mommy's not here right now

she's driving with the dj. Autobahn out of Düsseldorf, country roads toward Kassel, and in the end, parking in Berlin. Two men and their three dogs look on, smoking a cigarette in front of Leathers, which sells lederhosen converted into modern s&m gear. Next to Leathers is a café with a baby gate blocking the front door, and the kids are running free while the parents drink coffee. The engine stalls. I restart, reverse, go back into first, and pull out gently from the parking spot, which is just in front of the apartment where we’ve been staying. Leafy Berlin side street. Mommy's not here right now, she’s driving for the first time in this country, and she's not a mommy in the way you’re thinking but in the way the spanish guys down on 4th avenue in Brooklyn mean it when they call it out. Hey Mami, you go Mami, lookin good Mami.

Because it is Germany the rules are important, and they come at me from the passenger’s seat as soon as we exchange keys. I am not a good driver, I mention, circling around the car to the driver’s seat. I have never driven in this country. I yank the Nissan through the gears and merge onto the autobahn. The dj cringes and driving lessons begin: Ok, jetzt pass mal auf. Slow down New York girl. Langsamer. Stay right, pass left. Bleib im fluss. Stay in the flow. Nicht bremsen nicht bremsen! Why are you breaking? Use the clutch. Stay under 120. Read the signs. You don’t need your windshield wipers. You can’t hang out in the middle lane. Ok, now gib gas. Now you’ve got to see it through.

I pass the truck in the construction site. I miss the exit. I stall on the entrance ramp. I speed through a small town screaming "Germany!” out the open windows. Dusk has laid a carpet over the countryside and there are horses in the fields – I cannot contain myself – but I am driving 80 in a 40. Du musst die schlider lesen. This is a quiet zone, the dj says. The signs are beautiful: the three parallel arrows and one shorter, curved one…the circle split by a diagonal equator…the figure of a man, lit up in neon. But because I don’t understand them my surprise is genuine when the lane ends, when traffic appears out of nowhere, when there’s no exit in sight. You read them and tell me what’s going to happen next, I tell him.

Which, for most of the week, he does. He drives; I ride. Legs on the dashboard, I dig for CDs, photograph graffiti, search for parking spots…which, according to the dj, is unnecessary. Es gibt ein parkplatz für mich, he tells me as I point to the open ones a few blocks away from where we’re going. There’s a parking spot for me. A good one. A closer one. The one we’re looking for. He says it without doubt, without concern, without rush or worry. We haven’t yet gotten to where we’re going, but when we do, it’ll be waiting for us.