Tammi Travels

TrammiTravels travels!

2008-11-05T11:09:00.001+01:00

Please visit my new blog site at ~~http://tammitravels.wordpress.com~~ www.yourswithbutter.com

I'm not an elitist, but I embrace my racism

2008-05-08T23:24:00.000+02:00

Wow.

Wow.

"I have a much broader base to build a winning coalition on," she [Hillary Clinton] said in an interview with USA TODAY. As evidence, Clinton cited an Associated Press article "that found how Sen. Obama's support among working, hard-working Americans, white Americans, is weakening again, and how whites in both states who had not completed college were supporting me."

"There's a pattern emerging here," she said.

It's 1 a.m. and I have been sitting with this one for a while now.

WTF.

The Pillory for Billary

2008-01-27T09:44:00.000+01:00

Imagine, if you will, that a prominent corporation is holding final talks for its CEO position and one of the leading applicants invites her spouse to speak on her behalf at the last interview.

Welcome to the "Billary" campaign for Brand America.

To whomever coined the Billary term, my nod for the apt neologism. It should be a place of shame and public scorn -- for the Hillary Clinton campaign specifically and for women in politics in general -- that Frau Clinton cannot run a campaign for the most influential position in world politics without her husband holding solo press conferences that snipe at her political opponent.

In Monday's ABC Morning News interview, Obama responds, "You know the former president, who I think all of us have a lot of regard for, has taken his advocacy on behalf of his wife to a level that I think is pretty troubling."

That's an understatement.

There's no doubt that President Clinton's time on the campaign trail has directly influenced the race. Indeed, CNN reports that yesterday's exit polling in South Carolina may have created a net negative effect that handed the state to Obama. And one Charleston reporter for the Sunday Times went so far as to say "Bill Clinton’s emergence as the leading attack dog for his wife raises the vexing question of whether Hillary can win and govern without him."

...a position that the Republican Party will be sure to exploit should Billary win the Democratic nomination.

Disturbingly, Frau Clinton's campaign remains not only unapologetic but defensive of President Clinton's meddling.

Enough already!

It is either time to put "Billary" aside and have Hilary Clinton re-emerge as a qualified candidate on her own merits or for Democratic voters to decide that she evidently doesn't have what it takes to become President of the United States of America.

--

Bonus link: Bill Clinton says, "Screw it. I'm in." (The Onion, 23 Jan 2008)

It's been 2 years

2008-01-05T01:09:00.000+01:00

...and Berlin still holds me close. Do I dare leave? Even for a moment?

Homeward I go.

Home.

Where is that exactly?

Just 30 more days and I will fly back for my first visit in two fleet-footed years. I've seen Amsterdam again in the time since. And both Begur and Barcelona, although I neglected to blog of it.

But heading back for three weeks in D.C. seems practically unreal. How could I have been away for so long?

How can it be that as quickly as I will arrive, I will be gone again.

Friends here occasionally ask me what I miss.

Well, it sure ain't politics. (Although seeing Hilary Clinton eat crow on CNN in the post-Iowa fallout sure felt nice.)

I miss veggie burgers at the American City Diner with Vicki. Chocolate bread pudding, tofu-avocado salad, Tex-Mex-Salvadoran... And just yesterday, Meg, Kathy and I were chatting about RT's and the best calamari in town.

It will be a food tour!

And, no doubt, I will be craving a Berliner Currywurst by the time it is all done.

It's nearly 1:30 a.m. here. Alex comes tomorrow and we will paint my kitchen wall into a big ol' magnetized chalkboard. (Maybe that's it: Home is Where the Paint Is.)

Time for bed.

See you all soon.

No, no, really.

Soon.

---

P.S. I miss you too.

Two years and I am still very much

Yours.

Dumb-Ass Dobbs

2007-11-07T12:20:00.000+01:00

It is unfortunate that I must torture myself with watching the news at breakfast, of course. And especially in these months and days counting down to a U.S. presidential election. But torture myself I do, and this morning with Larry King Live on CNN. Larry was speaking last night with Lou Dobbs, re-Christened here to the more appropriate name DAD, who is shilling his "Independence Day: The Awakening of the American Spirit.”*

But back to CNN.

DAD wants to pass on his wisdom to the U.S. public.

Oh?

Here’s just a few gems of that Dobbs would like CNN viewers to believe.

On Governor Eliot Spitzer’s initiative to have only legally licensed drivers on New York streets, including undocumented immigrants, Dobbs: “What is the purpose of an American driver's license? It's de facto citizenship.”

For those of you not familiar with the process, USA.gov clarifies that “a U.S. driver's license is not a federal document, but it's a permit issued by one of the 50 states' motor vehicle departments.”

Wow. I bet any immigrant applying for a U.S. green card knows the difference between citizenship and a driver’s test, so why not you, DAD?

On the state of education in the U.S., Dobbs: “Almost half of the black students in the country are dropping out of high school.”

I am sure this will be a matter of surprise for the U.S. Department of Education, whose most current statistics show 10.4 percent for blacks and 6.0 percent for whites.

From whom are you getting your information, DAD? The Klan?

On his detractors, Dobbs: “The fact of the matter is I have tried to bring rationality -- despite the accusations of xenophobia, racism, nonsense…”

How could we ever doubt you, DAD?

--
* I am hyperlinking DAD's book to the Noam Chomsky website to better awaken my fellow Americans. (You're welcome.)

I expect better, Obama!

2007-10-24T17:07:00.000+02:00

Vicki sent me a WTF message today on the McClurkin-Obama controversy. As the queer press is spinning it, the Obama campaign has gotten into bed with an anti-gay gospel singer. I would love to believe differently but, yeah Vicki, my own mini-research backs it up. Dang. WTF.

So I have some some questions for my fellow Obama supporters.

1) Why a gospel tour at all? We Black folks listen to all kinds of music, and gospel is the least of it these days. What's with the religious pandering?

2) And what's with the Obama staff's lack of oversight? In the Google era, surely the Obama team could have read about his views in advance and averted this disaster by not inviting him along at all.

3) Why not admit fault? Gaffs will occur, but I cannot believe that the Obama team is willing to endure this crisis rather than simply ask this man to step aside. If McClurkin's as supportive of the Obama campaign as he insists in today's press, certainly he would choose to step aside for the greater good of the campaign?

To which, McClurkin states in today's paper that he is not anti-gay. I went back to his piece in Charisma Magazine, and can only note that he's mincing words (i.e. "God hates the sin, not the sinner.") I've been there as a Christian, and know that this place of pity is not the same as supporting a LGBT rights agenda.

Here's a clip from the article:

"These tendencies surfaced because a broken man thrust an 8-year-old boy into this whirlwind. Thus my first sexual relationship was with a man. Before I could ever know the purpose or pleasure of a woman, have my first date or even my first kiss, the wound was inflicted, and the seed was planted."

Before you go all liberal with this "he's just talking about his own experience" stuff, let's clarify that he's hooked "a message" onto this experience for his fellow Christians.

"There may be some who will read this and resent some of the statements made about homosexuality. I understand. Some have no desire to change this lifestyle. But there are countless numbers of people who are not happy in this lifestyle and want to be freed from it...For them, I write this without apology, knowing that I've been through this and have experienced God's power to change my lifestyle. I believed that I was meant to be a whole man, made for one woman, and God brought it all about. I am delivered, and I know God can deliver others too."

McClurkin wrote a book with this same message, by the way.

McClurkin sees those "in the lifestyle" as broken people, abused and in need of healing just as he was. While I understand and support his quest to understand the affect of his rape on his sexual development, the message of "gays are broken and should be delivered by God from their sin" has given succor to the hatemongers (including Our Dear Idiot, Mr. Bush).

And, hey, this idea that violence turns victims from their real sexual orientation should be scoffed at. Indeed, you Andrea Dworkin fans notwithstanding, I think we can all agree that the Obama campaign would (and should) run from someone who'd issue a statement like that on the origins of female heterosexuality.

To which, let's rightfully ask the Obama campaign why they believe defending this performer under the "Embrace the Change" banner makes sense.

---

Related: Nooses in the news. WTF.

Voices

2007-08-01T12:24:00.000+02:00

On 7/29/07, Tammi L. Coles wrote:

Raining men here, metaphorically and literally.
Was with Thomas this morning at his place when
we heard a loud crashing of glass, a scream, a thud
and then more screaming. A man had fallen (or
jumped?) from a fourth floor window. I stroked his
back until the ambulance crew arrived, trying to keep
him calm. Thomas and I were both pretty shaken
thereafter. Not even 7:30 in the morning, and hard to
return to sleep.

At least it was dry then, and I didn't have to see the
rain carry his blood about the ground. Pouring cats
and dogs now.

Copying this to Nielsy because how many times do I want
to tell that story?? For the blog? ((shudder))

Miss you both.

Tammi

---

8/1/07

The neighbors have been talking. They remember us in the courtyard with the police, the blood and our fallen man. They come to Thomas for news and to offer... what can they do exactly?

His friend finally brings news. The hospital. His legs. An induced coma. But what we want to know is

Why? asks Thomas.
Why?

Voices, said the friend. He suffers from schizophrenia had stopped taking his medication. He was hearing voices and, speculates the friend, wanted them to stop.

Balcony daze, part two

2007-06-11T20:00:00.000+02:00

I never get sick, Adam said, snuffling and sneezing about the office. I watched him carefully: where he put his hand on the doorknob, the way he held the phone...

My body fought it for most of the weekend. But late on Sunday afternoon I fell into Griebnitzee, and climbed out, laughing, in my soaking sundress. Maybe that was enough. (But, oh, What a glorious day we had!)

So I am home sick. And without "the nighttime sneezing, sniffling, stuffy head, fever, so you can rest medicine" of good ol' American television to keep me company.

Still, I have my memories of a wonderful weekend. A kick-ass Modest Mouse concert on Thursday night with Niels and Julian, crowned by sex on the balcony in the late cool air. Then the six of us -- Julian, Jill, Rossi, Steffi, Horst, and I -- crowded out there on Friday night, laughing and drinking and making right idiots of ourselves. Saturday's race from the crowded Freibad Pankow with Stephanie, landing just moments before the rain shower at her favorite chocolate cafe. Mmmm. Kakao. Fantastic. The so-late-it's-dawn of Sunday morning, leaning against Julian in the queue for the Berghain before finally giving in to our exhaustion and cycling home. Later, in the heat of the day, kayaking on the lake -- oh the lake! -- with Nils and Jenny, whom I met the same day. Afterwards, a late night of relaxing with Wendy, David, and Julian at the Angus on Kreuzbergstrasse.

Even worn, sore and ill, I couldn't resist the balcony this morning. I've planted flowers and herbs -- Niels even pointed out my very first tomato. Wunderbar.

P.S. to Julian: are we there yet?

Square Muffin

2007-05-09T09:01:00.000+02:00

Mark, Sara, Robert and I had a routine of it: an early swim at the downtown Y, followed by breakfast at our usual hangout, then making our way to work.

There is something in routine alone that is the essence of love.

So when Sara asked what I wanted her to bring from Washington, I joked and said, why, a square muffin!

Not only did she pack me a muffin, she brought me a card signed with good wishes by the familiar faces of those places. From Keith, who works the gym's front desk. From the owner of the City Place cafe. (We called it "the Square Muffin place.") Even Pat, the woman who worked the desk of the women's locker room, signed.

Man, I still remember the argument we'd had over that bottle of shampoo...

Did I mention that the square muffin place makes them round now?

