Mötte en dansk på Bar della Pace i Roma. Vi brukade skicka fram tjejerna och beställla "en halv whisky" för vi visste att de ofta fick två tredejdelar i glaset. Ibland åkte våra drinkar iväg på biltaken utanför på gatan. - Hallå, ropade jag, hållå hallå, akta glaset! - Lever heller fattig i Rom än rik i Danmark sa dansken. Han var kommunist och diabetiker och brukade smyga ner lite whsiky i sin espresso. Hans fru hade alltid med sig en sjövild brun boxer när hon kom för att hämta honom. - Ni tar livet av honom om ni tillåter honom dricka, sa hon. Dansken hade byggt upp sitt flygimperium i resebranschen vid sidan av Tjereborg och Simon Spies. En kväll när vi åt pizza på en av hans tre balkonger mot Piazza Navona sa jag: - Men, va fan, Niels (?) så uschligt verkar du inte leva i denna tiorummare! - Allt är relativt, svarade han, åtminstone relativt relativt, men det förstår dom inte, småborgarna i Köpenhamn.
Redan på 90-talet försvann atmosfären och Bar Della Pace blev en lyxkrog, tror jag. 123 4
In the seventies I slept some nigths under the sky in a hippiechamp on the old fort in Kinsale. It was was a cool place. But one evening when everybody start to try to convone us take LSD, we said to each othter: - Let´s leave this hippies for a while and see if we can fiend a Pub.
So we walk the road and the first pub was The Spanjard. I remember that the people ther where spicial, very nice and smart and friendly. Twenty years later I return to the Pub...
- Only for rich assholes, I said to my friend, meeting Johnny & Co in the lobby.
The Punk answered my insult with a face of womiting. His partner, who gona kill his girlfriend whitin 24 houers, looked at me liked I deserved to die. Strange days in New York City. Later the same week Sid smashed a bottle and pressed it up the throat of Pattys brother. Went to the Met the same ev. The Nutcracker. (ett spyfärdigt ansiktsuttryck)
I forgot the name of the best bar I visit in my whole life. Or the second best bar. No, it was the best. Best for dancing at least. Oh, whats the name of it? It is a shame that I can´t remember. A bar in Soho in New York 1978
Can you please help me! That was the reson I mailed you. maby you have a fiend that remember better than you? Please le me know.
Maby if I tell you a story about that Soho-bar, you will remeber it. What to tell? When I dansed with Liza. Liza Smith. Liza was from Spring Valley. Maby you know her? Have you been i Spring Valley Please do not hit me! In Parisin a bar, Polly Maggoo, some month before a english fotballguy told me that his was from Liverpol. So I asked him: - Maby you you know the Beatles? His fist passad to the ritht of my cheek. Thank God Heven left us, standing on our feets. My mymy...
No, It was not "The Kitchen", no no, it was a small bar i the south Soho in New York City. It had a entrense a little bit like the Veuvio Bakery. But I remeber no colurs. It was allways dark when I arrieved. 1978. CBGB. The Police. Studio 54. Jim Jones had just comit sueside when I arrived to Kennedy Airport. The guy next to me, Jörg, on the flight from Franfurt was taken bye the police; he predtended to play flute on his chillum for the passpolice. Do not joke with the police in New York, Runa, they told me, my friends in West-Berlin. Because they do not like it. So I was very sinsered. I reed about Jonestown in my first New York Times while the bus went in to Manhattan. My heart start to pump when I saw the Skyline. And after some weeks died Sid Visius. We met Sex Pistols in Chelsea Hotel. But that´s an onther story. Everyting seems to be an an other story, says my wifte. Anyhow, The Bar laid on a crossroad to the main street, maby West Brodway, maby somewhere around Grand Street. Are you wiht me? Ho do you do do!
Amigo, I tell u this...It was a none living area. Pretty loousy. Emthy streets. Scary. I allways took a cab down to Soho. People told me to be careful. I lived on a pension, on the 34 street. Someting like that. Freaky people. And I have no whife. And I loved to walk Canal Street and Bowery when I was drunk. I nearly got killed. But only tree times. The rest of the time was peaceful. People in New York liked me, the said I was a balettdancer from Russia. Sometimes I looked like David Bowies smallbrother, sometimes like Mick jaggers smalla brother. I was not so freaktout, but I was very tensed. My firts walk on the Fifth aveny during daytime was a hell. I thougt somebode gona kill me. But nothing happend. J had read to many papers about the danger of New York City. Then I becoed bord of beeing afraid and walkend evereywhere day and night.
I belive they where renoveiting the Twin Towers, which you could catch a glimps of outside The Bar. In sommertime, they told me, everybody where dancing in the street otside the bar. They used to have some tables on the pavement. But I was there in the winter. So we dancend inside. And how we danced...
If you can help me finding the name of that bar J shuld be happy. Because tha bar is the best bar i my lift. I meet Liza there. We danced all of the night. Some days later I went out to Lizas home in Spring Valley. Her boyfriend narely killed me. How could I know? Let me tell you a little about The Bar. I was just a room, with a bardesk and biljardadtabel in the mittle of the room and a jukebox. You think I am joking, but I am not, I don`t have a fogtraphic memory I have a telepatic memory. And that bar was the only bar with a biljardtable, a jukebox and a small small dancing floors. All the nightclubs i NYC was illigal these days, but people on the dancefloor use to telle where to go when The Bar closede around midnigt.
A café, a pub or a bar inside a Restaurant. A room, a meetingplace for music, conversiosion, dancing and entertinment, rather than a disco. A piazza with some walls around it. A room you feel like home inside where you often have your own favorit spot, sometimes even a "stamtisch". (Normally bars don´t have given places, so you never know where to stand or sit down.) Well, I call it from now on a bar.
So what is a good bar? I guess it is a place where you learn about life. Or learn to practice things that you learn in school or home. To dance, to talk, to paint, to listen, to flirt, to meet people from your own culture, and people fron different cultures than your own. Women? Yes, off cource, women. But also farmers, stockbrockers, painters, terrorists, turists, local politcans, thiefs, prisets, soldiers, policemen, journalists. Women. Small girls whit there parents, old ladies with there doughthers, and weemn so beutful that it is hard to handle the situation. For many years I only read poetery and hanged on bars.
Time to leave Some people only go in a bar to meet their own friends. These kind of people I count the first, second and thierd time I come inside of a bar. If they are more than 80 perecent I leave. I do not need bars with people that do not whant to comicate whit me.
Poetry and bars If you whant to learn to know the culture of a countre or a countryside, the best metodh is to read there poetry or visit their local bar. Soon you have both all the information you will need. That was a little bit my filofosy when I visit all the bars. Maby a got this line in a bar. Maby I rad it in persian poem. When you start to drink to much you maby forget all the other qualityes of a bar.
- You need seven words in Catier Latin said a french girlfriend in a bar, tagul... saloppe...cannard...e tryck e flick e frick...e baisse moi! - Mmm...
Mötte en dansk på Bar della Pace i Roma. Vi brukade skicka fram tjejerna och beställla "en halv whisky" för vi visste att de ofta fick två tredejdelar i glaset. Ibland åkte våra drinkar iväg på biltaken utanför på gatan. 
