Four weeks? Most people leave after a few days or stay forever. Then you've probably already met Ruud."

"Ruud? Who is Ruud?"

"You don't know Ruud?"

"No, how am I supposed to know Ruud?"

"I'm sure you know Ruud - if you've been here for four weeks, you've probably already seen him. He still owes me a lot of money. If you come along and we meet him, then you can have some of the money."

"Nah," said Harry. "I'm really tired, I'd rather unpack my sleeping bag."

Well then. Too bad," said Carlo. "But if you meet Ruud, give him my regards. From Berlin-Carlo. If he doesn't pay up, he'll get a real beating." At last, he staggered off, waving to a few people who took no notice of him. Harry was finally able to sleep.

During the night, other freaks came and lay right next to Harry. He didn't notice a thing and slept soundly. As soon as the sun had risen, he peeked out of his still slightly damp, musty sleeping bag. It was cool, he could hear birds singing and overall, it seemed very peaceful at six in the morning in Vondelpark. It promised to be a sunny fall day.

A few meters away, pedestrians walked and cyclists ringing by, and somewhere in the distance a streetcar rumbled by. The small group of freaks next to Harry was smoking the first joint of the day.

"Can I have a puff?" Harry whispered.

"No. We're short and our piece has to last a few more days."

"Give him a puff," said another.

"No, man," moaned his buddy. "We've hardly got anything left," he added in a whisper. Harry stopped listening and peeled himself out of his sleeping bag. He was really hungry.It was more important to him now to get to the nearest bakery as quickly as possible than to beg for a puff on a joint.

It was 8:30 a.m. when he set off. Passing the swan ponds of the park, he reached the nearest "Warme Bakker" in a side street next to the park after just five minutes. Half a pound of warm, fragrant white bread and one litre of milk should be enough for breakfast. Back in the park, Harry sat down next to one of the ponds and unpacked his breakfast. As soon as he sat down, a dark-skinned man with funny googly eyes asked him if he wanted to buy dope.

Of course he would have liked to buy some, but at a price of four guilders a gram, Harry could no longer keep up. He was almost broke. He couldn't do more than wandering around aimlessly today.

Downtown, right on Leidseplein, Harry met a German. A thin, lanky guy with a curly brown head, blue jeans and light brown boots. He was carrying an old, almost empty cloth rucksack over his shoulder.

“My name is Eric, but my friends calling me Bolle,” he introduced himself. Bolle and Harry became friends. Bolle had also run away from home and loved stomping around aimlessly and had started smoking dope a long time ago. Unlike Harry, Bolle already had a real effect from smoking.

Bolle showed Harry how to roll nice joints, Bolle revealed the best places to go in the evening and he showed Harry how to get money quickly without working too hard.

To do this, Bolle investigated every parked car that seemed to him as if there might be something valuable inside. He had an eye for it and was rarely wrong.

At some point, he said to Harry: "Make sure nobody comes!" Then he opened the passenger door with a long, sharp tool, sat inside and worked on the tape recorder. Harry stood next to a tree, hardly daring to breathe.

He watched the road and was scared like never before. Every second lasted an eternity, and he was relieved when Bolle stood next to him again. Beside the tape player of which the cable was sticking out from his jacket, he had taken a gray box out of the car.

He put the loot in his rucksack, which he usually carried with him, and swung it back over his shoulder. There was a small, inconspicuous store a few corners away.

"Second Hand" was written above the door. Inside, it smelled of old metal, oil and soap. There were bits and bobs everywhere. In the far corner of the store, an elderly man with a long, white-grey beard sat at an old, baroque desk and nodded with a friendly smile.

The scene reminded Harry of some movie he had once seen on television. Harry noticed the strange silence in the store. Only the tick-tock of a wooden wall clock could be heard.

"Well, Bollje," said the bearded man calmly, interrupting the strange silence in the room. "What have you got today? By the way, the black radio recorder from last time looks quite good but it doesn't work, you can take it back with you," laughed the old man. Bolle took his fresh loot out of his backpack and opened the gray box.

"Well?" he said. "that´s something?"

"Great! A stereo camera - a rare piece. Leitz."