ROUND.

Sweet and tasty nonetheless.

The 300 Left? No thanks, Mr. Zizek.

2007-05-07T11:11:00.000+02:00

Regarding "The True Hollywood Left" by Slavoj Zizek in which he defends the film 300 against critics who decried its fascist ideas.

What most frustrates me about the Zizek piece is what frustrates me in general about the rationale of militarism: it suggests that warfare is as right a path to freedom (or better) as any other means. It refuses to look at the consequences of militarism: a circumscribed freedom (of constant suspicion of treachery, of the suppression of dissent and democratic processes, of borders and related identities), structures that continue to place us on the path to "needing" militarism and violence to "defend" our rights (enslavement to weaponry and armies, for example), and the ready dismissal of discourse and negotiation as first or even penultimate choices for defending freedom.

This argument refuses to acknowledge that because militarism MUST be "us versus them" to achieve its goals it is the rationale of the mob. As such, however well-organized under charismatic leadership, it is fundamentally contrary to humanity's real potential for freedom.

Zizek also refuses to see in THIS depiction of militarism the very nature of race and male supremacy. Come on, 300 makes no bones about this: it is rippling-abs male and gleaming white. Is this the idea of freedom that should be "thoroughly defended"? Not only did 300 ridicule any femininity outside of male control -- including homosexuality/homoeroticism -- it framed it within the other classic Western symbols of "weakness" and "evil" (dark skin, turbans, disability).

And although Zizek sees the U.S. in 300's Persia, there is nothing to support it within the current or past political reality of U.S. politics. What "multiculturalist different-lifestyles paradise" is he talking about? It is certainly not the one that *I* know nor that of the Bush White House.

No, no, the critics of 300 are right on target: the film is saying that if we don't defend our (male-dominated, white) freedom, THIS (brown, female, same-gender loving) is what we can fear to become.

The Left need not reclaim these values to win the war for humanity. It is this militarist model of living that has brought us to this place of increasing commodification, continuing disenfranchisement, and environmental destruction. There is plenty of pain, discipline and sacrifice that comes with imagining a different kind of world without smug claims that the Left simply needs to get behind what is at its most basic "might equals right."

-- Tammi

P.S. Don't remind me that the film LOOKED GOOD, Niels. :P

P.P.S. to Jill and Andreas: we were right.

--
Bonus link: video interview of artist, activist and restaurant entrepreneur Andy Shallal on his murals depicting nonviolent social justice struggles. I have seen his work myself at Busboys & Poets. Many thanks to Angelyn for the link.

Freedom Fries, redux

2007-04-04T08:59:00.000+02:00

So I am listening to the BBC this morning and hear that the U.S. plans to investigate an official at the French company, TOTAL, over dealings with Iran. The BBC news guy -- don't know his name but he looks like the actor Rupert Everett -- says, with a straight face, quote,

"bribing foreign officials has been illegal under U.S. law since 1977."

Wow. Really?

Let's all commend the Security and Exchange Commission and the Department of Justice for their steadfast and unbiased anti-corruption initiatives into the dealings of foreign corporations. And let's not forget to applaud the BBC for this stellar example of muckraking journalism.

Sigh.

I am not sure which is worse, readers:

(1) That I am so jaded that I want to re-write that as "bribing foreign officials...public policy since the dawn of government."

(2) That even after the last bring-us-war lies were revealed, the U.S. government still plays its citizens for suckers. I mean, think of the decision on this: "Cool! A Frenchie in Iran! Let's do it!"

(3) That the Rupert look-alike didn't start gagging on air because that was a really fucking foul line to read aloud and call "news."

---

Bonus link 14 Apr: If you haven't already discovered the wonders of Mark Fiore's political animation, check out his classic gem on Looting!

What if God was one of us...and had office hours?

2007-04-03T09:31:00.000+02:00

From Vicki, this morning's humor: Barack Obama cast as Jesus by a student artist, generating calls to his art school (good and bad) and the candidate actually having to "distance" himself from the artist.

Jesus.

So George W. Bush can claim to be God's avenging angel, but a 24 year old can create derivative art and make the Democratic Party nervous?

I mean, the Obama campaign spokeswoman actually felt compelled to say

...we respect First Amendment rights and don't think the artist was trying to be offensive...

Good lord.

And just in time for the Easter Bunny, same article:

The piece [on Obama] comes amid Catholic outrage in New York that led to an art gallery canceling an exhibit featuring a nude 6-foot-tall, anatomically correct chocolate sculpture of Jesus Christ.

That's outrageous?

I am mounting a public campaign to ask that Holy Father Benedict XVI issue an edict demanding churches cancel their Easter Egg Hunts immediately. No more associating chocolate, bunnies, searches through the grass and good family times with the CRUCIFIXION.

Join my campaign! Please write your request IN LATIN to

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI
Apostolic Palace
VATICAN CITY

or via e-mail benedictxvi@vatican.va

Dating auf Deutsch

2007-03-21T11:22:00.000+01:00

Thomas ducks into a hair salon to ask. I stand outside with our bikes, looking around to see if, by some chance, we've simply missed the sign. It doesn't take too long though before he is back out on the curb with a stylist. She's pointing, but her German is too fast for me to follow. I catch "across the street" and "first floor." And, really, that's enough.

As it turns out, there is no sign to miss. Just a simple buzzer among many. Very discreet.

Münzsalon.

We are buzzed into the ground floor. I am immediately impressed by the grandeur of the building. The carvings along the ceiling are ornate enough to be readily distinguished from the regulation style buildings typical of post-World War II Berlin. And the dark wood of the banister – smooth as silk under my stroking fingers – is, I think, rich enough to smell.

We climb to the first floor and our door. It is broad, thick and, like the buzzer downstairs, unmarked. Thomas fumbles a bit with the knob. Locked. But it’s the signal, I suppose, that the attendants are waiting for.

The door swings open to a crowded, narrow fork in the hall, spreading left and right like wide open arms.

One of the attendants ushers us in. The other shuffles a list at a softly lit hostess stand.

Name?

Thomas is taken aback. I take a guess that this is the first he's heard of the need for a reservation.

There's a guest list?

So much for the reading.

But whether it’s the clutch of people all pressing into the door with their ready names, the others who are busily shedding their jackets to get out of the way or my crestfallen look, the attendant decides to ignore our oversight and waves us on.

The interior of the Münzsalon is as impressive as the ground floor entry, with expansive floors and high ceilings throughout. But the rooms are studies in alternate periods of interior design.

One room has the feel of a 1950s library on a Hollywood set. It's all dark wood and leather furniture. Guests lounging in their easy, relaxed poses. Cigarettes between practiced fingers and lips.

The main room, in contrast, is chic in a modernistic style. Low black furniture, long and sleek without ornamentation. The ceiling lights neither draping chandeliers nor recessed sockets but bold, black fabric rings with radiating metal spokes.

Throughout is the clatter of plates, the tinkle of glass and the low voices of guests taking their seats.

Thomas and I, our beer and wine in hand, settle back against our comfortably soft, black booth at the front of the room. Three others – two young women and a man – squeeze in on our right. The reader takes her place in a booth just to our left. She has a small reading lamp, a glass of water and a large printout of her script.

In short order, the mistress of ceremonies comes forward to introduce the reader, the author and the night's events. It is all in German, so I strain to understand. The night's reading will be the German translation of "Apfel, Huhn und Puschkin" by the Russian author, Julia Belomlinskaja. The reading will be augmented by a soundtrack as well as images played against the wall behind the reader. Afterwards, the author herself will sing some Russian folk songs to us.

I think that is what she said.

Our mistress is seated for no more than a brief moment before the author rises to address the crowd. She knows very little German, so speaks to us in a broken and heavily-accented English.

I, of course, understand every word she says. More so than I did the far more eloquently delivered German introduction. And I understand more than enough to convey to Thomas – with certainty but in, no doubt, my broken and heavily-accented German – that the woman is frankly zany.

Her "verrückt-ness" is an asset to the book. I lose myself in both the reader's evocative delivery and in the story itself, of a Saint Petersburg woman who has immigrated to good ol' New York, New York.

And we are a part of it.

Of the gossipy neighborhood girlfriends. Of the crowded skyline. Of the musicians playing their souls out on the streets.

The reader shuts off her light to let the music of the scene play. There is an abstract sax player on the screen and he is covering Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World.

The reader drops a coin into a theatre-prop cup. Clink! The author then leaps up and makes a grand show of putting in a dollar.

Thomas laces his fingers in mine.

Red Sweater Days

2007-03-15T11:33:00.000+01:00

March 3

Jessica swears that Julian and I were salivating, and she was disgusted. Less because of our drooling (we were not!) but because the object of our attention was wearing unattractive baggy rolled up jeans with that oh-so-flattering red sweater. I mean, how COULD we ignore the jeans?

I had never heard of Au Revoir Simone before, this girlband out of Brooklyn, New York with their three keyboards, flower-power long hair and what Julian describes as their "soft-focus" sound. But Jessica and I have been out to quite a few music events in just the past couple of months, and I've come to trust Julian's music taste (and those of his friends, by extension).

So off to Bastard we go.

Bastard is a tight little club space in Prenzlauer Berg, on the hip Kastanienallee and next to the equally well-known Prater Garten.

At least, it is well known to some. When Ingo suggests we meet there just the night before, I sound like a hick with my "where's THAT?" cluelessness.

It turns out that I had been there once before for a drum-n-bass dance night with my coworkers. Um, I will censor out the events of that evening to protect the not-so-innocent. Let me just leave it with "good times were had by all."

Bastard had a nice little club feel when I was there then. But tonight, it is packed wall-to-wall with people out to hear Au Revoir Simone. Maybe some were also there for the opening act: a too-cool-for-school Berlin group called I Might Be Wrong. Baggier jeans, Beatles-style hair cuts and a singer who refuses (simply REFUSES) to smile. (She read somewhere that smiling is NEVER cool.)

The babes of Simone must have skipped that lesson. Thank god. And Ms. Red Sweater doesn't just smile.

She beams.

Drooling or not, Julian and I enjoy every minute of the spring-day-and-bubble-gum sound of our winsome threesome. It is not that all the songs are light-hearted. The song they dedicate to their "best friend in Berlin" is about a breakup.

They apologize for that, which makes me laugh.

Jessica rolls her eyes.

---

March 14

Jessica is teaching an English class tonight, so it is just Julian and me at the Lido for Console. Neither of us had been to the Lido before, but it is just one block from my favorite Italian restaurant on Schlesisches Strasse and, after dinner, Martin walks us there.

I have walked past this place a hundred times and not seen it, I exclaim.

Well, they are not always open, Martin coolly replies.

The Lido is not Bastard, thank goodness. Although brimming with people, there is still room to breath. (And, later, I'll find, to twist and shout.) While not exactly cavernous, the room's high ceilings suggest an almost dreamy vastness.

When Console starts, that's what I do. I close my eyes. Dream. I imagine then that I will open my eyes to a room emptied of people. Ok, maybe a sole bartender remains. And the heat of all those bodies still radiate. But the flesh -- of guests, band, and even Julian -- is swept away like so many sand castles on the shore.

It is just me, the vastness and the gentle pull of the music.

It helps that Console leads with a couple of tracks that are heady like that. But they don't stay there. I am back in the filled hall, Julian is near, and the music is throb throb throbbing. A few people hold out-- stare at the stage, listen intently, drink their beers.

But the rest of us are caught in the flow. A turning, dipping, whirling mess of our sweat and cries.

