Whoosh! and you're off.
A challenge between strangers,
with no word spoken.
You are not yet your mother,
your father in their practical shoes.
You wear your thin jacket
wide open
and it taunts like a red flag.
I am precariously balanced
on the slick track, freezing,
wheezing and careening behind
you.
I see my mother in the fat
of my chin, my father
in the moles that pepper
my skin.
I discover a new one each year.
So I dare to wear my jacket
wide open
and race you through the streets
of Berlin.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Election Day dreaming...
The Democrats are poised to retake Congress and fix everything.
[Click here for audio link to original podcast]
It's the Onion Radio News. This is Doyle Redland reporting.
Democratic leaders say that as soon as they regain control of the U.S. Congress, the sun will shine again, soft soothing rains will fall upon our crops and flowers will bloom year round.
Senate Minority Leader Harry Reed:
"All Americans will be greeted each morning by the most beautiful rainbow they've ever seen."
Reed says that while taxes may increase slightly after the election, the effect will be mitigated by the gold coins and naked ladies that will begin drifting down from the sky above.
Doyle Redland for the Onion Radio News.
[This content provided by the Onion Radio News. Makes me laugh every day. Recommended!]
[Click here for audio link to original podcast]
It's the Onion Radio News. This is Doyle Redland reporting.
Democratic leaders say that as soon as they regain control of the U.S. Congress, the sun will shine again, soft soothing rains will fall upon our crops and flowers will bloom year round.
Senate Minority Leader Harry Reed:
"All Americans will be greeted each morning by the most beautiful rainbow they've ever seen."
Reed says that while taxes may increase slightly after the election, the effect will be mitigated by the gold coins and naked ladies that will begin drifting down from the sky above.
Doyle Redland for the Onion Radio News.
[This content provided by the Onion Radio News. Makes me laugh every day. Recommended!]
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Soul Cages
Adam turned to me in the office on Friday and asked, "did you hear..."
Yes, I heard. If it is possible for a black woman to turn multiple shades of purple, choking on her screaming, that was me, reading the news on my computer screen earlier that morning.
So the Pastor Ted Haggard was outed by his $200 per hour male escort of three years for being a big ol' hypocrite on the rights of same-sex couples to fuck, love and marry whoever they want. Until just a few days ago, Haggard could be counted on to be photographed with his wife, Gayle, and their five children as a shining example to the rest of us of what God's purpose is for us on this planet. Worse than the mere image of the Happy Heterosexual Home, Haggard lead his flock of 14,000 at the New Life Church and the 30,000 of the National Association of Evangelicals into campaigns against homosexuality and other "moral failings."
Here's an A/V clip from YouTube showing Pastor Ted speaking with his church on the absoluteness of Christian belief on same-sex relationships.
Transcribed:
"We've decided the Bible is the word of God. We don't have to have a general assembly about what we believe: it's written in the Bible. Alright, so we don't have to debate about what we should think about homosexual activity. It's written in the Bible. [He pauses and turns into the the camera, looking directly at the viewer.] I think I know what you did last night. [The audience explodes into laughter.] Haggard continues: If you send me a thousand dollars, I won't tell your wife. [More laughter and applause.]"
So Mike Jones just told your wife, Ted.
Before you joyfully bounce off to the polls on Tuesday, dear readers, smug in your satisfaction that this fallen angel may drag his conservative party backers down into Hell with him, let's take a moment here to beg for mercy.
What you talkin' bout, Willis?
Mr. Haggard (no longer "pastor" as he was stripped of that title by his church board yesterday) must have suffered greatly under the pressure of leading a life in which he could not be fully honest about his desires, whether he wanted to rid himself of them, fully embrace them or simply explore the gray area in between. Ted could not count on this place -- the church to which he devoted his life -- nor on these people -- the ones who claimed to "know" him -- to do anything more than rid themselves of him if his other desires came to light.
I have a lot of anger about Haggard, his religious ideology, and the influence that people like him have had over the political direction of the U.S. Still, if there is mercy, Mr. Haggard will NOT be the poster boy for the next NGLTF fundraiser, but rather the man whose experience leads his congregation to a place of open critical thought on sexual exploration, sexual identity and the complexity of human relationships.
We *do* have to have a general assembly on what we believe.
Have mercy on us all.
---
I dated a woman for 8 months who was not out of the closet about her sexuality. I vividly remember the small terror that flashed across her face when I leaned in to kiss her one morning as we were parting on the downtown bus. She loved me, though, so the relationship was worth what I considered to be small burdens.
Still, when the relationship ended, I swore that I would never do that again.
I didn't keep to that pledge, as you know. But I still strive for it, and so, last night on my way to a BDSM auction, thought of dumping the friend who came with me because she had the same terror on her face.
Don't tell anyone, she asked. Promise?
Yeah. I guess so. But I don't like it.
Yes, I heard. If it is possible for a black woman to turn multiple shades of purple, choking on her screaming, that was me, reading the news on my computer screen earlier that morning.
So the Pastor Ted Haggard was outed by his $200 per hour male escort of three years for being a big ol' hypocrite on the rights of same-sex couples to fuck, love and marry whoever they want. Until just a few days ago, Haggard could be counted on to be photographed with his wife, Gayle, and their five children as a shining example to the rest of us of what God's purpose is for us on this planet. Worse than the mere image of the Happy Heterosexual Home, Haggard lead his flock of 14,000 at the New Life Church and the 30,000 of the National Association of Evangelicals into campaigns against homosexuality and other "moral failings."
Here's an A/V clip from YouTube showing Pastor Ted speaking with his church on the absoluteness of Christian belief on same-sex relationships.
Transcribed:
"We've decided the Bible is the word of God. We don't have to have a general assembly about what we believe: it's written in the Bible. Alright, so we don't have to debate about what we should think about homosexual activity. It's written in the Bible. [He pauses and turns into the the camera, looking directly at the viewer.] I think I know what you did last night. [The audience explodes into laughter.] Haggard continues: If you send me a thousand dollars, I won't tell your wife. [More laughter and applause.]"
So Mike Jones just told your wife, Ted.
Before you joyfully bounce off to the polls on Tuesday, dear readers, smug in your satisfaction that this fallen angel may drag his conservative party backers down into Hell with him, let's take a moment here to beg for mercy.
What you talkin' bout, Willis?
Mr. Haggard (no longer "pastor" as he was stripped of that title by his church board yesterday) must have suffered greatly under the pressure of leading a life in which he could not be fully honest about his desires, whether he wanted to rid himself of them, fully embrace them or simply explore the gray area in between. Ted could not count on this place -- the church to which he devoted his life -- nor on these people -- the ones who claimed to "know" him -- to do anything more than rid themselves of him if his other desires came to light.
I have a lot of anger about Haggard, his religious ideology, and the influence that people like him have had over the political direction of the U.S. Still, if there is mercy, Mr. Haggard will NOT be the poster boy for the next NGLTF fundraiser, but rather the man whose experience leads his congregation to a place of open critical thought on sexual exploration, sexual identity and the complexity of human relationships.
We *do* have to have a general assembly on what we believe.
Have mercy on us all.
---
I dated a woman for 8 months who was not out of the closet about her sexuality. I vividly remember the small terror that flashed across her face when I leaned in to kiss her one morning as we were parting on the downtown bus. She loved me, though, so the relationship was worth what I considered to be small burdens.
Still, when the relationship ended, I swore that I would never do that again.
I didn't keep to that pledge, as you know. But I still strive for it, and so, last night on my way to a BDSM auction, thought of dumping the friend who came with me because she had the same terror on her face.
Don't tell anyone, she asked. Promise?
Yeah. I guess so. But I don't like it.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Arrivals and Departures
On Monday morning, Richard flew from Hamburg for the U.S. It was his first trip outside of the Americas and—because of one very late night of clubbing that is beyond all description—I caused him to sleep through much of the remaining time that we shared in Berlin.
(Yes, yes, darling: what happens in Berlin, stays in Berlin…)
Do come back.
---
I feel as if I have been saying that a lot lately, but it is not true. Just Richard. And Ramona. (Raaaaaamoaaaaannnna. God knows I miss you.)
Ramona deserved more space here than she received. Maybe because I knew she was reading and shyly edited her out. Maybe because I knew that if I kept my mouth shut, she still could run for president. LOL.
And what can you really say of a "best girlfriend ever"?
I will miss you at CSA.
I will miss you on the DFB.
I will miss you in the KKC…purr.
And all that is unsaid because girlfriends keep each other's secrets.
----
Of my own departure, now these many months later, I will say that it was never my intention to stay. You know why I am here. But I applied for and received my temporary stay permit. And last week, I signed on the dotted line with milengo. A contract! Full employment with vacation benefits and a name badge that says "Tammi."
Ok, ok, no name badge. But Adam, if you're reading this, I'd like a really cool milengo shirt. One that looks like I've joined a bowling league. Bitte. Danke.
---
If I click my heels three times,
I am home with you. We have never left
the bed. I am breathing in your skin:
you smell of chlorine, candy rings and our
salty sex. Nur ein Wort,
Liebling: remember. This is still
your land.
(Yes, yes, darling: what happens in Berlin, stays in Berlin…)
Do come back.
---
I feel as if I have been saying that a lot lately, but it is not true. Just Richard. And Ramona. (Raaaaaamoaaaaannnna. God knows I miss you.)
Ramona deserved more space here than she received. Maybe because I knew she was reading and shyly edited her out. Maybe because I knew that if I kept my mouth shut, she still could run for president. LOL.
And what can you really say of a "best girlfriend ever"?
I will miss you at CSA.
I will miss you on the DFB.
I will miss you in the KKC…purr.
And all that is unsaid because girlfriends keep each other's secrets.
----
Of my own departure, now these many months later, I will say that it was never my intention to stay. You know why I am here. But I applied for and received my temporary stay permit. And last week, I signed on the dotted line with milengo. A contract! Full employment with vacation benefits and a name badge that says "Tammi."
Ok, ok, no name badge. But Adam, if you're reading this, I'd like a really cool milengo shirt. One that looks like I've joined a bowling league. Bitte. Danke.
---
If I click my heels three times,
I am home with you. We have never left
the bed. I am breathing in your skin:
you smell of chlorine, candy rings and our
salty sex. Nur ein Wort,
Liebling: remember. This is still
your land.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Next time, I will pack Ms. Purple.
…whether a man be king or commoner, there is nothing more enjoyable than a good fuck… -- José Saramago, Baltasar and Blimunda, p. 304.
In deference to the ladies and gentleman who insist on reading my blog for some sign of my redemption from sluttery (e.g. one Steve Pickering of the Lake District, U.K.), I will decline to write here of all that I saw and experienced at the Kit Kat Club between 1:30 and 8:30 a.m. on Sunday, October 1, 2006.
But outside of the live sex show that I attended in Amsterdam, I have never seen (nor touched) as many cocks and cunts as I did on this one Saturday night here in Berlin.
Oops. Do pardon my French!
To my dear Aunt Marie, I believe this officially takes me out of the running for President of the United States of America. I thank you, however, for your steadfast support.
Most sincerely,
Tammi
P.S. Yes, the techno music was also very nice.
In deference to the ladies and gentleman who insist on reading my blog for some sign of my redemption from sluttery (e.g. one Steve Pickering of the Lake District, U.K.), I will decline to write here of all that I saw and experienced at the Kit Kat Club between 1:30 and 8:30 a.m. on Sunday, October 1, 2006.
But outside of the live sex show that I attended in Amsterdam, I have never seen (nor touched) as many cocks and cunts as I did on this one Saturday night here in Berlin.
Oops. Do pardon my French!
To my dear Aunt Marie, I believe this officially takes me out of the running for President of the United States of America. I thank you, however, for your steadfast support.
Most sincerely,
Tammi
P.S. Yes, the techno music was also very nice.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Blame it on the Arabians...
[To those of the birthday party regarding the events of September 17 at 2 a.m.]
So the six of us -- Ramona, Jeff, Susan, Andreas, Kris and me -- hustle the rest of you good folks out the door so we can get over to the Berghain. Caroline, who was rendezvousing with us at the club later, and I had already been there, so I wasn't creeped out by the back-of-the-yards industrial wasteland that surrounds the Berghain. Kris and I joked that it was like that opening scene of that movie Blade, where the party-boy at the wild dance club all of a sudden finds himself in a vampire blood bath.
Er, I digress...
Anyway, after a lengthy wait in line, I am at the front door with the gang behind me. I am waived in, my bag is searched, my body is given the gentle pat down (by a nicely tattooed babe, I might add). I am pointed over to the cashier, but I turn to wait for the others at the door.
Um, and this is where Jörn's curse on all places with bouncers comes into effect.
One of the guys at the door waves me back and says, "You can stay, but your friends aren't coming in."
At first, I thought it was a joke: a little prank played on the giggly birthday girl or some teasing just to explain the hold up. But he's just waiting for me to say something. I finally give it to him.
"Are you serious?"
He is, he gives no explanation and the gang is simply looking in through the door with their own shocked faces. Chime in here guys with what was said to you directly, because I missed whatever was said while I was getting the pat-down from the nicely tattooed babe.
Anyway, of course I don't stay, but go out instead with them to sort out the confusion.
Eventually, the head bouncer starts to talk with us. He is an African-American guy from New York and he's been working with "these guys" for a while. From his comments, I guess the bouncers at the door are gay, he's not, and we (with the exception of Tammi is-my-bi-showing? Coles), they assume, are not friendly enough to that atmosphere. Ramona drops to him that it's my birthday. It turns out that it is his son's too and he laments that he we didn't point that out to the guys at the door.
Because they would have made an exception to our "not friendly" group in that case???
"Oh, my, why didn't you SAY that!" says the pierced vampire bouncer. With maybe a little giggle thrown in for solidarity....
Anyway, our New York dude didn't have time to explain, as he was having to deal with some "Arabians."
Huh?
He said that a couple of times: that some "Arabians" had been causing trouble and he needed to handle the "Arabians."
(If they look gay enough, maybe they will just slip in... Those damn Arabians!!!)
Anyway, he *was* trying to be nice about the bouncers, even as he was saying that, as their boss, he didn't want to overrule them by taking our group back to the door. His final advice:
Get back in line and break up your group.
I later try to convince Jeff and Kris to go back with their hands in each other's back pockets but, alas, the straight boys decline. Ramona and I definitely could have pulled it off.
Definitely.
So the six of us -- Ramona, Jeff, Susan, Andreas, Kris and me -- hustle the rest of you good folks out the door so we can get over to the Berghain. Caroline, who was rendezvousing with us at the club later, and I had already been there, so I wasn't creeped out by the back-of-the-yards industrial wasteland that surrounds the Berghain. Kris and I joked that it was like that opening scene of that movie Blade, where the party-boy at the wild dance club all of a sudden finds himself in a vampire blood bath.
Er, I digress...
Anyway, after a lengthy wait in line, I am at the front door with the gang behind me. I am waived in, my bag is searched, my body is given the gentle pat down (by a nicely tattooed babe, I might add). I am pointed over to the cashier, but I turn to wait for the others at the door.
Um, and this is where Jörn's curse on all places with bouncers comes into effect.
One of the guys at the door waves me back and says, "You can stay, but your friends aren't coming in."
At first, I thought it was a joke: a little prank played on the giggly birthday girl or some teasing just to explain the hold up. But he's just waiting for me to say something. I finally give it to him.
"Are you serious?"
He is, he gives no explanation and the gang is simply looking in through the door with their own shocked faces. Chime in here guys with what was said to you directly, because I missed whatever was said while I was getting the pat-down from the nicely tattooed babe.
Anyway, of course I don't stay, but go out instead with them to sort out the confusion.
Eventually, the head bouncer starts to talk with us. He is an African-American guy from New York and he's been working with "these guys" for a while. From his comments, I guess the bouncers at the door are gay, he's not, and we (with the exception of Tammi is-my-bi-showing? Coles), they assume, are not friendly enough to that atmosphere. Ramona drops to him that it's my birthday. It turns out that it is his son's too and he laments that he we didn't point that out to the guys at the door.
Because they would have made an exception to our "not friendly" group in that case???
"Oh, my, why didn't you SAY that!" says the pierced vampire bouncer. With maybe a little giggle thrown in for solidarity....
Anyway, our New York dude didn't have time to explain, as he was having to deal with some "Arabians."
Huh?
He said that a couple of times: that some "Arabians" had been causing trouble and he needed to handle the "Arabians."
(If they look gay enough, maybe they will just slip in... Those damn Arabians!!!)
Anyway, he *was* trying to be nice about the bouncers, even as he was saying that, as their boss, he didn't want to overrule them by taking our group back to the door. His final advice:
Get back in line and break up your group.
I later try to convince Jeff and Kris to go back with their hands in each other's back pockets but, alas, the straight boys decline. Ramona and I definitely could have pulled it off.
Definitely.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Happy Birthday to me!
This has been an extraordinary year of change for me, some of it deeply painful (lost love, and yes it still hurts) but much of it richly transformative. Am I really writing from Berlin?
Yesterday, I was cycling from the home of my lover, a wonderful man for whom I am more than grateful. I was on my way to work, admiring the densely tree-lined streets, the bridges over sparkling rivers and the lakes worthy of postcards. I wanted to pinch myself. Ich spreche nur ein bisschen Deutsch, aber I live comfortably (even joyously) here in one of the most vibrantly alive cities on the planet.
Tonight, I will have new friends here to celebrate my 38th birthday with me. No, it will not be the same. I remember last year's party: Maya arguing politics in the front den, Doug and Harsha debating the merits of American football and British cricket in the bedroom, and various folks spread across the living room floor nibbling on yet another fabulous cake creation from Meg. I miss you all more than the physical living of 13 years in D.C.
Still, I have done my best to create happiness here for the day. My mother (Vicki called you Ethel, mom!) sent Duncan Hines cake mix and frosting. My friend Martin will, by popular demand, whip up another fantastic dinner for guests. (It won't be his jambalaya though!) And then, some of the more hearty of us will dance till dawn at the Berghain.
The Berghain deserves a special side note. This is one of Berlin's most famous gay clubs and an industrial dream unlike I have ever experienced before. Otherworldly with its three floors of beautiful people (gay, straight, bi and "what *are* you anyway"), bars that keep the drinks flowing all night and all morning, techno music spun by award-worthy DJs and an atmosphere that any D.C. nightclub owner would kill his mother for.
I went there for the first time last weekend with Caroline, a fellow American that I had met just a week or so before at the bloggers' Stammtisch organized by Mike "not-to-be-confused-with-THAT-Michael" Moore. Caroline and I showed up there at sometime after midnight and danced until 7:30 in the morning. On our way out, we saw people stumbling IN from other clubs. No lie.
We learned later that the Berghain's Saturday night party runs until 8 p.m. the following night. That means we left too early. Won't make that mistake tonight!
In praise of dancing, music and my birthday, I have been trying all day to upload a special folder of 13 of my favorite tracks of this last year. Yes, another Tammi mix tape. :) Half atmospheric electronica, half shake-your-groove-thang tracks. And all of them linked to memories of friends, lovers and family. When I get it finished, this link will only be good until Monday, for those of you reading this blog from your offices. Just a birthday gift teaser, please go out and buy the full albums. (Had to say that, but they *are* worth it.) Artists include Thievery Corporation, Frou Frou, Air, Röyksopp and, lol, Wayne Newton (thanks, Keith!).