The old man looked at the camera under a lamp and was so pleased that his wrinkled face radiated something boyish and mischievous. Bolle was able to replace the broken, black tape recorder with the new one he had brought, and he received 500 guilders for the camera. Harry was deeply impressed. 500 guilders, almost 500 marks. That was incredible. And it all seemed so easy. And so fast.

Unlike Harry, however, Bolle knew that the camera had been worth far more. Nevertheless, he didn't want to deal with his fence and handed Harry 100 guilders. Harry could make good use of the money, as he urgently needed something to eat.

It was the time of the "Kraakers", the squatters.

There were empty houses all over Amsterdam, most of them with broken windows and broken doors. The rooms were run-down and littered with garbage and dirt.

At some point, the two of them stood in front of one of these demolition houses on Prinsengracht and squeezed through a narrow entrance in the barrier that some guys had knocked into the wood in front of them. Inside it still looked pretty good, hardly any broken glass and, above all, it didn't smell likepiss and shit like most of the other kraak houses. Bolle and Harry groped their way up to the third floor in the dark. Bolle had set up a small camp there a few days ago. Everything was just as he had left it in the morning: a small table stood in the middle of the room. At least it looked like a table, because it was actually just the polystyrene part of a TV box that Bolle had covered with a cloth.

Next to it was an old mattress with holes in it, a sleeping bag, a few candles and an open book: Carlos Castaneda, The Teachings of Don Juan. No sooner had they sat down on the old mattress than a clanking noise, accompanied by a loud rumble, reached them on the third floor. Down on the first floor, a few guys had discovered the hole in the wooden wall and had come into the house. They seemed to be having great fun smashing everything that could still be destroyed. The noise frightened the two of them. They feared that the chaotic guys might come up to them and cause trouble.

They sat there like that, minutes full of tension. Only after a non-ending half hour were they able to breathe a sigh of relief. The chaotic people had left the house.

"Come on," said Bolle. "Let's go sleep - if I snore, just turn me on my other side!" The next morning, Harry was still half asleep, but the world in the Kraakhaus looked a little different to the romantic candlelight of the night before.

The wallpaper had been torn down, there was dirt on the walls and bits of paper and feathers everywhere. There was a torn pillow in the corner. Harry stood up and looked through the window, out onto the street. outside it was raining cats and dogs and it was rather cold. Not a nice day. Bolle was still fast asleep and Harry decided to make breakfast. Down below, along the canal, the first pre-Christmas stalls had already been set up. The vendors were battling against the storm and rain. It was cold and uncomfortable. Harrycrept along the alleyways in search of a bakery. He had no idea why, but there didn't seem to be a bakery in this Neighbourhood. So he had to walk a long way and by the time he got back to the Kraakhaus, more than an hour had passed. With a bag of soft Dutch milk rolls, a bottle of chocolate milk and the hope of setting up a breakfast table before Bolle woke up, he crept up the stairs to the dormitory. But Bolle wasn't there. He must have thought Harry had left. What a pity. Harry should have left him a message. So the new day began somewhat sadly for him. He sat there alone with a bag of rolls and had breakfast.

Despite the dreary morning, Harry liked it in Amsterdam. The people, the peculiar sea air, the canals, the light mist in the city in the morning, the feeling of being in Amsterdam. He decided to stay here and snuggled back into his sleeping bag, which was finally dry again.

He was only woken from his half-sleep hours later when two strangers stood in front of him and asked what he was doing here.

"I'm waiting for my friend Bolle," Harry replied sleepily. "I bought breakfast this morning - but when I came back, Bolle wasn't there anymore."

"You know Bolle? Then we should know you too. Bolle is our friend."

"And we usually know his friends too," the taller of the two interjected suspiciously. Harry explained that he had only met Bolle yesterday. The two sat down with him, tore open the sandwich bag and enjoyed it.

"My name is Harry," he tried to introduce himself. But they didn't seem to care. They didn't even talk to him. This bothered Harry immensely, because he really wanted to know who the two were who were eating his rolls.

With their leather shirts and the Indian fashion jewelry around their necks and wrists, the two looked cool.

