- Oct 4
- 7 min read
Updated: Oct 24
I was ignored by Bono, and creeped out by neo-nazis.
In 1993, a few years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, German customs agents were much more diligent than in other countries, and they whispered suspiciously and made awkward eye contact while reviewing our documents and passports.
We’d just flown in from London on Charles' private plane, and after finally getting permission to leave the rural airport, we crammed into a couple of minivans and wound through a picturesque landscape. But despite the idyllic scene of sheep and haystacks, something felt off, like we might be in a Twilight Zone hologram concealing a more sinister reality.
In West Berlin, Charles pointed out the semi-circular façade of our five-star hotel visible from blocks away, identified by massive white block letters on the roof:
K-E-M-P-I-N-S-K-I
Inside a lobby sparsely decorated with hard utilitarian furniture, the overall gestalt was modern and sleek, and ultra-glossy marble floors echoed a distinct “click-CLACK” whenever high heels walked across. From behind the reception desk, a hotel clerk eyed us stiffly as we maneuvered through museum-quality display cases offering expensive Fendi, Gucci, and Cartier items for sale, and we were quickly dispatched to minimalistic rooms in completely different parts of the hotel. Collapsing on the bed I was soon drifting off in a muted Salvador Dali dream, surveying grey cityscape through melting windows on an upside-down steamer train.
Later, out exploring near the hotel, we were immediately drawn to the ruins of a massive cathedral mostly destroyed during World War II, identified by a simple wooden sign:
“Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church”
It seemed not much had changed since bombs rained down fifty years prior, and piles of charred beams and broken stones lay strewn about the site, with gaping holes in crumbling walls allowing bits of starry sky and light from other buildings to shine through.
A small crowd of people had lined up on the sidewalk back at the hotel, and we cut a path through to the lobby without giving it much thought.
Over breakfast at the hotel's casual restaurant (a place called Reinhart's along The Kurfürstendamm) towering linden trees looked extra lush and verdant compared to the grey of everything else, and as people walked by the greenhouse-like attium, I noticed very few Berliners smiled or even made eye contact. The number of scowlers far outpaced anyone who appeared happy, but I suppose years of war will do that, and I ate my breakfast of syrupy pancakes and fried potatoes fully appreciating how lucky I was, recognizing life couldn’t be finer.
Outside the hotel, the same people from the night before were still lined up against the windows, except now the crowd had doubled in size, and wound around the corner. Walking beneath nondescript creepy cold-war buildings, it felt like we were being watched, and so we hurried toward the more populated central shopping district to check out the enormous flagship Virgin Megastore just opened. Charles bought a portable CD player for the plane and piles of discs, and we continued deeper into the heart of West Berlin, where bricked streets became blacker with soot, and dead-end alleys closed tighter. Storefronts offered a glut of Nazi paraphernalia for sale, including swastika jewelry, WWII medals, SS uniforms, and even Third Reich dishware.
Handbills advertising U2's Zooropa Tour were plastered on nearly every wall, fence, and light post in town, and we carefully tore one down to keep as a memento of the show. Even more people were crowded along the lobby windows, and most of them were wearing U2 gear and holding albums in their hands. It came to me slowly - but I finally made the obvious connection - the band must be staying at the Kempinski Hotel too!
When Charles stopped in the hotel’s business center to check messages, I casually wandered through the expensive jewelry and handbags for sale, before eventually realizing that another person was also strolling the display cases.
That person wore dark wraparound fly glasses and shiny black leather from head to toe, and again - it took a moment for my dim brain to register the obvious - but the guy opposite me was none other that Bono!
I stopped short and ran back to Charles, pointing him out as discretely as possible.
“We should get him to sign our poster!” He whispered.
“We should!”
“You do it” He said, “you’ll have a better shot.”
Charles squeezed my hand and handed me a pen, and I set my sights on the Rock God.
Striding purposefully across the lobby to within just a few feet, I was suddenly intercepted by an enormous three-hundred-pound bodyguard who literally materialized from thin air, forming a massive human roadblock between me and my superstar prize.
