I left my heart in San Francisco (actually San Diego), but I left my idealism in Berlin. This installment is long in coming, I know, but I wanted to write about my time overseas and I wanted to do it fairly. If I’d written about it before I’d had enough time to digest, words would have come out wrong. Things would have been said that maybe could never be taken back. Pissed-off phone messages, emails, and online columns—people read ‘em and they have time to stew—you can’t say “I’m sorry” right away. So I am determined to tread carefully.

The journey there was reminiscent of the movie The Out of Towners—indignity piled upon indignity until it became one huge snowballing nightmare. Jason and I began our trip with the typical wide-eyed gregariousness of all Americans ­abroad. We giggled about the Alpo-like consistency of the barbecued chicken sandwich served to us on the plane, browsed the racks of duty-free clothes in Amsterdam with unabashed sticker-shock (They were charging 50 euros for underwear! And it wasn’t even silk!) and struck up an immediate rapport in the airport lounge in London with two South African ex-patriates who’d gone patriate again in a hurry after experiencing firsthand the sorry state of the American job market. Jason and I (mostly I) were easily the two loudest people in the lounge, a trait I was to discover rearing its ugly head the more time I spent among non-English speakers (non-accented English speakers anyway).

After a pleasant layover where I got mildly sozzled on vodka rocks, we trotted to the British Airways check-in counter for our 8PM flight, only to be informed by an evil woman named Sharon that our tickets were for the wrong day. I hadn’t noticed it when Athain sent me the tickets initially, but they were for a departure date of June 30 instead of July 30. Simple to solve, since the plane wasn’t even full, right? WRONG. Sharon’s bitch supervisor, also named Sharon, told us that we would have to pay an additional 160 pounds PER TICKET to board the flight. What’s that? We didn’t have 160 pounds? Well, we could always take the next morning’s flight, which would require us to lay out a little less extra, only 80 pounds per person. And just where the bloody fuck were we supposed to sleep, Sharon? I kid you not, she looks Jason dead in the eye and says, “Well, some of the chairs in the airport have armrests that lift up.”

So after we strangled Sharon with her ugly-ass British Airways necktie, we called Athain, who waved his magic wand and got us a 6:30AM flight on Air Berlin. Unfortunately, this meant spending the night in a shitty little chip shop across the street from the train station (Oh, did I mention that Air Berlin flies out of a completely different airport than BA? And that we had to take an hour-long bus ride to get there???). To make matters exponentially worse, there was no currency exchange open, and we had about four pounds between us after paying for the train ride from the station (actually I think I still owe Jay $15 for that) and the bus ride to the airport. So we spent four and a half hours in that shop, nearly delirious from exhaustion, with two cups of tea and a muffin between us (although in fairness, it was a damn tasty muffin).

You learn something about people when you travel with them, especially under adverse circumstances. I have always been an admirer of Jason’s quiet strength, his deeply and fully realized humanism. He has a tendency to fly under the gaydar, because he’s not flamboyant or showoffy or effeminate. He’s never needed to be—he’s perfectly comfortable in his own skin. I asked him to make the trip with me mostly because I enjoy his company immensely, but also because I knew he would keep me safe and I trusted that he would never hurt or betray me along the way. We read together to pass the time, talked about everything under the sun, and determined that we would both fall in love when we got to Berlin. By the time we touched down on German soil, I was buoyantly happy, secure that the worst was over and we were bound for the summer of our lives.

When I saw the dear, well-loved face of my best friend in the whole world, it was like a hole in my heart I didn’t even know I had sewed itself shut. Athain looked beautiful, tan and trim and together. He was wearing glasses, which made him look bookishly, intelligently sexy, and had highlighted his hair. He looked like a good dream. I flung myself delightedly into his arms and smooched him all over his face—I couldn’t help it. We chattered like magpies all the way home and immediately went straight to a biergarden and got profoundly, pissy-assed drunk. What better way to break the ice?

The next two days passed in a breathtaking blur. We were unconscious a lot, since Jason and I had been running for over twenty-four hours on virtually no sleep. We went to the casino, the movies, the landmarks, shopping, had a bang-up time just riding the subway (which you can buy alcohol on! Can you believe that shit? What a civilized country!). The few times I managed to get a hold of my mother, she complained repeatedly that I wasn’t sightseeing enough, but I’ve never been one to ooh and ah over boring statues or where Hitler took his first shit or what-have-you. As far as I’m concerned, sightseeing only leads to buying poorly made souvenirs. I can do that in New York. Athain’s boyfriend Mike and his best friend from childhood Victoria were there as well, so we were just one great big happy band roaming the streets.