Note, both the mp3 and mpeg-4 audio files can be played by popular audio players.
Now please go out and make goofy joy in memory of me on my special day.
Tammi
P.S. Whew!!! Ok, it's been zipped as Tammi's 38th Music Mix. [Too late! Link removed as pledged!] Large file so high-speed connections only. Enjoy!
Addendum: Martin and the cake! :)
Yesterday, I was cycling from the home of my lover, a wonderful man for whom I am more than grateful. I was on my way to work, admiring the densely tree-lined streets, the bridges over sparkling rivers and the lakes worthy of postcards. I wanted to pinch myself. Ich spreche nur ein bisschen Deutsch, aber I live comfortably (even joyously) here in one of the most vibrantly alive cities on the planet.
Tonight, I will have new friends here to celebrate my 38th birthday with me. No, it will not be the same. I remember last year's party: Maya arguing politics in the front den, Doug and Harsha debating the merits of American football and British cricket in the bedroom, and various folks spread across the living room floor nibbling on yet another fabulous cake creation from Meg. I miss you all more than the physical living of 13 years in D.C.
Still, I have done my best to create happiness here for the day. My mother (Vicki called you Ethel, mom!) sent Duncan Hines cake mix and frosting. My friend Martin will, by popular demand, whip up another fantastic dinner for guests. (It won't be his jambalaya though!) And then, some of the more hearty of us will dance till dawn at the Berghain.
The Berghain deserves a special side note. This is one of Berlin's most famous gay clubs and an industrial dream unlike I have ever experienced before. Otherworldly with its three floors of beautiful people (gay, straight, bi and "what *are* you anyway"), bars that keep the drinks flowing all night and all morning, techno music spun by award-worthy DJs and an atmosphere that any D.C. nightclub owner would kill his mother for.
I went there for the first time last weekend with Caroline, a fellow American that I had met just a week or so before at the bloggers' Stammtisch organized by Mike "not-to-be-confused-with-THAT-Michael" Moore. Caroline and I showed up there at sometime after midnight and danced until 7:30 in the morning. On our way out, we saw people stumbling IN from other clubs. No lie.
We learned later that the Berghain's Saturday night party runs until 8 p.m. the following night. That means we left too early. Won't make that mistake tonight!
In praise of dancing, music and my birthday, I have been trying all day to upload a special folder of 13 of my favorite tracks of this last year. Yes, another Tammi mix tape. :) Half atmospheric electronica, half shake-your-groove-thang tracks. And all of them linked to memories of friends, lovers and family. When I get it finished, this link will only be good until Monday, for those of you reading this blog from your offices. Just a birthday gift teaser, please go out and buy the full albums. (Had to say that, but they *are* worth it.) Artists include Thievery Corporation, Frou Frou, Air, Röyksopp and, lol, Wayne Newton (thanks, Keith!).
Note, both the mp3 and mpeg-4 audio files can be played by popular audio players.
Now please go out and make goofy joy in memory of me on my special day.
Tammi
P.S. Whew!!! Ok, it's been zipped as Tammi's 38th Music Mix. [Too late! Link removed as pledged!] Large file so high-speed connections only. Enjoy!
Addendum: Martin and the cake! :)
Monday, August 28, 2006
My Pity Party…but with some balloons.
The iPod died. It was the day after I lost my keys that night of the last World Cup match, and the same day that I had to shell out about 200 Euros to have the lock fully replaced. The whole key thing was frustrating enough, but my pride and joy? I haven't been without an iPod since I bought my first for Christmas in December 2003.
Oh wait, there was a stolen one in there…Heartbreak.
The struggle to get this latest one replaced has been exhausting. It was under warranty, thank goodness, but the choices were: (1) a few days for a new replacement, but without the "Love strikes twice." inscription or (2) three weeks but with the inscription. I won't lie: I cried. I am grateful for the wonderful chaps at Service Offensive who handled the replacement and me with such care.
But the new one came back four weeks later—inscription and everything—and then promptly died. Martin, resist whatever comment you want to share here…
In any case, love will not strike again. The next will be here tomorrow, says Service Offensive, but without the inscription. Sigh.
In the interim, there's been radio. RADIO. Lord have mercy.
Ramona reminded me that NPR is now broadcasting here in Berlin. I tuned in for a while, but the "Hezbollah aggressor/Israel victim" perspective was so sickening, I just had to stop. From today's news, this:
"We did not think, even one percent, that the capture [of the two Israeli soldiers] would lead to a war at this time and of this magnitude," Hassan Nasrallah, the cleric who leads Hezbollah, told Lebanon's New TV channel. "You ask me, if I had known on July 11 ... that the operation would lead to such a war, would I do it? I say no, absolutely not."
For further perspectives, here's a Sky News interview clip of British MP George Galloway on Israel's aggression and media bias. You have to watch it in IE not Firefox. He doesn't hold back with his outrage. U.S. Democrats don’t have a fraction of his outrage. Frickin' sellouts.
And there is always the Common Dreams News Center to provide alternative news and commentary for you who are starving for it.
World wars aside, Niels and Irene reminded me that radioeins is broadcasting some great music. True. I'm now FASCINATED by MIA., whose Tanz der Moleküle [RealOne clip] is also getting a heavy rotation on MTV. uuhuhuh...uhuhuhuhuuhu / Mein Herz tanzt. Absolutely stuck in my head.
The bakery smells are driving me crazy. I have to get some grub. But, for my bestest buddy and fellow goofball, Vicki Linton, I offer this final link to NiceCupOfTeaAndASitDown.com, a site that is dedicated to tea and the occasional news story of ghosts biscuits.
Mmmmm about that time in fact...
Oh wait, there was a stolen one in there…Heartbreak.
The struggle to get this latest one replaced has been exhausting. It was under warranty, thank goodness, but the choices were: (1) a few days for a new replacement, but without the "Love strikes twice." inscription or (2) three weeks but with the inscription. I won't lie: I cried. I am grateful for the wonderful chaps at Service Offensive who handled the replacement and me with such care.
But the new one came back four weeks later—inscription and everything—and then promptly died. Martin, resist whatever comment you want to share here…
In any case, love will not strike again. The next will be here tomorrow, says Service Offensive, but without the inscription. Sigh.
In the interim, there's been radio. RADIO. Lord have mercy.
Ramona reminded me that NPR is now broadcasting here in Berlin. I tuned in for a while, but the "Hezbollah aggressor/Israel victim" perspective was so sickening, I just had to stop. From today's news, this:
"We did not think, even one percent, that the capture [of the two Israeli soldiers] would lead to a war at this time and of this magnitude," Hassan Nasrallah, the cleric who leads Hezbollah, told Lebanon's New TV channel. "You ask me, if I had known on July 11 ... that the operation would lead to such a war, would I do it? I say no, absolutely not."
For further perspectives, here's a Sky News interview clip of British MP George Galloway on Israel's aggression and media bias. You have to watch it in IE not Firefox. He doesn't hold back with his outrage. U.S. Democrats don’t have a fraction of his outrage. Frickin' sellouts.
And there is always the Common Dreams News Center to provide alternative news and commentary for you who are starving for it.
World wars aside, Niels and Irene reminded me that radioeins is broadcasting some great music. True. I'm now FASCINATED by MIA., whose Tanz der Moleküle [RealOne clip] is also getting a heavy rotation on MTV. uuhuhuh...uhuhuhuhuuhu / Mein Herz tanzt. Absolutely stuck in my head.
The bakery smells are driving me crazy. I have to get some grub. But, for my bestest buddy and fellow goofball, Vicki Linton, I offer this final link to NiceCupOfTeaAndASitDown.com, a site that is dedicated to tea and the occasional news story of ghosts biscuits.
Mmmmm about that time in fact...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Get this…
So I am biking home last night at around 11 or so.
Huh?
Come on, 's not so late. I was out with Jörn last night.
Jörn. I already told you about him.
Whatever. Keep up. Anyway, he just got back from this fantastic hike with a co-worker of his. It sounded AMAZING.
Shit, I can't remember…oh, wait, the Dolemites??
Um, noooooo, I don't know exactly. I need to pull out a map.
CAN I FINISH MY STORY?!
Ok, so I'm biking home… Oh, wait, remind me to tell you about the movie we saw.
Well, I *wanted* to see Zombie vs. Ninja but fucking forgot. Jennifer went though. I got an email from her this morning. It sounded heeeelarious.
Jennifer? Do you actually *listen* to me when we talk?
Oh. Right. Well, we went to see Dave Chappell's Block Party at the Central. Exxxxxxcellent movie and a funky little cinema tucked away....
Ack, I'll tell you about the movie later!
So I'm biking home and it's this great night. The moon is HUGE. Just bright and, er, like something out of a movie. Movies on the brain! Anyway, it's dark, I'm pedaling pretty fast 'cuz I just want to get the hell home and sleep, and, I don't know, I'm worried because it's dark…
Aaaaaarghhh. This is not D.C.!!!! It's just hard to see the pavement and any bumps or dips. Bike accident recently, remember?
CAN I FINISH?!
Anyway, so it's this full moon up and I am just thinking how great life is (yeah, yeah, shut up) when, get this, there's this guy (I think it was a guy?!?!) and he's bending over in the dark and his PANTS are down around his knees.
Full moon, no lie.
Why would I make this up?!
Damn, it is so hard to tell you anything.
Huh?
Come on, 's not so late. I was out with Jörn last night.
Jörn. I already told you about him.
Whatever. Keep up. Anyway, he just got back from this fantastic hike with a co-worker of his. It sounded AMAZING.
Shit, I can't remember…oh, wait, the Dolemites??
Um, noooooo, I don't know exactly. I need to pull out a map.
CAN I FINISH MY STORY?!
Ok, so I'm biking home… Oh, wait, remind me to tell you about the movie we saw.
Well, I *wanted* to see Zombie vs. Ninja but fucking forgot. Jennifer went though. I got an email from her this morning. It sounded heeeelarious.
Jennifer? Do you actually *listen* to me when we talk?
Oh. Right. Well, we went to see Dave Chappell's Block Party at the Central. Exxxxxxcellent movie and a funky little cinema tucked away....
Ack, I'll tell you about the movie later!
So I'm biking home and it's this great night. The moon is HUGE. Just bright and, er, like something out of a movie. Movies on the brain! Anyway, it's dark, I'm pedaling pretty fast 'cuz I just want to get the hell home and sleep, and, I don't know, I'm worried because it's dark…
Aaaaaarghhh. This is not D.C.!!!! It's just hard to see the pavement and any bumps or dips. Bike accident recently, remember?
CAN I FINISH?!
Anyway, so it's this full moon up and I am just thinking how great life is (yeah, yeah, shut up) when, get this, there's this guy (I think it was a guy?!?!) and he's bending over in the dark and his PANTS are down around his knees.
Full moon, no lie.
Why would I make this up?!
Damn, it is so hard to tell you anything.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Run away with me.
First a moment for William (Bill) Goggins, the former editor-in-chief of my most favorite technology magazine, Wired. He died on Sunday at the San Francisco Marathon, his first. He was 43 and, according to friends who saw him at Mile 21, running strong.
---
Thursday, July 27
The front tire slips into the groove of the tram track like a slender foot into her perfect, ruby red slipper. I am so near the apartment that I am no longer on my bike anyway: I am walking in the front door, I am dumping my bag on the kitchen table, and I am showering the lake from my skin. That's the error. I should be on my bike. Present.
But it's that moment's distraction that betrays me, and the bike quickly takes advantage of the moment to lock in and hold. I am here now, but my thoughts—in those moments before I am sliding across the pavement leaving blood and flesh behind—are racing ahead.
Wow, I think, this is going to hurt.
In this split second, I also remember my last road accident. I was on the back of Ray's motorcycle. It was a perfect summer day, and we had taken the bike out to a construction project that he was working on. (He was a real macho guy and could swagger with the boys. Of course, he also loved to dress in women's clothes and looked quite fetching in a pair of pumps.) We were returning along Rock Creek Parkway when a driver, a woman in a small car, races to take turn in front of us. She realizes she has cut too close, hesitates and then guns her car away. Ray loved his motorcycle, and I had been out with him enough to really trust him. I knew he would see us through. I clung tight to him, curled around his body while he skillfully put us down on the pavement.
I used the gel of my Aloe Vera plant on the wound I suffered from that accident. I think about it as I crash now.
Cars are braking behind me. The owner of the nearby pizza shop is quickly in the street at my side. But he's offering assistance in German, and I am a bit too muddled to say more than I am okay. We gather up my wayward bag and shoe, pull my indifferent bike to the side of the road, and checkout the wounds. I am bleeding, but not broken. I don't have to look up to know that the tables crowding the pizza shop are packed with people who are curiously looking on. It's the nature of accidents: we are drawn like flies.
I gently brush away the pebbles and the concerns of the shop owner. Thank you, I say. But I live nearby. My German is bad, I apologize.
I pour the last drops of my water bottle over my leg, sigh, climb back onto my bike and go.
---
I don't want to leave you with this. Death, accidents and wounds. I had a glorious day. Heiliger See with Niels and David. The three of us perfectly naked on our lakeside blanket. Bright sunshine. A slow steady swim across the lake. The pier with Niels. And being on my bike. Flying.
---
Thursday, July 27
The front tire slips into the groove of the tram track like a slender foot into her perfect, ruby red slipper. I am so near the apartment that I am no longer on my bike anyway: I am walking in the front door, I am dumping my bag on the kitchen table, and I am showering the lake from my skin. That's the error. I should be on my bike. Present.
But it's that moment's distraction that betrays me, and the bike quickly takes advantage of the moment to lock in and hold. I am here now, but my thoughts—in those moments before I am sliding across the pavement leaving blood and flesh behind—are racing ahead.
Wow, I think, this is going to hurt.
In this split second, I also remember my last road accident. I was on the back of Ray's motorcycle. It was a perfect summer day, and we had taken the bike out to a construction project that he was working on. (He was a real macho guy and could swagger with the boys. Of course, he also loved to dress in women's clothes and looked quite fetching in a pair of pumps.) We were returning along Rock Creek Parkway when a driver, a woman in a small car, races to take turn in front of us. She realizes she has cut too close, hesitates and then guns her car away. Ray loved his motorcycle, and I had been out with him enough to really trust him. I knew he would see us through. I clung tight to him, curled around his body while he skillfully put us down on the pavement.
I used the gel of my Aloe Vera plant on the wound I suffered from that accident. I think about it as I crash now.
Cars are braking behind me. The owner of the nearby pizza shop is quickly in the street at my side. But he's offering assistance in German, and I am a bit too muddled to say more than I am okay. We gather up my wayward bag and shoe, pull my indifferent bike to the side of the road, and checkout the wounds. I am bleeding, but not broken. I don't have to look up to know that the tables crowding the pizza shop are packed with people who are curiously looking on. It's the nature of accidents: we are drawn like flies.
I gently brush away the pebbles and the concerns of the shop owner. Thank you, I say. But I live nearby. My German is bad, I apologize.
I pour the last drops of my water bottle over my leg, sigh, climb back onto my bike and go.
---
I don't want to leave you with this. Death, accidents and wounds. I had a glorious day. Heiliger See with Niels and David. The three of us perfectly naked on our lakeside blanket. Bright sunshine. A slow steady swim across the lake. The pier with Niels. And being on my bike. Flying.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Michael.
His first excuse is that he doesn't have his swimming trunks with him. His last is that he hasn't swum in nearly 6 years. But I am persistent. I want to swim today and I ask again, are you coming?
It is nearly 6 p.m. when Michael and I arrive at the Schlachtensee station. There is nothing but bright sunshine this afternoon, so the lakeside is teaming with sun worshippers and the footpath round the lake is crowded with runners, walkers and toddlers.
I worry aloud about where we could lay out our blanket. But Michael spies the boat rental and asks, what about that?
We rent our boat from a woman whose face and spirit could be the dictionary entry for "hag." Michael needs those first moments pushed away from the shore just to shake himself of her. But then it’s the middle of the lake, the lap swimmers cruising by, the splashers loud at the shore, the waterfowl small and large… He gets practically giggly with joy.
Ok, ok, he concedes. He strips and jumps naked into the lake. I strip and follow.
Happy perky sun-kissed lake-wet nipples. Absolutely.
Monday, July 10, 2006
The End Game
Italy won the World Cup with 5 of 5 penalty kicks against France. I was estatic and, possibly during those jumps for joy, promptly lost my key in the dark field of Treptower Park. I didn't realize it until Matthias and I had made our way back to the S-Bahn station and stopped, just briefly, to watch the Italians celebrate on a small cafe's TV.
I rip apart my purse, repeat, and then drag a drunk-but-sobering Matthias back through the dark.
We shuffled around in the field, searching. A whole afternoon and night's revelry -- from Seeed concert to victory kicks -- yields empty wine bottles, tossed beer cups and everything else but keys. Where is the lost and found office? I am grateful for Matthias' native German, but frustrated to hear the same response from the police and the security staff: come back tomorrow.
So I am "back tomorrow."
My bike is still here, but no keys are tucked under the rear tire. The grass at least offers up 65 cents, which I pocket as a possibly downpayment to a locksmith.
This is the second time since arriving that I've needed one. The first was as I stole a good-bye kiss with a certain someone on the bright landing just beyond the door's reach. The wind, no doubt jealous, slammed the door firmly shut to us both. I had on no shoes, no bra, no panties...but the sheen of our Sweet Good Morning Fuck (we had given it a name by then) was still on my skin.
Because of Matthias' hospitality -- a bed of my own and a shower to wash away the dust of the field and the salty-sweat of my dancing -- I present myself clean and fully dressed to the park staff.
Come back at 6, she says.
I want to curse.
I rip apart my purse, repeat, and then drag a drunk-but-sobering Matthias back through the dark.
We shuffled around in the field, searching. A whole afternoon and night's revelry -- from Seeed concert to victory kicks -- yields empty wine bottles, tossed beer cups and everything else but keys. Where is the lost and found office? I am grateful for Matthias' native German, but frustrated to hear the same response from the police and the security staff: come back tomorrow.
So I am "back tomorrow."
My bike is still here, but no keys are tucked under the rear tire. The grass at least offers up 65 cents, which I pocket as a possibly downpayment to a locksmith.
This is the second time since arriving that I've needed one. The first was as I stole a good-bye kiss with a certain someone on the bright landing just beyond the door's reach. The wind, no doubt jealous, slammed the door firmly shut to us both. I had on no shoes, no bra, no panties...but the sheen of our Sweet Good Morning Fuck (we had given it a name by then) was still on my skin.
Because of Matthias' hospitality -- a bed of my own and a shower to wash away the dust of the field and the salty-sweat of my dancing -- I present myself clean and fully dressed to the park staff.
Come back at 6, she says.
I want to curse.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Auf der Fan Meile / On Fan Mile
Germany beat Argentina in an EXCELLENT match that had me biting my nails. Good lord. The first half sucked, but thereafter we had a tight game, 30 minutes of overtime and then penalty kicks where Lehmann quieted his critics and saved the day. I screamed, I cried... WHAT A GAME!!
