First of all, dear readers, the promised dessert to "Rondo alla Siciliana". Domenica is not from Sicily, she's from Mantua (but Italy, anyway). Alfredo (her husband), who joined our party as we left his establishment to grab a few more beers, swears he met her at an amateur topless dancers' contest in Gubbio in 1986. She ranked only fourth, he says, because she lost her balance and couldn't get up in time.... We decided not to believe that part of the story. It's fun to listen to a happy man...for a while, at least.

And, second, a little remark as amicus curiae to what I read in the forum about the main reason for R&D leaving the BEA. I really don't want to interfere in any inner-American affairs, but, in my country, if someone is in danger of being sued, his friends or opinion-sharers help him -- all the more if the suit is pending. It is very disturbing for me to see that apparently this is not the case in the US. Sometimes I'm glad there's an ocean between us. But back from business to fun...

The Dolphin still being under construction and my family visiting friends in Bavaria, I'm quite content that traX has invited Jockel and me to Hamburg -- he moved his firm over there, and owns a small apartment where he stays during the week.

We start at one of those artist's joints (this one called "Speakeasy"), a room literally plastered with third-rate paintings, and two absolute masterpieces destined to go to the Museum Of Modern Art sooner or later. The place is so crowded, you can't see who's standing next to you, and is populated by ugly artists and beautiful models, and vice versa. The models tend to be of the skinny kind, with one exception; traX says her name is 'vira. (And don't ask me why - it's her name.) We try to get closer to her, but no way.

Did I mention I solved that ulcer problem? So it's beer for all of us again, and - even for Germans - lots of it. Very unusual, our order in this place. Red wine is de rigueur here. We don't mind, we're twice as old as the average customer here and after all, none of us has to drive home. We'll stay at traX's apartment...

TraX is very concerned about the BEA. He says the problem is that it is something like a newsgroup. Now newsgroups are permanently violating copyright. No uploader has bought copy or publishing rights of the original pics. Scanned pics are practically all illegal. It's all tolerated by the people who own those rights because it's free PR. All they care is that their logo is not removed. Something all those sympathetic spamhunters tend to forget is that spam is the reason those NGs are not closed down or sued to death. And, he says, there is a lesson in this statement for all of us. Before he can go on lecturing, Jockel insists on "going out and violating every possible moral standard". An expression that pretty well describes what he'll do after lots of beer. I had to get up twice at night to put a lid on such actions (this in addition to my normal reasons for getting up several times in the middle of the night after lots of beer).

But, what the heck, we're far away from home, why not have a little fun? We end up in the St Pauli quarter, close to the harbor, and, yes, it's where all the four-letter-word action takes place. They even have an Amsterdam-style alley where somewhat bored ladies do fancywork in public, waiting for customers. And, gawking hicks that we are, that's where our Jockel insists on dragging us. That alley... it's just 200 yards long, with showcases on either side, and some time I'll go there again to see who's behind all those other show windows, because I have to confess I was struck by a lightning bolt at the second window on the left.

Well, I've been at the BEA for about a year now, and all my life I've been an admirer of the exaggerated female form - but never have I seen (or touched) a woman as busty as Maria. Hips like a young boy, waist like a 14-year old virgin, and above all that a bosom so overflowing her custom-built corsage that even in the oversexed atmosphere of Herbertstrasse she was absolutely overwhelming. Melons. M-E-L-O-N-S. Not what they sometimes call melons (leer leer wink wink), no, literally the size of actual watermelons! I mean, back at secondary school, she used to be busty, OK, but not sensationally (she was a classmate of my youngest sister).

And much, much later, when my companions and my money both had gone the way of all flesh, she told me how it all happened: at that magic age of thirty, her breasts began to lead a life of their own. They started growing, and have never stopped since. She had some blurred polaroids for proof, and if they were of better quality, anyone with a scanner and a two-bit animation program could make the BE-movie of the century using them...

No, don't insist that I tell you how I talked that taxi driver into driving me to traX's home, or the way I looked and felt the next morning. Take my word for it, I've been to the BE-portion of heaven...