To Harry, they looked like real dealers. In contrast to other freaks in Amsterdam, the two appeared very well-groomed. Then Harry said: "I'm afraid I smoked everything last night and can't invite you."

"Then let's smoke some of our dope," offered the tall one. And the shorter one pulled a thick piece out of his pocket. It was bigger than Harry had ever seen before. It was at least ten grams. In one piece. The tall one was now sitting in his chair as if he were the boss of the drug scene.He must be incredibly important,Harry thought to himself and tried to look just as cool. His absolute dream was to have his own hec. A whole hundred grams, just for himself and his friends. One hundred grams that he could cut off a piece of and make a big joint, in front of all his buddies' shining eyes. The joint was soon ready, and the same game began for Harry as the day before.

Only Bolle knew that Harry still didn´t have any reaction smoking. But there was no way Harry could admit that here, because he would instantly be reduced to absolute nothingness. He was convinced of that. When it was his turn, he took a big drag on that joint and left a long, hot glow on it. The tall one looked at him wide-eyed and asked Harry in horror whether he knew anything about smoking joints and continued theatrically: "You don't pull on a joint like you do on a chillum. You smoke a joint with care and leisure. In small, short puffs that you enjoy - remember that. You´ve definitely killed this one. It's no longer usable and now tastes fucked up."

"Quite blue, the smoke," the little one completed, looking disgusted.

Harry froze in place. He really had no idea and wanted to impress them with a professional move.And now he had ruined everything. He didn't even know what a 'chillum' was.

The two got up and quickly said goodbye.

They think I'm a complete greenhorn and will never want to have anything to do with me again, Harry thought to himself.

Ten minutes later, Bolle came back.

He looked at Harry with pleasure and was obviously glad to see him. Harry quickly explained to him how the morning had gone and that he had to eat breakfast alone. Then Harry told him about the guys who had just been there.

"Ah, Kess and Kremelek. You shouldn't take them so seriously. They always pretend to be important and there's hardly anything behind it. They're small time dealers and probably wanted to sell me some of their dope. It's usually pretty good though, but Harry, I don't think we need them today: Look what I've got! Black Afghan! A whole five grams. Let's smoke some of that now. Or do you want to eat something first? I've got something to munch on too."

He opened his rucksack and emptied the contents onto the floor in front of him: Canned sausages, bread, orange juice, chocolate and yogurt, two bottles of beer, a saltshaker, potato chips, a bag of dry soup for mixing and three packs of cigarettes.

"Grab it," said Bolle, "This is an invitation from Feinkost Meir." He laughed out loud. While Bolle heated the dope and mixed it with tobacco, Harry held onto the potato chips and opened a beer. It looked like it was going to be a pleasant day after all. When Bolle had finished making the mixture, he pulled a strange clay tube and a small, octagonal tapered stone from his pocket, which fitted into the clay tube, which was also tapered, so that air could still be sucked through the sides.

Bolle then crumbled some tobacco onto the stone and pressed it down firmly. The hashish mixture he had previously prepared was then placed on top. The whole thing was pressed down a little.Now Bolle took a thin scarf out of his jacket, moistened it with a little water and wrapped it around the lower end of the tube like a filter.

"The chillum is ready," said Bolle, holding it out for Harry to smoke. Harry felt honoured. He now knew what a chillum was and was allowed to smoke one for the first time. And he did so with care and leisure!

Less than ten minutes later, he felt like he was sitting on a pile of absorbent cotton, slowly at first, then more and more. He could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. He felt as if he was floating above things.

His lips were pulled to the side as if by an invisible force, creating a broad grin on his face. For the first time, he learned why being stoned is also called being high. He wanted to talk, but at the same time didn't feel like saying anything. His thoughts were racing and in between, Bolle asked him if he wanted another sip of beer.

"Yes," Harry replied immediately, and he kept giggling without knowing why.

They sat in their living room for at least an hour, laughing and giggling about all sorts of things.

Now Harry suddenly started talking as if he hadn't been allowed to open his mouth for three days. Later, the two of them went out to the street. It had stopped raining, and the wind was strangely warm. It was a wonderful experience for Harry. They walked along the canals, past the colourful lights of the stores and stalls. It was exactly 6 p.m. when they arrived at Leidseplein and the clock above a yellow-brick house struck six times.