What joy this!

And I know it. Just know it.

The walls are pulsing.

This is my prayer.

2007-03-08T09:36:00.000+01:00

The Kit Kat Club is having their 13th anniversary celebration this coming Saturday. If it is at all like the Hustler Ball event that I attended during Richard's visit, it should be FANTASTIC.

(Oh Niels, will I ever say that word again without hearing YOU say it?)

Speaking of which, Rob P. says that he will come along on Saturday and sent this FANTASTIC poem by Ruth L. Schwartz with his reply. My pleasure to share it with you.

Oh God, Fuck me
by Ruth L. Schwartz

Fuck me, oh god, with ordinary things
the things you love best in the world -

like trees in spring, exposing themselves,
flashing leaf buds so firm and swollen

I want to take them in my mouth.
Speaking of trees, fuck me with birds

say, an enormous raucous crow,
proud as a man with his hands down his pants,

and then a sparrow, intimately brown,
discreet and cautious as a concubine.

Fuck me with my kitchen faucet, dripping
like a nymphomaniac,

all night slowly filling and filling,
then overflowing the bowls in the sink

and with the downstairs neighbour's vacuum,
that great sucking noisy dragon

making the dirty come clean.
Fuck me with breakfast, with English muffins

the spirit of the dough aroused
by browning, thrilled by buttering

Fuck me with orange juice,
its concentrated sweetness,

which makes the mouth as happy as summer
leaves sweet flecks of foam like spit

along the inside of the glass.
Fuck me with coffee, strong and hot,

and then with cream poured into coffee
blossoming like mushroom clouds,

opening like parachutes.
Fuck me with the ticking

clock, which is the ticking
bomb, which is the ticking heart -

the heart we heard in the first months,
in the original nakedness,

before we were squalling and born.
Fuck me with the unwashed spoon

proud with its coffee stain -
the faint swirl of a useful life

pooled into its center, round as a world.

P.S. To a certain someone who is reading this blog: shhhhh... Your mouth is a tomb, remember? ;-)

Schreit wie am spieß

2007-02-15T00:40:00.000+01:00

Welcome to the 2007 edition of getting to know your friends. What you are supposed to do is copy (not forward) this entire e-mail and paste it onto a new e-mail that you'll send. Change all the answers so they apply to you, and then send this to a whole bunch of people including the person who sent it to you. Put your name in the subject line. The theory is that you will learn a lot of little things about your friends, if you did not know them already.

1. What time is it: 12:13 AM CET

2. What time did you get up this morning? Can't remember, but there was a headache in there...

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Scott Walker: 30 Century Man. A documentary at the Berlinale. Um, seeing a percussionist pound meat for "the right sound" is just what I expect of art films.

4. What is your favorite TV show? Don't have one because I HAVE A LIFE. Wait, then why am I answering this...

5. What did you have for breakfast? Skipped it today, but had a nice lunch with Wendy. Did we really talk about sex clubs or was I fantasizing again?

6. What is your middle name? Rhymes with navel. Ok, not really...

7. What is your favorite cuisine? East Asian, whatever it is.

8. What foods do you dislike? Things that are still moving...and percussionist-pounded meat.

9. Your favorite chips? People have favorites?

10. What is your favorite CD? Of all time or now? Hm. Maybe ABBA? "If you change your mind, I'm the first in line... " Kidding!

11. What kind of car do you drive? It's called PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION. Leave the U.S., and you will love it too.

12. Favorite sandwich? Eggs and cheese on wheat.

13. What are characteristics you can't stand? Hypocrisy, lack of self-awareness and control of the White House.

14. What are your favorite clothes? Whatever it is, it is probably black...or no clothes at all.

15. If you could go anywhere on vacation, where would it be? Does "from my own thoughts" count?

49. What time did you finish this e-mail? 12:40, but that's because I got into a long conversation with Vicki who called to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day and catch me up on figure skating news. And because I skipped questions 15-48. Oh, and 50 ain't happening either.

Doug, for the love of god, just don't ever send one of these again.

Man, are you gonna fry...

2007-02-08T18:11:00.000+01:00

And in my continuing coverage of the fall of the (former) pastor Ted Haggard, right-wing zealot and full-time hypocrite, this gem from the New York Times:

[clip]
Forced by a gay sex scandal to resign as president of the National Association of Evangelicals, the Rev. Ted Haggard now feels that after three weeks of intensive counseling, he is “completely heterosexual,”...
[/clip]

After a one-night intensive course in ass-fucking, I am sure everything will be fine again.

Let's all thank God for that, shall we?

I know I am.

The Devil Wears Prada...but only authentic Prada.

2007-01-30T08:46:00.000+01:00

Okay, so I posted the other day about high-end urinal sales in the states, as found in the Most E-Mailed article list of the New York Times. I was still shaking my head over that one, when...

This morning at #1 on the Washington Post site: "Virginia Men Face U.S. Trial In Peddling of Phony Purses." It seems that a "purse party" goer got suspicious when those Hermes handbags selling for $19.99 seemed too good to be true.

[snip]

The trial in one of the nation's largest counterfeiting prosecutions will feature testimony from representatives of Gucci, Kate Spade and other leading designer labels, according to court documents. Exhibit A will be a sampling of hundreds of purses, hauled into the courtroom one box at a time.

The case is bringing scrutiny to a widespread problem that has been publicly visible for years: trafficking in handbags...

[/snip]

Trafficking.
In handbags.

When I think of all those well-heeled women perched on the witness stand or scattered throughout the audience, decrying the exploitation wrought against Fendi, Chanel, Coach and Louis Vuitton, I want to...I want to...

OH GOD THE HORROR!!!!

I mean, where else can a child worker from Latin America have her 8 cents per day work praised as it should be if not in the hands of a real appreciator of Haute Couture?

I mean, what has the world come to?

---

Are you also trapped in the Matrix? Today's bonus link: a different perspective on the world of fashion as brought to you by the National Labor Committee, www.nlcnet.org.

For the High-End Bathroom, Something Reeks

2007-01-27T10:42:00.000+01:00

Although living in Germany has given me some reprieve from the aggressive onslaught of political news and advertising in Washington, D.C., I still make a point of reading the Washington Post and New York Times online almost daily. (Think "Tammi's LaLaLand," but with updates on the insanity of the world.)

The NYT has a feature tracking the articles that are most popular among the site's "hey, you gotta read this" set. This Top 10 list usually offers up a curious mix from science and technology innovation to lurid accounts of the entertainment business.

Today at No. 6: an article on luxury urinals.

That's right, URINALS.

According to the interviews and research conducted by freelance writer, Suzanne Gannon, urinals are going upscale. Bathroom fixture companies, like Germany's own Duravit (see photo), have found that home owners in the U.S. are now willing to shell out $1,000 for off-the-shelf models that are slightly improved over the baseball stadium variety.

Motion sensors! Infrared-triggered flush!

Some wealthier patrons, according to Ms. Gannon, are even willing to pay $10,000 for specially commissioned "one-of-a-kind" urinals (in attractive floral designs no less).

No offense to the (genius!) artist who came up with this (brilliant!) idea, but

W T F.

I can imagine plenty of things that we po' folk could do with $10,000. The retirement of school loan debt. Vacation travel with family and friends. Donations to victims of natural disasters.

Or, hey, how about even $10,000 for the the Fox News "soldier of the day" whose crusade to get basic sleeping mats for he and his fellow soldiers has been turned into a hate campaign against a Pakistani mattress store whose employee dared to suggest that, no, it would be better for you to leave Iraq.

The terrorist!

Want your guests WOWed and ASTOUNDED by the one spot where they can (at least symbolically) piss on you and your priorities? Yeah, available in the good old U.S. of fucking A.

And, um, p.s. to the Duravit employees in Hornberg, Germany, who go to a giant toilet each day for work. It's often like that for the rest of us, just not so obvious.

Bonus link of the day: The World Toilet Organization. Sign up now for World Toilet College!

The letter

2007-01-26T11:47:00.000+01:00

Kim happened to write me THE SAME DAY, also asking for your address. I sent that along in a separate e-mail to you both. Do drop her a line. She is going through a bit of a rough spell (finishing graduate school, boy trouble). Although you've been out of touch for a while, I hope this is a good time to reconnect.

I am right now sitting at 100Wasser, a cafe named after a famous German architect (Hundertwasser). Do you know him? Google his name for examples of his work.

Hm. I just did. Friedensreich Hundertwasser. Turns out he's not even German, but Austrian. Lordy.

I had never heard of him before moving to Berlin although this is, admittedly, more a reflection of my cluelessness about architects in general rather than German (or Austrian) architects specifically.

Are you still doing those architectural tours of Chicago?

Right now, I am enjoying my "farmer's breakfast," an omelette of potatoes, bacon, vegetables and onions. It is snowing like a scene from a Christmas Carol, so it's also a pleasant time to write. I wouldn't mind more bacon though.

Things for me are well. Work is going well (although the pay is nothing I would have accepted in the U.S.) and my base of friends grows.

Last night, I was out with Jennifer, a fellow American feminist who escaped (as she says it) from the U.S. just one week before the Sept 11th attacks. We were joined by my politically-disinterested but quite-the-hottie coworker, Markus. He looks a bit like one of the elves from Lord of the Rings. Tall, blond and with strong features. The very Aryan of Hitler's warped dreams, I suppose.

We talked quite a bit about movies, mainly horror and sci-fi. I got to finally confess my desire to be a vampire (the clothes! living for ever! sexy neck bites!). Jennifer was disgusted. "Besides," she reminds us, "I'm a vegetarian."

I want to write movie scripts with moments like that.

Mind you, Jennifer loves horror movies, and the more gore, the better. She has read feminist analysis on it though. :)

You would like her.

On blood and such, glad to hear that you are recovering from the idiocy of our fellow humans. I met a runner here who was hit by a motorist who, like yours, wanted to sue him for the damage to his car. WTF. I can only wonder what planet people like that live on, where human casualty, dismemberment or disabling is deemed less important than some factory-manufactured part. (Um, it is THIS planet, and I am just frickin' naive.)

I can identify the click of a lighter now without even turning around. Smokers.

Of course, 100Wasser *has* created a new non-smoking section, but my laptop battery has been on the fritz and the sole plug in this Internet-ready place is in the smokers section. Still, this IS progress in Germany. I think I heard that it is the #1 smoking capital of Europe. (Heard it from the friend of a friend of a friend who...)

Anyway, sorry to hear that the parents made the final break. I suppose your mum is doing ok? How are things with your dad? Are the siblings well? Do say hello for me.

And what's this about a vandalized locker? The dissolution of a friendship? A year of hell?

I am WOEFULLY out of the loop here, and I am sorry. You're right that e-mail is substandard for maintaining the intimacy of friendship. It doesn't help that I don't enjoy talking on the phone that much. (Some people would laugh to hear me say that, but it's true.) In any case, your phone number disappeared into my dead Palm Pilot. Send it again. There is no reason that we cannot actually make time and gab like we're sitting on a couch together.

To which, Kim says that she might want to visit in August or September. What about you? Maybe we can do a Wild Women's Tour of Europe (yes, all in Title Case, as it deserves). Think cocktails, smart clubs and German landscapes made even more beautiful by Summer.

And, if we're lucky, the clothes! living forever! sexy neck bites!

Your silly friend,

Tammi

The new bra

2007-01-22T08:44:00.000+01:00

So when we were together last week, I was wearing a new bra and panty set. Funnily enough, you made a comment about my previous purchase of a dress. Like "why would you buy something that makes your tits look great when I am not around to notice."