Wish you were here! Yours.
Wish you were here! Yours.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Über Alles
First a word from our sponsor...
When I was growing up in the church (yes, you read that right), the call to come to Jesus was pitched somewhat like this: "you could get hit by a bus tomorrow." That's right. Be saved by Jesus today or, when you're hit by that bus, crashing in that plane or in some other unforeseen tragedy, you'll find you got a one-way ticket to Hell grasped tight in your dead fingers.
While I no longer practice the faith of my parents, The Baptist Bus Strategy continues to resonate with me…with a bit of adaptation. "Live today because…" well, you get my point.
Thank you, Jesus, and amen.
---
Cameron writes that I should stay off the streets tomorrow. Argentina is sure to beat the Germans, he says, and the resulting sorrow could lead to all kinds of street violence.
LOL. What, is this England? Columbia? Dude, I'm in Berlin!
Still, I pass on Cameron's "concern" to Martin here. No point in that really as Martin is too happy to give it any attention. He and his officemates will be on a rooftop terrace above Potsdamer Platz on Friday night, no doubt watching the game with glasses of champagne and little French pastries (screw the German wurst).
Yes, I am jealous.
Still, the ride up to tomorrow night's game has been spectacular. I didn't come here as a fan of Fußball (or fussyball, as Vicki puts it), but only the most sour have been able to resist its pull. In my neighborhood alone, the streets are packed every night with people sitting at the outdoor cafes watching the games on large screens and cheering on their favorite teams, Deutschland included.
From Niels, Martin, and Jörn, I learn that cheering on the home team marks an important shift in German thought. In the aftermath of World War II, rampant German patriotism in word, deed or symbol has been decried and fastidiously avoided. What we Americans have accepted without question—the Stars n' Stripes on every store window, SUV bumper, bikini and Tommy Hilfiger shirt—is anathema here.
At least, was.
Just last Saturday afternoon, Michael and I sat in Treptow Park, cross-legged on the hard pavement at a Biergarten that was packed with fans decked out in black, red and gold. Face paint, t-shirts, dyed hair, funny hats and flags. I expect no less for Friday's game, what Sports Illustrated is calling "the best matchup of the Cup."
Sports Illustrated. Oh Baptist-bus-driving God, I've fallen so low.
When I was growing up in the church (yes, you read that right), the call to come to Jesus was pitched somewhat like this: "you could get hit by a bus tomorrow." That's right. Be saved by Jesus today or, when you're hit by that bus, crashing in that plane or in some other unforeseen tragedy, you'll find you got a one-way ticket to Hell grasped tight in your dead fingers.
While I no longer practice the faith of my parents, The Baptist Bus Strategy continues to resonate with me…with a bit of adaptation. "Live today because…" well, you get my point.
Thank you, Jesus, and amen.
---
Cameron writes that I should stay off the streets tomorrow. Argentina is sure to beat the Germans, he says, and the resulting sorrow could lead to all kinds of street violence.
LOL. What, is this England? Columbia? Dude, I'm in Berlin!
Still, I pass on Cameron's "concern" to Martin here. No point in that really as Martin is too happy to give it any attention. He and his officemates will be on a rooftop terrace above Potsdamer Platz on Friday night, no doubt watching the game with glasses of champagne and little French pastries (screw the German wurst).
Yes, I am jealous.
Still, the ride up to tomorrow night's game has been spectacular. I didn't come here as a fan of Fußball (or fussyball, as Vicki puts it), but only the most sour have been able to resist its pull. In my neighborhood alone, the streets are packed every night with people sitting at the outdoor cafes watching the games on large screens and cheering on their favorite teams, Deutschland included.
From Niels, Martin, and Jörn, I learn that cheering on the home team marks an important shift in German thought. In the aftermath of World War II, rampant German patriotism in word, deed or symbol has been decried and fastidiously avoided. What we Americans have accepted without question—the Stars n' Stripes on every store window, SUV bumper, bikini and Tommy Hilfiger shirt—is anathema here.
At least, was.
Just last Saturday afternoon, Michael and I sat in Treptow Park, cross-legged on the hard pavement at a Biergarten that was packed with fans decked out in black, red and gold. Face paint, t-shirts, dyed hair, funny hats and flags. I expect no less for Friday's game, what Sports Illustrated is calling "the best matchup of the Cup."
Sports Illustrated. Oh Baptist-bus-driving God, I've fallen so low.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Back to School.
Peter makes funny faces, growls and jumps out the window to emphasize to make his points. Auf, mit, an, durch. Prepositions, boys and girls, in case you are guessing.
But no more Peter. He is soooooo last week. That is, I ended my German lessons at Die Neue Schule last Wednesday to start with Friedländer today. German class, Monday through Friday, 8:15 to 11:30 a.m. At such an early hour, I can only hope that my new instructor is as funny and engaging as Peter. Thankfully, it's mere blocks from here, and to open the door of my balcony is to be enticed to the bakery below. Oh the smell!
I lean over and the tables are already there.
---
Korey says I need more about this place, Berlin, and it got me to think about the wonders of blogs and to search (oh not too long) for those other random foreigners scattered here in the city with their laptops and silly chatter. I enjoyed a lovely email exchange with Beaman, a young Englishman whose blog had me crying with laughter. I need to get ready for class but sharing the joy first…
Beaman in Berlin's post of Constance: Noodles and Laxatives in Berlin
Bowlserised's post of Dog vs Sprog
Broke in Berlin's post of Luton Airport
But no more Peter. He is soooooo last week. That is, I ended my German lessons at Die Neue Schule last Wednesday to start with Friedländer today. German class, Monday through Friday, 8:15 to 11:30 a.m. At such an early hour, I can only hope that my new instructor is as funny and engaging as Peter. Thankfully, it's mere blocks from here, and to open the door of my balcony is to be enticed to the bakery below. Oh the smell!
I lean over and the tables are already there.
---
Korey says I need more about this place, Berlin, and it got me to think about the wonders of blogs and to search (oh not too long) for those other random foreigners scattered here in the city with their laptops and silly chatter. I enjoyed a lovely email exchange with Beaman, a young Englishman whose blog had me crying with laughter. I need to get ready for class but sharing the joy first…
Beaman in Berlin's post of Constance: Noodles and Laxatives in Berlin
Bowlserised's post of Dog vs Sprog
Broke in Berlin's post of Luton Airport
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Maybe I have some gunk on my screen...
...but did I read correctly? You are staying in Germany? Bloody GERMANY? What about the holiday dessert party?? What about the wine parties? What about all of us who already miss you??
Doug, my mother got the news just as you did. Um, she was a bit more harsh.
Considering the rest of your message, I know you understood me. I would like to say that I have given all of this the extreme consideration that is due, but I haven't. Instead, I am willing to trust that the decision overall is a good one and that the details will work themselves out. That's how I got to DC, and I hope that it works for Berlin.
Still, I am not too foolish. Bills have to be paid, so if a summer's study of German doesn't create the opportunity for me to find meaningful employment, I will take the safe road, return to DC, work and, lol, raise money to return. At least, I hope that's what I do. You are part of this great circle of people that has supported me (and kicked me in the ass) when I needed it. Those folks are hard to come by, and returning to DC might so remind me of that that I might never leave again.
In the meantime, why not Berlin? It's beautiful and so much of it is unknown to me that the daily act of just walking out my door is immense discovery. I have many years of playing it safe behind me and no doubt plenty more to ease me into my grave. In between, yes, some risk is welcome!
To which, a poem that was given to me by Karin, in a period of despair over a man much loved. An ocean and many moons away.
Mary Oliver - The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
Doug, my mother got the news just as you did. Um, she was a bit more harsh.
Considering the rest of your message, I know you understood me. I would like to say that I have given all of this the extreme consideration that is due, but I haven't. Instead, I am willing to trust that the decision overall is a good one and that the details will work themselves out. That's how I got to DC, and I hope that it works for Berlin.
Still, I am not too foolish. Bills have to be paid, so if a summer's study of German doesn't create the opportunity for me to find meaningful employment, I will take the safe road, return to DC, work and, lol, raise money to return. At least, I hope that's what I do. You are part of this great circle of people that has supported me (and kicked me in the ass) when I needed it. Those folks are hard to come by, and returning to DC might so remind me of that that I might never leave again.
In the meantime, why not Berlin? It's beautiful and so much of it is unknown to me that the daily act of just walking out my door is immense discovery. I have many years of playing it safe behind me and no doubt plenty more to ease me into my grave. In between, yes, some risk is welcome!
To which, a poem that was given to me by Karin, in a period of despair over a man much loved. An ocean and many moons away.
Mary Oliver - The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
Sunday, May 21, 2006
It sure ain't ABBA
Korey says that he wants to read about more German culture in this blog. No more tasty restaurants and cute boys. (Or is that cute restaurants and tasty boys?)
How about satanic rockers?
---
The 51st annual Eurovision contest is on, and Martin and I are kicked back, drinking beers and eating nachos. What is Eurovision? Think "American Idol" writ large but without Simon.
I had almost forgotten about the event, but catch notice of it in Der Tagespiegel. And Steve writes from the U.K. with a reminder
Get that telly switched on. A live event like no other. It'll make you feel all warm and fuzzy about being a European.
Martin and I are hootin' and hollerin' like simpletons. (But European simpletons, thank you very much.) Eurovision is flash and flair, high-heel strutting for the girls and cheesy please-love me crooning by the boys. There are some notable exceptions: Bosnia-Herzegovina has a great chance with Hari Mata Hari's performance of "Lejla" and, new-resident pride aside, Deutschland's entry of Texas Lightning with "No No Never" is very good. (Er, yeah, Germany's top contender is a country western band singing with a cactus tucked here and there on the stage…) Even Lithuania's UT Limited with "We Are the Winners" is a humorous, albeit pointless, relief. Most of the rest I scratch in my notebook as the competition's "low points."
Among my list of low points is Lordi, Finland's, er, noteworthy entry. Lordi is a metal band dressed head to toe in "ghoul." Where most of the contestants are dressed in flowing whites, Lordi is metal studs and leather black. They are the un-dead / in-your-face / up-yours reply to Eurovision's sequins and slick hair. Still, I tell Martin that my vote for Best Costumes doesn't raise their offering, "Hard Rock Hallelujah," above "mediocre."
Turkey closes out the final performance, and Martin and I use the ten-minute intermission to dash to the Imbiss next door for something more substantive than chips and beer. The phone lines are open and each nation is quickly tallying votes. We're back just in time for the counts, with famous actors and comedians calling in votes from each nation's capital.
Martin points out that even though you can't vote for your own country, the votes fall along predictable lines. (z.B. Germany's Turkish community casts votes for Turkey.) But Martin and I are screaming as the votes come in. No way!
Who wins Eurovision?
Ladies and gentleman, Lordi with Hard Rock Hallelujah.
I feel so warm and fuzzy.
How about satanic rockers?
---
The 51st annual Eurovision contest is on, and Martin and I are kicked back, drinking beers and eating nachos. What is Eurovision? Think "American Idol" writ large but without Simon.
I had almost forgotten about the event, but catch notice of it in Der Tagespiegel. And Steve writes from the U.K. with a reminder
Get that telly switched on. A live event like no other. It'll make you feel all warm and fuzzy about being a European.
Martin and I are hootin' and hollerin' like simpletons. (But European simpletons, thank you very much.) Eurovision is flash and flair, high-heel strutting for the girls and cheesy please-love me crooning by the boys. There are some notable exceptions: Bosnia-Herzegovina has a great chance with Hari Mata Hari's performance of "Lejla" and, new-resident pride aside, Deutschland's entry of Texas Lightning with "No No Never" is very good. (Er, yeah, Germany's top contender is a country western band singing with a cactus tucked here and there on the stage…) Even Lithuania's UT Limited with "We Are the Winners" is a humorous, albeit pointless, relief. Most of the rest I scratch in my notebook as the competition's "low points."
Among my list of low points is Lordi, Finland's, er, noteworthy entry. Lordi is a metal band dressed head to toe in "ghoul." Where most of the contestants are dressed in flowing whites, Lordi is metal studs and leather black. They are the un-dead / in-your-face / up-yours reply to Eurovision's sequins and slick hair. Still, I tell Martin that my vote for Best Costumes doesn't raise their offering, "Hard Rock Hallelujah," above "mediocre."
Turkey closes out the final performance, and Martin and I use the ten-minute intermission to dash to the Imbiss next door for something more substantive than chips and beer. The phone lines are open and each nation is quickly tallying votes. We're back just in time for the counts, with famous actors and comedians calling in votes from each nation's capital.
Martin points out that even though you can't vote for your own country, the votes fall along predictable lines. (z.B. Germany's Turkish community casts votes for Turkey.) But Martin and I are screaming as the votes come in. No way!
Who wins Eurovision?
Ladies and gentleman, Lordi with Hard Rock Hallelujah.
I feel so warm and fuzzy.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Change is…
Scary. Beautiful. Exciting. Terrifying. Today is that day. Change. And as vast as our night sky.
Another party. Three classmates—Timory, Joel and Jacob—plus Irene, David and me. We drink leftover wine from the Werde Baumblütenfest. We play Scrabble, the card version, in every language we know. English. German. Italian. A Hindi-not-Hindi word makes it to the table, although not without some argument. David and I are gracious because, with two 50 point words, we can afford to be. Maja? Sure, we will accept that.
Jacob, David and I up on the balcony until 1 p.m. Venus is bright in the sky and both Jacob and David see two stars shoot past. How could I miss it? I am tucked under my blanket and mellow from the Birne Wein. Jacob is relaxed in the chair, with his feet propped up. David is slightly bopping to the music. They are both looking skyward, but I am looking at Jacob. He is so beautiful.
We argue over the meaning of life. What does this mean anyway? I am adamant that it is nothing more than what we make of the moment.
Like today. With it's scary-beautiful-exciting-terrifying-ness.
Mom, I am not coming home. Love, Tammi.
Another party. Three classmates—Timory, Joel and Jacob—plus Irene, David and me. We drink leftover wine from the Werde Baumblütenfest. We play Scrabble, the card version, in every language we know. English. German. Italian. A Hindi-not-Hindi word makes it to the table, although not without some argument. David and I are gracious because, with two 50 point words, we can afford to be. Maja? Sure, we will accept that.
Jacob, David and I up on the balcony until 1 p.m. Venus is bright in the sky and both Jacob and David see two stars shoot past. How could I miss it? I am tucked under my blanket and mellow from the Birne Wein. Jacob is relaxed in the chair, with his feet propped up. David is slightly bopping to the music. They are both looking skyward, but I am looking at Jacob. He is so beautiful.
We argue over the meaning of life. What does this mean anyway? I am adamant that it is nothing more than what we make of the moment.
Like today. With it's scary-beautiful-exciting-terrifying-ness.
Mom, I am not coming home. Love, Tammi.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Balcony daze.
Niels is on his way over. We'll make hamburgers with our fingers in raw ground meat. We'll ditch purity for fries from the freezer section. But we'll eat on the balcony. That's all that matters really.
The temperatures have been steadily increasing since Sunday. That evening, I had folks over for games, my third or fourth Spieleabend. There were seven of us and Martin (oh, Martin!) made jambalaya. He and I had been inspired by watching Shultze Gets the Blues, a film about a polka player from a small German village who gets it in his head to play Zydeco in New Orleans.
Martin managed to slip some shredded coconut in the dish, but I did wrestle with him over the sugar. He conceded, and David and I sighed with relief. Despite the skepticism of we purist Americans (outnumbered in any case), the dish was incredible. Irene, the vegetarian, helped herself to two heaping platefuls. David stopped by the very next day to eat some more on his way to a rehearsal. And Jennifer's Tuesday email was filled with mmmmmmmmmms…
Go Martin.
Niels is running late so maybe… Just a forkful. And on the balcony in a t-shirt and shorts and blasting music and my head back to watch birds fly by.
Better go.
The temperatures have been steadily increasing since Sunday. That evening, I had folks over for games, my third or fourth Spieleabend. There were seven of us and Martin (oh, Martin!) made jambalaya. He and I had been inspired by watching Shultze Gets the Blues, a film about a polka player from a small German village who gets it in his head to play Zydeco in New Orleans.
Martin managed to slip some shredded coconut in the dish, but I did wrestle with him over the sugar. He conceded, and David and I sighed with relief. Despite the skepticism of we purist Americans (outnumbered in any case), the dish was incredible. Irene, the vegetarian, helped herself to two heaping platefuls. David stopped by the very next day to eat some more on his way to a rehearsal. And Jennifer's Tuesday email was filled with mmmmmmmmmms…
Go Martin.
Niels is running late so maybe… Just a forkful. And on the balcony in a t-shirt and shorts and blasting music and my head back to watch birds fly by.
Better go.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Sunshine and shadows
A certain someone called at 1 a.m. in the morning to wish me good night. I adore you, but this may call for violence. Or at least a ritual spanking that I will try my best not to enjoy …
---
The sidewalks of Friedrichshain have burst into café tables like a field of wild flowers. It is hard to contain our collective joy, so we don't. We are a spring overrunning a dry bed, a gurling, bubbling thing; a child just finding his feet and stumbling, rushing headfirst into the sunlight.
There's a Tex-Mex restaurant on the corner serving nothing akin to Tex-Mex this morning. I make my way to a table, unload my German workbooks and feast like the rest on the buffet of everything from dry cereal to an artichoke and feta salad.
I have planned a long day. Solo, although I issue a spontaneous invitation to Martin. I am relieved when he reveals his own solo-day plans. I consider what I will do between a forkful of smoked salmon and my silent repetition of my German reading. I have my books strewn all across the table, and I am alone on this morning seemingly meant for two. A woman at a nearby table tries unsuccessfully not to stare.
I am fueled and watered. I climb the stairs to my apartment to dump my bulky bag and grab my lighter daypack. I am reminded of one of the questions on a single's dating site: what three things would you carry with you to a deserted island? Food, water and flares, I replied. (Really, is there any other reasonable answer?)
No deserted island today. So a book, a map and cash for dinner.
There's construction on what should have been a direct train route to Wannsee, the large western lake. So, instead, I take a train eastbound to transfer to the ring line and another transfer point. It's a gamble. Twice, my attempts to use the ring lines to and from Potsdam have landed me in some far corner of Berlin on trains I didn't realize I was catching. And it's already an hour's journey.
But I have an anxious grip on the map, checking at every station to make sure I have it right. No trouble at the Shöneberg transfer point to the S1 so I enjoy some quiet reading. This time, book two of Otherland. I will quickly outpace Niels, who lent it to me just days ago.
I pass through Wannsee often, but have seen the lake only from my speedy perch in the train. So it is strange to not step across to the train on the other side of the platform, but to instead climb down into the station. There's a large fresh fruit stand in the narrow hall. And an automatic French fry machine. Hot and fresh!
Outside and in the cool sunshine, and I am unsure of which way to turn. There's a nearby group of people and I wonder briefly if they are some kind of tourist group before a city bus rolls up and I, belatedly, notice the bus shelter. There's another sign on the corner, the typical ones telling nearby points of interest. This one says "The American Academy." Well, I think, this must be the way to go.