Harry played with his schizophrenic state, that he could be mentally absent on the one hand and wide awake on the other, with increasing enjoyment. The jugglers, especially a black fire-eater, took on a completely different visual meaning for him. Harry and Bolle just stood around and watched what was happening. Over onthe square in front of the Melkweg in the Lijnbahngracht, the winter ice skating rink, the "Kerstijsbaan", was being set up, bad music was blaring from the "Heineken Hoek" opposite, and a streetcar was ringing in between because one of the jugglers was standing in the middle of the track and playing tricks on the streetcar driver. It took Harry a second to realize that Bolle was trying to tell him something. Harry had really let himself go, experiencing the hashish effect like a movie.

Bolle suggested going to the "Melkweg", because you could sit there and smoke dope and listen to music at the same time. Melkweg was one of the first multimedia centers in Amsterdam. It wasn't just a place to sit, listen to music and smoke dope. In Melkweg you could go to the movie hall, borrow games, use the library and reading room, form groups of friends, relax and much more.

Downstairs on the first floor there was a small store where you could buy books on the correct use of drugs, there were chillums in all sizes and variations, hookahs and hashish.

A large slate board hung on the wall with the words:

Maroc: 5 hfl/g

Red Leb: 6 hfl7 g

Afghan/Mazar i Sharif: 12 hfl/g

Nepal/Tatopani: 8 guilders hfl/g

Nepal Charras: 6 hfl/g

Pakistani: 6 hfl/g

Afghan/Kandahar pollen: 14 hfl/g

Bombay Black: 8 hfl/g

Below it was a warning sign in three languages:

"Hashish and marijuana may only be consumed here in these rooms or in private areas. The use of drugs in public areas is punishable by law. Distribution takes placein quantities of up to 10 grams and only to persons who have reached the age of 18."

Next to it hung another sign, which was intended to make it clear that this place only sold for cash and which also hung in many other Amsterdam pubs: "Jan Krediet wont hier nit." (Jan Credit doesn´t live here)

Bolle and Harry dropped into one of the comfortable armchairs in the Red Saloon and each ordered a bottle of Heineken. Not a beer like at home, but you could get used to it. Good beer is in short supply in the Netherlands, but hashish is available on every corner.

What a country, Harry thought.

You could borrow a hookah from Geert at the bar.

"Geert has been working here for three years," Bolle explained. "Geert has even been in Nepal before."

"Oh!" Harry was amazed. "Geert has already been in Nepal? I also know someone who's been to Nepal. A student from Sindeshausen. He gave me a lift once when I was hitchhiking and he wanted to travel to Nepal for a long time. But I never saw him again."

Harry watched Bolle with interest as he placed a real hookah on the table and made a smoking mixture from his Afghan dope.

Some at the table wanted to join in the mix and add something.

Bolle, however, was far too proud of his dope and of course generously passed on the encores, preferring to invite everyone to his Afghan. They all sat at the large, round table on mattresses with colourful Indian covers. When Bolle lit the pipe and the smoke-filled bubbles were bubbling through the glass pipe, Harry felt so comfortable and so intensely among friends that he immediately resolved to stay here forever, and he was quite sure that he had found the best friend of his life in Bolle. A long-haired, lean guy sitting right opposite Harry started making his own mixture while the hookah was still being passed around. It was only now that Harry began to take an interest in the others at the table, especially the one who was preparing a mixture.

The gaunt man made an exotic impression on Harry. He was older, good-looking, tanned and had a tattoo on his elbow. Harry couldn't really make out the tattoo, but it was striking and multi-coloured. It looked like an elephant under a palm tree. He asked the gaunt man his name. At first, the guy didn't want to understand Harry and asked back what Harry wanted from him.

The guy seemed unfriendly, arrogant and asked Harry in a cautiously sharp tone how he came to ask him his name.

