18.

THE HOSTEL IN Berlin was far from the train station, and in Berlin more cobblestones threatened Anthony’s suitcase. And his mood. At least Germany had street signs, and city planning, both improvements over Venice. But the words were so damn long it almost didn’t matter. It took another hour to find their way from the train to the hostel.

When they arrived, they knew their luck had fully turned. They had two separate beds, the room was spacious, the air cool and clean. Spencer was still traumatized from trying to sleep in the Venetian oven, so this all came as a relief. They took showers, changed clothes, and though Spencer’s foot was still a colorful balloon of inflammation, it seemed to slowly be improving, or at least to not be getting worse, even with all the walking. He took some of his ibuprofen, and they went downstairs to see if the receptionist could recommend a good place to party. As Spencer was talking to the woman at reception, Anthony interrupted. “Does that sign over there say ‘Louisiana Soul Food’?”

“Yes, we have American . . . you say ‘homestyle’ cooking?”

“Wait, really? Soul food in Berlin? Spencer, man, we have to see if it’s legit.”

So they had soul food in Berlin: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, and corn. Spencer stuffed himself and Anthony seemed to approve of everything except for the Fanta. That, Anthony complained about. “It’s kind of gross,” he said, holding up the bottle, examining the label. “Probably because it’s made with real sugar. I’m not feeling it.”

Other than that, Berlin was shaping up well.

At breakfast the next morning, Spencer and Anthony sat silently chowing down, when a girl breezed past the dozen empty tables and slid into the seat next to them. She considered Spencer, then Anthony. Then she said, with enthusiasm that belied the early hour, “Hey! I’m Christy!”

“Uh . . .” Spencer was taken by surprise. “Um, hey,” he said. He gave Anthony a look. She hitting on us?

“Christy, what’s up.” Anthony wiped his hand, and offered it for her to shake. “I’m Anthony, this is Spencer.”

“So,” she said, “what do you guys have planned for today?

“Well,” Spencer said, still not totally adjusted to having a new dining partner, “we were actually going to plan out the day after breakfast.”

Anthony chimed in. “You have any recommendations?”

“I’m going on a bike tour later. It runs twice a day. I’m going to do the ten o’clock one, if you want to join.”

Not hitting on them, it turned out, just friendly and energetic. What was it with all the Asian girls traveling alone in Europe? Biking seemed like a good idea though; it gave him a little more time without putting weight on his foot. Plus, these girls always seemed to have the inside scoop on where to go and what to see. It was like they kept finding guides, an oracle in every port to help them on their way.

They rode the bikes single file through traffic, stopping occasionally for historical mini-lectures, which Spencer found more digestible than anything he’d learned in school. Perhaps it was for the obvious reason: that it was easier to learn with visuals. Perhaps just easier to learn on his own terms, or perhaps there was something in the air, but whatever it was, everything seemed more meaningful. Perhaps it was the guide, a skinny transplanted Londoner with a hat on backward and glasses Spencer wasn’t sure he actually needed—a bit of a hipster, but he seemed to know everything. And he seemed to be taking them on a historical tour of war-related sites, as if it were his job to show them only places where the world’s great menaces had been confronted.

Out in front of the University of Humboldt, they saw where the Nazis burned thousands of books, and the guide explained how students were trying to counter that evil by holding a book sale every year. “Their way of getting books back to the people,” he said, one leg hanging over his bike, looking at Spencer a beat longer than the others, as if this would mean something special to him. “To change what the history is.”

They biked some more, then stopped in the Pariser Platz, the square named for the French capital, in front of a series of columns with a statue on top, six stories high. Something about it seemed to draw Anthony in, and Spencer watched him walk a few steps away from the group and begin taking pictures, then put down his camera and just look at it, as if something didn’t quite make sense to him. Spencer squinted up toward it.