The street to the American Academy of Berlin is quiet and lined with high gates. The appearance is what I imagine of the grounds of an English boarding school. I am curious enough that I make note of it for a late Google search. (Hilton Als on Blacks in Berlin? Sounds intriguing.)
But I am here for the lake, the sunshine and the air, not for exclusive grounds. I return to the Wannsee station and then walk in the other direction, climbing a green slope until, yes, I see the lake.
At this point along the lake, there is a broad plaza which I imagine in the warmer days of summer must be crowded with people. There are smaller boats here, but also larger docks and, no surprise, a ticket kiosk for day cruises. When Steve was here just a couple of weeks ago, we had snatched a beautiful day's opportunity to be on the water. Just an hour's cruise (and just a few German words understood) from the Friedrichstrasse terminal, but what a gorgeous day and sights of Berlin that I'd never enjoyed before.
I remember now that Martin had mentioned a three-hour version from Mitte to Wannsee. It's a must do. But not today.
I am walking along Am Großen Wannsee, a quiet street, or what would be were it not for my iPod selection. Mm. The "Sexing Niels" playlist. A recent favorite with tracks from John Mayer and Petey Pablo to Tori Amos and Gotan Project. The latter has a new album out, by the way: Lunático. Tango and electronica, and just as great as the first.
I see a break in the trees ahead and a lovely little mansion set back from the street behind tall iron posts. I am curious, so slow my pace to peek in. There is a gate up ahead and, at the gate, a sign:
It says the hours that the grounds are open and that it is a public place. But a man and a girl with their bikes have to be buzzed out of the gate. I take that moment to slip in.
The Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz is nestled in a beautiful garden on a stretch of beautiful lake that belies its history. What I read on a sign just inside the gate is that this is the very site where on January 20, 1942, the Nazi leadership hammered out the details of the Final Solution. Here—in this lovely villa of gorgeous wood floors, high ceilings and bountiful light—it was not a question of why are we doing this, but how will we. To where will we deport the Jews? Which Jews will be exempt for our working needs and which will not? What will we do of those born to Jewish and non-Jewish parents?
The inside of the villa carries a permanent exhibit in the very hall where they drank, smoked and ate while they discussed the protocols that would make the German public departments carry this out as efficiently as possible.
I wander through the rooms in a quiet state of shock.
It seems wrong to speak of the rest. Of watching a small fox making his way across the grounds. Of climbing down to a nearby café to enjoy an early lakeside dinner of salad and fish. Of getting lost on the extensive and tree-dense grounds of a clinic farther up the road. Of watching the sunset over Pfaueninsel while my feet dangle over the edge of the pier.
But I do these things and cling fiercely to my beautiful day.
---
The sidewalks of Friedrichshain have burst into café tables like a field of wild flowers. It is hard to contain our collective joy, so we don't. We are a spring overrunning a dry bed, a gurling, bubbling thing; a child just finding his feet and stumbling, rushing headfirst into the sunlight.
There's a Tex-Mex restaurant on the corner serving nothing akin to Tex-Mex this morning. I make my way to a table, unload my German workbooks and feast like the rest on the buffet of everything from dry cereal to an artichoke and feta salad.
I have planned a long day. Solo, although I issue a spontaneous invitation to Martin. I am relieved when he reveals his own solo-day plans. I consider what I will do between a forkful of smoked salmon and my silent repetition of my German reading. I have my books strewn all across the table, and I am alone on this morning seemingly meant for two. A woman at a nearby table tries unsuccessfully not to stare.
I am fueled and watered. I climb the stairs to my apartment to dump my bulky bag and grab my lighter daypack. I am reminded of one of the questions on a single's dating site: what three things would you carry with you to a deserted island? Food, water and flares, I replied. (Really, is there any other reasonable answer?)
No deserted island today. So a book, a map and cash for dinner.
There's construction on what should have been a direct train route to Wannsee, the large western lake. So, instead, I take a train eastbound to transfer to the ring line and another transfer point. It's a gamble. Twice, my attempts to use the ring lines to and from Potsdam have landed me in some far corner of Berlin on trains I didn't realize I was catching. And it's already an hour's journey.
But I have an anxious grip on the map, checking at every station to make sure I have it right. No trouble at the Shöneberg transfer point to the S1 so I enjoy some quiet reading. This time, book two of Otherland. I will quickly outpace Niels, who lent it to me just days ago.
I pass through Wannsee often, but have seen the lake only from my speedy perch in the train. So it is strange to not step across to the train on the other side of the platform, but to instead climb down into the station. There's a large fresh fruit stand in the narrow hall. And an automatic French fry machine. Hot and fresh!
Outside and in the cool sunshine, and I am unsure of which way to turn. There's a nearby group of people and I wonder briefly if they are some kind of tourist group before a city bus rolls up and I, belatedly, notice the bus shelter. There's another sign on the corner, the typical ones telling nearby points of interest. This one says "The American Academy." Well, I think, this must be the way to go.
The street to the American Academy of Berlin is quiet and lined with high gates. The appearance is what I imagine of the grounds of an English boarding school. I am curious enough that I make note of it for a late Google search. (Hilton Als on Blacks in Berlin? Sounds intriguing.)
But I am here for the lake, the sunshine and the air, not for exclusive grounds. I return to the Wannsee station and then walk in the other direction, climbing a green slope until, yes, I see the lake.
At this point along the lake, there is a broad plaza which I imagine in the warmer days of summer must be crowded with people. There are smaller boats here, but also larger docks and, no surprise, a ticket kiosk for day cruises. When Steve was here just a couple of weeks ago, we had snatched a beautiful day's opportunity to be on the water. Just an hour's cruise (and just a few German words understood) from the Friedrichstrasse terminal, but what a gorgeous day and sights of Berlin that I'd never enjoyed before.
I remember now that Martin had mentioned a three-hour version from Mitte to Wannsee. It's a must do. But not today.
I am walking along Am Großen Wannsee, a quiet street, or what would be were it not for my iPod selection. Mm. The "Sexing Niels" playlist. A recent favorite with tracks from John Mayer and Petey Pablo to Tori Amos and Gotan Project. The latter has a new album out, by the way: Lunático. Tango and electronica, and just as great as the first.
I see a break in the trees ahead and a lovely little mansion set back from the street behind tall iron posts. I am curious, so slow my pace to peek in. There is a gate up ahead and, at the gate, a sign:
It says the hours that the grounds are open and that it is a public place. But a man and a girl with their bikes have to be buzzed out of the gate. I take that moment to slip in.
The Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz is nestled in a beautiful garden on a stretch of beautiful lake that belies its history. What I read on a sign just inside the gate is that this is the very site where on January 20, 1942, the Nazi leadership hammered out the details of the Final Solution. Here—in this lovely villa of gorgeous wood floors, high ceilings and bountiful light—it was not a question of why are we doing this, but how will we. To where will we deport the Jews? Which Jews will be exempt for our working needs and which will not? What will we do of those born to Jewish and non-Jewish parents?
The inside of the villa carries a permanent exhibit in the very hall where they drank, smoked and ate while they discussed the protocols that would make the German public departments carry this out as efficiently as possible.
I wander through the rooms in a quiet state of shock.
It seems wrong to speak of the rest. Of watching a small fox making his way across the grounds. Of climbing down to a nearby café to enjoy an early lakeside dinner of salad and fish. Of getting lost on the extensive and tree-dense grounds of a clinic farther up the road. Of watching the sunset over Pfaueninsel while my feet dangle over the edge of the pier.
But I do these things and cling fiercely to my beautiful day.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
With a side of humble pie, please
For a number of weeks, I've been enrolled in a German class at Die Neue Schule. It takes me two trains and about 45 minutes to get there. To my German friends when they ask, I call it My Weekly Humiliation.
There are just six of us tonight: Timory, who hails from Hawaii; Joel, her partner in life and an Aussie; Fernando, a photographer from Brazil; Jacob, a relatively new student from the Netherlands; me, of course; and Peter, our instructor and (gulp) the owner of a nice ass in his black jeans. I notice (and try not to notice) how nicely dressed he his tonight. Timory is not so timid, so asks if he has a new girlfriend. I think he actually blushes.
As I expected, Peter turns to each of us and asks about our Easter break. I envy my peers that the German seems to slip so readily from their tongues. Still, I am eager to try the few lines that I had practiced this morning with Niels. Über Ostern hat mein alt Freund, Steve, mich besucht. Wir waren im Reichstag und...
But when Peter turns to me, and my classmates in kind, it's stage fright. I get out the first line. Even the second. Then... well...
What I meant to say was that we ate at a number of German restaurants, but what I actually say is that we ate a couple of German restaurants.
That's right. Brick by brick, and the wood presumably slathered with a good German mustard.
There are just six of us tonight: Timory, who hails from Hawaii; Joel, her partner in life and an Aussie; Fernando, a photographer from Brazil; Jacob, a relatively new student from the Netherlands; me, of course; and Peter, our instructor and (gulp) the owner of a nice ass in his black jeans. I notice (and try not to notice) how nicely dressed he his tonight. Timory is not so timid, so asks if he has a new girlfriend. I think he actually blushes.
As I expected, Peter turns to each of us and asks about our Easter break. I envy my peers that the German seems to slip so readily from their tongues. Still, I am eager to try the few lines that I had practiced this morning with Niels. Über Ostern hat mein alt Freund, Steve, mich besucht. Wir waren im Reichstag und...
But when Peter turns to me, and my classmates in kind, it's stage fright. I get out the first line. Even the second. Then... well...
What I meant to say was that we ate at a number of German restaurants, but what I actually say is that we ate a couple of German restaurants.
That's right. Brick by brick, and the wood presumably slathered with a good German mustard.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Choo Choo Ch'Boogie.
Martin is on vacation, lives nearby, and had the time so…
Wanna meet for lunch, I ask.
Sure, he replies.
When he says that he'll need about an hour and a half to get ready and get over to my place, I laugh at him.
You're such a girly-man, I tease.
He makes it in an hour.
It's a gorgeous spring day, so I am certain that the outdoor cafés will be crowded. Which choice? Thai, Chinese, Italian, German, French, Tex-Mex, Japanese, Indian—and those are the choices just within a couple of blocks of me.
I offer them up by continent: Asia, Europe or the Americas?
We settle on the nearby Tex-Mex restaurant and even score the one outdoor table remaining. Good eye, Martin.
We both have our books with us: Otherland by Tad Williams for me and, for Martin, Kaltblütig, the German translation of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. Martin and I had seen the movie a number of weeks ago just before Philip Seymour Hoffman won the Oscar for his performance. It was my second time seeing the movie. Hoffman is amazing.
I want to just share some quiet time with our books, but Martin is feeling chatty. Twelve members of his family are coming into town next week, and he's trying to pull together an itinerary of river boats, restaurants and …
Museums, I offer.
He scoffs. For family?
I bob my head in understanding and spear another spicy taste of Barbacoa.
Here in Germany, you can sit at tables for hours without even a moment's harassment from restaurant staff or other patrons. You are expected to take your time.
Martin and I sit, nibble, talk and, yes, read until the sun moves away and we feel the chill of the shade. It's just in the 50s after all.
We are stuffed, so a walk seems very much in order. We decide to follow the remaining sunshine, avoiding the shaded sides of the streets until we are far deeper into the neighborhood than I had gone before. I am surprised by what I see. I think Marianne, my landlady (the German, "meine Vermieterin" sounds better to my ears) had wanted to warn me about just some of the streets after dark, but what I remember her saying is "go north, south or west but don't go east." Nein, nein, nein.
But Martin and I are chasing sunbeams into the East and the streets feel so new. No, the ubiquitous graffiti is there. As is the litter, the dog poop and the discarded cigarette butts. But the shops and restaurants are all so new to me I feel guilt about not having really seen the neighborhood that I crow about.
We eventually make our way to Ostkreuz, the neighboring S-Bahn station. Martin points out a favorite brunch place that he'd previously told me about, when I assumed that the destination was much, much farther. The place is on a bright corner, and I want to sit for a coffee. But Martin wants to walk on, so we do.
As if the walk has given us permission to indulge, we loop back to Kaffeeladen for cake and coffee. I savor a warm brownie with plump raisins and slightly roasted walnuts (yes, nuts, Meg) served with a healthy dollop of fresh whipped cream and the most delicious coffee I've enjoyed in days. Martin's so thrilled with his orange cream layer cake that his eyes are practically rolling into the back of his head with ecstasy. I've eaten a slice of that one before. Yes, it's that good.
Martin and I are going to see a movie, but we can't agree on which one. He pulls a newspaper and one of the city magazines from the wall rack and we consider the options. He really wants to see Good Night, and Good Luck, but I saw it before I even left Washington. I'm feeling too relaxed to see anything to serious anyway, so I suggest Ice Age II.
No, says Martin, with no room for argument.
Eventually, we make a seemingly silly compromise. The Sony Center at Potsdamer Platz shows film in their original language and it has both Ice Age and Good Night, and Good Luck. The films start within minutes of each other so…
There. Settled.
There is still plenty of daylight between now and then, so I invite Martin across the street to be my first guest on the balcony.
What a joy! We pull fat living room chairs out into the sun, make ourselves some tea, and kick back to read and listen to Louis Jordan.
Headin' for the station with a pack on my back
I'm tired of transportation in the back of my hack
I love to hear the rhythm of the clickety clack
And hear the lonesome whistle see the smoke from the stack
To pal around with democratic fellow named Mac
So take me right back to the track, Jack
Choo-choo, choo-choo, ch'boogie, woo-woo
Woo-woo, ch'boogie, choo-choo, choo-choo, ch'boogie
Take me right back to the track, Jack
Life is good.
Wanna meet for lunch, I ask.
Sure, he replies.
When he says that he'll need about an hour and a half to get ready and get over to my place, I laugh at him.
You're such a girly-man, I tease.
He makes it in an hour.
It's a gorgeous spring day, so I am certain that the outdoor cafés will be crowded. Which choice? Thai, Chinese, Italian, German, French, Tex-Mex, Japanese, Indian—and those are the choices just within a couple of blocks of me.
I offer them up by continent: Asia, Europe or the Americas?
We settle on the nearby Tex-Mex restaurant and even score the one outdoor table remaining. Good eye, Martin.
We both have our books with us: Otherland by Tad Williams for me and, for Martin, Kaltblütig, the German translation of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. Martin and I had seen the movie a number of weeks ago just before Philip Seymour Hoffman won the Oscar for his performance. It was my second time seeing the movie. Hoffman is amazing.
I want to just share some quiet time with our books, but Martin is feeling chatty. Twelve members of his family are coming into town next week, and he's trying to pull together an itinerary of river boats, restaurants and …
Museums, I offer.
He scoffs. For family?
I bob my head in understanding and spear another spicy taste of Barbacoa.
Here in Germany, you can sit at tables for hours without even a moment's harassment from restaurant staff or other patrons. You are expected to take your time.
Martin and I sit, nibble, talk and, yes, read until the sun moves away and we feel the chill of the shade. It's just in the 50s after all.
We are stuffed, so a walk seems very much in order. We decide to follow the remaining sunshine, avoiding the shaded sides of the streets until we are far deeper into the neighborhood than I had gone before. I am surprised by what I see. I think Marianne, my landlady (the German, "meine Vermieterin" sounds better to my ears) had wanted to warn me about just some of the streets after dark, but what I remember her saying is "go north, south or west but don't go east." Nein, nein, nein.
But Martin and I are chasing sunbeams into the East and the streets feel so new. No, the ubiquitous graffiti is there. As is the litter, the dog poop and the discarded cigarette butts. But the shops and restaurants are all so new to me I feel guilt about not having really seen the neighborhood that I crow about.
We eventually make our way to Ostkreuz, the neighboring S-Bahn station. Martin points out a favorite brunch place that he'd previously told me about, when I assumed that the destination was much, much farther. The place is on a bright corner, and I want to sit for a coffee. But Martin wants to walk on, so we do.
As if the walk has given us permission to indulge, we loop back to Kaffeeladen for cake and coffee. I savor a warm brownie with plump raisins and slightly roasted walnuts (yes, nuts, Meg) served with a healthy dollop of fresh whipped cream and the most delicious coffee I've enjoyed in days. Martin's so thrilled with his orange cream layer cake that his eyes are practically rolling into the back of his head with ecstasy. I've eaten a slice of that one before. Yes, it's that good.
Martin and I are going to see a movie, but we can't agree on which one. He pulls a newspaper and one of the city magazines from the wall rack and we consider the options. He really wants to see Good Night, and Good Luck, but I saw it before I even left Washington. I'm feeling too relaxed to see anything to serious anyway, so I suggest Ice Age II.
No, says Martin, with no room for argument.
Eventually, we make a seemingly silly compromise. The Sony Center at Potsdamer Platz shows film in their original language and it has both Ice Age and Good Night, and Good Luck. The films start within minutes of each other so…
There. Settled.
There is still plenty of daylight between now and then, so I invite Martin across the street to be my first guest on the balcony.
What a joy! We pull fat living room chairs out into the sun, make ourselves some tea, and kick back to read and listen to Louis Jordan.
Headin' for the station with a pack on my back
I'm tired of transportation in the back of my hack
I love to hear the rhythm of the clickety clack
And hear the lonesome whistle see the smoke from the stack
To pal around with democratic fellow named Mac
So take me right back to the track, Jack
Choo-choo, choo-choo, ch'boogie, woo-woo
Woo-woo, ch'boogie, choo-choo, choo-choo, ch'boogie
Take me right back to the track, Jack
Life is good.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
An unforgiving Saturday.
Niels, I said, it was the smallest thing. Tables and chairs placed outside on the city sidewalk. Just the expectation. Yes now. This is describable joy: the flush of my skin, the smile that bubbles with goofy intensity, and the bounce of my step. Yes, yes, welcome, welcome!
But Spring doubts herself. Darkens. Weeps this whole, chill day.
(Come back soon.)
---
I spend the afternoon reading in a Kreuzberg cafe with my back to the gray sky and the slick streets. The Confessions of Max Tivoli by Andrew Sean Greer. Have you read it? It’s another offering from the apartment shelves and a relief from the gritty intensity of Clockers, which I’d finished a couple of days before. I’m reading voraciously these days.
Still, the new table of smokers is finally driving me off. There’s a right moment in the book to stop, so I pay the tab, shove the book in my bag and shuffle through my iPod for the walk home. Yes, a few miles walk, despite the soft, steady rain.
Lips are turning blue
A kiss that can't renew
I only dream of you
My beautiful
Sing for Absolution…
Muse. I pay little attention to the streets. Instead, I am back with Julian at the 9:30 Club on the crowded, dark dance floor on November 8, 2004. What a great concert that was. (What a tragic weekend.)
I cross the Spree on Oberbaumbrücke and climb the hill towards Friedrichshain. I take a small detour under the U1 train tracks. I’d spied a neighborhood from the train just recently (how could I have missed it all of these days?) and now’s a good time to explore. But the streets are mostly empty. Quiet, modern apartments. Office buildings. A couple of building guards—old men with their thick paunches—take a cigarette and coffee break. A teen girl walks to the station with her head down.
I shop at a quiet grocery store on these backstreets. Fruit and eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast. And, at the last minute, some pork medallions.
With saukerkraut? You know who you are.