"Just call me Shadow," he added. Those sitting next to Shadow nodded eagerly and approvingly, smiling derisively, acting important and not giving Harry a glance, but seeming to make comments about him. The situation made Harry uncomfortable, but he was still envious of Shadow's friends, because he was quite sure that Shadow must be a very big dealer.

But how could he gain his trust? Someone like Shadow, Harry continued to dream, would surely give him at least one Hek Dope, but probably a lot more, if only he knew that he could trust him.

Harry didn't get a chance to dream any more, because Bolle nudged him and urged him to go.

"Man, I'm hungry like hell," Bolle urged on. "I just want to eat." They both walked out of the “Melkweg” and Harry also felt hungry and a dry feeling in his mouth.

"Go, go," urged Bolle, "To the croquette corner, to FEBO.

FEBO? Croquettes?" All right,thought Harry.They must be very special croquettes if Bolle is so insistent.

After just a few meters they reached a small shop with two walls full of vending machines.

Here you could insert a one-guilder coin and open one of the transparent flaps, behind which there were a variety of croquettes: vegetable croquettes, meat croquettes, some with pork, some without, breaded croquettes, croquettes without breading, with chicken, with cheese and pieces of ham, with spicy mashed potatoes inside and others filled with pea or carrot puree. And if you stopped for a moment after taking a croquette from the glass box, you could see how the box was immediately refilled. Behind the wall of vending machines was a kitchen where everything was freshly made. Nimble hands quickly refilled the empty boxes. The next customer could come.

What a crazy world, Harry thought.

He was still high of Bolle's dope and had to giggle inanely at the funny situation in the vending machine store.

Harry giggled to himself as he leaned against the vending machine and watched through one of the glass boxes as the people behind it went about their work. The people eating their food at the vending machines didn't find it nearly as funny as Harry did and looked at him questioningly. Bolle slowly pulled him away and they laughed their heads off on the way home.

Shortly before going home, Bolle wanted to visit a friend rather than go straight to the dark Kraakhaus, so he suggested they take their sleeping bags with them, as they could certainly spend the night at his friend's house. So, Harry and Bolle got their sleeping bags and set off.

Barely 100 meters from where they were staying, the two of them watched as a couple of chaotic people kicked in a car window with their boots and stole all kinds of stuff from the vehicle right in front of them.

“Junkies,” Bolle said contemptuously. “They need the money to buy their smack. Some of them prostitute themselves.”

"Really? “They must be done with the world if they’re doing this for smack,” Harry told Bolle.

“If you're really addicted, you'll do anything just to get the stuff. Then you fuck your customer in the ass.” Harry was impressed, shocked and saddened, and so he kept silent all the way to the end of Herrengracht, when they turned into a small side street.

He lived here in Binnen Wieringenstraat: Heinrich from East Westphalia. Bolle must have known Heinrich for some time, because he rang the doorbell in a very specific rhythm: three short rings, one long ring, two short rings. The door immediately opened as if by magic, revealing a narrow staircase leading up to the second floor. A cord ran along the banister from top to bottom to the latch on the doorknob.

So, all someone had to do was pull on the top end and the door opened at the bottom.

How convenient, Harry thought as he climbed the narrow staircase to the upper floor behind Bolle, staring at the banisters. When they reached the top floor, they received a very warm welcome. The poorly ventilated apartment smelled of incense, hashish, cigarette smoke and beer.

The heating was far too high, and the living room was untidy. There were things everywhere, including plates with leftovers and at least 50 empty Grolsch beer bottles with pop-up lids. In the middle, under an old chandelier that was only partially preserved, there was a table with at least 20 used glasses, several full ashtrays and remnants of aluminium foil. In the corner, next to the window, stood a rubber tree that looked like it was in desperate need of a change of air. There were other people sitting around the table. A tanned guy was bent over inhaling from a hookah that looked very similar to the one Harry and Bolle had smoked in the Melkweg. When the tanned guy lookedat Harry, he had to grin. And suddenly he didn't look as arrogant as he had in the Melkweg before.

Shadow grinned at Harry and he was very happy about it. Shadow's friends from Melkweg weren't there this time. Maybe Harry could strike up a conversation with him this time? Harry greeted him with a quick wink.