You didn't notice the bra. And, damn, I looked good.

Okay, okay, we were in the living room and it was dark. And, jaja, I didn't stop you to say "hey, clueless man, look!" (Although I did try to take my clothes off slowly...)

But, and in light of our "burlap bag" talk of some time ago, I have changed my mind on that strategy.

I bought two bra sets. One in black and one in a deep blue. Cute things with lace trim. I was excited when I bought them. I will leave you to interpret what I mean by that.

For our next date, choose the color you want me to wear. Again, your choices are black and blue. Then, please, take a moment to compliment (even if all you want to do is "get to the good bits.")

I hope this public notice helps.

Stumbling in RL

2007-01-21T17:39:00.000+01:00

StumbleUpon is a nifty little program really, the double-click 'Net answer to channel surfing. Click click. Darwin. Click click. Cooking. Click click. Porn. A community of wanderers.

I'm bored.

Click click. "X number of ways to reduce stress." Leave the house early. Give more love than taking. Reduce caffeine. I open the StumbleUpon link to view comments left by other wanderers. I leave my own idea: 'Log off?' I need a little kick out the door. I shut down, wash up, and go.

The day is not as bright as the small bit of light that had filtered through the window. The day is warmer than I expect, sure, but the wind is fierce, and pulls at my coat like an insistent child.

But I want to walk, and need it after all these days cooped up with my cold. So I skip the brunch spots of Friedrichshain and walk to Kreuzberg. I cross the Oberbaumbrücke, pass a little cafe (mmm, sehr lecker) and drop into my favorite Italian restaurant.

Is French onion soup French? A silly question and it hardly matters. I rave about this restaurant's soup. It's always served piping hot in a deliciously-spiced broth, topped with a thick onion ring and smothered under a bubbling-brown crust of cheese. I wolf it down, but have room for more (no doubt the body's rebound from being sick). I order the steak and broccoli plate.

Yum. Broccoli seared in whole green peppercorns and olive oil. A nicely browned steak with a rosy-pink center, albeit drenched in a peppercorn sauce that I have to scrap away. The blood of the beef pools in the sauce. I pretend not to notice.

I make sure to eat all of my broccoli, but the steak is too much. I sigh a bit from the guilt, as if some fussy mother were sitting across from me at the table. (The waste! There's a child starving in Africa!) I stab it a bit with my knife. Give up.

It is not that I have anywhere to go. Martin lives nearby, but there's no answer to my buzz at the door. I amuse myself with visions of him drunk and weary from Petra's birthday party or, alternatively, waking on the other side of town to some woman he doesn't plan to see again.

I imagine his frown when I tell him this.

I am aimless and wandering in the wind.

It's just 15 minutes to Treptow, but everything is closed there and, worse, the rain and wind have picked up. I am pushed, pulled and pushed again.

Fuck it. I run for a passing bus, flash my pass and hop on for a short trip right back to where I've started.

Still, I don't go back to the restaurant but head for the little cafe. No smokers today. Nice. And the big windows let in all the available light, for what that's worth.

The train rolls by on its elevated track, bright yellow happiness like a determined perky blond. (It *will* be a beautiful day today!)

But it's gray gray gray. And on the walk back -- across the bridge, up the hill, past the station -- the wind whips into a frenzy. Little yelps as people clutch their coats and each other. An older woman wrestles with her torn and warped umbrella. I worry that the wind is strong enough to lift and throw me up and over the railing -- a useless flapping of green wings then down onto the tracks below.

Not so impossible. The new main train station lost an metal girder -- SMASH! -- in a crash of iron and glass. I am, in comparison, a feather.

The jewelry store, the video store, the next cafe.

Why am I not at home?

Click click.

SexyBack

2007-01-19T02:18:00.001+01:00

Dirty babe
You see the shackles
Baby I’m your slave
I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave
It’s just that no one makes me feel this way

I am home sick today. I blame Niels, but he's healthy and it hardly matters. Sniffles, sneezing and coughs wrack my entire body. My back aches with the sheer effort of breathing. Damn asthma. Where is Martin and his sadistic massages when I need one?

So I spend the day indoors, reading Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, chatting online and listening to music. Recent tracks by Death Cab for Cutie from Vicki, Kaiser Chiefs and Billy Talent from Niels and, um, Justin Timberlake, Usher and Rhianna.

Take that and rewind it back
Lil' Jon got the beat to make ya booty go (smack)

For Saturday's games and dancing, I had built a new party playlist and loaded it with more "popular" tracks. I rationalized that it was an effort to tempt Irene onto the living room dance floor. We had gone out dancing in the previous week, a first in our year's friendship and a surprise of an invitation. Frankly, I thought Irene didn't dance.

It depends on the music, she says. She dances with her head back and her eyes closed. Swaying.

oohoohoo du hübsches ding
ich versteck meinen ehering
klingelingeling wir könntens bring
doch wir nuckeln nur am drink
oohoohoo du hübsches ding
du bist queen und ich bin king
wenn ich dich seh dann muss ich sing':
"tingalingaling you pretty thing"

My music didn't do it for Irene, so she spent most of the evening playing Uno rather than dancing. In any case, well, she was my convenient excuse for buying the pop tracks. Truth was, these songs had caught my attention each time I heard them on the radio. I listened to iTunes clips, bit my nail like an indecisive girl and bought them.

Well woman the way the time cold I wanna be keepin' you warm
I got the right temperature for shelter you from the storm
Oh lord, gal I got the right tactics to turn you on, and girl I...
Wanna be the Papa...You can be the Mom....oh oh!

There are moments when my relationship to music is like of a teen boy sneaking peeks at the porno mags. I am absolutely fascinated by what some music does to my body, but I nurse the same pathetic shame that my time is not spent in, er, higher-level pursuits.

I mean, come on, Justin Timberlake AND Thievery Corporation? Nelly Furtado AND Gotan Project?

Schizophrenic is not just the name of my favorite JC Chasez album...

look at you with my hands down your pants
check you out getting fucked while we dance
look at you check you out!

Fucking on the dance floor
fucking on the dance floor
everybody's fucking
fucking on the dance floor

Um, I have read some FANTASTIC books this year. Really.

Sigh.

What remains

2007-01-15T12:14:00.000+01:00

Martin is right: I have neglected to talk of the parties, games nights, food fests and book group dinners that have normalized my life here in Berlin. So, in honor of Saturday's one year celebration of the anniversary of my arrival, I would like to offer this photo and a memorializing sample of what I had to wash up, recycle and sweep away.

15 red wine bottles (two of which managed to escape notice)

13 beer bottles (*who* brought the Budweiser???)

12 cigarette butts (Desmond…)

3 complaints from the neighbors (oops!)

2 feet that still ache from dancing (damn the neighbors)

and 1 much-loved deck of Uno cards (go Jörn!)

Even emptying the balcony ashtray was a joy.
Thank you all so much for coming.

Veal

2007-01-11T12:24:00.000+01:00

or my exaggerated notes of a drunken speech to Eleni on the popular rules of dating, delivered after a horrible meal of chicken nachos washed down by two delicious margaritas.

You have been invited to a dinner party by a gracious hostess known for her meticulously planned events. The table is laid out for a perfect number of guests, some known to each other, but some not. They are of the right age, the right social class and the right male/female balance. It is an evening of so much promise.

By some means, you have discovered that the main dish of the evening will be veal.

Veal makes your mouth water.
Veal makes you weak in the knees.
Veal tickles your tummy with pleasure.

In short, you *love* veal.

Now, you *could* lean over to the hostess and tell the her that you enjoy veal so much that you would like it served first. Warum nicht?

The hostess will, no doubt, swallow her disapproval, maybe fingering the collar of her simple but chic dress or that flattering necklace that her husband gave her just last Christmas. She will politely explain, as if to a child, there is an order to these things...

No no, you argue. The body cares little for the order of things. The body knows nothing of butternut squash soup lightly blessed with ginger and a dash of lime, nor of arugula tossed with slices of fennel, shavings of Parmesan and the thrust of fresh cracked pepper.

Of this foreplay of the senses, the body cares not a whit. The body speaks a simple language of fat, carbohydrates and proteins.

Yes, you could argue that.

But as you insist upon it, your voice no longer tempered by soft inquiry but passionately-alive with what you know of your truth, you'll look madly around the table for your allies. You know they want the veal too.

But, mmmm, they murmur with their eyes avoiding yours, what a delicious soup!

Rabbit.

2006-12-31T19:56:00.000+01:00

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.

Election Day dreaming...

2006-11-07T23:59:00.000+01:00

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!]

Soul Cages

2006-11-05T15:25:00.000+01:00

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.

Arrivals and Departures

2006-10-30T11:27:00.000+01:00

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.

Next time, I will pack Ms. Purple.

2006-10-02T11:27:00.000+02:00

…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.

Blame it on the Arabians...

2006-09-18T21:50:00.000+02:00

[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.

Happy Birthday to me!

2006-09-16T16:57:00.000+02:00

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! :)

My Pity Party…but with some balloons.

2006-08-28T09:47:00.000+02:00

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...

Get this…

2006-08-10T10:07:00.000+02:00

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.

Run away with me.

2006-08-03T10:00:00.000+02:00

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.

Michael.

2006-07-14T16:27:00.000+02:00

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.

The End Game

2006-07-10T10:02:00.000+02:00

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.

Auf der Fan Meile / On Fan Mile

2006-07-01T09:06:00.001+02:00

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.

Über Alles

2006-06-29T20:28:00.001+02:00

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.

Back to School.

2006-06-06T07:07:00.000+02:00

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

Maybe I have some gunk on my screen...

2006-05-24T16:34:00.000+02:00

...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?

It sure ain't ABBA

2006-05-21T09:11:00.000+02:00

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.

Change is…

2006-05-15T15:23:00.000+02:00

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.

Balcony daze.

2006-05-04T18:55:00.000+02:00

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.

Sunshine and shadows

2006-04-24T10:16:00.000+02:00

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.

With a side of humble pie, please

2006-04-19T23:59:00.000+02:00

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.

Choo Choo Ch'Boogie.

2006-04-08T18:58:00.000+02:00

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.

An unforgiving Saturday.

2006-03-26T13:50:00.000+02:00

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.

To Ann Marie, because it never got mailed

2006-03-23T13:44:00.000+01:00

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

But was it worth it?

2006-03-04T12:02:00.000+01:00

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.

High Art in the low lands

2006-03-02T11:33:00.000+01:00

“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.

A speck of dust on a canvas of stars.

2006-03-01T10:38:00.000+01:00

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.

Yesterday really starts with the night before.

2006-02-28T12:24:00.000+01:00

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.

Tammi's V-Day Tip: never regret love.

2006-02-14T09:00:00.000+01:00

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.

I wanna take you to a gay bar.

2006-02-11T11:21:00.000+01:00

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.

Tea with a vodka chaser.

2006-02-05T14:42:00.000+01:00

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.

No, it is not weakness.

2006-02-04T15:07:00.000+01:00

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.

Fahrrad

2006-01-31T12:56:00.000+01:00

The weather gave the first hint of a reprieve. Overcast, grey, yes. But warmer. Relatively. I was still bundled in my coat, an extra layer of clothing and gloves. But it was not so cold that I couldn’t walk to lunch.

I was just a block off Karl Marx Allee when I saw a bike wheel hanging above a shop door. There was a man standing outside smoking a cigarette, but I stopped to peer into the window anyway. Used bikes. And the prices looked tempting…

When I turned from the window, the man spoke to me in a fast German. I looked confused so he, of course, repeated what he said. In German.