---
I figure that I have plenty of time to get to Cliff and Katarina’s for dinner, but I scan the email for the directions and see that Cliff had written 6 p.m. It’s 6:30.
I call, apologize, slip back into my clogs and head out. I find a cab quickly enough, and then we’re off on the darker streets to Prenzlauer Berg. I’ve only been to the neighborhood once before. With Martin for a Berlinale film called One to One. I hadn’t really seen the neighborhood then. We’d had a spicy hotdog on the street, griped about the lack of popcorn at the theater and enjoyed the movie. But even from the cab window, I can see that the streets are bustling with people. Hip and happenin’ Berlin.
Cliff and Katarina have a lovely apartment. It’s on the topmost floor of a typical East Berlin building and, just as Cliff had boasted, it is thick with books. They line both sides of the entry, crowd the walls of his smoky study, and climb floor to ceiling in the living room.
I am curious. How many of these have you actually read, I ask with a teasing laugh. He considers it seriously. Two-thirds? He settles with “three-quarters.”
Politics had so dominated our last meeting, that I make a valiant effort to direct the conversation away from his reading. Movies? Ventures out into Berlin?
No luck. He’s obsessed with the details of the September 11th attacks, and tells me of the radio shows, books, and movies that he’s seen on the subject.
I try again. How’s your translation work going, I ask.
He waves it off. No time, because of all the reading. I’ve only slept four of the last 72 hours, he says with something like pride.
Katarina quietly serves a simple and delicious dinner: a fresh salad of nuts, cheese and greens; poached salmon with rice and broccoli; chopped fruit with fresh whipped cream. I acknowledge her effort with my fork and smiles. Cliff chatters on, careless with us both, and she eventually pulls his dish aside for later.
I consider her endurance. Is this love?
My undoing is in declining to see footage of the fall of the Twin Towers. He has conclusive evidence that it was a controlled demolition, planned by a top-level U.S. agency, and not the fault of the crashing planes.
It's just 10 minutes, he says. Do you want to see it?
Granted, I’m already exhausted from playing “audience,” but it’s more than that. I had watched the footage of the Towers repeatedly, like so many worldwide. Frankly, it is a horror. In the weeks that followed, I decided that my recovery had to include a ban on news. I simply shut it down.
Do I need Cliff, my fellow American, albeit an expat, to show it to me here, in this apartment of books, and light-loving plants, and a German wife who’s already attempted one retreat to the living room to read?
No, thank you, I reply.
And again. And again.
I decline repeatedly.
I can’t believe this, he says, with obvious disgust. Don’t you care that your government killed 3,000 people?
Weary, but with a pointed look, I ask: So has my leftist card been revoked?
I am grateful that he calls an abrupt end to the evening.
The rain welcomes me back to the street.
But Spring doubts herself. Darkens. Weeps this whole, chill day.
(Come back soon.)
---
I spend the afternoon reading in a Kreuzberg cafe with my back to the gray sky and the slick streets. The Confessions of Max Tivoli by Andrew Sean Greer. Have you read it? It’s another offering from the apartment shelves and a relief from the gritty intensity of Clockers, which I’d finished a couple of days before. I’m reading voraciously these days.
Still, the new table of smokers is finally driving me off. There’s a right moment in the book to stop, so I pay the tab, shove the book in my bag and shuffle through my iPod for the walk home. Yes, a few miles walk, despite the soft, steady rain.
Lips are turning blue
A kiss that can't renew
I only dream of you
My beautiful
Sing for Absolution…
Muse. I pay little attention to the streets. Instead, I am back with Julian at the 9:30 Club on the crowded, dark dance floor on November 8, 2004. What a great concert that was. (What a tragic weekend.)
I cross the Spree on Oberbaumbrücke and climb the hill towards Friedrichshain. I take a small detour under the U1 train tracks. I’d spied a neighborhood from the train just recently (how could I have missed it all of these days?) and now’s a good time to explore. But the streets are mostly empty. Quiet, modern apartments. Office buildings. A couple of building guards—old men with their thick paunches—take a cigarette and coffee break. A teen girl walks to the station with her head down.
I shop at a quiet grocery store on these backstreets. Fruit and eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast. And, at the last minute, some pork medallions.
With saukerkraut? You know who you are.
---
I figure that I have plenty of time to get to Cliff and Katarina’s for dinner, but I scan the email for the directions and see that Cliff had written 6 p.m. It’s 6:30.
I call, apologize, slip back into my clogs and head out. I find a cab quickly enough, and then we’re off on the darker streets to Prenzlauer Berg. I’ve only been to the neighborhood once before. With Martin for a Berlinale film called One to One. I hadn’t really seen the neighborhood then. We’d had a spicy hotdog on the street, griped about the lack of popcorn at the theater and enjoyed the movie. But even from the cab window, I can see that the streets are bustling with people. Hip and happenin’ Berlin.
Cliff and Katarina have a lovely apartment. It’s on the topmost floor of a typical East Berlin building and, just as Cliff had boasted, it is thick with books. They line both sides of the entry, crowd the walls of his smoky study, and climb floor to ceiling in the living room.
I am curious. How many of these have you actually read, I ask with a teasing laugh. He considers it seriously. Two-thirds? He settles with “three-quarters.”
Politics had so dominated our last meeting, that I make a valiant effort to direct the conversation away from his reading. Movies? Ventures out into Berlin?
No luck. He’s obsessed with the details of the September 11th attacks, and tells me of the radio shows, books, and movies that he’s seen on the subject.
I try again. How’s your translation work going, I ask.
He waves it off. No time, because of all the reading. I’ve only slept four of the last 72 hours, he says with something like pride.
Katarina quietly serves a simple and delicious dinner: a fresh salad of nuts, cheese and greens; poached salmon with rice and broccoli; chopped fruit with fresh whipped cream. I acknowledge her effort with my fork and smiles. Cliff chatters on, careless with us both, and she eventually pulls his dish aside for later.
I consider her endurance. Is this love?
My undoing is in declining to see footage of the fall of the Twin Towers. He has conclusive evidence that it was a controlled demolition, planned by a top-level U.S. agency, and not the fault of the crashing planes.
It's just 10 minutes, he says. Do you want to see it?
Granted, I’m already exhausted from playing “audience,” but it’s more than that. I had watched the footage of the Towers repeatedly, like so many worldwide. Frankly, it is a horror. In the weeks that followed, I decided that my recovery had to include a ban on news. I simply shut it down.
Do I need Cliff, my fellow American, albeit an expat, to show it to me here, in this apartment of books, and light-loving plants, and a German wife who’s already attempted one retreat to the living room to read?
No, thank you, I reply.
And again. And again.
I decline repeatedly.
I can’t believe this, he says, with obvious disgust. Don’t you care that your government killed 3,000 people?
Weary, but with a pointed look, I ask: So has my leftist card been revoked?
I am grateful that he calls an abrupt end to the evening.
The rain welcomes me back to the street.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
To Ann Marie, because it never got mailed
23 March 2006
I think I've written you a number of letters. Most of them never actually made it to paper. The rest are the crumbled balls at the bottom of the waste basket.
Things here are much like I describe in the February letter, despite the month's difference. I actually did get into the Badeschiff, that swimming pool complex, although I didn't blog about it. It was after I returned from Amsterdam, and it was with the friend of whom I last wrote. He and I were the only two in swimsuits and googles. The rest of the guests were either wrapped in robes and relaxing around the complex on lounge chairs or they were naked and in the water with us. The entire complex is co-ed. The lockers. The showers.
Um, and there are no curtains. Him, me, and others taking our turn under the showerheads, reaching past each other for shampoo, lathering up...
Cue the porn music!
LOL, you would have loved it. Okay, maybe not the nudity (am I wrong about that?). But I think you would have been charmed by the rest. About walking outside from the lockers to the pool on a mat dotted with patches of ice. (He was smart enough to bring flip-flops.) About the pool itself, submerged in the Spree. (How cool is that?! When we were in the water, we could actually hear the crack of the ice breaking on the river.) About being able to slip out past the pool's sheeting and enjoy the cold air and the night sky.
Yes, we were there at night. Around 8ish. No, no, it must have been later. But I remember that we ate dinner really, really late at yet another Indian restaurant on my block. Not too bad.
There's a lot of work to do today, but I promise to write again. Okay, at least a postcard. And I'll update the blog more, and not in this cheating way. (Even my mother was complaining that I hadn't written lately.)
BTW: Will you keep a blog when you're in Vietnam? If not, send a postcard. And how long are you staying anyway?
Ok, enough. Miss you. Wish you were here.
Tammi
I think I've written you a number of letters. Most of them never actually made it to paper. The rest are the crumbled balls at the bottom of the waste basket.
Things here are much like I describe in the February letter, despite the month's difference. I actually did get into the Badeschiff, that swimming pool complex, although I didn't blog about it. It was after I returned from Amsterdam, and it was with the friend of whom I last wrote. He and I were the only two in swimsuits and googles. The rest of the guests were either wrapped in robes and relaxing around the complex on lounge chairs or they were naked and in the water with us. The entire complex is co-ed. The lockers. The showers.
Um, and there are no curtains. Him, me, and others taking our turn under the showerheads, reaching past each other for shampoo, lathering up...
Cue the porn music!
LOL, you would have loved it. Okay, maybe not the nudity (am I wrong about that?). But I think you would have been charmed by the rest. About walking outside from the lockers to the pool on a mat dotted with patches of ice. (He was smart enough to bring flip-flops.) About the pool itself, submerged in the Spree. (How cool is that?! When we were in the water, we could actually hear the crack of the ice breaking on the river.) About being able to slip out past the pool's sheeting and enjoy the cold air and the night sky.
Yes, we were there at night. Around 8ish. No, no, it must have been later. But I remember that we ate dinner really, really late at yet another Indian restaurant on my block. Not too bad.
There's a lot of work to do today, but I promise to write again. Okay, at least a postcard. And I'll update the blog more, and not in this cheating way. (Even my mother was complaining that I hadn't written lately.)
BTW: Will you keep a blog when you're in Vietnam? If not, send a postcard. And how long are you staying anyway?
Ok, enough. Miss you. Wish you were here.
Tammi
Saturday, March 04, 2006
But was it worth it?
Ken has startling grey-blue eyes. Light. Clear. A morning sky in Spring. But when I ask again—you didn’t exactly answer my question, I say—his eyes can’t quite meet mine.
It’s not that Ken is dishonest. No, I can already see that he’s someone who has found no shelter in subterfuge. I like him for that. But the question is too hard.
When your life unfolds to bring you here, sitting across from a woman you just met in a place to which you’ve just escaped, the easier question is would you do it again.
Yes. Absolutely.
But that’s not my question.
I met Ken on Thursday afternoon. He is an ex-pat (equals expat equals expatriate, Niels) from California. He’s a little older than me, but he has already experienced more than his years should allow. Still, the first moments of our conversation travel the well-worn paths of the just-met. Where are you from? How did you get here? What do you do?
His eyes widen slightly.
FAMM, he says. I know FAMM.
Ken is the previous head of a medical marijuana clinic in California. For those of you who follow the news of the U.S. Drug War, you’ll recall that California voters passed Proposition 215 in 1996 allowing the possession and use of marijuana for seriously ill patients, such those suffering from AIDS-related illnesses and cancer. In 2001, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned that decision, holding that federal law (namely the 1970 Controlled Substances Act) did not allow for medical exceptions.
Regardless, cannabis clubs continue to operate in California jurisdictions, placing the state and the feds in a dueling match over whether it’s a permissible (taxed and regulated) business or wholly illegal and subject to felony prosecution.
It didn’t take long for the raids to start.
Ken was away in Canada when they issued a warrant for his arrest. He had already won a similar case—and tells me about the patients who testified on his behalf with real tears in his eyes—but the feds are vicious. Twenty to life.
While the legal teams from both sides battle it out, Ken simply stays…away. First, to Cambodia for a year’s work of teaching and working in a medical clinic. And now here doing…well, let’s not talk about that.
But he misses his daughter. And his mother, who thinks maybe he should just turn himself in. (She still believes in a just American system, poor dear.)
Was it worth it, I press.
It’s Friday now, and we’re at a corner pub. I had told him of my interest in seeing the Rembrandt-Caravaggio exhibit at the Van Gogh Museum, and he has agreed to join me. I’ve just finished my lunch—a large, flat plate of eggs, ham and cheese that I ordered by simply guessing at the Dutch words—when Ken joins me.
He’s not sure how to answer me.
The museum is just down the street from the pub. A nice walk in the cold air. There’s no rain today. Nor hail or snow. Just a cold, sunny day.
Despite the subject of our chat, we are both in good humor. We talk for just a bit about skipping the exhibit. I can’t believe how expensive the tickets are.
More so than a live sex show?
I suppress the urge to giggle, and let Ken and some weird thoughts of “balancing my karma” sweep me into the exhibit.
The place is packed with people. My audio tour drowns them all out, including Ken, who is lost in his own audio playground.
I flippantly decide that I am no fan of Rembrandt. Heresy! But Caravaggio…
His colors are bold, decisive. And the attention he gives to his subjects is, well, loving. Boy with a Basket of Fruit, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, Supper at Emmaus, The Taking of Christ, Judith Beheading Holofernes…Amor Victorious stops me in my tracks.
Impish. Sensual.
Loving.
Van Gogh was a fan of Rembrandt, so besides the Rembrandt-Caravaggio focus, there is the Van Gogh and Rembrandt treatment and then the rest of the Van Gogh permanent collection. Although there are special extended hours until 10 p.m., Ken and I are exhausted by 5:30. It is just too much.
Want to come with me to a coffeeshop, he asks.
Sure.
The term “coffeeshop” in Amsterdam bears no resemblance to Starbucks. Here, at the Greenhouse for example, it’s a place where you smoke pot and drink. Sure, there’s more on the menu, but…
I am the only one not smoking.
What do you want, he asks as he heads to the bar.
A hot tea, please.
We are sharing a table with two college students, men, from the U.S. One is a dark-haired all-American type from upperstate New York. The other is shrouded by his hood and from Chicago. They met while studying in Italy for the semester. Because class is just two days per week, they spend the rest of their time traveling through Europe. Other parts of Italy, yes. But also Spain, Switzerland, the U.K. and here.
Ken pulls a cube of hash and a pipe from his waist pack. Pretty, I remark. A gift from a friend, Ken replies.
I sip my tea while the others spend time talking about what they do and don’t like. Ken offers us all a hit from his pipe. The hooded kid dislikes hash, so declines. The All-American declines, but offers his joint to Ken. Ken lights it. Inhales.
***
We are on the tram again. Ken is heading to work, and I am on my way to dinner. We make plans for another museum, hug goodbye at Overtoom, and I step off the tram for the Hap-Hmm. The guidebook had recommended it. Cheap. Tasty. Utterly Dutch.
The Hap-Hmm is a family restaurant, tucked away on a side street on the first floor in a row of little homes. I had wanted to eat lunch there on Wednesday, but a man stepped from the narrow door to tell me that he had just started cooking the evening’s dinner. He’s nice, very warm and friendly, so I pledge to come back.
The place is just like him. Nice. Warm.
They all assume that I am local, so seat me (in Dutch), tell me that they will get to me in a second (in Dutch), and ask me for my order (in Dutch). I am prepared to just go with whatever they bring to me, but when the English burbles from my lips, the older proprietress says, “Oh!” and walks off to fetch an English menu.
The guidebook had referenced a traditional pea soup, so I order that. I also order the dish I spy at another guest’s table: a large fried meatball in sauce, served with cooked broccoli and boiled potatoes. Don’t let the description fool you: the meatball is delicious, and the vegetables are cooked to simple perfection.
I regret the pea soup though, as I am too stuffed to finish the rest.
I want to read more of “On the Water,” but decide to call it a night. I thank the proprietress profusely, such a wonderful meal and such a charming place. I am not sure she understands everything I say, but she gets that I am very pleased. She presses a restaurant flyer into my hand, and smiles.
It’s not that Ken is dishonest. No, I can already see that he’s someone who has found no shelter in subterfuge. I like him for that. But the question is too hard.
When your life unfolds to bring you here, sitting across from a woman you just met in a place to which you’ve just escaped, the easier question is would you do it again.
Yes. Absolutely.
But that’s not my question.
I met Ken on Thursday afternoon. He is an ex-pat (equals expat equals expatriate, Niels) from California. He’s a little older than me, but he has already experienced more than his years should allow. Still, the first moments of our conversation travel the well-worn paths of the just-met. Where are you from? How did you get here? What do you do?
His eyes widen slightly.
FAMM, he says. I know FAMM.
Ken is the previous head of a medical marijuana clinic in California. For those of you who follow the news of the U.S. Drug War, you’ll recall that California voters passed Proposition 215 in 1996 allowing the possession and use of marijuana for seriously ill patients, such those suffering from AIDS-related illnesses and cancer. In 2001, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned that decision, holding that federal law (namely the 1970 Controlled Substances Act) did not allow for medical exceptions.
Regardless, cannabis clubs continue to operate in California jurisdictions, placing the state and the feds in a dueling match over whether it’s a permissible (taxed and regulated) business or wholly illegal and subject to felony prosecution.
It didn’t take long for the raids to start.
Ken was away in Canada when they issued a warrant for his arrest. He had already won a similar case—and tells me about the patients who testified on his behalf with real tears in his eyes—but the feds are vicious. Twenty to life.
While the legal teams from both sides battle it out, Ken simply stays…away. First, to Cambodia for a year’s work of teaching and working in a medical clinic. And now here doing…well, let’s not talk about that.
But he misses his daughter. And his mother, who thinks maybe he should just turn himself in. (She still believes in a just American system, poor dear.)
Was it worth it, I press.
It’s Friday now, and we’re at a corner pub. I had told him of my interest in seeing the Rembrandt-Caravaggio exhibit at the Van Gogh Museum, and he has agreed to join me. I’ve just finished my lunch—a large, flat plate of eggs, ham and cheese that I ordered by simply guessing at the Dutch words—when Ken joins me.
He’s not sure how to answer me.
The museum is just down the street from the pub. A nice walk in the cold air. There’s no rain today. Nor hail or snow. Just a cold, sunny day.
Despite the subject of our chat, we are both in good humor. We talk for just a bit about skipping the exhibit. I can’t believe how expensive the tickets are.
More so than a live sex show?
I suppress the urge to giggle, and let Ken and some weird thoughts of “balancing my karma” sweep me into the exhibit.
The place is packed with people. My audio tour drowns them all out, including Ken, who is lost in his own audio playground.
I flippantly decide that I am no fan of Rembrandt. Heresy! But Caravaggio…
His colors are bold, decisive. And the attention he gives to his subjects is, well, loving. Boy with a Basket of Fruit, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, Supper at Emmaus, The Taking of Christ, Judith Beheading Holofernes…Amor Victorious stops me in my tracks.
Impish. Sensual.
Loving.
Van Gogh was a fan of Rembrandt, so besides the Rembrandt-Caravaggio focus, there is the Van Gogh and Rembrandt treatment and then the rest of the Van Gogh permanent collection. Although there are special extended hours until 10 p.m., Ken and I are exhausted by 5:30. It is just too much.
Want to come with me to a coffeeshop, he asks.
Sure.
