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| “
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I’d
been living in Germany for a couple years already. At that time, I had
just moved into a small one-bedroom apartment in Leipzig with a shower
in the kitchen. The boiler was also broken, so it was a cold shower in
the kitchen. My windows looked out onto a concrete wall, an elevated
train track, and some graffiti. I cycled my clunky East German bike
around town, worked minimally, paid no rent, and lived pretty
decadently.
One day when I didn't have much to do, I was
milling around the music
section at the big-box electronics store. I was looking at some indie
band and started chatting with this other guy with great indie taste.
He was about to go buy a record; I said I'd heard good things about it.
He said, “Write down your address, I'll give you a copy." A few days
later there was a stack of CDs at my doorstep. Charming! I texted
thanks, and we set up a coffee date.
... When he asked me
where I was from, I told him that I was American and that my father was
Israeli [...]
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” |
Alternate
title: A Jew in Berkeley
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