I work here, he finally said in English.

I nodded and pushed into the shop.

He was happy to continue to speak to me in English, but I stopped him.

Ich muss Deutsch lernen.

And so we were off on a whirlwind of new terms aided by his patient repetition and the ubiquitous hand-gesturing. Brakes, tires, raise the saddle, lower the saddle, how do those lights work again and, finally,

Credit card?

The bike is just a bit small for me, but it was glorious to be in the saddle. Everyone cycles here. Okay, that may be a bit of a stretch but many more do here than in your average U.S. city. In Washington, I often look out of place because there aren’t many black women on bikes. Plenty of black men, but few sisters. (Angelyn, is it the hair?)

Besides, Irene, Jörn and Seán ride. This could make spending time easier.

Yeah, right. Of course, that presumes that I make my dates on time. Not only was I late in meeting Irene, but she had invited along her new office mates, Enno and Ingo.

You know Germans like to be on time.

Sigh.

Enno and Ingo are twins. Ingo formed the company and his twin joined a few years later. They’ve just relocated four of their six staff people to Berlin for… I don’t know why. But their new here and so am I and I was talking about having a second dinner party…

So we’re on: dinner party number two on Monday night. And this time with games! No Scrabble, unfortunately, but Jörn will bring Set, Irene will bring Around the World in 80 Days, and I...

Well, I’ll just have to go shopping now won’t I?

Nothing but blue…

2006-01-31T00:22:00.000+01:00

I took a chance on John with nothing more than an exchange of emails to make him real. He was my first advisor: a random contact on Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree forum when I first decided to escape to Germany.

Can anyone tell me…

I don’t even remember the question.

But he was here in Germany, an English speaker (albeit Australian), and willing to show me Leipzig if I wanted.

I wanted.

So I am standing in the train station. I’ve already dropped off my bags at the hotel, and put in some hours at the Internet café for FAMM. But I’m back at the appointed hour, just waiting and scanning faces for someone who might be looking for me.

I’m black in a white country, so a bit obvious. And he’s seen my photograph. Of him, all I have is a name. No photograph, no physical description, nothing except that he is looking for me.

Scanning, scanning…

He climbs the stair past me with his bike on his shoulder and almost passes me before he calls my name.

Young, buff and good-looking. Damn.

The rest was easy.

John is an extremely laid-back guy, just as you would expect from an Aussie. This was his second or third time in the country, but the most extended trip. He was able to land a short-term work contract in his field (engineering) through a German who had formerly worked with him in Australia. It’s been 6 months, mostly in Leipzig, and while there’s plenty that he’s seen as someone who has lived here, there’s a lot more from a specific tourist perspective.

And maybe it’s because he’s an engineer that he has everything mapped out for the entire weekend.

We started with a yummy dinner at an Indian restaurant not too far from the Hauptbahnhof (main train station). There’s construction at many points along the walk there and back, and he explains over dinner that it’s actually the project that he’s working on. With these huge digs, the train tracks will be routed underneath the city that trains arriving to the station from the north will not have to go round-and-about to approach from the south anymore. It’s a completely worthless project, and he says most city residents will give me an earful on it if I ask. No need, as I can see that with my own eyes.

John and I talk for hours that night, modestly consuming the first of many beers that he and I will share over the weekend, and plotting out the next day. He wanted to set out right after breakfast and we were both exhausted after hours of talking and looking over his city map. We pack it in for the evening, saying our goodbyes in the freezing cold near the hotel.

Just before he climbs onto his bike, he warns me about the brothel just a little farther down the street and the neighboring rough bar. I resist the urge to walk by.

I’m well rested and fed on the hotel buffet when John arrives to take me off on our first stop. Saturday is for being indoors, he had explained the night before, and we had plenty on our list.

Our first stop is the tremendous Völkerschlachtdenkmal (yes, that is all one word). It was first built to commemorate the defeat of Napoleon but, er, was expanded in meaning under subsequent German governments, including the Nazis.

Despite the Rough Guide’s reference to it as “tasteless” and “unexciting,” John and I are both taken with its epic proportions, colossal statues and the beautiful view of Leipzig from the top. The latter is only accessible by a long climb along an increasingly narrow staircase, that I half-turn to navigate.

And at the very top, I lay back against the walls to enjoy the perfect blue sky and gulp the cold winter air. John spends his time getting perfect shots of the red-roofed homes below. Far below, families skate across the frozen man-made pond.

We make ourselves woozy with a brisk clip down the spiraling staircase to the main floor. We’re both not sure what the museum attendant says to us on the way out, but we find another staircase and climb into a hall with a informative display on the conception, development and political implications of such a monument. Thankfully, it’s in German, French and English.

It’s also refreshingly frank on the abuses of patriotism. I remark to John that no public museum in the U.S. would dare such comments now.

We’re just about to leave when the chamber fills with choral music. This was done for the benefit of a tour group, but everyone comes to a stand-still in awe. The room is acoustically perfect.

We are back out in the cold and I decide to ask.

How old are you anyway?

Guess, he replies.

Good lord.

He says it’s pretty typical that people are about 10 years off. He’s very mature for his age, well-read and well-traveled. I’m struck by my envy. Did I sleep through that same period when I should have been stretching my legs in a foreign land?

He’s eager to show me a favorite brewery and we are both pretty hungry. We gingerly make our way across the frozen pond, past the careening children in their loud, staccato German. We catch a tram and then hike along the streets.

The brewery is known for its Leipziger Gose, a local brew to which I gleefully add the optional shot of raspberry syrup. Mmm, and the BBQ ribs. Ok, ok, it’s not bratwurst and sauerkraut. But, damn…

Our next stop is Thomaskirche (kirche is “church”) for the afternoon service and choral performance. Bach, explains my guidebook, “served as its Kantor for the last 27 years of his life.”

That’s right, more classical music for Tammi.

We are both full from lunch. As it turns out, we both have a tendency to nap during performances of classical pieces. So we steal some time before the concert to have a drink. John surprises me with a trip to the nearby Auerbachs Keller, which Jörn had recommended to me. Says my guidebook, it is famous for being the critical scene in Goethe’s Faust.

If John and I had bothered to read that, we might have better appreciated the mural of the witch burning. As it was, we find it a little weird and focus instead on enjoying our drinks. John has a Russisches Heise Schokolade—rum in hot chocolate—that wasn’t on the menu.

I don’t have to beg too much to enjoy some of it.

Hm, maybe that’s what puts me to sleep at the concert?

John doesn’t nudge me awake as Seán did, presumably because he is nodding himself. I’m proud to say that I came fully awake just before the Lord’s Prayer. I’d never heard it in German before, but the rhythm of the delivery is about the same.

Funny thing that.

We run into one of John’s classmates from his last German language course and gab for a bit before heading back out. We take an unfortunate detour into a chain bakery to use the bathroom, and torture ourselves with some pretty god-awful pastry and equally gross Glühwein. Yeah, we consume it anyway. (John’s mom used to give the “starving children in Africa” guilt, and he’s not dissuaded by my comment that they’d hate the stuff too.)

And then it’s back into the night air.

We spend the rest of the evening simply wandering the streets of Leipzig. We bounce into a video store and argue the merits of our favorite and most hated movies. (He’s never seen Galaxy Quest before. I forgive him that. I confess my love for all things Banderas. He forgives me for that.) We take in a tasty meal at a nearby pan-Asian restaurant. We fall into a smoky bar for yet another drink. Too much. I’ve got the giggles.

And then…

…it’s Sunday. And the morning is exquisitely lazy. Sunday, as he had already explained, is for the outdoors. Good thing, as nothing is open when we set out. Nothing but blue sky and our breath in the cold air.

We walk southwest to the park, with its broad promenade of trees and the frozen river. John is laughing at a small boy on the ice. He gets up, walks and bit and falls. Over and over again. A happy child, certainly, but we’re both stunned at how fearless people are on the ice. We stay on the dirt path.

We break from the river to climb an icy hill with a nice view of the city. It’s a favorite spot of his, he says, because of a party he came to, just off the side of the top there. The students had set up a bar, brought in a DJ and had made a dance floor of the green grass.

Nice.

Not too far from the hill, we catch a tram as south as it will take us and get off to walk to Cospundensee. I imagine that my time at the lake will be as vivid of memory as his party under the stars.

It is absolutely stunning. Cospudensee was a former coal pit that, once finished, was filled with water.

The lake is completely frozen over, and, as in the other places, families are out skating across its surface. Yes, it’s beautiful. Still, we are cold, in need of a toilet and ravenous! We put aside our gawking and make for the seaside restaurant, Seeterrasse.

We manage to score a small table just near the glass. We enjoy a view of skaters on the ice, a woman busily dishing up Bratwurst and Glühwein from a large outdoor grill, and, shortly enough, the setting sun.

The food is simply superb. He has thick chunks of beef wrapped in bacon. Mine is slices of pork in a rosemary-infused cream sauce. When John says that he makes a dish that is much like mine, I think quickly about asking him to marry me.

LOL.

The day is over much too quickly. We are briskly walking back from the lake to get back to the Hauptbahnhof—and my luggage tucked in a locker—for the 6 o’clock train. Nope.

But no worries, as John pulls me to the station’s bookstore. Still, we’re exhausted, and leaning on each other to not fall over. We finally give in to sitting down, and propping up our feet. We talk of sleeping, of how nice it will be to crawl into our beds.

We’re so busy talking that when I finally ask the time, we’re both shocked to find it’s 10 minutes to the next train’s arrival. We dash for my bags and get to the tracks…only to find the train is five minutes delayed.

If it were warm, that would be a blessing. But we’re shivering on the platform. It’s freezing cold. He won’t leave me, and although I suggest he get home and get some sleep, I’m glad to share the last minutes of his company.

And then it’s a kiss on the left cheek and then the right. Goodbye. Don’t forget to write.

I’m in the press of people eager to get to their seats, but I find one just inside the door. I unpack, sit down and look out the window. John’s still there and smiles.

He doesn’t leave the platform until the train is in motion.

I’m asleep within seconds.

The Mix Tape

2006-01-26T15:15:00.000+01:00

I recall an article that I read some time ago that talked about the joy and intimacy of the mix tape. And you may remember, “High Fidelity” touched on this as well. In the movie version, John Cusack is struggling with his primary relationship when he meets another woman that he’s attracted to. Considering the central role of music in his life with his partner, there’s no doubt that his plan to make her a mix tape—this loving act of pulling together his favorite tracks from a variety of artists—once completed will be an act of infidelity.

And, goddamn it, I just “get” the double entendre of the title.

Sigh.

In any case, there’s no denying that I consider the mix tape significant. I am fond of saying that it would certainly be nice if people came with user manuals. (“For Irene’s take on childrearing in Germany, please turn to page 19…”) Well, the mix tape *is* some form of user manual for me. It’s my favorite gift to give and receive. Not only an opportunity for sharing myself, but also my attempts—some better than others—to understand the receiver’s moods, interests and whatnot.

LOL, or to establish a certain mood.

I recall the occasion when my friend Jeff was just having an awful time at work. For him, I put together “Jeff’s Feel Good Music Mix” with all these techno-dance tracks by the Chemical Brothers, a group that had been relatively recently introduced to me by my friend, Malcolm.

Get, give, get, give.