And then it was Friday night. We’d all been looking forward to it, as our trip landed us here on the one day of every month Athain’s favorite club Connection opened its doors to women. (Of course, the icky downstairs remained men-only, but after Athain told me what went on in there, I can’t say I was disappointed.) We were all completely stoked. When we got to the club, tripping out of our minds on ecstasy, everyone split off and did their own thing. I spent most of the evening with Victoria, who was flying so high I was concerned about her even in my own out-there state. I danced a lot, letting myself get swept up in the music and the euphoria and the pounding of my own heart. E is wonderful fun, but I can see why it’s so easy to take a bad trip. You can feel it fucking with you—it’s not a benevolent high like alcohol or pot. And if the atmosphere isn’t totally conducive to rah-rah good times, things can get ugly real fast, as I later learned. But for the time being I was having a ball.

After a while it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen Jason in like an hour or two. I hadn’t seen Athain either, but it wasn’t hard to guess where he was. I made my unsteady way to the bar and saw him talking to a cute, slightly sinister-looking blond guy named John. I said hello (which was an effort in itself because Jason’s enormous blue eyes were so dilated that they were swallowing his whole face and seemed to be whirring like two freaky pinwheels, and I was mesmerized) and went back to dancing.

We finally corralled our ragtag band about 6AM and left for the Kit Kat Klub, or so I thought, picking up two transvestites and a couple of other hangers-on along the way. There was some discussion about who would take what cab, and I ended up with Jason and John, who had certainly made a connection of their own, as it turned out. As the cab pulled away, Athain shouted after us that we didn’t know where we were going. John waved a hand out the window to indicate that we did, and we were off. I turned around and saw Athain watching us leave with an expression on his face that was like a punch in the stomach. Damned E, turning everyone into emotional fruitcakes.

You see, Athain and I hadn’t had a minute alone in two days. I was on sleep deprivation, sensory overload, jetlag, you name it. These factors tend to turn me into the class clown, not someone capable of a serious “God I’ve missed you so much” moment. Not to mention the fact that Athain seemed different, somehow. Even when he was smack-dab in the middle of his other serious relationships, there was still an element of caged restlessness about him, of uncontained fire. Seeing him together with Mike, in the space that they made their own, I realized that my darling Leo pussycat had been domesticated. He was utterly in love, at peace, content. Don’t get me wrong, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for him in my heart. But where was my snarky, sparky firebrand? Who was this clear-eyed, mellowed-out young man who seemed to have finally caught the tail he’d been chasing for so many years? It had been seven months since I’d seen him, and those seven months had evoked a transformation worthy of Kreskin himself. I guess it threw me a little.

So we’d kept a bit of distance between us, which was mostly my doing, and that look told me he felt it. All of a sudden I came crashing back to earth. Hard. Never mind the fact that John, who can be mind-blowingly devoid of tact, was repeatedly expressing a desire to rape Jason in the back of the taxi, over my lap if I didn’t have the good sense to get out of the way. What the hell was I doing in the middle of this porno film?

When we arrived at the Kit Kat Klub and attempts to reach Athain were unsuccessful, I became increasingly hysterical until I finally harangued them into heading home. (Oh yeah, we also couldn’t get into the Kit Kat Klub. I think it’s probably because I looked like a an escapee from a mental ward. E is not kind in the daylight, kids.) When we got back to the apartment, I put my head in Athain’s lap like a puppy longing for affection, which I guess I was at that moment. We’ve always had a bit of a dominant/submissive relationship, which can seem unhealthy on its surface, and was for a number of years. But I don’t mind feeling protected. I’ve needed that from all the men in my life, always trying to turn them into Daddy. That’s probably a subject for another column.

So Athain and I finally had our alone time. I had been terrified he was angry at me for taking off, but he was nothing of the kind (although he might have been if it wasn’t E coursing through his system, but alcohol or some other substance less likely to induce the warm fuzzies). And while we were murmuring sweet somethings at each other, I came to a realization I had never before articulated: this man was my family. Athain’s moving to Germany was one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had to live through, coupled with the events of 9/11/2001—he left 9/17. (I can trace my serious drinking problem back to that time, almost to the day. That was when empty bottles started turning up in my room on an almost daily basis. I’m staring at one right now. Half pint bottle of Alexi. That shit tastes like it was strained through a dirty sweatsock.) I remember feeling so fucking lost after he left. Wandering the smoldering, stinking city. Missing him. Needing him. Feeling the umbilical cord connecting us pulling at me from three thousand miles away. That’s what it felt like for weeks and weeks, a constant pulling on my heart. I didn’t believe it was ever going to stop. And actually, I was petrified that it would.