“No autographs in the hotel” the giant grunted.
I flipped my hair and flashed a winning smile, “What's that sir?”
“NO autographs in the hotel” he repeated louder, “You can go wait out there with the rest of them,” and he gestured toward the mob pressed against the glass.
“Ohhhhhhhh (haha) you don’t understand” I said with arrogant ignorance, “I’m staying in this hotel,” and the moment the words passed my lips I knew I must sound like a horrible snob.
“AND?” He barked back sharply.
I lingered, positive Bono must have heard every word, hoping he would intervene and choose to speak to me on his own accord, but the famous rocker just turned away, continuing his nonchalant gaze at the luxury under glass.
“Okay then,” I shrugged, before slinking away.
Getting ready for the big night out, I put on sexy brown suede shorts, an ivory peak-a-boo crochet vest, and cute brown suede kitten heels, before hurrying to join our friends in the hotel’s finest restaurant. Charles and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other as we jumped in cabs, headed to the Olympiastadion, the site of the 1936 Summer Games where American black athlete Jesse Owens commandingly won four gold medals in front of Hitler.
Crossing an expansive stone plaza once the site of Nazi military parades, I could almost hear the goose-step of jack-boots as we walked beneath disconcerting Olympic rings suspended on unseen wires in mid-air.
Our tickets placed us in the first tier at the end of a wide bench row, offering a clear line of sight to nearly all the giant video panels encircling the stadium. There was no moon and the sky was very dark as the anxious crowd buzzed with anticipation, impatiently demanding the band’s arrival,
U2… U2… U2
Restless feet stomped and excitement built, until finally The Edge appeared at the very front of the stage, dramatically lit by a single spotlight. He struck a powerful chord with his guitar commanding the rest of the band forward, just as the giant video screens flashed on all at once, rolling through controversial images of Germany past and present.
As the band played songs from the new album, visuals of cultish Nazi youth, destructive air bombings, and strange fields of spinning swastikas, played on the big screens surrounding the stadium.
Our group of fun, fashionable, Americans stood out like colorized cells in a black and white movie, and from my vantage point, not a single person in the seventy thousand-plus German crowd was on their feet, or even moving much in their seats. We seriously didn't care though, dancing and singing, partying the night away, oblivious to the sideways stares of people sitting like statues.
But then, during a climactic moment in the song Bullet the Blue Sky, every screen flashed all at once to grainy iconic footage of Hitler, and I realized his image had been conspicuously missing up until that point in the show. And when his beady eyes flashed across fifty-foot video screens, the previously subdued crowd jumped to their feet, cheering like a brainwashed horde out of the past, and chills ran my spine as I wondered what could be wrong with these crazy people.
Charles and I held each other close, slow-dancing under the stars as Bono belted out One, and With Or Without You, and it felt like he sang the words directly to us. I cocooned against his chest when they played my favorite U2 song of all time, Love is Blindness and Charles squeezed me tighter and sang along when they covered the Elvis classic, Can’t Help Falling In Love With You.
“Wise men say, only fools rush in, but I can’t help, falling in love with you."
"Maybe this should be our song.” he suggested.
And I nodded yes, falling for him even harder.
Exiting the stadium, the scene on the plaza was even freakier than the Hitler celebration inside, and we moved in cautious spurts across the stonework, carefully avoiding neo-Nazi skinheads busy breaking bottles and jumping through fire, and it felt as if any second the deranged kids from Clockwork Orange were going to show up and kill us. But luckily Charles was able to hail cabs quickly, and we returned to the hotel without trouble.
In bed we replayed the most intense moments of the night - the massive stadium full of crazy Hitler lovers - the violent skinheads threatening everyone on the plaza - the powerful impact of music full of hope - and he and I pressed together under the stars.
We both hoped for a more peaceful world, and Charles curled around me protectively as I drifted off to sleep, U2's playlist still ringing in my head.
Love is clockworks - And cold steel - Fingers too numb to feel - Squeeze the handle - Blow out the candle - Love is blindness
Love is blindness - I don't want to see - Won't you wrap the night around me?
Oh my love... Blindness