Hm. I have no idea whether Jeff liked it. But putting it together certainly made *me* feel better. Great tracks…

Anyway, Jörn and I were hanging out the other night listening to (don’t laugh) ABBA, The Cardigans (thanks, Julian!), Nina Simone, and Cassandra Wilson. Jörn doesn’t have a Cassandra Wilson CD, so…

And while we are on mix tapes, Mike, I really love the ones you made for me. Thank you.

As to Cassandra, I’ll include a clip to a track of hers later. (No, it’s not the full song, you music industry brown-nosers.) The clip is too perfect for a lot of reasons.)

WWMD?

2006-01-24T16:52:00.000+01:00

I was on my usual hunt for a free Wi-Fi signal and decided to work across the street at the cafe. (What *is* the name of that place?) Anyway, their wireless was down, so I worked offline. Not too bad, as I was jamming to my own music with my headsets on. Anthing to keep me from slitting my wrists over this exceeedingly tedious report for our Combined Federal Campaign application. We’ll skip the chat about that, and focus instead on today’s blog topic:

WWMD?: What Michael Jackson has to say to you about how you should live your life.

LOL. Okay, he’s a freak. But let’s give credit where it’s due with classic Michael music.

WWMD? He'd say, live your life

OFF THE WALL

When the world is on your shoulder
Gotta straighten up your act and boogie down
If you can’t hang with the feeling
Then there ain’t no room for you this part of town
’cause we’re the party people night and day
Livin’ crazy that’s the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf
And just enjoy yourself
Groove, let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain’t so bad at all
If you live it off the wall
Life ain’t so bad at all (live life off the wall)
Live your life off the wall (live it off the wall)

You can shout out all you want to
’cause there ain’t no sin in folks all getting loud
If you take the chance and do it
Then there ain’t no one who’s gonna put you down
’cause we’re the party people night and day
Livin’ crazy that’s the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf
And just enjoy yourself
C’mon and groove, and let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain’t so bad at all
If you live it off the wall
Life ain’t so bad at all (live life off the wall)
Live your life off the wall (live it off the wall)

Do what you want to do
There ain’t no rules it’s up to you (ain’t no rules it’s all up to you)
It’s time to come alive
And party on right through the night (all right)

Gotta hide your inhibitions
Gotta let that fool loose deep inside your soul
Want to see an exhibition
Better do it now before you get to old
’cause we’re the party people night and day
Livin’ crazy that’s the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf and just enjoy yourself
C’mon and groove (yeah) let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain’t so bad at all if you live it off the wall
Life ain’t so bad at all (live life off the wall)
Live your life off the wall (live it off the wall)

[Repeat while singing aloud and dancing in your German living room…or wherever you are.]

Yeah, I have some back-blogging to do about the flight to Frankfurt, seeing Thomas and Daniela, the Film Museum tour (thanks, Herr Martin!), the wannabe pickpocket at the open air market, and even last night's James Blunt concert with Irene. Free tickets rock!

Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it!

Because I told Jörn I would.

2006-01-20T05:39:00.000+01:00

It’s 4 a.m. here and a dream ripped me from my sleep. I’m crashing again on Seán’s couch after another evening’s movie marathon. This time, Atanarjuat, or Fast Runner, and, to lighten things considerably, Men in Black. I hadn’t seen Atanarjuat since its stunning debut. I won’t summarize—that’s what links are for—but I highly recommend it. Um, Seán might not, but he was watching with a filmmaker’s eye. As to MIB, well, I can quote much of the script. ’Nuff said there.

I am on my way to Frankfurt for the weekend to spend time with Thomas and Daniela. Besides looking forward to seeing them, I’m eager to be a bit of a tourist.

Huh?

Well as I was saying to Jörn in an email, most travel breaks are so short that one feels compelled to just rush about. The thinking goes “I may never see this place again, so I must cram in as much as possible.” So it’s back-to-back museums, the restaurants of the guide books, canned tours on packed buses, and evening’s spent “recovering” from the day’s activities.

Frankly, it’s a passionate love affair. Heady and over much too soon.

I’ve tasted Berlin in small bites. A new neighborhood here, a new café there… And in good company.

On Tuesday evening, Jörn introduced me to the stunningly beautiful Tadschikische Teestube (“Tajik tearoom”) in Mitte. We met outside in the snow and dark and recovered from the cold with hot mugs of fruit- and anise-flavored tea in a room of wooden rafters, low tables, piled rugs and pillows. We missed the chance to sprawl on the floor (shoes off, bitte), so shared a quiet table and two choices from their Russian and Eastern European menu. We switched dishes at mid point. Mmm, warm lox with a horseradish dip.

Jörn’s been to the U.S.: two years in Boulder, Colorado and, lol, some months in our own Greenbelt. His comment on the blog (how did he get this out of me?) is that it’s been interesting reading of his home city through my foreign eyes. I would say the same of his take on the U.S.: from strip malls to the death penalty.

That whole religious conservatism thing we’ve got going on right now? Scary.

Oh, and Eric, he warned me away from Scooter…

Okay, I need to get back to sleep.

Süsse Träume, bitte!

I said I can't explain it!

2006-01-17T18:10:00.000+01:00

It was a federal holiday at home, for which I got one sweetly nonsensical “Happy Martin Luther King Day” message, a forward of the New York Times article on the family breakdown behind the mismanagement of the King Center in Atlanta, and a chapter in my current book group book on the looting and riots that burned down Washington, D.C. in 1968 after the news of King’s assassination.

Hm.

I spent the day indoors doing absolutely nothing.

In the evening though, I got showered and dressed and got ready for dinner out. This time, it was at the invitation of Malcolm’s buddy, Mark, and his wife Jutta. Mark is from Wisconsin, but he and Jutta had a favorite Ethiopian restaurant in Berlin that they were going to introduce me too. I bundled up for the below freezing temperatures and headed out.

I got on the phone with Seán when I returned near midnight, and I tried to explain to him why I felt like crying. No, no, everything went well. In fact, it was splendid. Mark, Jutta and I enjoyed a fantastic meal, in a great restaurant (ohmygod, Angelyn, not only black folks, but Ethiopians!), and such a very entertaining conversation that I spent much of it laughing.

Gosh, when it’s that perfect, it’s like a powerful orgasm: it just begs for a good cry.

No, I can’t explain it.

I never did get those french fries...

2006-01-16T12:40:00.000+01:00

Sunday grocery store hours are a relatively recent phenomenon here, and the target of much protest from the trade unions. When I was speaking of it to Irene, she said that they couched the protests in “family values” language: “mom needs to be home, not working at the store.”

Some messages resonate the whole world over.

Because the previous day’s Kaiser run didn’t yield walnuts, I decided I would take my chances again around Ostbanhof station.

Galleria Kaufhof, behind the station, was closed up tight. But there was a small open-air antique market (“Antikmarkt”) in full swing. There were books, toys, furniture, and jewelry. The usual…but in German, and with German and Russian food vendors. What a wonder that my head doesn’t explode from all the new input.

On a side note, the word for jewelry is “schmuck.” That’s gonna keep me giggling for a while.

Below the train platforms in Ostbanhof, it was bustling with people and smelled just heavenly. I saw someone walk by with a donut…Dunkin Donuts at Ostbanhf! I was salivating, but decided on a fruit salad from a small fruit and vegetable stand instead.

Tell me where in the U.S. you can find a simple, fresh fruit and vegetable stand in the middle of a mall? What about a full bakery?

I didn’t have much time to linger, as I was meeting Marianne just a bit later. So I swooped into the grocery store there, asked a staff person for the walnuts (and actually didn’t sound like an idiot), and was back out with my prize in under 10 minutes.

I wanted to be on time to meet Marianne. But you all know that I am a chronically late type. For me to arrive on time, I actually have to plan to arrive early. That means, to actually get some place by 3, I need to shoot for 2:30. If gives me time to get lost, wander in and around other stores and just goof off.

That’s pretty much how it went too. I walked from Friedrichstraße station to Unter den Linden and, finding a nearby tourist shop open, wasted time looking at the typical pins, totes, shirts, hats and magnets that stuff the shells. All made in China, of course.

Mom, yes, you will get your bell and spoon. Good grief.

I wasn’t late, but Marianne was already there with a table. The reason for our meeting was that opening a bank account here requires, er, registering with the police with proof of tenancy.

Who knew?

It was very cold out, so my interest in doing any more walking around was loooooow.

Still, I left Marianne and headed over to Kreuzberg again to take a look at the second school I was considering: Akkusativ. I knew they would be closed, but I wanted to get a look at that part of the neighborhood and their building.

Besides, having fought off my donut craving, I was struggling with a new obsession for fries. Particularly, thick wedges with the skins still on and served piping hot.

Considering that I’d misplaced the address, it was a wonder that I found Akkusativ. But there it was on Mehringdamm, a long boulevard of (unfortunately closed) shops and quiet food counters.

At below 0 Celsius, the cold was really getting to me. I found a food place on the way back to the station. Yeah, they had fries, but I chose the “spinatteller” instead: a chill but flavorful spinach dish topped with caramelized onions and served with a cabbage side salad. Pretty tasty. Worth returning for.

I got home with an hour to spare. I made the side salad on my own. It was really simple really: cooked green beans from a jar, mixed with cooked beet from another and tossed with a chopped apple, olive oil and Apfel-essig.

That was the easiest part of the evening!

Irene and Seán arrived on schedule and I quickly put them to work. I had already tackled the chopped garlic and onions, but there was tofu to crumble, mushrooms to dice, walnuts to crush and peppers to core. We laughed our way through much of it (the two of them seem particularly tickled by the ultra-precise recipe)—and thank goodness for that, because the recipe didn’t quite work.

I was supposed to buy a white rice, but the brown rice I purchased as a more hearty substitute was a serious mistake. We had the rest of the tofu stuffing ready by 7:30, but finally gave up on the rice at 8. (I kid you not, when we finally got everything to the table at 9, the darn thing still hadn’t fluffed.)

Seán liked it anyway because it was chewy and super salty. Weird guy!

The rice really wasn’t important to the dish. The nut-tofu-mushroom combination was delicious, and the simple tomato and garlic sauce was outstanding. With the colorful salad and Irene’s yummy apple-chocolate crumb cake…FAB!

Honestly, I don’t know where the time went. They didn’t leave until after midnight, making for a 6-hour dinner party. Sure, we took our time cooking. But the rest? Okay, we talked everything from dogs in Berlin (they’re allowed EVERYWHERE here) to ghost hauntings in Scotland. But 6 hours?

I fell asleep, exhausted, within minutes of their leaving.

Keeping my eyes open.

2006-01-15T11:53:00.000+01:00

It was Saturday morning, and I woke on Seán's couch a bit cramped but well rested.

Seán is a night person and—much like you, Jules—can’t really deal with the kind of energy I put out in the morning. No worries, as I pulled out my laptop and kept myself amused reading FAMM proposals and wandering around his living room looking at all of his books and toys. (Seán collects these bizarre looking bearded dolls called Sandmann, an icon of a classic German cartoon that continues today.)

At around 11 o’clock, Seán was upright, showered and dressed for the day. We went back to Sankt Oberholz for breakfast. To his annoyance and my pleasure there were kids stumbling, falling and crawling all over the floors there. So very different from its hip evening vibe!

No time to linger, as I needed to get some shopping in. But what? I had invited both Seán and Irene over to dinner on Sunday night without a clue of what I would make. And they are both vegetarians, which ruled out any quick “meat and a potato” answer. Worse, I needed something that would compliment Irene’s efforts as she had announced that she was bringing a homemade chocolate cake. (Meg, I’ll let you know whether you have competition for my gastronomic affections then.)