Bolle was chatting animatedly with his friend Heinrich and Harry just sat there and watched the scene.

"Where are you from?" asked Shadow.

"From Sindeshausen. At least from near there!"

"Wow," said Shadow. "I studied there for a while. But then I flew to Kathmandu and lived in India for a while."

Harry immediately asked if he had ever picked up a hitchhiker from the student city to the theatre.

"Sure, I've done that a lot."

"Is it possible that you still know me?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Not that I can remember, but I know some people who studied in Sindeshausen and who I met again at Freakstreet in Kathmandu. Maybe one of them gave you a lift."

"Sure, maybe," Harry muttered disappointedly.Would have been too nice, he thought.

Shadow crumbled up another mixture and filled the head of the hookah with it. When everything was ready, he passed it across the table. Harry was getting hot. Now he should smoke that thing! He'd never done it before and there was no way he could say that out loud.

"Uh, Harry," it hissed from the background. "I'll give you a light." Bolle had recognized Harry's plight and knelt in front of him to light the hookah.

"Put it on," said Bolle. "But not so strong. More subdued." He said this quietly, just so that the others couldn't hear. They were talking about some strange guys they had met outside the Melkweg. Harry obeyed Bolle's discreet orders and after two or three stronger puffs, he passed the pipe to Shadow.

So, they sat up late into the night, smoking one pipe after another and it was a good thing that Bolle had thought of the sleeping bags. When Harry woke up late in the morning, Shadow and the others were no longer there. Heinrich from East Westphalia was lying on the bed in the next room.

He had drunk another bottle and a half of red wine deep in the night and would hardly wake up until the afternoon. Bolle was lying on the floor next to Harry, curled up in his sleeping bag and snoring terribly. Harry slowly crawled over to him and gently turned Bolle, who was lying on his back, onto his side. After two short sighs, Bolle stopped snoring and slept peacefully.

"Works," Harry grinned. Harry felt unwashed and exhausted, but most of all hungry.

He wanted to take a shower and staggered around the apartment, slightly dazed and naked, with a dirty tea towel over his shoulder.

There was something like a shower in the kitchen. That means there was a faucet with an additional connection on the side.

There was a hose about two meters long hanging there and, if necessary, you could wash your hair over a metal tub. Harry found soap and shampoo on the edge of the sink and a towel hanging over one of the kitchen chairs that smelled musty as he dried himself up with it. He threw the dirty tea towel he found in the living room into a corner. After washing, he staggered back into the living room, still completely naked, put on a T-shirt and woke Bolle up.

It was afternoon when the two left the house. They simply let Heinrich continue to sleep and went looking for something for breakfast. The course of the next few days was essentially very similar. Harry felt free. As free as he had everfelt before. He could do whatever he wanted, and nobody cared. Bolle and Harry became great friends and Harry got to know Amsterdam in a way that only a few freaks could in such a short time. And he was certain that he wanted to come back here as soon as possible.

It was a bright blue but freezing cold Sunday morning when he said goodbye to Bolle. So that he wouldn't lose contact with him, Bolle gave him a piece of paper with several addresses and telephone numbers. Bolle asked him to memorize the numbers or addresses and destroy the piece of paper before crossing the border.

Then he gave him the book from the Kraakhaus: “The Teachings of Don Juan”, by Carlos Castaneda.

Harry didn't really know why he wanted to leave this great city and his newfound friends. But he was restless and knew that his parents and certainly his friends would be worried.

Alone, he made his way towards the A1 highway, Amsterdam to Arnhem. A boring walk of more than two hours, right through the city.

As soon as Harry reached the freeway entrance, a beautiful old Mercedes pulled up next to him. The door was pushed open and a fat, strange, unsympathetic guy with golden glasses and a golden necklace asked him to get in with a friendly smile.

Bah, thought Harry. He's slimy.

