We were standing in front of the ovens at Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp outside of Munich, Germany.
Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, looked at me as if I'd lost my mind."You're sick," he replied and then shrugged his shoulders and added, "It would be a funny sick picture."
We'd already gotten in trouble with the keeper of Nazi things on this trip.
A few days earlier we'd been in Berchtsgarden where Hitler had a summer home on top of a mountain with sweeping and stunning views. A section was fenced off so, having come that far anyway, we jumped it and made our way to a bombed out bunker. It had been turned into shrine of sorts by people who still harbor anti-Semitic feelings.
We weren't able to stay long because of the guards who, as luck would have it, spoke no English so we played dumb and they ran us off.
If that wasn't enough, I was detained by Immigration in Amsterdam. I still don't know why but this very day blond, long legged Nordic security guard plucked me out of line. She wore a tight dress with a Pill Box hat right out of the 1950s. I wore a University of Georgia Sweatshirt, blue jeans and had a back pack which she went through.
When she started studying the picture on my passport and then staring at me, I burst out laughing.
On the other side of a glass wall, Bill hung his head, shaking it from side to side, which made me laugh even louder. Of course this infuriated my guard who was saying something to me in a language I did not understand.
Bill made his way to our side of the glass and explained to the guard that I was mentally ill and he was my caregiver. This made me stop laughing and the guard nodded sympathetically. She placed my hand in his and he led me to the plane.
"How did you ...?" I started as we were walking.
"Shut up," he said. "Just act mentally ill. It shouldn't be hard."
So, I tell you all of that to tell you this.
You got to have friends.