After quickly logging on at St. O, I found a stuffed pepper recipe from Allrecipes.com. Paired with a beet and bean salad…mmm, could be yummy. There was a nearby health food store, so we went there for the tofu. The place reminded me of a much smaller version of the Yes on Columbia Road. Light on the veggies, heavy on the naturopathic remedies. I needed to go elsewhere.

We parted at Rosenthaler Platz and I figured I’d go home first to shower. But, joy of joys, I finally realized that the Kaisers near the S-Bahn was a full grocery store.

I wandered around in there for much more than an hour, partly out of interest but mostly because I didn’t have a clue as to the German names for some special items. Apple cider vinegar? "Apfel-essig." Tomato paste? "Tomatenmarken." The latter I got off a young, English-speaking blond I accosted in the aisle when I was also looking for walnuts. "Wahlnussen."

I spent the rest of the afternoon just lazying about really. Seán had bought tickets to a must-see event that he was taking me to. "Don’t ask, just dress up."

I can do that!

It was a pleasant surprise. Brit, Sir Simon Rattle, conducts the Berliner Philharmoniker, and they were being joined by Czech mezzo-soprano, Magdalena Kožená, for a performance of Gustav Mahler’s "Symphonie Number 4 in G-Dur." It was preceded by the performance of a contemporary piece by Hanspeter Kyburz, "Noesis."

Um, did I mention that I fall asleep to classical music?

Poor Seán. He certainly deserved company that better appreciated orchestral music. He had to prod me a couple of times when I nodded off and was just on the edge of snoring. Oh dear!

When I was speaking to Marianne about it this morning, she said that music is however you personally experience it. Well, in that case, here’s my summary of the pieces:

The Kyburz piece sounded like the soundtrack from "Jaws" and other 70s movies of its kind It was creepy, suspenseful, sexy, bone-chilling, playful and thrilling. I could alternately imagine a lone boat on a dark body of water and a blond ingénue running down halls that never ended. (You know she’ll live, but she’ll go through hell first.)

Watch Jaws again, people, if you want to get what I mean.

I liked the piece. Seán? Not so much.

And speaking of creepy movies, the Mahler piece. No, no, it sounded nothing like the first composition. In fact, it was much more of what I expect from the symphony: beautiful, delicate, haunting.

So was Ms. Kožena. But her delivery also unfortunately reminded me of the movements of the blond robot villain in Fritz Lang's silent film "Metropolis."

Eek.

Regardless of my thoughts on the matter, I must note that her singing and the entire performance by the orchestra was VERY well received by the sold-out audience. I thought Seán would break his wrists with all the clapping, and he wasn’t alone. Five times, the conductor left the stage (with or without the soprano) and was called back by the thunderous applause.

I don’t know if it’s a quirk of Germany or of classical music appreciators, but all of the applause was delivered while sitting. No standing ovation, despite the intensity.

Um, on a completely different note, I’ll end on another quirk.

In the bathroom, there’s a woman who dashes between the stalls wiping the seats after each use. You tip her on the way out.

Whoa.

The world is kinder than you believe.

2006-01-12T16:37:00.000+01:00

Wednesday promised to be busy. Besides the FAMM work, I had set up three dates, connections with people that I had met through the Internet via my network connections or the ever-helpful Craigslist.

The first was lunch with Irene. Some time back, she had rented her place to Tobias, a friend of Karin’s, when he was headed to Berlin and she was headed to New York. Funny enough, they had actually never met. She had been extremely generous in her assistance to me even while I was still in the U.S.: placing a housing ad for me in the paper, running interference between potential German housemates, and offering to actually go and take a look at places on my behalf. She lives just north of my neighborhood in Prenzlauer Berg, where she also works as a graphic and web site developer.

On the map, it looked like a reasonable walk to P-Berg, and I’ve really tried to make it a point to get out and take in the fresh air, despite the cold. I allowed myself plenty of time and set off.

It took about 90 minutes to make the walk. Um, I threw in a thrift store stop along the way (Seán invited me out to a dress-up gala happening Saturday and I have nothing to wear), and a stop at a CVS equivalent (hey, you try gesturing the word to “hair rollers”).

Um, I need them, okay?

After first walking into the wrong office (and badly asking for directions to the right one), I made it to Irene’s work place.

I’ll see her on Sunday and convince her to allow me a photo for my blog but here’s a description: tall, model-thin, blonde and good-looking. I think I must have looked like her midday shadow…

We found a very yummy Indian restaurant and gabbed long enough about her experience with the U.S., politics and

That I was pretty late for lunch #2 with Lutz. Worse, I had sent him to a restaurant in my neighborhood that, unbeknownst to me, was only open at night. Unbelievably, he was still waiting for me…albeit at another café.

I connected with Lutz via Berlin-CL. He’d traveled to the U.S. for work contracts, and had lived for a bit in southern California. He wanted to find someone with whom he could keep up his English.

The man has the patience of God.

Lutz’s English is advanced, so my ultra-basic German made me wonder what the appeal could be. It turns out that he had done this before with a young American woman who was planning a whirlwind tour of Europe. Babbling words in German without a clue to what they mean? Lutz is your man.

The patience of…

I had a LOT of work to catch up on, so we made plans for Friday and I headed across the street to my pad read proposals and reply to emails.

And then there was actually meeting up with Seán, another CL-er, a former Scot, and a resource extraordinaire. From him, I learned about the monthly tram-bus-subway pass (I’ll save a fortune), area DSL providers (really, it’s a fiasco), and – if you read y previous blog – where to find a decent grocery store.

He came by to pick me up for dinner and…

…he brought flowers.

Really, life is good.

But now my apartment smells of pork...

2006-01-11T19:52:00.000+01:00

Learning German is a high priority for me, but finding the right school wasn’t as easy to nail down from afar as I thought it’d be. Just as well. Now that I am here, my map and sense of timing is much better. Can I get there on foot? What U- or S-Bahn station is it on?

The two schools that were at the top of my list are both located in Kreuzberg, a close neighborhood whose outermost borders are easy enough to actually walk to. Still, the schools are quite far from each other.

The one of strongest interest was Babylonia, which Chris’ friend, Fanta, had recommended to me because of was “cheap, radical and, however disorganized, worth it.” It’s location was not the best. The sign for the school pointed into a quiet and frankly creepy courtyard. In my internal monologue, I voted it “Most Likely Place to Get Jumped.”

A young Asian man walked by at that point and, seeing my confusion and apprehension, stopped to offer assistance…in perfect English.

“You looking for Babylonia?”

He hadn’t been in there himself, but he knew it was at the very back of the courtyard. Go on in.

It didn’t get any less creepy. At the end of the courtyard, you turn a couple of corners to reach the glass door of a dark brick building. I climbed the quiet stairs for a couple of floors before seeing another sign for the school. Relieved at least to find it, I walked on in.

…and was enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

Is there a non-smoking sanctuary anywhere in this city?

I wanted to leave immediately, but I was spotted by the attendant, Kelly. She spoke English, and talked with me about the costs, available schedule and the rest. There was actually a class meeting – the very one that I wanted to enroll in, although the students had already met a couple of times.

I sat down in the lounge and watched the class through the glass. What I saw of the teacher’s style, I really liked. And the students seemed approachable – a youngish mix of black and brown folks with dreadlocks, piercings and tattoos. I was waffling until they took their mid-class break.

Most of them, including the teacher, reached for their cigarettes and poured right into the small lounge I was in to smoke.

Sigh.

I needed to do some FAMM work and to find a Wi-Fi zone for another Skype conference call. The other location I had read about was pretty close to Babylonia, a sandwich and coffee shop called Café Morena.

To Sara, I emailed, “I think I found the Berlin version of Busboys…”

The conference call was cancelled, but I stayed there for hours, having coffee and reading through the stack of proposals I brought with me from Washington.

It was pretty dark when I left, but I figured that I had some time to get to the grocery store that Seán had told me about at Ostbanhof station. Grocery stores of the kind we have in the U.S. are *not* the norm in Berlin, and I was tired of the deli sliced meat and cheese that I’d been snacking on. I wanted to cook, not put together another sandwich.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a head of broccoli before!

There are two full markets in the basement of Ostbanhof and I shopped at both. Mmmm, schinkenspeck! And a beautiful yellow bell pepper, fresh peas, a bag of brussel sprouts…

Heaven.

Baby, it's cold outside

2006-01-10T11:33:00.000+01:00

I woke on Monday from another poor night’s sleep, unfortunately. Much of it was a powerful nasal congestion that made my head seem three times its size. I tossed, turned, was up at 3 a.m. and back down at 4. Enough already!

I made the decision to find a pharmacy, or Apotheke (“ah-po-tay-ka”), at some point during the day. But, more critical, was my first day’s work. Yep – remote employment. And Monday mornings are for staff meetings, with state and, er, international staff participating via conference call.

I’ve been on the phone with some of you (Vicki. Mom.) so you’ve had a taste of my own frustration with my available wireless connection. Or rather, usually-not-available connection. It makes for choppy Skype calls and frequent drops. While Berlin has plenty of internet cafés, home DSL service takes weeks and most are only available under annual plans. No surprise, I’ve already found someone who’s pledged to help (thanks in advance, Seán). He says his own experience involved a lot of cursing…

So the mission: to find a smoke-free wireless zone in Berlin.

I found an online guide to international Wi-Fi spots, and cross-referenced the suggested Berlin locations with information I pulled from the Berlin guidebook that my Goethe classmate, Bill, lent me. The recommendation was Sony Center at Postdamer Platz in Mitte, a relatively new center featuring a grand plaza with a film museum, an IMAX theatre and restaurants.

Hey, that sounds good.

I gathered up my work, my laptop and my camera and set out for the Worschauer S-Bahn station.

It was bitterly cold out. Made even more so by my knowledge that temperatures were reaching the low-60s in Washington.

Someone remind me why I didn’t choose New Zealand? It’s summer there now…

I was a bit flummoxed at the station because I didn’t see any automated machine for purchasing my train ticket. I finally approached the attendant in a nearby kiosk, and stumbled through my request using the German phrase book that Karin lent me.

(Did I purchase anything myself for this trip?)

It helped. Just barely. Stick to the words you know – eg. “nach” for “to” and “karte” for “ticket” – and you get “ticket to Sony Center.” Add “zurück” for “back” and you get a roundtrip fare.

Sigh.

I needed a little help getting on the right train too. Not only did a very patient woman point me to the right track, she also called out to me when I didn’t take the right train. Which turned out to be any train leaving from that platform, not just the number I thought I was waiting for. hehehehehe

On the train, I blended in…

Okay, I lied. That was for Angelyn’s benefit, as she told me there’d be no other black folk around to speak of. Damn that woman.

The great thing about the Sony Center is that I indeed made a wireless connection that was stable enough to keep me online in a work conference call for an hour via Skype. I could hear them clearly and I could participate fully. That included taking a moment to thank the same Miss Angelyn for the lovely Wonder Woman calendar hanging on my dining room wall.

The downside about the Sony Center is that, well, it’s outside.

I was stunned when I came up the escalator. I was expecting the broad plaza, sure, but the photo in the guidebook emphasized the Center’s unusual dome. Well, I presumed that it covered an internal courtyard.

Nope. See the more true photo taken by yours truly below.

So, I logged in from one of the restaurants; this one touting “outback”/Aussie cuisine.

