There Can Be Rewards Behind the Iron Curtain : REWARDS: Patience Is Required Behind the Iron Curtain

If there is one thing I’ve learned after three years of traveling to Eastern Bloc countries, it’s this: You can’t become automatically discouraged when confronted by the inevitable roadblocks that appear at any given time.

More often than not, mixing a cup of determination with a dash of flexibility will result in only a slight modification of your original plans.

It pays to be persistent, too, for once past the roadblocks, you may find--as I have--your travel experiences in the East Bloc to be among your most rewarding, both culturally and from an enriching human standpoint of better understanding a people and a way of life that has been effectively shut out from the rest of the world.

Oh, and don’t forget to take along a sense of humor--it’s guaranteed to help ease some of those first-time frustrations.

Nowhere was a sense of humor needed more on my most recent venture behind the Iron Curtain, in April, than at the East-West checkpoint at the Friederichstrasse train station in Berlin.

I was in Berlin to meet my East German girlfriend, Elke, in what would become the latest installment of our 2-year-old transcontinental/transcultural love affair. We had met in East Berlin the day before, and had a pleasant day touring that impressively rebuilt city.

One day later I was back again, alone (Elke had returned home to fulfill a work obligation), my primary mission being to find a hotel room for Elke for the coming Saturday night. The plan was for me to continue to spend the nights at my hotel in West Berlin, so as not to provoke the powers that be to further harass Elke for continuing her relationship with an American man.

We had tried a few establishments the previous afternoon, but kept getting the same reply: “Sorry, we’re full on Saturday, but try the Metropol or Palast.” Both of those hotels are expensive and Elke wanted to spend much less. So, for an intrepid Westerner, the hunt was on.

Going through customs and passing a cursory inspection before entering an East Bloc country had become routine for me. So confident was I on this day, in fact, that I even stuck a rolled-up International Herald Tribune in the bottom of my leather shoulder bag to read during idle moments.

After receiving my visa (visitors must return by midnight) and exchanging the required 25 deutsche marks for 25 East German marks, I was walking through the customs line when a female officer asked me to open the three zippered pouches on the outside of my shoulder bag. In these compartments I keep such miscellany as Olympic pins, a nail clipper, some spare change, two felt pens and . . . a handful of tiny American flags attached to toothpicks.

I carry the flags when traveling to give out as thank-yous for people who provide directions or recommendations or who perform other good deeds. They help to convey my appreciation and always put a smile on someone’s face . . . unless that someone happens to be an East German customs officer.

Flags Discovered

“Oh no,” I thought when the officer discovered the Stars and Stripes. “Those harmless little flags. . . . I forgot they were even there.”

“Come with me,” said the officer, a petite woman probably in her late 30s.

Sure enough, I was escorted to a detention area and led into a small room whose most prominent features were a wooden table and two adjoining chairs. I was told to empty my entire bag, which might have stocked a neighborhood garage sale. Out came, among other things, guidebooks, maps, half-eaten candy bars, an umbrella, an address book, post cards and a notebook, along with my passport and my plane ticket back to Los Angeles.

And that International Herald Tribune.

I began explaining the reasons for the flags. The officer, who understood only a modicum of English, nodded periodically and continued to pore over my paraphernalia. She was quiet and somewhat hesitant; I theorized that she might be new at this. Finally, she scooped up the flags, the newspaper and almost everything else and headed for the door. The candy bars stayed behind.

“One moment, please,” she said and disappeared.

I waited. And waited. And waited. The minutes seemed to go on forever.

After nearly an hour the customs officer returned, bringing with her my sundry materials and what appeared to be someone of higher authority, also a woman.

“That was a long moment, huh?” I remarked with some boldness in German.

The officers smiled and nodded.

“We have problems with you,” said the woman of higher authority. My heart skipped about three beats.

“You can’t take that propaganda with you,” she said, pointing to the small pile of flags, “or the newspaper.”

Feeling very relieved that the “problem” with me was nothing more, I explained once again why I carried the “propaganda,” that the reasons certainly were not politically motivated, and that had I thought about it in advance, I would not have brought them with me to East Berlin (though the city could use a few more smiles).

The officer of higher authority nodded again and seemed satisfied with my explanation. Then she proceeded to ask about my reasons for entering East Berlin and about my occupation. I answered the questions clearly and calmly--my confidence was building again-- and we even exchanged a laugh or two along the way.

