Jerry Garcia

It was cold and wet, cars swooshed by splashing rainwater up my legs, and I was drenched to the skin. As I was pedaling down one of the most unpleasant streets in Berlin, the city seemed to exist of nothing else but big nasty SUVs fighting me in the dark like aggressors from outer space. I felt small and exposed and helpless. Everything was black.

Then, light.

A big ferris wheel illuminated the drab piece of no man’s land south of Alexanderplatz. Its colorful bulbs stripped the November night of its heaviness. It was magical. I stopped and watched, and time stood still for a moment while the wheel was turning.

And then, a tune.

The wheel is turning
and you can’t slow down
You can’t let go
and you can’t hold on
You can’t go back
and you can’t stand still
If the thunder don’t get you
then the lightning will

The world was good, the rain stopped. There was music, and cheerful bubbly sounds from a guitar played with nine fingers filled the air, and I rolled on down the street, homeward bound.

And the wheel is still turning.