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.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
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.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Tea with a vodka chaser.
It’s Sunday morning, and I am to meet Martin at 10 a.m. at Café Morena, that hip little coffee bar/restaurant that I had blogged about before. He lives just blocks from there, and we had talked weeks ago about their great brunch. The plan is to enjoy a meal together and to then set off for my second day of Berlin sightseeing.
I am relying on my memory, so I leave the apartment with neither the address nor Martin’s cell phone number. But I am leaving early—about 45 minutes for what should be about a 20 minute walk. I figure that I will have time to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee on my own before he arrives.
Uh huh.
I am 40 minutes late. Forty.
That Martin is still there is a surprise. That he had refrained from eating until I arrived… Ouch.
I apologize profusely of course, even pulling out the map to show my Family Circus-like route and filling in details about the taxi drivers and random strangers I accosted with my question: Wissen Sie Café Morena?
That translates to “stupid lost American,” in case you’re guessing.
Martin is altogether gracious, but the breakfast is nonetheless strained. Some strangers are easier to talk to than others? Atop that, the waitress (or “kellnerin”) is on her own for this busy brunch…and appropriately cranky.
I hope the rest of the day offers a reprieve.
We finish up breakfast and head to Museum Island in Mitte. We are going to take the train, but I ask Martin if we can take a walking detour along Oranienstraße first. Jörn had mentioned to me that there might be a small games shop on the street but, as it is Sunday, most of the stores that Martin and I pass are closed.
We discover a beautiful Turkish spice shop though. It smells just heavenly, and all the spices and teas are artfully arranged in open wicker baskets. I buy a packet of chewing gum there that is just indefinable. I don’t mean this in a good way. Take your usual piece of gum, chew it for five days and the flavor that remains is what makes this gum.
Martin explains—after I’d already popped a piece in my mouth of course—that Turkish gum is known for being flavorless. Huh? I keep waiting for the flavor explosion, to reach some juicy sweet center that will justify the effort. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.
We make our way to Alexanderplatz station and walk the remaining distance to the Pergamon Museum.
My guide book says “if you see just one museum in Berlin, make it the Pergamon.” Glad to take that advice, as not even the Smithsonian can top this collection.
The central feature, beautifully described in my English audio tour, is the Pergamon Altar, a Greek temple with its ascending steps that has been reconstructed in the huge central hall. The reliefs that adorn the original temple hang here on the surrounding walls, each panel depicting some story of the battle between the giants and the gods.
Rather than attempt to explain the ancient history behind what I see, here’s a link to the Pergamon Museum entry in Wikipedia. Note the mention of other outstanding pieces in the Pergamon, namely the Ishtar Gate of Babylonia in the Middle Eastern collection and the Mschatta palace façade of their Islamic Art collection.
Between the morning’s walk and the extensive tour of the Pergamon, Martin and I are both ready to collapse. The Tajikiches Teestube that Jörn had introduced me to is just a couple of blocks away, so Martin and I make our way there for a late lunch/early dinner. We decide on the Russian tea ceremony—yummy with small cookies, candied citrus rind, a samowar of tea and, lol, a shot of vodka.
Balancing out all that sugar we add a delicious bowl of goulash. Highly recommended, and a nice finish to a cold day.
I am relying on my memory, so I leave the apartment with neither the address nor Martin’s cell phone number. But I am leaving early—about 45 minutes for what should be about a 20 minute walk. I figure that I will have time to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee on my own before he arrives.
Uh huh.
I am 40 minutes late. Forty.
That Martin is still there is a surprise. That he had refrained from eating until I arrived… Ouch.
I apologize profusely of course, even pulling out the map to show my Family Circus-like route and filling in details about the taxi drivers and random strangers I accosted with my question: Wissen Sie Café Morena?
That translates to “stupid lost American,” in case you’re guessing.
Martin is altogether gracious, but the breakfast is nonetheless strained. Some strangers are easier to talk to than others? Atop that, the waitress (or “kellnerin”) is on her own for this busy brunch…and appropriately cranky.
I hope the rest of the day offers a reprieve.
We finish up breakfast and head to Museum Island in Mitte. We are going to take the train, but I ask Martin if we can take a walking detour along Oranienstraße first. Jörn had mentioned to me that there might be a small games shop on the street but, as it is Sunday, most of the stores that Martin and I pass are closed.
We discover a beautiful Turkish spice shop though. It smells just heavenly, and all the spices and teas are artfully arranged in open wicker baskets. I buy a packet of chewing gum there that is just indefinable. I don’t mean this in a good way. Take your usual piece of gum, chew it for five days and the flavor that remains is what makes this gum.
