Salt. Shot. Lime. No problem.

Studying in Germany I was getting used to the idea of being the “American Cowboy,” or at least some sort of representation of it for the group I hung around. Sure, I wore boots, but at the time, I was such a little guy that most people who see me now can’t fathom: 5′6″ and a whopping 126 lbs. Erik, a weeknight bartender at a great pub on the end of the Sternplatz, was a massive Bavarian man. If he weren’t standing in front of me, I’d have mistaken him for a caricature of a young German soldier in a black & white film.

“Ho! Noch einmal, cowboy!” Again. The jester must dance with the glasses for your amusement again. Dammit.

Salt. Shot. Lime. No problem.

One thing my European friends did not realize was that boys from small southern towns, even complete dweebs such as myself, learn about drinking early in their teens. Tequila at 19? I had already been at it for 4 years. It also helped that my metabolism rivaled a meerkat on guarana. If I could stall him for a while, I should be okay. Strategy, my friends. The game is won in strategy, not force alone.

Seeing that our group, a random sampling of young adults mouthing a polyglot of German, French and Italian, with the occasional English word, was his only table in the place that night, Erik came over to sit with us.

He brought the bottle.

“Cowboy move. Take.”

He managed to squeeze between me and my best buddy there, Mary. Mary was from Jersey (in spite of her very German name) and had one of the coolest senses of humor, somewhere between absurdity and Zen. We tried to avoid speaking in English except between 6 and 6:30 every evening after dinner. Then we would sit on the balcony looking towards the Schwâbische Alps and drink wine that cost alarmingly the same as premium gasoline. We’d bitch about the aggravations and people of the day. When our time was up, we were back to trying to fit in, no longer the ugly Americans.

For a second I thought Erik was interested in Mary but it turned out he just wanted to be social with us all. Mary hugged her beer. Roberta enjoyed her liqueur. Erik decided to join in. So we worked the moment in tandem.

Salt. Shot. Lime. No problem.

“You like?” he asked in disbelief.

Sorry, Erik, the purpose was to drink fast and hold it down. No time for taste. I didn’t speak any German when I arrived, having scammed my way into a scholarship, but I was learning quickly. A few laughs later, he insisted on teaching Mary and I some sort of game that involved dice and beer coasters. I have no idea what we did, but apparently Mary still owes me 800 Marks.

A meaty, rough hand grabbed the back my neck. Erik let out a laugh then leaned in to me. “Noch einmal?” Ayep. Einmal.

Salt. Shot. Lime… pause…

We had a problem. I wasn’t able to run out the clock since the last several rounds. It was catching up. Also, Erik was sitting very close to me. At that time, and up until recently, I had always been very uncomfortable with large men being close — childhood incident. But my head was starting to spin a little so I tried to stay in one spot and not show fear.

Erik took another round. I sat this one out. I was already four ahead from earlier. The other advantage to inebriation is that my German becomes SO much better, much like my dancing. (in my mind…)

Then something changed. Erik talked of his little brother. He was apparently very similar to me, small build, mean look on his face that cracked to a grin at the slightest provocation, same voice, liked his boots. Roberta, Mary and the others continued with their conversations as our world shrunk down to the space between us and the words he shared.

He imparted quotidian details about their schooldays, their trips fishing, going to a movie in Stuttgart. I listened with all my heart not because the stories were interesting, but because to him, they were the most important things he had to say. He hadn’t seen his little brother in over a year. He missed him.

“Einmal,” he rasped.

Salt. Shot. Lime… Breathe… No problem.

It was the only appropriate response. Maybe being a stranger in a strange land made me more willing to connect to someone I normally wouldn’t have at the time. Maybe it was also that I had always wanted an older brother to look up to and watch after me. But this was his moment, and as long as he wanted to talk and I could hold consciousness, he had my attention. I had to overcome my discomfort. Erik told me of hearing of his brother’s drowning. There were very few words, but he didn’t need many. I was just the ghost.

Then came the long pause that happens between two men worried they may have shared too much. He smiled, eyes glinting. “Again, cowboy.” An arm around my shoulder. A tipping bottle. “To Rolf.”

Salt. Shot. Lime. No problem.