At the foot of the Gate numerous artists entertain the crowds. One catches our attention. The Silver Man. He glistens in the sun. He has spray-painted every inch of skin silver. He stands on a box, and when a passer-by throws some coins into his hat he moves like a robot for a few seconds. His gaze never fixes on the onlookers; rather, he stares past them. My children are mesmerized. They ask to make him work. I scrounge around in my wallet for a few lonely coins. One of my boys timidly walks up and throws the coins into the hat. The Silver Man starts moving slowly and mechanically as he had done before. This time he glances down at his hat and stops. He gets off of his box, picks up our coins, and directs his gaze to me. He starts toward me. He's getting too close for comfort. When he reaches me, he takes my hand, opens it, slaps the coins back into my hand, and asks how much I make per hour. I am stunned. I stand there frozen for what seems like minutes. I feel anger bubbling up within me and turn away from my silver adversary. I start walking around aimlessly. I don't think well on my feet. All the things I could have said to lash back! Considering he only moved for a few seconds, a few coins add up to a pretty respectable hourly pay. He's really only begging—how dare he be so ungrateful. Beggars can't be choosers. The anger continues to rise in me until it overflows. I am usually quiet and self-controlled, so I was surprised to hear myself yelling, again and again, "I hate Germany, I hate Germans."