17.

MUNICH WAS ALL Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs everywhere, even the taxis. Anthony couldn’t get over the cars; this time it was Spencer who just wanted to get to the hostel, eager to check email because he was supposed to hear about his next posting.

“A lot of halal shops,” Anthony said. He seemed taken with all the Muslims here, Middle Eastern–looking people all over the city. Spencer wasn’t paying attention. He was imagining himself at different US air force installations. Some backwater in America? Pápa Air Base in Hungary? Someplace in Europe? Somewhere on their trip? That would be funny. Morón Air Base in Spain, or even Ramstein, right here in Germany?

Which reminded him. “We need to see where Alek is when we get to Internet.”

“I got you. Lot of kabob restaurants. So many girls in head coverings.”

“I feel like that’s all of Europe,” Spencer said.

“I need a hamburger. We gotta find a McDonalds.”

“Really? A McDonalds? You already need American food? Let’s eat local.”

“What’s local here? Like . . . pretzels?”

“I feel like . . . maybe sausage?” Spencer was still only half listening to Anthony; now he was double-checking the map.

“Maybe schnitzer,” Anthony offered.

“Schnitzer? Snitch-er? What are you talking about?”

“Like wiener—snitcher.”

“I don’t think that’s right.”

“Pretty sure it’s right.

“Dude, what are you talking about?”

“Um . . .”

“Whatever, just, I need a Big Mac. Stat.”

“Okay fine, but let’s just make it quick. I need to go back and find out what my future holds.”

Sated with some greasy American food, they found the hostel with less fanfare than the last time, and connected to Wi-Fi. Anthony pinged his friend, John Dickson. “John’s gone again, he’s in some town, north of us apparently. He says . . .” but Spencer was still only half paying attention; he was writing to Alek. “We’re gonna go to Berlin next.”

“All right,” Alek wrote back, “I’ll try to meet you in Berlin.”

Then the message he was waiting for came in from his supervisor. Spencer yelled, “Holy shit!”

“What?” Anthony came over.

“It’s Nellis! I’m going to Nellis! They’re sending me to Las Vegas, baby!” Spencer was so happy he felt almost guilty. The air force had stationed him at a base in the Azores, which was basically an island paradise, and now, of all the places in the world he could have been posted—it could have been Iraq or Afghanistan; it could have been Greenland or Uzbekistan or Taiwan—he was being posted a short flight from his home, and a place Anthony happened to have family.

“Ah! We gotta celebrate!”

Spencer googled a bar and they set out for the closest one, ready to rage.

But the closest bar turned out to be a red-light bar, literally, red lights, and bizarre décor: decapitated Barbie dolls, someone’s acid-trip idea of a fetish. They each ordered a beer, found no one who seemed all that interesting—or safe—as conversation partners, so they finished their drinks, closed out, and escaped the Bizarro World bar, stumbling out into a gay pride parade that happened to be passing down the street. Spencer remembered a recommendation his mom had made for a place with big beers, so they called a taxi and went there, but that bar was empty.

Next they found a club, but that was mostly empty too.

Then a salsa bar, which was too disorienting—Latin American music in Germany? Anthony still wanted to find a club, but Spencer was getting bored and tired of strange bars so they decided to call it a night. Save their energy. No reason to stay out and, they decided, no reason to stay in Munich for another day. They’d head out tomorrow for Berlin.

Berlin, Spencer felt, was going to be good. He was excited. Excited for Berlin, excited for Vegas after all of it, excited for Spain.

The trip was picking up some momentum.