But little by little, I hurt less. I began to understand that I could tuck my love for him into a pocket inside my heart and it wouldn’t go anywhere, no matter how long or far we were apart. Because we were family. The love is always there, and it always comes back stronger with time and space. What a beautiful, and necessary revelation. So yes, we had some awkward silences, some strained moments. And maybe we spent too much time distracting ourselves and not enough time just sitting and sopping up each other’s eyes, as the old chestnut goes. But it was perfectly okay. I could have sat with Athain in a biergarden, or a casino, or a fucking deserted island and said nothing for hours on end. It’s a rare person that you can simply be with, sans bullshit. I am so grateful he is that person for me.

And what of Jason and John? Well, Jason sure kept the promise we made in the London chip shop, in spades! So much so, that I didn’t see him for three days after he and John left Athain’s house on Saturday morning. I wasn’t scared for him really (although part of me was mentally wringing my hands at the idea of having to tell Jason’s mother, who I’ve never met, that her eldest baby had been chopped into hamburger by an insane gay Scotsman!), but more overcome by profound bewilderment. This is Jason, right? The level-headed, cool-cat hippie-type who I’ve only seen lose his temper once in seven years? He just left with this guy? Just like that? I couldn’t figure it. And I won’t deny that I felt a little rejected—since I’d come with him after all, and it looked like the only time I was going to get to spend with him was in the company of others—and more than a little jealous. After all, I’d never had a relationship to speak of, if anyone should get to have a mad passionate love affair it should be ME.

It was also the intensity of their relationship that frightened me. When I was able to observe the two of them in a slightly more objective fashion (by which I mean not drunk, hungover or coming down from E), it seemed to me that John had taken possession of Jason, or rather possessed him, take your pick. The way Jason looked at him scared the shit out of me. It was a hungry, lupine look, like he wanted to swallow his essence whole. It totally didn’t jibe with my image of Jason at all, which I admit is a little Christlike and worshipful. He should have cut his hair back in 1996 and then none of this would have happened. ;-) Jason doesn’t lose it much, if ever, but during our vacation I saw him either on the verge of tears or in them a good four or five times. I didn’t like it one bit. Recognizing that his emotions were at the breaking point almost every minute, that the most intense and passionate and all-consuming love affair of his life was putting him in actual physical pain—or so it seemed—well, I guess it threw me a little. I didn’t take kindly to having Jason knocked off the pedestal I placed him on. And John suffered for it. In fact, I did something to him our last night in Berlin that I’m still so ashamed of I can barely bring myself to set it down here. But it came from my own wellspring of pain, and maybe it was better to have it come out the way it did.

It hurts more to think of it now, because in a way, John gave Athain and me a most amazing and unexpected gift. He blew it like a kiss towards us at the end of a trip fraught with drama and passion and sadness and longing. One of the things Athain had most been looking forward to was show tune night. We had an eight-year tradition of setting our weekends to Broadway music before we went out. All the hits of Liza, Barbra, Bette and the darlings of the stage, past and present, became our theme music. I missed those times terribly too—it was one of the memories of Athain-and-Jamie that took the longest time to stop stinging when I thought about it. One of our all-time favorites was the musical Blood Brothers—we’d seen it three times apiece. Something about the haunting, doomed score always touched us both.

When I got to Berlin, I was recovering from a nasty throat infection that stole my voice. Not to mention I chain-smoke when I’m drinking and yell like a truck-stop waitress in the bargain. As a result, when I tried to sing nothing came out but a froggy squawk. Also everyone’s eyes rolled around the room whenever Athain made a motion to put on a show tune. Why did that matter? I don’t know, maybe it just simply wasn’t the same. Whatever the reason, we didn’t sing many show tunes together, and I knew Athain was deeply disappointed about that. I was too.

That last night, while John was poring over Athain’s CD collection, he came across the Blood Brothers score and shouted with delight. His father, a musician, had been involved in the production, and he adored the musical. So the three of us sang every damned song in the show together. For the first time I think I was more off-key than Athain! (sorry honey, I love you!) ;-) As I looked around our exhausted, nostalgic, blissed-out group, I should have felt completely at peace. We finally got our musical moment, and it did feel good, like old times.

But I didn’t. I was furious that this interloper who’d bollocksed up my vacation and made me feel things I never wanted to feel, was the one to bridge this rather significant gap between me and my best friend. Who the hell are you, you snake charmer? I thought.