“This is the Brandenburg Gate,” the guide said. “Where your President Reagan told Mr. Gorbachev to tear down the Berlin Wall.” The statue at the top had four horses pulling a chariot, like something out of Gladiator, except that the chariot carried a woman with wings. “This type of sculpture,” he said, “of a goddess with a four-horse chariot is called ‘quadriga.’ Quad, even you Americans know, is ‘four.’” This particular one carried Eirene, the goddess of peace. Sometimes, the guide said, the chariots in the sculptures carried Victoria, the goddess of victory. Often they carried Pheme, the goddess of fame.

This one, he said, had an extra bit of history. It was stolen by Napoleon after the siege of Berlin and taken to France. It was brought back only when the Prussians occupied Paris.

Anthony rejoined, catching the tail end of the guide’s speech, and shaking his head. “That’s just a big-ass statue to take. How do you steal a whole statue? It’s the size of a building.”

The guide took them to Checkpoint Charlie. He showed them the Führerbunker, where, he reminded them, Hitler killed himself as Russian forces closed in.

“Wait, for real?” Spencer was confused; he looked over at Anthony. Anthony looked confused too. “I thought Hitler killed himself in the Eagle’s Nest when American forces closed in on him.”

“Your textbooks are wrong. By, oh, about seven hundred kilometers. The Kehlsteinhaus is down in the south. Hitler was here, with his wife Eva, when he killed himself. And it was the Russians who were closing in, by the way. You Americans can’t take credit every time evil is defeated.”

As he thought about it, it wasn’t all that surprising to Spencer. Maybe it wasn’t all that uncommon. When you told stories, sometimes you made yourself the hero. Hadn’t he and Anthony done that? In their airsoft reenactments out in front of Spencer’s house, and in the epilogues they cowrote on Sunday afternoons after Black Hawk Down and Saving Private Ryan?

The guide shooed them on, the next stop was the Memorial to the Murdered Jews. They parked their bikes and walked through a field of stones. From the outside, it seemed rigid and ordered, like a well-planned and sterile cemetery, but when you walked in, it was disorienting. Some of the stones were only a few inches off the ground; some were two or three times taller than him. It was a maze that swallowed him up when he walked in, so one moment he was totally in shadow, and the next sharp strips of light fell across him.

One moment he was totally alone, and the next he was bumping into a mass of other tourists at a blind intersection.

Anthony followed him, a few paces back, holding his camera up high.

Then the guide pointed to the victory column, another monument Anthony marveled at. “That’s a lot of gold to just be out in public. People never go up there to steal it?”

They stopped for lunch, and Spencer learned more about Christy’s background. It turned out their newest travel companion had a lot of useful advice about the rest of their trip. She knew France well, because even though she grew up in Florida, she worked in Paris.

“So what do you think,” Anthony said. “What should we do there?”

“Well, do you speak French?”

“Ha! No, none. Neither of us.”

Spencer laughed. “We barely speak English.”

“Oh. I’m fluent in French.”

“How long did that take you?”

“I’ve lived there for four years,” she said, and then, she said something surprising. “But I don’t think you should spend much time there. Actually, I don’t know if you should go at all.”

“What, like we should skip Paris altogether?”

“Yeah, maybe just skip it. I’d skip it if I were you. People can be kind of rude to you if you don’t speak French. It’s also pretty expensive. And they don’t really like Americans.”

Spencer thought about it; he looked at Anthony.

“No one’s really high on Paris, maybe we should just skip it.”

Anthony shrugged. “I just need my picture with the Eiffel Tower. That’s crucial.”

“Yeah, but is it worth a whole trip?” Spencer was starting to think that if people kept saying bad things about Paris, it might be time to take it off the itinerary. “Let’s at least think about it. Maybe just go straight to Spain.” Anthony nodded, and took a bite of his sandwich. “Hey, Christy,” he said after a moment. “What do you do there anyway?”

“Do where?”

“In Paris, I mean. What’s your job?”

“Oh! I work for a news channel.”