The term “coffeeshop” in Amsterdam bears no resemblance to Starbucks. Here, at the Greenhouse for example, it’s a place where you smoke pot and drink. Sure, there’s more on the menu, but…
I am the only one not smoking.
What do you want, he asks as he heads to the bar.
A hot tea, please.
We are sharing a table with two college students, men, from the U.S. One is a dark-haired all-American type from upperstate New York. The other is shrouded by his hood and from Chicago. They met while studying in Italy for the semester. Because class is just two days per week, they spend the rest of their time traveling through Europe. Other parts of Italy, yes. But also Spain, Switzerland, the U.K. and here.
Ken pulls a cube of hash and a pipe from his waist pack. Pretty, I remark. A gift from a friend, Ken replies.
I sip my tea while the others spend time talking about what they do and don’t like. Ken offers us all a hit from his pipe. The hooded kid dislikes hash, so declines. The All-American declines, but offers his joint to Ken. Ken lights it. Inhales.
***
We are on the tram again. Ken is heading to work, and I am on my way to dinner. We make plans for another museum, hug goodbye at Overtoom, and I step off the tram for the Hap-Hmm. The guidebook had recommended it. Cheap. Tasty. Utterly Dutch.
The Hap-Hmm is a family restaurant, tucked away on a side street on the first floor in a row of little homes. I had wanted to eat lunch there on Wednesday, but a man stepped from the narrow door to tell me that he had just started cooking the evening’s dinner. He’s nice, very warm and friendly, so I pledge to come back.
The place is just like him. Nice. Warm.
They all assume that I am local, so seat me (in Dutch), tell me that they will get to me in a second (in Dutch), and ask me for my order (in Dutch). I am prepared to just go with whatever they bring to me, but when the English burbles from my lips, the older proprietress says, “Oh!” and walks off to fetch an English menu.
The guidebook had referenced a traditional pea soup, so I order that. I also order the dish I spy at another guest’s table: a large fried meatball in sauce, served with cooked broccoli and boiled potatoes. Don’t let the description fool you: the meatball is delicious, and the vegetables are cooked to simple perfection.
I regret the pea soup though, as I am too stuffed to finish the rest.
I want to read more of “On the Water,” but decide to call it a night. I thank the proprietress profusely, such a wonderful meal and such a charming place. I am not sure she understands everything I say, but she gets that I am very pleased. She presses a restaurant flyer into my hand, and smiles.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
High Art in the low lands
“You can never get silence anywhere nowadays, have you noticed?” (Bryan Ferry, British singer, musician and songwriter)
On Monday night, Sheryl and I spend some time after the second set talking. She lives here in Holland with her husband and son. It’s been 20 years, so she knows the both the language and her way around the music scene. When I mention that I am staying across from the Concertgebouw, she says “be sure to check out the free Wednesday concert at noon.”
So I stay in on Wednesday morning to do just that.
I have forgotten to change my breakfast order at the Bema, so it arrives with the same bad coffee. Oh well. I choke it down, send my “I miss you” emails, and take my time showering, dressing.
Although I get across to the concert hall early, the foyer is already thick with people. Most have full heads of grey hair, and the chatter is distinctly Dutch. The regulars. Retirees.
I stand and read Gaiman’s “Neverwhere.” It’s not the typical literature of my book group, but I am so hooked that when the crowd begins to push forward into the hall, I am reluctant to put the book away. I don’t really, so I find the perfect seat and continue reading with just the occasional lift of my head to scan the room.
The hall is massive, with majestically high ceilings and beautifully crafted detail. The stage is in tiers that climb to a central hidden organ whose ornately decorated pipes reach high above and behind it.
I am surprised though to find the tiers otherwise bare, missing the tell-tale chairs and stands of any musicians.
A door opens high on the right, and the audience begins to clap for the lone man descending the stairs. They quiet down, and he welcomes us with a joke. At least, I assume it’s a joke, as it is in Dutch and all I can understand of it is his body language and the audience’s appreciative laughter. He finishes, the audience applauds again, and then he climbs the stairs to sit, hidden, at the organ.
It isn’t until the room fills with organ music that I understand that no other musicians are coming. It’s a beautiful composition by the French organist Louis Vierne, but I am just too engrossed by the novel. I carefully turn the pages as to not disturb my fellow concertgoers, and I look up with each pause in the symphony as if it had my undivided attention…
The concert is over too soon, just thirty minutes of it before we are back out in the cold.
It *is* colder today, so my motivation to randomly walk about is low. I need to pick up another tram pass, so I hop aboard a passing one headed to the central station. But I am hungry for lunch, so hop off north of it…into the middle of tourist hell.
Oh the kitsch! Totes, hats, magnets, mugs, t-shirts, bottle openers, bracelets, bells and spoons…
[A side note to my mother: N-O]
And food food food. McDonald’s. KFC. Burger King. The glut of the mundane creates fierce competition for business. Restaurant workers call out to me directly to come here here here.
I’m ravenous but overwhelmed. I duck into an alley and find a quiet shop serving Chinese and Indonesian dishes.
What’s the better choice, I ask.
Chinese, says the Chinese waiter.
By the time I have eaten and made my way to the train station, it is too late to cross town for the museum. Besides, there’s postcards to mail, coffee to drink and books to read. Except I’ve finished “Neverwhere” and find myself with nothing but maps and the hotel’s complimentary visitors’ guide.
The nearest bookstore?
I accost a woman on the street. She’s short, dark-haired, in her 30s, and a real cutie with her glasses, jeans and backpack. I smile and play helpless. She stands close and runs her finger over the map. Merely asking for directions hardly warrants an introduction, but I consider it. Let it go.
Scheltema. She has to say the name of the store three times. She smiles, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
It’s within walking distance, and her directions are solid. It’s your typical box style bookstore: a Borders, a Dussman, and now a Scheltema. I thumb through a Lonely Planet guide to Amsterdam on a hard-as-a-rock chair that I had flopped into expecting some yield. There’s a lot I am missing without a proper guide book. I drift over to the literature in English and enter an internal debate about having something weighty (“Lolita” or “A Wild Sheep Chase” or “Life of Pi”) versus something light (namely, another Gaiman novel). Guilt gets the best of me and I purchase a novel by a Dutch writer named Hans Maarten van den Brink. “On the Water.” I skip the higher priced Lonely Planet for an older and discounted copy of Let’s Go Amsterdam at a nearby kiosk Little changes in city life in a couple of years. But just outside it begins to hail with a fury, and the sidewalk is quickly slick with ice.
I am cold and just want to sit with my new book someplace warm. I spy a bar in the basement of a colossal building. CafeCox. I buy a cappuccino and watch the hail turn to fat, wet flakes of snow.
It’s quiet, more a function of good design than the absence of people. There are plenty who, like me, are waiting out the snow. It doesn’t stop though, so I finish my coffee and search for a proper place for dinner, this one a recommendation from the guidebook.
The place is Balo, and all it serves is Indonesian cuisine. The prices have not changed at all since the guide was published. I have my fill on a heaping plate of beef, chicken and pork. (Yes, that was “and.”)
I toss back a beer and all is well with the world.
***
“If you visit one of the women, we would like to remind you, they are not always women.” (On the Red Light District, Gouden Gid’s Visitors Guide to Amsterdam 2006, p137.)
I am sitting on a stool in a kebab take away that is just too bright for the dark streets beyond. I am nursing another cappuccino and thinking it through.
Directly across the street is a ticket outlet for the Casa Rosso, a homegrown Amsterdam establishment known for delivering the “classiest” live sex show in town. I had read about it in the Let’s Go book, and decided it was a must see. Or a maybe see. Or maybe a don’t see. Hence the cappuccino and more thinking.
To get there, I first stop at the Prostitution Information Center. The Saturday before my arrival, they had coordinated the first ever Open House of the Red Light District. It’s election season, and the prostitutes are defending their turf against conservative political elements (who are no doubt among their best customers). The public response was absolutely overwhelming. About the Casa Rosso, the Amsterdam Weekly reported “By mid-afternoon, the hourly ‘dry-fuck shows,’ with partially dressed performers, had to be increased to every half hour in order to accommodate the long queues.”
Unfortunately, the PIC is closed for a private tour group when I arrive so I miss the chance to buy their pamphlet on the best spots.
Instead, I wander among the alleys. The canal views are still there, and even a large cathedral with a bell that sounds out the time. But ringing the cathedral are red-lit windows with the stuff of fantasy. Blond. Brunette. Slender with flat bellies. Round with thick thighs. White. Black. Asian. There are bikinis, thongs, heels and bare feet. But they are also real. On their cell phones. Brushing something from their outfits. Laughing into doorways to their friends.
But now I am nursing a cappuccino. Is it worth it to pay, I wonder. It’s a show after all, and the things that I like about sex—our fleshy shapes, our honest moans, the ouches of a too sharp bite or a sudden tug—will be something too choreographed.
At least that’s what I presume.
But I don’t want to presume.
I finish the coffee, settle the bill and cross the canal to the kiosk. The man who sells my ticket is the one who had drawn me back. I had passed plenty of places along the way, but I like him most. Middle Eastern and a big guy. But his good humor and sincere “I’ve seen it all” way makes him almost huggable in a teddy bear kind of way. I consider it a bizarre, but good sign.
He hands me my receipt and says, Have a good time.
The Casa Rosso is a small theatre. Most of the people there are men, Japanese, Chinese and Korean from what I can see in the near dark. But there are two couples. I am the only single woman.
I walk in just after Nicole has started her set. It’s just her, and she’s in some latex outfit. She doesn’t look aroused, she looks bored. And her eyes are not resting with the crowd but somewhere above our heads to the back. Maybe she’s concentrating on her cuing. The dance number reminds me of something from a cheerleader’s tryout. She slaps the pole with her whip. Strips.
The next act arrives in a nun’s habit from behind me. Her partner is on the stage and standing with legs planted apart under a black shroud. She climbs the stage to the figure, and strips out of her habit into a black latex bikini.
I guess this is someone’s fantasy.
Then she undresses the shrouded figure. Like her, he’s blond and long-haired. It’s not long before they are both naked, and she’s got him in her mouth. He’s semi-erect, no doubt from already having been at this for hours, if not days. She has a metal ring through her labia.
Yes, I am watching that closely.
But, again, they are bored with us. They are talking to each other, and I can see that they have the easy nature of people who have worked together long and well. The act is over when the music ends and the announcer asks for applause. We’re a generous audience, so we clap appreciatively. They wave, a bit self-consciously, before the curtain draws.
I won’t give you the, er, blow by blow of each act. But I will confess to dancing with Nicole on stage (they were asking for volunteers from the audience, and she asked me directly… twice…while dancing next to me in this really skimpy costume). It’s all a blur, but there was a guy in an ape costume, his hands cupping my breasts and then me eating a banana from Nicole’s raised and spread legs.
I did take a bow before taking my seat again. I do remember that distinctly.
But the rest was what you imagine a live sex show to be. A choreographed show. With naked people. Penises. Vulvas. Boy on girl. Girl on girl. (The latter gave one of our audience members a rise and the guy with the flashlight—there’s always a guy with a flashlight—had to tell him to put it away.) Lots of tongue. Lots of pounding.
Ohmygod. Someone ask me about the brother with the large… Or about the woman with the candle... Her kegels...
I left happy.
Bouncing.
On Monday night, Sheryl and I spend some time after the second set talking. She lives here in Holland with her husband and son. It’s been 20 years, so she knows the both the language and her way around the music scene. When I mention that I am staying across from the Concertgebouw, she says “be sure to check out the free Wednesday concert at noon.”
So I stay in on Wednesday morning to do just that.
I have forgotten to change my breakfast order at the Bema, so it arrives with the same bad coffee. Oh well. I choke it down, send my “I miss you” emails, and take my time showering, dressing.
Although I get across to the concert hall early, the foyer is already thick with people. Most have full heads of grey hair, and the chatter is distinctly Dutch. The regulars. Retirees.
I stand and read Gaiman’s “Neverwhere.” It’s not the typical literature of my book group, but I am so hooked that when the crowd begins to push forward into the hall, I am reluctant to put the book away. I don’t really, so I find the perfect seat and continue reading with just the occasional lift of my head to scan the room.
The hall is massive, with majestically high ceilings and beautifully crafted detail. The stage is in tiers that climb to a central hidden organ whose ornately decorated pipes reach high above and behind it.
I am surprised though to find the tiers otherwise bare, missing the tell-tale chairs and stands of any musicians.
A door opens high on the right, and the audience begins to clap for the lone man descending the stairs. They quiet down, and he welcomes us with a joke. At least, I assume it’s a joke, as it is in Dutch and all I can understand of it is his body language and the audience’s appreciative laughter. He finishes, the audience applauds again, and then he climbs the stairs to sit, hidden, at the organ.
It isn’t until the room fills with organ music that I understand that no other musicians are coming. It’s a beautiful composition by the French organist Louis Vierne, but I am just too engrossed by the novel. I carefully turn the pages as to not disturb my fellow concertgoers, and I look up with each pause in the symphony as if it had my undivided attention…
The concert is over too soon, just thirty minutes of it before we are back out in the cold.
It *is* colder today, so my motivation to randomly walk about is low. I need to pick up another tram pass, so I hop aboard a passing one headed to the central station. But I am hungry for lunch, so hop off north of it…into the middle of tourist hell.
Oh the kitsch! Totes, hats, magnets, mugs, t-shirts, bottle openers, bracelets, bells and spoons…
[A side note to my mother: N-O]
And food food food. McDonald’s. KFC. Burger King. The glut of the mundane creates fierce competition for business. Restaurant workers call out to me directly to come here here here.
I’m ravenous but overwhelmed. I duck into an alley and find a quiet shop serving Chinese and Indonesian dishes.
What’s the better choice, I ask.
Chinese, says the Chinese waiter.
By the time I have eaten and made my way to the train station, it is too late to cross town for the museum. Besides, there’s postcards to mail, coffee to drink and books to read. Except I’ve finished “Neverwhere” and find myself with nothing but maps and the hotel’s complimentary visitors’ guide.
The nearest bookstore?
I accost a woman on the street. She’s short, dark-haired, in her 30s, and a real cutie with her glasses, jeans and backpack. I smile and play helpless. She stands close and runs her finger over the map. Merely asking for directions hardly warrants an introduction, but I consider it. Let it go.
Scheltema. She has to say the name of the store three times. She smiles, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
It’s within walking distance, and her directions are solid. It’s your typical box style bookstore: a Borders, a Dussman, and now a Scheltema. I thumb through a Lonely Planet guide to Amsterdam on a hard-as-a-rock chair that I had flopped into expecting some yield. There’s a lot I am missing without a proper guide book. I drift over to the literature in English and enter an internal debate about having something weighty (“Lolita” or “A Wild Sheep Chase” or “Life of Pi”) versus something light (namely, another Gaiman novel). Guilt gets the best of me and I purchase a novel by a Dutch writer named Hans Maarten van den Brink. “On the Water.” I skip the higher priced Lonely Planet for an older and discounted copy of Let’s Go Amsterdam at a nearby kiosk Little changes in city life in a couple of years. But just outside it begins to hail with a fury, and the sidewalk is quickly slick with ice.
I am cold and just want to sit with my new book someplace warm. I spy a bar in the basement of a colossal building. CafeCox. I buy a cappuccino and watch the hail turn to fat, wet flakes of snow.
It’s quiet, more a function of good design than the absence of people. There are plenty who, like me, are waiting out the snow. It doesn’t stop though, so I finish my coffee and search for a proper place for dinner, this one a recommendation from the guidebook.
The place is Balo, and all it serves is Indonesian cuisine. The prices have not changed at all since the guide was published. I have my fill on a heaping plate of beef, chicken and pork. (Yes, that was “and.”)
I toss back a beer and all is well with the world.
***
“If you visit one of the women, we would like to remind you, they are not always women.” (On the Red Light District, Gouden Gid’s Visitors Guide to Amsterdam 2006, p137.)
I am sitting on a stool in a kebab take away that is just too bright for the dark streets beyond. I am nursing another cappuccino and thinking it through.
Directly across the street is a ticket outlet for the Casa Rosso, a homegrown Amsterdam establishment known for delivering the “classiest” live sex show in town. I had read about it in the Let’s Go book, and decided it was a must see. Or a maybe see. Or maybe a don’t see. Hence the cappuccino and more thinking.
To get there, I first stop at the Prostitution Information Center. The Saturday before my arrival, they had coordinated the first ever Open House of the Red Light District. It’s election season, and the prostitutes are defending their turf against conservative political elements (who are no doubt among their best customers). The public response was absolutely overwhelming. About the Casa Rosso, the Amsterdam Weekly reported “By mid-afternoon, the hourly ‘dry-fuck shows,’ with partially dressed performers, had to be increased to every half hour in order to accommodate the long queues.”
Unfortunately, the PIC is closed for a private tour group when I arrive so I miss the chance to buy their pamphlet on the best spots.
Instead, I wander among the alleys. The canal views are still there, and even a large cathedral with a bell that sounds out the time. But ringing the cathedral are red-lit windows with the stuff of fantasy. Blond. Brunette. Slender with flat bellies. Round with thick thighs. White. Black. Asian. There are bikinis, thongs, heels and bare feet. But they are also real. On their cell phones. Brushing something from their outfits. Laughing into doorways to their friends.
But now I am nursing a cappuccino. Is it worth it to pay, I wonder. It’s a show after all, and the things that I like about sex—our fleshy shapes, our honest moans, the ouches of a too sharp bite or a sudden tug—will be something too choreographed.
At least that’s what I presume.
But I don’t want to presume.
I finish the coffee, settle the bill and cross the canal to the kiosk. The man who sells my ticket is the one who had drawn me back. I had passed plenty of places along the way, but I like him most. Middle Eastern and a big guy. But his good humor and sincere “I’ve seen it all” way makes him almost huggable in a teddy bear kind of way. I consider it a bizarre, but good sign.
He hands me my receipt and says, Have a good time.
The Casa Rosso is a small theatre. Most of the people there are men, Japanese, Chinese and Korean from what I can see in the near dark. But there are two couples. I am the only single woman.
I walk in just after Nicole has started her set. It’s just her, and she’s in some latex outfit. She doesn’t look aroused, she looks bored. And her eyes are not resting with the crowd but somewhere above our heads to the back. Maybe she’s concentrating on her cuing. The dance number reminds me of something from a cheerleader’s tryout. She slaps the pole with her whip. Strips.
The next act arrives in a nun’s habit from behind me. Her partner is on the stage and standing with legs planted apart under a black shroud. She climbs the stage to the figure, and strips out of her habit into a black latex bikini.
I guess this is someone’s fantasy.
Then she undresses the shrouded figure. Like her, he’s blond and long-haired. It’s not long before they are both naked, and she’s got him in her mouth. He’s semi-erect, no doubt from already having been at this for hours, if not days. She has a metal ring through her labia.
Yes, I am watching that closely.
But, again, they are bored with us. They are talking to each other, and I can see that they have the easy nature of people who have worked together long and well. The act is over when the music ends and the announcer asks for applause. We’re a generous audience, so we clap appreciatively. They wave, a bit self-consciously, before the curtain draws.