Finally, she said I could put my things away and go on through. I was given what looked like an itemized bill of sale to present to the customs officials to reclaim my flags and my newspaper when I left the city that evening.

A Free Man

Jubilant, I walked into East Berlin a free man. Well, sort of.

As the morning quickly vanished into afternoon, my thoughts returned to my raison d’etre on this day: finding a hotel room for Elke somewhere other than the Palast or Metropol.

The basic problem, as explained to me by numerous East Berlin hotel officials, is that regardless of whether it’s April or October, February, or August, there simply aren’t enough rooms.

Weekends are especially tight. Priorities are given to tour groups and foreign visitors, and Elke doesn’t qualify in either category. Hence, a “big problem” for me, as one sympathetic hotel clerk put it.

If you can imagine being treated like a second-class citizen in your own country, then you have a pretty good idea of the plight of most East Germans attempting to make travel plans for the popular areas of East Germany.

After a few quick rejections from some moderately priced establishments, but still very determined, I began checking over a list of inexpensive hotels from a guidebook I had bought in Los Angeles. I decided to visit a small hotel near the Friederichstrasse station.

The hotel sign was so small that I passed it three times before finally spotting the name in hand-printed letters about an inch high on the door.

I explained in detail my plight to the only person working at the front desk, an engaging man who agreed to hold a room for my friend . . . but added that it would cost me some “extra” money, to be paid when we arrived on Saturday. I quickly agreed, sure I had found the only vacant room left in East Berlin for the weekend.

I returned to the hotel--with Elke--at about 3 p.m. Saturday, with no assurance that a room would be waiting other than the guarantee provided by an unknown, albeit friendly, desk clerk.

The Same Desk Clerk

Not to worry. I was relieved to find the same desk clerk waiting for my arrival with keys in hand. We exchanged a pleasant greetings. I discreetly slipped the man 20 West German deutsche marks in a single bill underneath the East German marks I used to pay for the room.

Set to fly home in two days, I presumed this latest East Bloc hurdle to have been my last. It was . . . until that evening.

Returning to the hotel after attending a concert of the Berliner Singakademie, Elke and I were looking forward to spending a few minutes alone on what would likely be our last night together for several months.

I was about 10:30 p.m. and my visa was due to expire at midnight. But because the hotel was so close to the East-West checkpoint, I could leave at, say, 11:55 and still make it back with a comfortable minute to spare. No problem.

On the way to the room we were stopped at the front desk by the night manager, a gray-haired woman who looked to be in her early 60s and who spoke no English. She proceeded to engage in an animated discussion with Elke. After a quick translation, here was the upshot: I couldn’t go with Elke to her room because visiting hours ended at 9 o’clock.

“ Visiting hours ?” I repeated incredulously. “Is this a hotel or a hospital?”

“Did you explain that I had to be out by midnight because of my visa?” I asked Elke, believing the woman feared I would attempt to cheat the hotel by spending the night in Elke’s single room.

“I already explained the situation,” said Elke, who was sporting one of those resigned, there’s-nothing-we-can-do-about-it looks. “She said those are the rules.”

My patience was waning.

The woman stood firm.

I raised my voice. The woman told my friend that I was not nice, and we left.

A short while later, reposing in a nearby coffeehouse as the time grew nearer to my “magic hour,” we were a study in contrasts. There was Elke--blonde, beautiful, married first to her homeland and resigned to its almost daily dose of inconveniences--with a smile, shrugging her shoulders; and me--an outsider, viewing the obstacles through Western eyes as an affront to freedom--arms folded, lips tightly sealed, wearing an angry scowl.

“You must understand that it is different for me,” she said. “What can I do? These are stupid rules, so I just laugh.”

Back at the Hotel

I went back to the hotel one last time the next morning, about 8:30, to pick up Elke. As I started upstairs, somehow I knew I wouldn’t make it without incident. I passed a man who was obviously the manager. He stared at me with a puzzled look and asked where I was going. I told him and he led me to his office.

Calmly, this time I again explained my purpose. When the man was slow to respond, I held up a bag of fruit I was carrying.

“Fruhstuck! Fruhstuck! (Breakfast! Breakfast!),” I said, pointing to the fruit.

The man nodded his approval and I was on my way to Elke’s room, fruit in hand . . . and a smile.