If you want to read the story from the beginning, click here. (https://wp.me/p2b25R-fw)

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Fall 2012

My base is only a few blocks from the Scala bar frequented by American soldiers. An easy walk.

Logan has been kidding me that maybe I will find a girl there.”I don’t know about that,” I reply.

“Why not?”

“German girls are very uppity. They are very picky about whom they want to be friends with.”

“Oh, yeah, and where did you hear that?”

“Somewhere. I don’t remember.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s not true.”

When I was in high school, Mom and Dad didn’t actually prevent us from dating, but they did not encourage it either. There was no “dating” as such for us, but simply meeting girls during Indian celebrations during family get-togethers. These were the daughters of family friends. It was not a big deal if we went out together with a group of friends, like Lakshmi did. In college, I was busy with the ROTC program and didn’t really develop any relationships with girls.    

One Saturday at seven o’clock in the evening, Logan and I walk over to the bar. It looks like a large Tudor-style apartment building with dark wooden beams placed in a horizontal and inverted V pattern. The bar is on the first floor, in the right-hand corner of the building.

The bar has just started to fill up. It’s a small place with a long counter along the wall to the right with revolving stools. A big selection of liquor is displayed on the wall cabinet, and many beers are on tap. It is like being in small-town USA. The light is dim, and there is low chatter among the customers. Looks like a happy place to relax and have a good time.

I visited bars around campus in Charlottesville. They were always loud and crowded. One had to push his way to order a drink. Here, on the outskirts of Stuttgart, it feels different. The people look more rugged-faced, and the young ladies are a bit stouter than their American counterparts. It’s a weekend, and many young couples are there to have a few drinks and some fun. We walk up to the counter and order the schwarzbier, a local dark beer. I prefer light beers but want to experiment.

I scan the room and don’t see a platform or stage. As the evening progresses, the place starts to fill up. At nine p.m., a young man dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a t-shirt with a snake as an emblem on the front walks in. He goes straight to a corner of the bar adjacent to the counter. Logan and I look at each other. The man places a small box on the floor and unpacks it. It turns out to be a small loudspeaker. He plugs it into a wall outlet, attaches his guitar to it, and swings around, pushing his left hand through the belt so that the guitar hangs on his shoulder. He starts to strum tunes as a warm-up. There is no introduction or announcement by anyone.

Some in the audience turn toward the guitar player who starts to sing some songs in German. We tap our feet to the beat of the music. We don’t understand the words, but the tune is melodic.

“Hey Arjun,” Logan turns to me and says. “Why don’t you play here sometimes?”

“Here? You mean in this bar?” I ask.

“Yes. I’ve heard you play at our apartment, and I think you are pretty good.”

“You think they will allow me? I don’t know what the rules are.”

“Why don’t we find out?”

The young man plays for about an hour and stops to take a break. We walk up to the counter and order one more round of beers.

“You the manager here?” I ask the bartender.

He points to a door at the far corner of the room without saying anything. Maybe the guy understands English but doesn’t want to speak, I say to myself. I walk to the door and knock. After the third knock, a hefty man with shoulder-length hair opens the door. I can see a young woman sitting on a chair inside. I am not sure if I’ve interrupted them.

“Ja?” the man asks.

“Speak English?”

“Yes.”

“I have a question. I am interested in playing guitar in this bar. Is it possible?”

“You Indian or Pakistani?”

The man can speak good English, but with a slight accent.

Why the heck do I need to declare my ethnic identity? So, I don’t answer his question.

“I’m an American and an officer in the Army.”

“Oh! How do I know you play well?”

I guess being an officer in the Army has its weight.

“Well, next time I’ll bring my guitar, and if you allow me, I’ll play some.”

“Okay. But we don’t pay for anything.”

“That’s fine.”

“….and if you cause any trouble, I’ll throw you out.”

Are American soldiers known to cause a ruckus? I don’t understand his line of questioning. I just told him I am an officer.

“Not to worry.”

He keeps quiet. Looks like he is thinking.

“Is that a ‘Yes’ then?”

“Ja.”

I rush back to Logan. He looks at me.

“He said I can play.”

Logan gives me a high five and takes another sip from his beer.

We spend an hour or so there and walk back to our base.

To read chapter 29 click here. https://wp.me/p2b25R-kY