I won’t give you the, er, blow by blow of each act. But I will confess to dancing with Nicole on stage (they were asking for volunteers from the audience, and she asked me directly… twice…while dancing next to me in this really skimpy costume). It’s all a blur, but there was a guy in an ape costume, his hands cupping my breasts and then me eating a banana from Nicole’s raised and spread legs.
I did take a bow before taking my seat again. I do remember that distinctly.
But the rest was what you imagine a live sex show to be. A choreographed show. With naked people. Penises. Vulvas. Boy on girl. Girl on girl. (The latter gave one of our audience members a rise and the guy with the flashlight—there’s always a guy with a flashlight—had to tell him to put it away.) Lots of tongue. Lots of pounding.
Ohmygod. Someone ask me about the brother with the large… Or about the woman with the candle... Her kegels...
I left happy.
Bouncing.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
A speck of dust on a canvas of stars.
The knock on my door came at 8:30 a.m. as promised. But I am groggy from a restless night’s sleep that includes dreaming of someone else wearing my favorite patchwork socks.
They deliver breakfast to your door at the Bema. Early. Nothing fancy: a boiled egg, a slice of meat, a slice of cheese, toast, jam, juice and coffee. The coffee is God-awful (no, really), but I drink it anyway, munch slowly on the rest, and blog.
I take my time. My knees ache from the previous days roaming, as my clogs have well-worn heels. I think about getting some shopping in.
By the time I finish the blog, shower and pack up, it’s approaching 1 o’clock. It was snowing when I woke, turned to rain while I typed and is now hail. I ditch the idea of returning to Gambrinus, and duck into an equally charming French café. At least, I think it is French. I walk through its entry of heavy burgundy drapes and am taken by the chalkboard menu and the multi-level seating. It’s quiet. There’s a couple enjoying lunch in the front window, and a man sitting alone and watching the hail fall from the side windows. I climb to a third floor perch and settle in for a while.
I have a Portuguese fish soup in a clear and lightly seasoned broth. It is served with some of the best bread I’ve had in Europe. Dark long slices with a hearty, crunchy crust.
Hm. Not French.
I’m reading and occasionally speaking to the café’s cat. He loves me…or my bowl of fish soup. The slut. He wanders among the legs of the table, rubs his back against my bag (and makes a gift of his hair) and refuses to leave me until I stroke him appreciatively.
I take care to wash my hands later, but I’ll eventually rub my eyes and…
Damn allergies.
I decide that I’ll do just one touristy thing each day. Today: Jordaan. It’s a neighborhood of Amsterdam known for its small shops tucked into its small, winding alleys. I’ve forgotten my camera again, but the weather makes it just as well. I am simply walking again, admiring the views, window shopping…
…and fighting my own moodiness. I’m on vacation, but the bigger questions about The Future trouble my calm. Graduate school? Germany?
I push them aside and find a place for tea and more quiet reading. It’s a hip coffeebar downtown with a large window onto the street. It’s the end of the workday now and the commuters are streaming by on their bikes. There are more everyday cyclists here than in Berlin, and its amazing to see. There’s actually cycling “traffic” so the distinct car- and pedestrian-free lanes are crowded. It’s a joy.
It’s too late to find new shoes, and my left knee aches enough that I decide to call it an early night. I hop a tram back to my neighborhood, and find a relatively cheap takeaway serving the usual.
Wait, do I spy ribs?
mmmmm
I am complimenting the owner on the meal and paying the bill when he asks me where I am from. America? He claps and exclaims with joy.
He’s a Kurd, and formerly of Iraq.
The Future? Complicated.
They deliver breakfast to your door at the Bema. Early. Nothing fancy: a boiled egg, a slice of meat, a slice of cheese, toast, jam, juice and coffee. The coffee is God-awful (no, really), but I drink it anyway, munch slowly on the rest, and blog.
I take my time. My knees ache from the previous days roaming, as my clogs have well-worn heels. I think about getting some shopping in.
By the time I finish the blog, shower and pack up, it’s approaching 1 o’clock. It was snowing when I woke, turned to rain while I typed and is now hail. I ditch the idea of returning to Gambrinus, and duck into an equally charming French café. At least, I think it is French. I walk through its entry of heavy burgundy drapes and am taken by the chalkboard menu and the multi-level seating. It’s quiet. There’s a couple enjoying lunch in the front window, and a man sitting alone and watching the hail fall from the side windows. I climb to a third floor perch and settle in for a while.
I have a Portuguese fish soup in a clear and lightly seasoned broth. It is served with some of the best bread I’ve had in Europe. Dark long slices with a hearty, crunchy crust.
Hm. Not French.
I’m reading and occasionally speaking to the café’s cat. He loves me…or my bowl of fish soup. The slut. He wanders among the legs of the table, rubs his back against my bag (and makes a gift of his hair) and refuses to leave me until I stroke him appreciatively.
I take care to wash my hands later, but I’ll eventually rub my eyes and…
Damn allergies.
I decide that I’ll do just one touristy thing each day. Today: Jordaan. It’s a neighborhood of Amsterdam known for its small shops tucked into its small, winding alleys. I’ve forgotten my camera again, but the weather makes it just as well. I am simply walking again, admiring the views, window shopping…
…and fighting my own moodiness. I’m on vacation, but the bigger questions about The Future trouble my calm. Graduate school? Germany?
I push them aside and find a place for tea and more quiet reading. It’s a hip coffeebar downtown with a large window onto the street. It’s the end of the workday now and the commuters are streaming by on their bikes. There are more everyday cyclists here than in Berlin, and its amazing to see. There’s actually cycling “traffic” so the distinct car- and pedestrian-free lanes are crowded. It’s a joy.
It’s too late to find new shoes, and my left knee aches enough that I decide to call it an early night. I hop a tram back to my neighborhood, and find a relatively cheap takeaway serving the usual.
Wait, do I spy ribs?
mmmmm
I am complimenting the owner on the meal and paying the bill when he asks me where I am from. America? He claps and exclaims with joy.
He’s a Kurd, and formerly of Iraq.
The Future? Complicated.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Yesterday really starts with the night before.
The grand plan had been to spend the afternoon tidying up the apartment, to grab an early evening’s bite out with Martin and then to pack a bag just before getting into bed for a solid night’s sleep.
Instead, at about 10:30 at night, Martin and I are climbing five flights of stairs in a deserted building that looks as if every part of it is under construction. There’s plaster dust everywhere, and gaping multi-floor holes where walls had formerly been. Most importantly, we make it to the very top and the movie theatre that we had expected to find amidst the mess is not there.
Martin’s certain that it’s here somewhere. So we descend to the ground floor and wander around in the dimly lit courtyard looking for some sign. In the second yard, I see the blue light beacon of a large screen shining from another fifth floor window.
I’m out of breath when we reach the top. Damn asthma.
It’s an odd little place, run more like a film night at a friend’s place than a formal business. Although we’re already very late, the movie has not even started, and the projectionist—who is also the ticket seller—tells us to hang out in the lounge for a bit. She dases off. We buy drinks and chips and admire the beautiful night view of Kreuzberg from the lounge window.
It’s another ten minutes, and she’s back and now ushering everyone in for the showing.
In keeping with the “friend’s place” atmosphere, the seats are not seats but, rather, long, draped, comfortable couches in a midsize room. It’s a total make-out scene...except that Martin’s not that kind of friend. He places the bag of chips between us, and keeps his legs a careful distance from mine. He swigs his beer. I settle deep into the folds of the cushions with a Bitter Lemon.
Despite some great flaws, Jim Jarmusch’s “Broken Flowers” is an equally great film. His ability to describe a place through setting—the carefully manicured, but bare lawn of a McMansion housing development, for example—is remarkably evocative and, well, emotionally manipulative. I mean that in a good way.
Martin and I have plenty of time to talk about that and more after the film because, with the late start of the movie, we have a late departure and, in turn, miss the last of the night trains.
This is the second time that this had happened to me recently. When John was up from Leipzig the weekend before, he and I missed the last trains from Alexanderplatz. We were so wrung out by the Berlinale showing of “Candy” that we both wanted to drink. A late beer, a late train and next thing you know we’re hailing a cab.
The joy of being with a native speaker is that the alternatives are readily apparent. Martin wastes no time in using the information call-button at the station and navigates us through two bus routes to Warschauer. Thankfully, because we live within walking distance of each other—albeit on opposite sides of the Spree—we are headed in the same direction. I think it’s nearly 2 a.m. when I turn the key in the lock.
A late night equals a late morning, and I don’t want to miss my train. But when it rings at 6:45, I simply re-set it. So it’s well after 7 when I do get up, and my drain departs promptly at 8:51. I grab a quick shower, quickly pack a bag, and make a run for the station.
I arrive shortly after 8:30 and enjoy a moment’s pride at being early…just a moment though, as I then read the departure schedule. My train leaves at 8:30?!
I race up to the platform and find myself among a group of irate passengers. I cannot understand a word of what they are saying, but they are pointing at the platform schedule and clearly angry. A DB worker is trying to calm them, and also trying to answer me as I’m practically tugging at his sleeve like a child. I pull out my ticket, thinking that there just must be some kind of mistake. There is. He takes my ticket and shows it to my fellow passengers with a satisfied grunt. I can’t quite understand what he then says, but I get the point: *they* are all angry because they had expected to leave by the posted time of 8:30. My ticket, he shows, proves that he was right: the train isn’t due until later. He returns my ticket to me and gestures for me to stay put. I do.
I’m too afraid to leave the tracks for something from the food hall, so I buy a cheese croissant. I’ve barely paid when the train arrives. I have a reserved seat on a non-smoking car. It’s spacious, in part because there are racks for bikes and special seating for laptop users. It doesn’t matter really. After a little gawking at the passing landscape—it’s so bright out today that the rivers look just stunning—I fall asleep.
I drift in and out of sleep for three hours. When I am fully awake again, I stumble back to the food car and buy a perfectly mediocre sandwich from a perfectly surly attendant. The trip takes longer than I expect—there’s an hour delay at one point—but I spend the time catching up on postcards, reading a book that Irene lent me (I want to meet Neil Gaiman.) and listening to my iPod.
To which, I want to recommend here the Yeppie.org “sexsoundlovers” podcast. LOL. “We have sounds created by members, motel sex, neighbor sex…” Bottom line: you can have loud wonderful sex, but the people next door may be recording it for posterity. Funny and arousing!
There was a brief slip at Ameersfoort. My ticket states that I am to transfer there so I disembark with my bags. Since the train was late, where do I go, I ask the conductor? He looks at my ticket and, instead, hustles me back on the train. That was a mistake, he says. My eyes go wide.
I arrive at Amsterdam Centraal and realize with a start that I am ill prepared to be here. I know not one word of Dutch, not even the basics. Please. No. Excuse me. Thank you. Where’s the toilet. Do you speak English.
Nothing.
The woman at the information center is multi-lingual. (I learn later that most people are.) She sells me a map and a three-day tram pass and says the tram I want, number 16, is just outside the station’s doors.
It takes me 30 minutes of wandering in the rain before I find the right stop. And it is right outside the door.
Sigh.
I cannot pronounce the name of my street, but part of it starts with “concert.” The driver knows what I am talking about, and I am at the Hotel Bema within minutes. I arrive just as two other women open the door so I follow them in. There is no first floor. I am at the base of a narrow staircase so steep that it reminds me of “The Exorcist.” You know, the one where the priest falls to his death.
These are steeper.
I think of Meg, and how pissed she would be about not being warned. I think of Irene, and how kind she was to lend me a small duffel for the trip. I climb the stairs.
The Hotel Bema is tall and spacious home that has been converted into low-cost rooms and apartments. At 35 Euros per night for my own room, it was the best deal I could find on Lonely Planet…at least if I wanted to avoid potheads at the local youth hostel.
Smoking pot is legal here, even served on the menus at local coffeehouses, and it’s a big draw for tourists. Even Irene had her story to tell of getting high on laced brownies here, hallucinating and certain she was going to die. She tells me this over tea back in the park on Saturday. I am laughing. She is not.
No one is smoking at Bema. Joanna checks me in, carries my bag up another steep flight of stairs, and shows me my room and the shared toilet and shower facilities. There’s nothing “beautiful” about the Bema, but it’s clean, and the unpretentiousness of the place has its own charm.
With the delay of the train and the time roaming for the tram, I am ravenous. Joanna pulls out a map and directs me away from all-things-touristy, bless her. I post a couple of “I’m here” emails, and head out the door.
On a whim, hop a passing tram in Joanna’s suggested direction. When it takes an unexpected turn to the south, I hop off and walk. I’m so hungry I can’t think, but I am bizarrely ruling out most. No Asian. Sick of Asian. No kebabs. Sick of kebabs. No pasta. Sick of pasta.
There’s a pub on the corner and what I can see through the windows draws me like a magnet. The lettering on the glass: Gambrinus. The natural, thick beams of wood. Even the guys smoking at the bar. The posted menu is in Dutch save this: spare ribs.
I’m in.
I can’t recommend this place enough. Everything about it is as perfect as the first glance. There’s a dark brew on tap that is worth returning for alone. But the food is superb. My waitress brings out a complimentary basket of think rounds of bread and an absolutely delicious olive tapenade. The ribs are mouth-watering: dry, no sauce, but perfectly cooked to fall off the bone. And it comes with a plenty of sides: an exquisite green bean and mushroom medley generously sautéed with garlic (lol, not for you, Niels), a mesclun salad topped with pine nuts and a perfect creamy dressing, and thick wedges of fries served (as I was warned by the hotel guidebook) with mayonnaise.
After all that good eating, I need to walk and walk and walk.
It’s raining out, so I decide to catch a tram to a good starting point. But I am all turned around. I just get on the next one passing. A funny and elderly man working the tram ticket window asks me if I am one of The Pointer Sisters. The old charmer! He points out that I am on the wrong tram for where I wish to go, so I hop off an quickly get on another. But that tram driver tells me that I am again going in the wrong direction.
Did I mention the rain?
An elderly couple at the tram shelter look over my map with me and suggest I just walk it. You will love the architecture, and it’s not too far. Where are you from, the husband asks?
Amsterdam is beautiful at night, even in the dark and the rain. I walk for hours, meandering through narrow streets, pausing to take in the views along the canals, peeking in shop windows, admiring the art of small galleries. (The Reflex Gallery. Highly recommended.) There are little stops along the way too, including getting a better map from the female owner of a gay men’s sex toy shop.
It’s not what you think. I really just needed a map.
But I had heard so much of the Red Light District that I decide that I want to see it for myself. I never make it there, at least, not to the part with women sold from display windows.
Instead, I fall into the Casablanca, a narrow little bar where the big band jazz spills out into the street. It’s me, a rum and coke, a small appreciative crowd, and a 12-piece band fronted by a vocalist from New York.
Her name is Sheryl. And she’s singing my favorites.
Instead, at about 10:30 at night, Martin and I are climbing five flights of stairs in a deserted building that looks as if every part of it is under construction. There’s plaster dust everywhere, and gaping multi-floor holes where walls had formerly been. Most importantly, we make it to the very top and the movie theatre that we had expected to find amidst the mess is not there.
Martin’s certain that it’s here somewhere. So we descend to the ground floor and wander around in the dimly lit courtyard looking for some sign. In the second yard, I see the blue light beacon of a large screen shining from another fifth floor window.
I’m out of breath when we reach the top. Damn asthma.
It’s an odd little place, run more like a film night at a friend’s place than a formal business. Although we’re already very late, the movie has not even started, and the projectionist—who is also the ticket seller—tells us to hang out in the lounge for a bit. She dases off. We buy drinks and chips and admire the beautiful night view of Kreuzberg from the lounge window.
It’s another ten minutes, and she’s back and now ushering everyone in for the showing.
In keeping with the “friend’s place” atmosphere, the seats are not seats but, rather, long, draped, comfortable couches in a midsize room. It’s a total make-out scene...except that Martin’s not that kind of friend. He places the bag of chips between us, and keeps his legs a careful distance from mine. He swigs his beer. I settle deep into the folds of the cushions with a Bitter Lemon.
Despite some great flaws, Jim Jarmusch’s “Broken Flowers” is an equally great film. His ability to describe a place through setting—the carefully manicured, but bare lawn of a McMansion housing development, for example—is remarkably evocative and, well, emotionally manipulative. I mean that in a good way.
Martin and I have plenty of time to talk about that and more after the film because, with the late start of the movie, we have a late departure and, in turn, miss the last of the night trains.
This is the second time that this had happened to me recently. When John was up from Leipzig the weekend before, he and I missed the last trains from Alexanderplatz. We were so wrung out by the Berlinale showing of “Candy” that we both wanted to drink. A late beer, a late train and next thing you know we’re hailing a cab.
The joy of being with a native speaker is that the alternatives are readily apparent. Martin wastes no time in using the information call-button at the station and navigates us through two bus routes to Warschauer. Thankfully, because we live within walking distance of each other—albeit on opposite sides of the Spree—we are headed in the same direction. I think it’s nearly 2 a.m. when I turn the key in the lock.
A late night equals a late morning, and I don’t want to miss my train. But when it rings at 6:45, I simply re-set it. So it’s well after 7 when I do get up, and my drain departs promptly at 8:51. I grab a quick shower, quickly pack a bag, and make a run for the station.
I arrive shortly after 8:30 and enjoy a moment’s pride at being early…just a moment though, as I then read the departure schedule. My train leaves at 8:30?!
I race up to the platform and find myself among a group of irate passengers. I cannot understand a word of what they are saying, but they are pointing at the platform schedule and clearly angry. A DB worker is trying to calm them, and also trying to answer me as I’m practically tugging at his sleeve like a child. I pull out my ticket, thinking that there just must be some kind of mistake. There is. He takes my ticket and shows it to my fellow passengers with a satisfied grunt. I can’t quite understand what he then says, but I get the point: *they* are all angry because they had expected to leave by the posted time of 8:30. My ticket, he shows, proves that he was right: the train isn’t due until later. He returns my ticket to me and gestures for me to stay put. I do.
I’m too afraid to leave the tracks for something from the food hall, so I buy a cheese croissant. I’ve barely paid when the train arrives. I have a reserved seat on a non-smoking car. It’s spacious, in part because there are racks for bikes and special seating for laptop users. It doesn’t matter really. After a little gawking at the passing landscape—it’s so bright out today that the rivers look just stunning—I fall asleep.
I drift in and out of sleep for three hours. When I am fully awake again, I stumble back to the food car and buy a perfectly mediocre sandwich from a perfectly surly attendant. The trip takes longer than I expect—there’s an hour delay at one point—but I spend the time catching up on postcards, reading a book that Irene lent me (I want to meet Neil Gaiman.) and listening to my iPod.
To which, I want to recommend here the Yeppie.org “sexsoundlovers” podcast. LOL. “We have sounds created by members, motel sex, neighbor sex…” Bottom line: you can have loud wonderful sex, but the people next door may be recording it for posterity. Funny and arousing!
There was a brief slip at Ameersfoort. My ticket states that I am to transfer there so I disembark with my bags. Since the train was late, where do I go, I ask the conductor? He looks at my ticket and, instead, hustles me back on the train. That was a mistake, he says. My eyes go wide.
I arrive at Amsterdam Centraal and realize with a start that I am ill prepared to be here. I know not one word of Dutch, not even the basics. Please. No. Excuse me. Thank you. Where’s the toilet. Do you speak English.