Martin explains—after I’d already popped a piece in my mouth of course—that Turkish gum is known for being flavorless. Huh? I keep waiting for the flavor explosion, to reach some juicy sweet center that will justify the effort. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.
We make our way to Alexanderplatz station and walk the remaining distance to the Pergamon Museum.
My guide book says “if you see just one museum in Berlin, make it the Pergamon.” Glad to take that advice, as not even the Smithsonian can top this collection.
The central feature, beautifully described in my English audio tour, is the Pergamon Altar, a Greek temple with its ascending steps that has been reconstructed in the huge central hall. The reliefs that adorn the original temple hang here on the surrounding walls, each panel depicting some story of the battle between the giants and the gods.
Rather than attempt to explain the ancient history behind what I see, here’s a link to the Pergamon Museum entry in Wikipedia. Note the mention of other outstanding pieces in the Pergamon, namely the Ishtar Gate of Babylonia in the Middle Eastern collection and the Mschatta palace façade of their Islamic Art collection.
Between the morning’s walk and the extensive tour of the Pergamon, Martin and I are both ready to collapse. The Tajikiches Teestube that Jörn had introduced me to is just a couple of blocks away, so Martin and I make our way there for a late lunch/early dinner. We decide on the Russian tea ceremony—yummy with small cookies, candied citrus rind, a samowar of tea and, lol, a shot of vodka.
Balancing out all that sugar we add a delicious bowl of goulash. Highly recommended, and a nice finish to a cold day.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
No, it is not weakness.
I told Eckhart that our tour of Berlin couldn’t start until noon. I’m having folks over for games on Monday night, I said, and I need the morning to sweep the floors, wash laundry and otherwise get the apartment in order.
I spent it, instead, simply goofing off. A little reading here. Some music there.
Eckhart arrived on schedule, and bearing a little present. Pumpkin seed oil. He travels quite a bit for work, and he’s recently been to an area of Austria made famous for it. We’d talked about it briefly when we were together just a few days ago, but I am still surprised that he’d remembered. The oil has a strong nutty scent.
The day is not as cold as I had expected but I am nonetheless happy to skip the U-Bahn for a tour in his car. He points out landmarks as we speed down the city streets. Even in English it’s too much for my brain to absorb. It makes no sense to say it, but I feel it: there’s so much history here.
We pull over just past the Tiergarten station on Straße de 17 Juni. The street is the date of a significant uprising in East Germany that was quickly and brutally suppressed by Soviet troops. Other than the street’s name, there are no other monuments to mark the event. Instead, despite the gray day, there’s another street bazaar of sellers hawking books, art, antiques, jewelry, Soviet-themed pins…and food.
We have a tea scheduled in the afternoon, but I decide on a pretzel while Eckhart chooses a thing he calls “Schmaltz.” Is it really called that, I ask with a laugh. I try to explain the typical English usage of the term, while he tries to explain what it is. It’s a wide slice of German bread with fat smeared on it. Fat, I ask. Do you mean butter? No, fat. Duck fat. It’s very popular, he says. The seller generously salts it, folds it in half and hands it to him. Eckhart offers a bite. It’s disgusting. I take another bite anyway. He gobbles up the rest.
We drive back up the street a bit to see the Siegessäule, a towering monument topped by a golden winged angel of Victory. The Nazis had relocated the monument to this central place in the Tiergarten and, as Seán tells me later on the phone, one of their last battles was fought on either side of its base. Didn’t you see the bullet holes, Seán asks.
No. Instead, I focus my camera on the graffiti that covers nearly every inch of the grey-walled climb to the top. Someone plaintively scrawls “is it a kind of weakness to miss someone so much?”
It’s a steep climb, and it doesn’t have nearly the charming reward of the Völkerschlachtdenkmal of Leipzig. (Seán says it’s especially unpleasant in summer, when the heat of the day and suitably worn tourists merge into one overpowering stench.) Still, it is a beautiful view of Berlin. We encircle the angel’s feet, Eckhart pointing along the broad avenues that spike away from this center to Postdam, Mitte, and more.
I dutifully snap photos.
Our next stop is at the restaurant at the top of the Reichstag/Bundestag. That’s the parliament building, so being on time for our tea reservation means factoring in a security screening. We get back in the car, find parking within a reasonable distance, and slip-slide our way across the ice to the building. With the tea reservation, we bypass the larger tourist queue, thankfully. And the security checkpoint is surprisingly quick.
I learn a new word: Käfer. It’s the name of the restaurant and of the class of insects that includes the ladybug (or Mariankäfer), with which the napkins are appropriately dotted. Eckhart explains that Käfer is a well-known, family-owned restaurant out of Munich/München. And it's either Jörn or Irene who fills in later that the place caters to the Stars. I can imagine it. The simple onion and fennel soup is outstanding with a capital O. Even Eckhart who had said he wanted nothing more than dessert couldn’t stop himself from first sampling then spooning up the rest.
