Looking up, I notice a young black man across the street. I immediately scold myself for thinking it’s B, but then realize it really is him. He has a book bag swung over one shoulder and an amused look on his face. We haven’t seen each other for a few weeks and never in this neighborhood, so it’s a happy, albeit slightly disorienting, coincidence. B’s done with school for the day and I’m famished, so we go to an Italian cafeteria adjacent to the Wilmersdorfer Strasse subway stop. He orders something creamy and rich. I ask for something “spicy” with extra spice. The men behind the counter wear shirts splattered with grease and yell in Italian when it’s ready…[Read more!]