I lost my accent in the gutter of an alleyway in Germany, a town called Hof, which literally or otherwise means ‘place’. I couldn’t find it again, though I hadn’t more than a moment to look for it before the punk rockers, pink hair dyed neon golden in the moonlight, dragged me across the tracks and into a wine seller forgotten by most–and most of them constituents of the dungeon-esque bar. We listened to Van Morrison and Alman Brothers and Zep; and it seemed that none of us understood more than a mouthful, which generally seemed to be more full of wine than understanding. Arm-in-arm, singing “Sweet Home Alabama”, the lights played tricks, simple slights of hand; and staggering through streets unknown to me, I found my way back to the train station thinking an accent a terrible thing to lose.