It’s much better than Schmaltz, so I don’t stop him.
My apple strudel is certainly much better than the one I shared with John in Leipzig, but it does have just the slightest hint of “refrigerator.” LOL, I am no food critic.
We take our time there in the quiet. We’re seated in the enclosed glass verandah and the view of Berlin all around is just beautiful.
When we finally do leave, it’s to walk through the much more stunning glass dome that sits atop the Reichstag. (Seán is quick to point out later that it’s the work of a famous British architect.) Well, kudos to the designer. It captures the light just perfectly. I learn another word. Sonnenuntergang. Sunset.
The light. The view. I laugh aloud, and Eckhart asks why.
Life is good, I reply.
Sehr.
I spent it, instead, simply goofing off. A little reading here. Some music there.
Eckhart arrived on schedule, and bearing a little present. Pumpkin seed oil. He travels quite a bit for work, and he’s recently been to an area of Austria made famous for it. We’d talked about it briefly when we were together just a few days ago, but I am still surprised that he’d remembered. The oil has a strong nutty scent.
The day is not as cold as I had expected but I am nonetheless happy to skip the U-Bahn for a tour in his car. He points out landmarks as we speed down the city streets. Even in English it’s too much for my brain to absorb. It makes no sense to say it, but I feel it: there’s so much history here.
We pull over just past the Tiergarten station on Straße de 17 Juni. The street is the date of a significant uprising in East Germany that was quickly and brutally suppressed by Soviet troops. Other than the street’s name, there are no other monuments to mark the event. Instead, despite the gray day, there’s another street bazaar of sellers hawking books, art, antiques, jewelry, Soviet-themed pins…and food.
We have a tea scheduled in the afternoon, but I decide on a pretzel while Eckhart chooses a thing he calls “Schmaltz.” Is it really called that, I ask with a laugh. I try to explain the typical English usage of the term, while he tries to explain what it is. It’s a wide slice of German bread with fat smeared on it. Fat, I ask. Do you mean butter? No, fat. Duck fat. It’s very popular, he says. The seller generously salts it, folds it in half and hands it to him. Eckhart offers a bite. It’s disgusting. I take another bite anyway. He gobbles up the rest.
We drive back up the street a bit to see the Siegessäule, a towering monument topped by a golden winged angel of Victory. The Nazis had relocated the monument to this central place in the Tiergarten and, as Seán tells me later on the phone, one of their last battles was fought on either side of its base. Didn’t you see the bullet holes, Seán asks.
No. Instead, I focus my camera on the graffiti that covers nearly every inch of the grey-walled climb to the top. Someone plaintively scrawls “is it a kind of weakness to miss someone so much?”
It’s a steep climb, and it doesn’t have nearly the charming reward of the Völkerschlachtdenkmal of Leipzig. (Seán says it’s especially unpleasant in summer, when the heat of the day and suitably worn tourists merge into one overpowering stench.) Still, it is a beautiful view of Berlin. We encircle the angel’s feet, Eckhart pointing along the broad avenues that spike away from this center to Postdam, Mitte, and more.
I dutifully snap photos.
Our next stop is at the restaurant at the top of the Reichstag/Bundestag. That’s the parliament building, so being on time for our tea reservation means factoring in a security screening. We get back in the car, find parking within a reasonable distance, and slip-slide our way across the ice to the building. With the tea reservation, we bypass the larger tourist queue, thankfully. And the security checkpoint is surprisingly quick.
I learn a new word: Käfer. It’s the name of the restaurant and of the class of insects that includes the ladybug (or Mariankäfer), with which the napkins are appropriately dotted. Eckhart explains that Käfer is a well-known, family-owned restaurant out of Munich/München. And it's either Jörn or Irene who fills in later that the place caters to the Stars. I can imagine it. The simple onion and fennel soup is outstanding with a capital O. Even Eckhart who had said he wanted nothing more than dessert couldn’t stop himself from first sampling then spooning up the rest.
It’s much better than Schmaltz, so I don’t stop him.
My apple strudel is certainly much better than the one I shared with John in Leipzig, but it does have just the slightest hint of “refrigerator.” LOL, I am no food critic.
We take our time there in the quiet. We’re seated in the enclosed glass verandah and the view of Berlin all around is just beautiful.
When we finally do leave, it’s to walk through the much more stunning glass dome that sits atop the Reichstag. (Seán is quick to point out later that it’s the work of a famous British architect.) Well, kudos to the designer. It captures the light just perfectly. I learn another word. Sonnenuntergang. Sunset.
The light. The view. I laugh aloud, and Eckhart asks why.
Life is good, I reply.
Sehr.
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