Walter’s immortality

I’m still in Aachen, Germany. I’ve no money to speak of, so buying carrots is out. Let alone a southbound train ticket. I spent the last couple of nights on a patch of cardboard, generously provided by Walter, a 54 year-old hobo with nothing more to his name than five (at any given time; the number strangely never goes below that even though he drinks all the time) half-liter cans of Würzburger Hofbräu, a picture of Beate Uhse and a Hitachi digital camcorder. He walks around all day muttering to himself in barely-recognizable German, one arm outstretched, the camera pointing to his face. Half of the money he amasses begging goes to feeding the beast with Mini-DV tapes. When one is full he puts it in a brown envelope and drops it in the nearest, randomly chosen mailbox. He says this way he’ll live on, immortalized. It’s not his intention to be “discovered” or anything like that. He doesn’t even write his name on it. “One in ten people never throw anything away. If that is the case –which I believe it is- I have already achieved eternity. Twice.” I ask him what he talks about on the videos –my German’s a bit rusty- and he tells me it’s a mix of philosophy, gardening ideas, erotic fantasies, autobiographical elements and, he always ads with a chuckle, “hidden clues to find an ancient Celtic treasure.” I’m not altogether sure that he is, in fact, joking.