Despite the driver's unpleasant appearance, Harry didn't hesitate for a second and jumped in. He had seen the Sindeshausen license plate SDH on the Mercedes and it was only a few kilometers from Sindeshausen to Springeloh. Maybe he was lucky, and the fat guy would give him a lift home? As soon as he had made himself comfortable in the Mercedes, the driver smiled sweetly, introduced himself as Gerd and asked Harry if he wanted to give him a little something in return. Harry probably guessed what kind of service that would beand asked him to stop immediately, saying he would rather wait. The fat man then promised that he didn't want anything in particular and that he won´t bother him. "But I'm pleased to have a nice, friendly companion," he said with pursed lips.

For most of the journey, Harry dozed in the passenger seat. Sometimes he felt Gerd's hand brush along his thigh as if by chance when he was working on the gearshift, but Gerd behaved well and didn't bother Harry any further. It was already late afternoon when the Mercedes turned off at the Sindeshausen interchange in the direction of Garden City “Peters Park”. Peter's Park, Harry thought to himself at that moment.Why is this stupid neighbourhood called Peters Park if there's no park there at all?

Back in Sindeshausen and heading to Spain

"... or are you not hungry?"

Engrossed in his thoughts, Harry had only understood half of it.

"Do you fancy dinner," the fat man repeated, much too close to Harry's ear. Harry declined at first, but after the long journey, he was very tired, agonizingly hungry and feeling rather faint.

So he quickly agreed, because he was also completely broke. And so, Gerd parked the beautiful old Mercedes in front of a supermarket, and they walked up the street.

It looked festive as the lady of the house poured red wine into the glasses. Harry didn't care for wine and had also ordered a Coke. Then came the starter. Before placing the plates down, the lady proudly announced the dish with its French-sounding name. Harry could hardly remember any of it. Then the lady theatrically lifted the silver covers from the plates. Harry was disappointed because there was almost nothing on the plate: a small piece of sliced meat, a few beans, afoamy sauce and a few little things draped around it all.

Gerd grinned and wished a bon appétit. Then there were three more courses, each time served with the same show and each time only small portions. But Harry found it extremely tasty, and he tried to hold the cutlery very elegantly.

It was already after 8 p.m. when he said goodbye to the fat guy, thanked him for the meal and took Gerd's phone number and a 50-mark bill.

"To buy food and that you get in touch again," Gerd said. He still tried to get Harry to come along, offering him wine, Coke and accommodation, disco, money and bowling, but Harry declined everything with thanks and quickly said goodbye.

"I'll get back to you soon - take care!" Harry waved goodbye. As soon as he reached the first signpost for Springeloh, Harry held out his hand to hitchhike and walked along the road at the same time. It was a moonless night and only the headlights of passing cars illuminated the dark road.

Harry had left the last streetlights of Sindeshausen behind him and hoped that someone would stop, and he wouldn't have to walk the entire four kilometers to Springeloh.

Gerd still wanted to take Harry home, but he was a little uneasy about that, because he was afraid that he might visit him uninvited at some point.

I could have at least let myself be driven nearby, he thought to himself as it first started to drizzle and then a really cold shower poured down. Now it was pouring down like from buckets. Like a heavy summer downpour, only freezing cold. A few remaining leaves whirled off the trees, whole torrents flowed down the opposite slope onto the road.

Crap,Harry thought.Nobody wants to stop in this weather, nobody wants a wet seat. And Harry actually had to walk the four kilometers.

The rain only let up a little just before Springeloh, but Harry was soaked to the skin. The second house in the village belonged to Mark's parents. Mark was a friend of Harry's older brother, but he wasn't at home. So, Harry went to the student housing estate. It was warm there. Even in the stairwell, where he had spent a night months ago. And downstairs in the student bar you could meet old friends and drink cheap beer. Harry wanted to warm up there and dry his clothes. His whole body was shivering. As always, the Studibar smelled of an unventilated pub and smoke. In contrast to the pubs in Amsterdam, it was rather conservative here. Everything here had to be a prescribed height, shape, type and so on. Everything had to meet a certain standard.So, there can never really be the variety of different pubs that there is in Holland,Harry thought. But the Studibar was still different, because it wasn't open to the public, only to students. As a club, so to speak. Student IDs were not checked, however. Like in a cave, people sat here in front of empty barrels that served as tables. There were drip candle bottles on them, which were great to play with: Candle wax dripping on cigarette butts and mosquitoes, half-burnt by the flame sealed with wax and so on.