Nothing.
The woman at the information center is multi-lingual. (I learn later that most people are.) She sells me a map and a three-day tram pass and says the tram I want, number 16, is just outside the station’s doors.
It takes me 30 minutes of wandering in the rain before I find the right stop. And it is right outside the door.
Sigh.
I cannot pronounce the name of my street, but part of it starts with “concert.” The driver knows what I am talking about, and I am at the Hotel Bema within minutes. I arrive just as two other women open the door so I follow them in. There is no first floor. I am at the base of a narrow staircase so steep that it reminds me of “The Exorcist.” You know, the one where the priest falls to his death.
These are steeper.
I think of Meg, and how pissed she would be about not being warned. I think of Irene, and how kind she was to lend me a small duffel for the trip. I climb the stairs.
The Hotel Bema is tall and spacious home that has been converted into low-cost rooms and apartments. At 35 Euros per night for my own room, it was the best deal I could find on Lonely Planet…at least if I wanted to avoid potheads at the local youth hostel.
Smoking pot is legal here, even served on the menus at local coffeehouses, and it’s a big draw for tourists. Even Irene had her story to tell of getting high on laced brownies here, hallucinating and certain she was going to die. She tells me this over tea back in the park on Saturday. I am laughing. She is not.
No one is smoking at Bema. Joanna checks me in, carries my bag up another steep flight of stairs, and shows me my room and the shared toilet and shower facilities. There’s nothing “beautiful” about the Bema, but it’s clean, and the unpretentiousness of the place has its own charm.
With the delay of the train and the time roaming for the tram, I am ravenous. Joanna pulls out a map and directs me away from all-things-touristy, bless her. I post a couple of “I’m here” emails, and head out the door.
On a whim, hop a passing tram in Joanna’s suggested direction. When it takes an unexpected turn to the south, I hop off and walk. I’m so hungry I can’t think, but I am bizarrely ruling out most. No Asian. Sick of Asian. No kebabs. Sick of kebabs. No pasta. Sick of pasta.
There’s a pub on the corner and what I can see through the windows draws me like a magnet. The lettering on the glass: Gambrinus. The natural, thick beams of wood. Even the guys smoking at the bar. The posted menu is in Dutch save this: spare ribs.
I’m in.
I can’t recommend this place enough. Everything about it is as perfect as the first glance. There’s a dark brew on tap that is worth returning for alone. But the food is superb. My waitress brings out a complimentary basket of think rounds of bread and an absolutely delicious olive tapenade. The ribs are mouth-watering: dry, no sauce, but perfectly cooked to fall off the bone. And it comes with a plenty of sides: an exquisite green bean and mushroom medley generously sautéed with garlic (lol, not for you, Niels), a mesclun salad topped with pine nuts and a perfect creamy dressing, and thick wedges of fries served (as I was warned by the hotel guidebook) with mayonnaise.
After all that good eating, I need to walk and walk and walk.
It’s raining out, so I decide to catch a tram to a good starting point. But I am all turned around. I just get on the next one passing. A funny and elderly man working the tram ticket window asks me if I am one of The Pointer Sisters. The old charmer! He points out that I am on the wrong tram for where I wish to go, so I hop off an quickly get on another. But that tram driver tells me that I am again going in the wrong direction.
Did I mention the rain?
An elderly couple at the tram shelter look over my map with me and suggest I just walk it. You will love the architecture, and it’s not too far. Where are you from, the husband asks?
Amsterdam is beautiful at night, even in the dark and the rain. I walk for hours, meandering through narrow streets, pausing to take in the views along the canals, peeking in shop windows, admiring the art of small galleries. (The Reflex Gallery. Highly recommended.) There are little stops along the way too, including getting a better map from the female owner of a gay men’s sex toy shop.
It’s not what you think. I really just needed a map.
But I had heard so much of the Red Light District that I decide that I want to see it for myself. I never make it there, at least, not to the part with women sold from display windows.
Instead, I fall into the Casablanca, a narrow little bar where the big band jazz spills out into the street. It’s me, a rum and coke, a small appreciative crowd, and a 12-piece band fronted by a vocalist from New York.
Her name is Sheryl. And she’s singing my favorites.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Tammi's V-Day Tip: never regret love.
This is definitely not my typical post. I admit to being an unrepentant romantic. And it's the Hallmark Holiday! So...
...a virtual hug to my friend, Vicki, for my SpongeBob Squarepants Valentine's Day card. Still whistling!
...best wishes to my brother, Chris. Mom sent me the photos. I love her smile! I hope love is as powerful for you as it has been for me. Worth every moment.
...because this list could go on forever, much love to all who sent me off to Berlin with well wishes and to those who welcomed me.
And, never finally, I remain
Yours.
...a virtual hug to my friend, Vicki, for my SpongeBob Squarepants Valentine's Day card. Still whistling!
...best wishes to my brother, Chris. Mom sent me the photos. I love her smile! I hope love is as powerful for you as it has been for me. Worth every moment.
...because this list could go on forever, much love to all who sent me off to Berlin with well wishes and to those who welcomed me.
And, never finally, I remain
Yours.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
I wanna take you to a gay bar.
Korey warned me that there would be days that I felt like this. Lonely. Bitter. Jaded.
I at least understand that the key to today’s recovery is to escape my apartment. I’ve been cooped up for 40 hours in my own silence, the “benefit” of finally having DSL access at home. I need noise, other people, unfamiliar smells.
Don’t get me wrong. The week has had plenty for me beyond my FAMM hours. This past Monday, I had my second dinner party. Seven of us—Jörn, Irene and her new office mates crowded around my kitchen table, drinking and playing games. All in German, mind you. I understood about a third of the evening’s conversation. It was a blast.
Except for my spaghetti sauce. Oh god. Don’t ask.
And I’ve enjoyed the other outings of the week: meeting Niels on Tuesday and, just last night, having tea and Scrabble in Martin’s beautifully painted kitchen.
It’s a passionate orange color. I think of teasing him about being gay. Restrain myself.
But today, Saturday, I wake late and cranky. I need to go.
I pull out my map and decide on Oranienburger Tor. James is out of the country, but he lives in that area. Lots of prostitution on the streets, he’d said. Legal, but I am not shopping.
I have breakfast at the corner restaurant and make my way to Warschauer Straße station. I’m on the train listening to my iPod on shuffle when this gem of a track by The Streets starts playing
Today I've achieved absolutely nought
In just being out of the house, I've lost out
If I wanted to end up with more now
I should've just stayed in bed, like I know how
I start grinning. Feeling better already.
The train just reaches Hackescher Markt station when I spy what I believe is a street fair…with a parade of dump trucks.
Huh?
I decide to hop off the train there. This parade is actually a massive street demonstration. I’m stunned. I unplug the iPod and tune in to the street. There are tens of thousands chanting, whistling, carrying banners and rattling noisemakers. And it’s no group of dreadlocked white kids either. I’m looking at middle-aged moms and pops here. A labor march.
I watch for quite a while, just as obvious a gawker as the protest. I tune back into my music and navigate the crowd’s edges. Nina Simone growls in my ear
Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin’ on by you know how I feel
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good
I dash across a break in the crowd, making my way to a coffee shop to sit out the rest. The place has high ceilings, moody décor and a well-healed set that bears little resemblance to the crowd outside. I share a table with a small, young blond. She’s journaling. I order a cappuccino and a croissant with Nutella.
I’m weak.
The book that I had packed with me for the day is You Are Not a Stranger Here by Adam Haslett. I open to the first story of the collection and am immediately taken by the narrator’s voice.
I have shot Germans in the fields of Normandy, filed twenty-six patents, married three women, survived them all, and am currently the subject of an investigation by the IRS, which has about as much chance of collecting from me as Shylock did of getting his pound of flesh. Bureaucracies have trouble thinking clearly.
He’s not thinking more clearly. He’s manic depressive, and the author wrenches real humor and pain from the man’s last visit with his son.
The last of the demonstrators has marched past. I forgo another story and more Nutella. (Although I manage to get a streak of the latter along the side of my nose. The subject of much of the staring I receive the rest of the day, I figure out later.)
I hoof up Oranienburger Straße, wandering in and out of shops in both deference to my curiosity and my need for warmth. It’s another cold day in Berlin, of course. And gray.
Still, it’s too early to head home, so I decide to return to the KaDaWe department store. (I’m craving American style bacon again.) I can’t quite remember the station, so I approach a man on the platform at Zinnowitzer. He’s dark-haired and handsome. His son plays at his feet.
Did I mention the Nutella on my nose?
I don’t ask him if he speaks English, and he doesn’t try it. In German, I ask if he knows the KaDaWe store. He does. He’s patient, repeating the directions twice when I look a bit confused. Go to Friedrichstraße, walk upstairs to the S-Bahn, take that train to Zoologischer Garten.
Got it.
He’s not sure I completely understand him, so at Friedrichstraße he hesitantly moves toward me on the train. But I’m already on my feet, and thank him with a wave and a smile.
I am looking at my map again, wanting to take the connecting train in the right direction. A squat, grey-haired woman passes close on my left, stops and asks—in English—may I help you?
I reply—in German—yes, I am looking for Zoologischer. I’m proud of myself…until she switches to speaking to me in German and I have to stumble through the rest of it. She’s exceedingly kind though, and even compliments me on my attempts. We get on the same train, sit across from each other, and exit at the same station.
Have a good day, she says in English.
Thank you very much, I reply, also in English.
I’ve not quite remembered how to say “you too” auf Deutsch.
This is the first time that I’ve been to Zoologischer, having gotten to KaDaWe by Nollendorf Platz previously. Zoologischer is a madhouse, packed to the rafters with tourists browsing retailers that include The Body Shop and Tie Rack.
Boring.
I am excited to find a newsstand, though, and to buy an English-language newspaper, the first since my arrival. A bit of heaven, I tell you!
The first article I read is about the nationwide strike in Germany that is set to start on Monday. Well, that explains the protest march. I refrain from reading more, because I just want to get out of the station.
The street is no less packed. Crowds, crowds, crowds. And they aren’t calling for workers’ rights.
I stand on the corner with my map. Which way to KaDaWe? But my eye is caught by the municipal sign pointing to nearby tourist sites. That way to the sex museum? Whoa.
Beate Uhse’s Erotik Museum is nestled amid a gawdy neon-lit strip of shops hawking American hot dogs and round-the-clock porn. The first floor of the museum is actually a well-stocked sex shop. I’m the only woman there, amid a bevy of men looking for porn DVDs and new equipment. I’m a stand out, and I get my fair share of glances.
Maybe it’s the Nutella?
I resist the urge to slink out.
I have my ticket and I am up on the third floor starting point. The museum is dimly lit. I imagine being propositioned, and led into some corner. Unlikely, as the museum’s visitors, unlike the shoppers downstairs, take great pains to avoid eye-contact.
No, no, let’s focus on that large phallus over there instead.
The museum is an unfocused collection of erotic paraphernalia. There are marriage books, illustrated sex guides for new brides from 18th and 19th century Asia. There are glass snuff bottles delicately painted from the inside with frolicking maidens from 19th century Europe. There are statue-like drums with phallic-shaped sticks from Africa (I can’t recall the period).
Your museum of the cock and cunt as presented in statues, paintings, illustrations, toys, carvings, jewelry and more.
On the way out, I browse the special leather room and then the main toy shop. Dreaming…
The rest of the evening is anti-climatic. ;-)
I skip KaDaWe for a small bowl of goulash and a quick dash home. Irene and I are meeting for dinner, and I want to take a run around Kaisers to see if they have bacon.
They do.
I am home just long enough to put the food away, to discover and wash away the Nutella, and to turn on the television. Pimp My Ride is on. I love that show.
I convince Irene to sit for tea and the telly. She can’t believe I actually can stand Pimp My Ride. And she doesn’t bother to comment at all on the German version, Pimp My Whatever, where they do a complete makeover of a doghouse. It’s got a draw bridge and turrets.
We make out way to the local pan-Asian restaurant—where the cooking makes me tear up, it’s so spicy—and then go roaming for a simply coffeebar. We find a little nook just up the block from me.
Irene notices it immediately upon walking in.
Something’s weird, she says.
And then my gaydar goes off.
I at least understand that the key to today’s recovery is to escape my apartment. I’ve been cooped up for 40 hours in my own silence, the “benefit” of finally having DSL access at home. I need noise, other people, unfamiliar smells.
Don’t get me wrong. The week has had plenty for me beyond my FAMM hours. This past Monday, I had my second dinner party. Seven of us—Jörn, Irene and her new office mates crowded around my kitchen table, drinking and playing games. All in German, mind you. I understood about a third of the evening’s conversation. It was a blast.
Except for my spaghetti sauce. Oh god. Don’t ask.
And I’ve enjoyed the other outings of the week: meeting Niels on Tuesday and, just last night, having tea and Scrabble in Martin’s beautifully painted kitchen.
It’s a passionate orange color. I think of teasing him about being gay. Restrain myself.
But today, Saturday, I wake late and cranky. I need to go.
I pull out my map and decide on Oranienburger Tor. James is out of the country, but he lives in that area. Lots of prostitution on the streets, he’d said. Legal, but I am not shopping.
I have breakfast at the corner restaurant and make my way to Warschauer Straße station. I’m on the train listening to my iPod on shuffle when this gem of a track by The Streets starts playing
Today I've achieved absolutely nought
In just being out of the house, I've lost out
If I wanted to end up with more now
I should've just stayed in bed, like I know how
I start grinning. Feeling better already.
The train just reaches Hackescher Markt station when I spy what I believe is a street fair…with a parade of dump trucks.
Huh?
I decide to hop off the train there. This parade is actually a massive street demonstration. I’m stunned. I unplug the iPod and tune in to the street. There are tens of thousands chanting, whistling, carrying banners and rattling noisemakers. And it’s no group of dreadlocked white kids either. I’m looking at middle-aged moms and pops here. A labor march.
I watch for quite a while, just as obvious a gawker as the protest. I tune back into my music and navigate the crowd’s edges. Nina Simone growls in my ear
Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin’ on by you know how I feel
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good
I dash across a break in the crowd, making my way to a coffee shop to sit out the rest. The place has high ceilings, moody décor and a well-healed set that bears little resemblance to the crowd outside. I share a table with a small, young blond. She’s journaling. I order a cappuccino and a croissant with Nutella.
I’m weak.
The book that I had packed with me for the day is You Are Not a Stranger Here by Adam Haslett. I open to the first story of the collection and am immediately taken by the narrator’s voice.
I have shot Germans in the fields of Normandy, filed twenty-six patents, married three women, survived them all, and am currently the subject of an investigation by the IRS, which has about as much chance of collecting from me as Shylock did of getting his pound of flesh. Bureaucracies have trouble thinking clearly.
He’s not thinking more clearly. He’s manic depressive, and the author wrenches real humor and pain from the man’s last visit with his son.
The last of the demonstrators has marched past. I forgo another story and more Nutella. (Although I manage to get a streak of the latter along the side of my nose. The subject of much of the staring I receive the rest of the day, I figure out later.)
I hoof up Oranienburger Straße, wandering in and out of shops in both deference to my curiosity and my need for warmth. It’s another cold day in Berlin, of course. And gray.
Still, it’s too early to head home, so I decide to return to the KaDaWe department store. (I’m craving American style bacon again.) I can’t quite remember the station, so I approach a man on the platform at Zinnowitzer. He’s dark-haired and handsome. His son plays at his feet.
Did I mention the Nutella on my nose?
I don’t ask him if he speaks English, and he doesn’t try it. In German, I ask if he knows the KaDaWe store. He does. He’s patient, repeating the directions twice when I look a bit confused. Go to Friedrichstraße, walk upstairs to the S-Bahn, take that train to Zoologischer Garten.
Got it.
He’s not sure I completely understand him, so at Friedrichstraße he hesitantly moves toward me on the train. But I’m already on my feet, and thank him with a wave and a smile.
I am looking at my map again, wanting to take the connecting train in the right direction. A squat, grey-haired woman passes close on my left, stops and asks—in English—may I help you?
I reply—in German—yes, I am looking for Zoologischer. I’m proud of myself…until she switches to speaking to me in German and I have to stumble through the rest of it. She’s exceedingly kind though, and even compliments me on my attempts. We get on the same train, sit across from each other, and exit at the same station.
Have a good day, she says in English.
Thank you very much, I reply, also in English.
I’ve not quite remembered how to say “you too” auf Deutsch.
This is the first time that I’ve been to Zoologischer, having gotten to KaDaWe by Nollendorf Platz previously. Zoologischer is a madhouse, packed to the rafters with tourists browsing retailers that include The Body Shop and Tie Rack.
Boring.
I am excited to find a newsstand, though, and to buy an English-language newspaper, the first since my arrival. A bit of heaven, I tell you!
The first article I read is about the nationwide strike in Germany that is set to start on Monday. Well, that explains the protest march. I refrain from reading more, because I just want to get out of the station.
The street is no less packed. Crowds, crowds, crowds. And they aren’t calling for workers’ rights.
I stand on the corner with my map. Which way to KaDaWe? But my eye is caught by the municipal sign pointing to nearby tourist sites. That way to the sex museum? Whoa.
Beate Uhse’s Erotik Museum is nestled amid a gawdy neon-lit strip of shops hawking American hot dogs and round-the-clock porn. The first floor of the museum is actually a well-stocked sex shop. I’m the only woman there, amid a bevy of men looking for porn DVDs and new equipment. I’m a stand out, and I get my fair share of glances.
Maybe it’s the Nutella?
I resist the urge to slink out.
I have my ticket and I am up on the third floor starting point. The museum is dimly lit. I imagine being propositioned, and led into some corner. Unlikely, as the museum’s visitors, unlike the shoppers downstairs, take great pains to avoid eye-contact.
No, no, let’s focus on that large phallus over there instead.
The museum is an unfocused collection of erotic paraphernalia. There are marriage books, illustrated sex guides for new brides from 18th and 19th century Asia. There are glass snuff bottles delicately painted from the inside with frolicking maidens from 19th century Europe. There are statue-like drums with phallic-shaped sticks from Africa (I can’t recall the period).
Your museum of the cock and cunt as presented in statues, paintings, illustrations, toys, carvings, jewelry and more.
On the way out, I browse the special leather room and then the main toy shop. Dreaming…
The rest of the evening is anti-climatic. ;-)
I skip KaDaWe for a small bowl of goulash and a quick dash home. Irene and I are meeting for dinner, and I want to take a run around Kaisers to see if they have bacon.
They do.
I am home just long enough to put the food away, to discover and wash away the Nutella, and to turn on the television. Pimp My Ride is on. I love that show.
I convince Irene to sit for tea and the telly. She can’t believe I actually can stand Pimp My Ride. And she doesn’t bother to comment at all on the German version, Pimp My Whatever, where they do a complete makeover of a doghouse. It’s got a draw bridge and turrets.
We make out way to the local pan-Asian restaurant—where the cooking makes me tear up, it’s so spicy—and then go roaming for a simply coffeebar. We find a little nook just up the block from me.
Irene notices it immediately upon walking in.
Something’s weird, she says.
And then my gaydar goes off.
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