And so I did something pretty crappy. We were hanging out in the living room a little while later, having decided we would simply stay up until our flight left. I was afflicted with an extreme case of the munchies after a couple of Mike’s lethal gravity bongs, and was chowing a sandwich. I don’t remember what led up to it, but suddenly I had a mouthful of sandwich and John was daring me to spit it at him. I think he saw in my eyes that I wanted to, while at the same time not believing I’d actually do it. Hell, I didn’t believe I’d actually do it. I wasn’t raised that way—who the hell spits food at people? It was against everything I’d ever been taught about manners, wasting food, etc. I didn’t want to do it but ... maybe I thought it would help sick up the poison inside me that was drowning the genuine happiness I felt for my dear friend. I just hated everybody at that minute, stuck in the middle of their rainbow-colored, happy-go-lucky, fucking schmoopy-woopy bullshit. Why can’t I have that? What the hell is so wrong with me? Why do I feel like other people are deliberately trying to jam their happiness down my throat, goddamnit?!?!

Yet another subject for another column I suppose. Anyway, I spit my sandwich all over John’s shirt. Looking back at it, I am surprised I didn’t aim for his face, but that would have hardly been laugh-offable, would it? Not one of my finer moments. Although I’d been drunk, high and provoked, I give Jason major props for talking to me at all after that one—it wasn’t exactly a subtle gesture.

So dear John, I’m sorry about your shirt—it really was a very nice shirt. But more than that, I am so fucking profoundly sorry that I didn’t give you a chance to get to know me. I’m sorry I was jealous and immature and bitchy and mean. I’m normally none of those things, really (except maybe immature, but I like to think that character trait usually manifests itself in a gleeful, giddy and childlike fashion). I love Jason with all my heart, and by extension I love you for making him happier than he’s ever been. I hope that someday you’ll let me raise a glass to Jason’s and your love, and be able to recognize the sincerity in the gesture. I want to be your friend because you’re a very cool guy, and because I want to be part of your lives together. I’m sorry it took me two and a half months to know it. I wish you a safe journey to the States, and when you have to go back I promise to take care of your man as best I can until you see him again. He means the world to me, you know. I hope you’ll give me another chance to prove that.

Our flight back was relatively uneventful. Jason was out cold before the plane even took off (how does he DO that?!?) and I white-knuckled it for about an hour before saying fuck it and yelling for the stewardess. By the time Finding Nemo came on I was half in the bag. Jason passive-aggressively demonstrated his irritation with me by eating my dessert and not asking for a pizza for me when the stewardess came by with them and I was passed out. I woke to the aroma of tomato sauce and Jason swallowing the last of his pizza with an expression of mingled smugness and guilt (and don’t try to tell me it was gas either, Bowman, I’ve seen that look before. I’ve given that look before).

Despite Jason’s dire warnings about the gorgon-like attitude of U.S. Customs agents, we breezed right through (one of them even told Jason he looked like a young Paul McCartney, the old perv!) and walked out of JFK into a thick wet blanket of smoggy air that stank like a week-old jockstrap. Both of us were instantly sorry we’d left Berlin (although I think Jay had been nursing that particular feeling since the plane took off in London).

The two of us stood on the curb for a minute, just looking at each other. What were we supposed to do now? How could I apologize? How could I articulate? How could he respond? How could he forgive? Have we yet?

The funny thing about growing older is that painful emotional moments are experienced with much less drama and hysteria, but they bore so much deeper. It’s difficult to put this into empirical context, but I believe if I’d snubbed John 10% harder, I would have done serious damage, maybe permanent damage, to Jason’s and my friendship. By the same token, if I’d given in much more to my slightly panicked reaction to Athain and his new life, he might have rightfully thought, “Well, what the fuck did I bring this ungrateful bitch here for anyway?” I hope I am wrong about this, but I’m damn glad I never had to find out. I woefully underestimated the power of love.

BUT. It seems I underestimated it both ways. There are unforgivable things done to people every day, consciously and gleefully. There are also moments where someone can draw a knife smoothly across your heart and never even notice the flow of blood. There were moments like that in Berlin, for all of us.

You know what else there was? There was singing at the top of our lungs to Bobby Brown in a taxi at 5AM as it rocketed through the deserted Berlin streets. There was Athain sneaking up on me with a camera while I was dead asleep, taking the most unflattering pictures ever committed to film. There was Jason, wearing my cowboy hat and draped with Strawberry Shortcake stuffed animals. There was Mike’s completely inappropriate—and completely hysterical—joke about the contents of a jar of Vienna sausages. There was Victoria wearing basically a brightly colored napkin to Connection, and looking better than any girl I’d ever seen. There was John sneaking into the living room that first night and waking me like Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. There was the look in Athain’s eyes when I called him my brother for the first time. There was laughter, enough to split a thousand seams. There was love.

I’ll never forget Berlin.

Yours in hagdom,

Jamielah