Harry had barely entered the Studi-Bar when someone called his name.

"Hey, Harry - here we are!" It was a bald guy that Harry didn't recognize. Standing next to him was Bertie Bachelle-Stroebelin, the piano player from Sonnrainstrasse. As Harry approached, he heard the bald man laughing inanely. Only now could he recognize him: It was Mäffi, the brother of Flaschke, a school friend from the second grade.

"Yes, Mäffi," said Harry in horror. "Why are you bald?" "Chemotherapy," he replied with a laugh and put on a bobble hat.

"Chemotherapy?"

"Yes, a tumor in my head - but not that bad. It'll be fine. They say it'll all be over in six to eight months. Then I will be fine again." Mäffi tapped his temples with his fist. He was embarrassed that someone was so worried about him and smiled sheepishly.

Harry babbled on, "Yeah, what happened?"

"Nothing happens. It just happens the way God controls it."

"Yes, gosh!" Harry replied, horrified. "You're not going to let yourself go!"

"No, no... But as I said, it's not a problem. I was in a clinic in Switzerland. Near Basel. They said that everything would be fine and that the lump would go away. And you? What's wrong with you? You're all wet.

"Fucking rain," Harry said as a puddle formed underneath him. "Would you like a beer?"

"Yes, with pleasure. But actually I shouldn't yet. Not for a few days, because of the chemo. But I had one earlier and it was okay, I didn't mind."

The three of them stood at the bar all evening and Harry talked about his buddies in Amsterdam, about big dealers and kilos. Mäffi looked at Harry with great delight and wide eyes.

Bertie was less interested in Harry's stories. Bertie no longer smoked dope as often and didn't take any other drugs. Bertie generally only smoked when he was in a great mood and there was something to celebrate.

Harry therefore found him boring and far too bourgeois. More of a nerdy type. He drank a beer now and again but didn't even smoke cigarettes. Bertie was annoyed that he could hardly go to pubs because of the constant smoking.

And of course, he complained every time one of his buddies tried to light up a cigarette.

As a smoker, you got a guilty conscience in his presence. Bertie told Harry about his new piano andthat the neighbours had already come to find out who was playing so beautifully. And it just so happened to be Bertie, sitting in the middle of the living room at the brand new white grand piano and conjuring up heavenly sounds. But Bertie also had other sides to him.

And if Harry had known that Bertie was waiting for a courier from a major dealer and was due to receive more than 200 kilos of the finest hashish from India in half an hour, he would certainly have freaked out.

"Hey, Mark! Mark!" Harry suddenly shouted through the noise. Over there was Mark, whom he had been looking for earlier. He was now coming towards him, waving with a bottle of beer. The place was so full by now that it was almost impossible to move, and it wasn't easy to push your way through the crowds. The warmth in the bar did Harry good and at least his clothes were starting to dry. Mark gave Harry a warm hug and asked with very interested eyes how things were going and whether he was back home.

"I'm not home yet," Harry replied. "I don't want to go home yet. I'd like to hitchhike further south. It's too cold here and all this Christmas crap is getting on my nerves."

"Ciao, take care and get back to me!" Bertie nudged Harry as he walked past and disappeared into the hustle and bustle outside the Studi-Bar together with a redhead.

"Ciao!" Harry called after him, but Bertie could no longer hear it. Harry turned back to Mark.

"You're welcome to stay with me," said Mark. "But I have to let your parents know that you're okay. I won't tell them where you're staying, but I think it's important for them to know that you're okay." Harry agreed and was looking forward to a hot shower, a warm room and a proper bed and drying his damp clothes.

It was only a short visit to Springeloh. Just one day later, Harry wanted to move on. Away from here. Just further, no matter where, as long as it was warmer and away. His parents were now informedand they weren't as worried as Harry had actually expected. On the contrary: after Mark had called, he even had the feeling that it might even be better if Harry stayed away for a while. So Harry first hitchhiked south-west to France and reached the Autoroute du Soleil in the south of Lyon in the evening. He found accommodation for the first night at the "Auberge de Jeunesse", the youth hostel in Nîmes.