“I’ll have the Teriyaki chicken with the sprout salad, danke.”

Yeah. Outback.

I made my way back through the train system with a slight detour near Französiche Straße just to look around. (Wow. Downtown Berlin.) Back at my home stop, Frankfurter Tor on the U-Bahn, I decided to walk down the street to find dinner (mmm, wurst!) and that Apotheke.

I did eventually get the nasal remedy of my dreams, but the pantomime that the salesclerk and I had to go through to communicate was the stuff of television comedy!

And, with thanks to Seán for keeping me on the phone and awake, I got my first solid night’s sleep.

Are you asking me for directions?

2006-01-09T13:33:00.001+01:00

After yesterday’s post, I fell into a five hour slumber. This cold is kicking my butt, so all of my hoarding of the medicine cabinet’s goodies is at least being put to use. I could use those sleeping pills though, Vicki.

Sigh.

I did have a burst of energy on waking, so I decided to get out into the cold evening. I jumped in the shower, scrubbed, slipped into my jeans and a sweater and hit the street.

Marianne had warned me that much of the city shuts down on Sundays, so I walked into the first place I could for food…the bakery.

“Ein Schokolade Croissant, bitte.”

Mmmm. Chocolate is chocolate is chocolate. And after subsisting on tea and the one can of beans left in the place, that croissant went down like cream. I think I actually shivered.

I did find an open liquor store that was also selling groceries. Over-priced but very needed. Canned soups, eggs, cheese, bread, yogurt…

I still had energy after lugging them up into the apartment, so decided I would take a very long walk down Karl Marx Allee. It was a beautiful night, really, despite the chill. Besides, I was too thrilled to despair about winter.

Here I am walking on a broad Berlin avenue. Someone pinch me.

Some six blocks from home, I saw a McDonald’s and could hear my inner voice say, “in case I need real food…” LOL. McDonald’s? Real food? The cold virus must have worked quite a number on me.

I walked on and laughed with delight at the sight of my first thrift store. And after that, found my way into a Mexican restaurant where a big ol’ side of fried potato wedges came standard with the enchiladas. Lost in translation.

I walked about two and a half miles in the dark from Friedrichshain to Alexanderplatz in Mitte. I was happy to sit down at a coffee shop there and just read before heading back on the subway. A first! Exciting! …especially as I had no clue how to do it. I have a map…

I climbed the steps up to the trains and approached the first woman I saw on the platform. Middle-aged and in comfortable shoes.

“Bitte, wo ist tram für Friedrichshain?”

She answers me quickly in German, pointing across the platform. I nod as if I understand what she’s saying, but I don’t and I think she’s sending me off in the wrong direction. At least, my map seems to suggest otherwise. But I thank her, and head back down the stairs to cross to the other platform, just in case.

Below, I see a man and a woman getting tickets out of a machine. Duh. Yeah, a farecard would be a good idea. I am waiting behind them when another man approaches me. He’s a big guy with dirty blond hair. He asks me something in German, directions I think, so I apologize:

“Das tut mir leid, aber ich spreche Englisch. Ich verstehe nicht."

He nods and backs away a few steps. But I see him then approach the woman who’s just bought her farecard. I don’t understand until I see her rifle through her pocket for change.

Insert a smack to the forehead here! He’s homeless and was asking me for money.

He lingers after they’ve gone and watches me struggle, confused, with the machine. In really bad English he asks:

“You British?”

“Nein. American.”

He points at his chest. “Pole.”

I’m thinking, okay, you’re Polish and I am alone with you in a now deserted area. Where are we going from here, buddy?

Bless him, this man decides to take me under his wing. With us both struggling through English, German and hand gestures, he shows me how to buy a card, talks to me about how he got on the street (the police threw him out of the place he was staying), asks me about the U.S., and eventually leads me through a series of tunnels to the very train I needed. It’s very unlikely I would have found it on my own.

I tip him for the trouble, and he seems surprised. He was doing it all just to be kind, not for compensation. I say thank you, with emphasis.

“Danke! Danke!” and I wave goodbye. He smiles, nods and makes his way back through the tunnels.

For all my walking, it’s just minutes back to my neighborhood on the train.

Smoke gets in your eyes… and throat.

2006-01-08T10:46:00.000+01:00

The good thing about waiting all day and night for my luggage is that I was rewarded with this beefy guy lifting—not rolling or dragging—the thing up the stairs. Nice, but what the hell was I thinking to pack so much? Sara? Vicki? Weren’t you two responsible for inserting reason?

Friends.

So I spent my first real day in Berlin cooped up in the apartment. Just as well, as I seem to be suffering from a cold and sore throat. I “enjoy” these symptoms after most flights, but the sore throat was likely exacerbated by last night’s smoky restaurant. Marianne told me that the trick to avoiding smokers is eating on my American schedule. Berliners eat (and smoke) later.

Eating alone in German restaurants equals better health minus eye candy (E^a=H²-EC). Is that the right formula for the single gal?

Sigh.

So I amused myself in the apartment by listening to music –

for which a shout-out *must* be given to Keith for his iTunes gift downloads of German music (e.g. “99 Luftballoons” and “Bitch! Wo Ist Mein Geld?”)

– responding to my randy-never-gonna-be-chaste friends who expected more titillating material in my first post.

I just got here. Give me time. ;-)

– and watching German versions of The Simpsons and MTV’s Pimp My Whatever.

A Tiki toilet remake? Someone was smoking crack.

It's almost 11 a.m. here, but I am still not feeling myself. Time to lie down.

Good day, good people.

But my dream on waking was of being home

2006-01-07T13:04:00.000+01:00

It’s Saturday morning, and my first load of wash is in. I have no other clothes as the first, and, thankfully, only problem of the trip was that the bag with all of my clothing was lost. My landlady, Marianne, assured me that this was the best news: once found, a delivery service is responsible for hefting the nearly 70 pound bag up the four flights to my door.

I am gleefully naked in my Berlin apartment until then.

Yesterday’s departure was a mix of things: a heavenly and joyous morning followed by…well, exhaustion. My plan of relaxing through the afternoon, haunting Busboys & Poets for tea and comfy furniture, never materialized. Instead, I reacquainted myself with my cleaning supplies. The refrigerator, the stove, the bathroom, the floors… When Vicki came to pick me up for the trip to the airport, I closed the door on some other apartment entirely. New shelving, rearranged furniture… Well, I hope that Jennifer loves the place as much as I do.

There was no traffic on the beltway or I95 despite our 6 p.m. departure. There was something about the dark sky, the last phone calls goodbye… I said to Vicki on the drive out to BWI, “I could change my mind.” She reminded me about Jennifer. Burned my bridges behind me. Nothing but onward.

I fell asleep in the middle of takeoff and woke only for the dinner and snack breaks. It went by so fast that it felt as if I simply materialized in Heathrow. Although I do recall a spectacular plunge from a blue and sunny sky through a bank of clouds and into the gray landscape of the British Isle below.

I had a long layover in Heathrow so, after navigating an unexpected series of security checkpoints, I made my way to a coffee shop and breakfast. There, I listened to a fascinating podcast of Open Source Sex by Violet Blue. Violet was interviewing the famous porn star, Nina Hartley, about her most recent instructional video release, “Nina Hartley’s Guide to Erotic Bondage.” (Um, can I put that on my Amazon wish list?)

The interview was less about that video than it was about the entire context of community obscenity standards, sex education, feminism and the sex positive movements, and female sexual empowerment. Favorite quotes:

“I never have bad sex anymore, and it’s no accident.” – Nina Hartley

“I’ve always been about sex so this gives me the perfect cover. I would not get the respect I do talking about sex if I had a day job as a banker.” – Nina Hartley on her sex education lectures

“… just because they don’t know what a reverse cowgirl is doesn’t mean that they are stupid.” – Violet Blue on popular misperceptions of sex ed consumers

“I like men! I like penises, thank you very much!” – Nina Hartley on the “barnacle” of men-as-predators perspectives that latched onto the women’s sexual liberation work of the of the 70s

Hm. I’m reminded of some items in my missing luggage…

My landlady, Marianne, was a real gem about picking me up at the airport. She waited patiently while I filed the appropriate luggage claim (blessedly, in English) and exchanged some currency. She drove me to a T-Mobile store (cursedly not in English) and even went in for me when my own bad German yielded nothing. (I did get the gist of it though—“no SIM card for your phone”—so Marianne just verified that’s what I heard.) And she didn’t mind joining me for dinner before going up into the apartment.

This has become a lengthy post, so I will end on this: I live in a BEAUTIFUL place in a HIP neighborhood. Seriously. Four Indian restaurants within two blocks, and the one we ate at is right next door. And next door to that is the bakery. And next to that…

And did I mention my balcony?

I remain stunned at my luck.

I love your curiosity...

2006-01-03T07:11:00.000+01:00

Come on, I haven't even left the country yet! Skip the reading material and drop by my place on Wednesday night instead. Um, 7ish? Bring wine.

Leaving Flagstaff

2005-09-26T18:53:00.000+02:00

I'm writing today from the library of Northern Arizona University. With my backpack and casual clothes, I pretend that I fit in. But who am I kidding: I've barely seen any black folks during this entire excursion, let alone on this campus. Lot of Native Americans though.

Race stuff aside, I'm already missing Flagstaff. It's another perfect weather day, and the women at the Downtown Diner are as warm as ever. There's another waitress today that I hadn't met previously. She too is from Virginia, but Alexandria this time. We gab about her trek here, the relocation of her family and her siblings. "I couldn't raise my kids there," she says of metro Washington. I nod, as if I really understand.

Yesterday's trek back into the Grand Canyon was relaxing. I'd figured out the mile count of the previous day's hike: 5.7 of the 8 miles of the Rim Trail. No wonder I ached. My knee was throbbing, and I had to stop at a general store in Tucsayan to get band-aids for developing blisters. I worried about how I'd hold up for the planned descent into the Canyon. It was an easy excuse to simply sit and read after the long drive while I stretched the leg out.

So that's what I did for my first hours back on park ground. I sat first at Yavapi Observation Station, reading with the sweep of the Canyon and the beautiful day as my backdrop. A tour of Africans -- Kenyans maybe, but I didn't ask -- goes by with their white guide. One of the party gives me a long stare and I realize that I am drawing attention for simply sitting on my duff rather than peering over the rails into the Canyon like the rest of the tourists. It's around 12:30 and I'm hungry, so might as well go.

I find a precious parking spot right behind El Tovar. Plenty others decided to eat there too, so it was a half-hour's wait in the bizarrely decorated hall -- an historic hunting lodge with the required mounted animal heads on dark log panels. I'm finally reading Jonathan Lethem's Fortress of Solitude, which my book group took up some months ago. It's hard for me to tear myself away from it, honestly, so my salad and Indian fry bread / taco salad meal get picked at while I thumb through. (Um, I don't recommend the apple dessert there. Thick and gummy.)

It's near 3 p.m., and if I want to do that hike down into the Canyon, I have to let the book go. I shove my book into the trunk of the car, make sure I have two bottles of water and little else to weigh down the backpack, and I head off for the Bright Angel Trailhead.

The information guide states that hikers should plan two times the amount of time going down into the canyon for the return climb. I know that there is a rest house 1-1/2 miles down and I shoot to get there or turn back at a 45 minute mark. Frankly, I didn't think 45 minutes would be enough time to get there, but I didn't want to underestimate the labor it would take to climb back to the rim, even on switchback trails. I set off.

Hans had heartily recommended the below-the-rim hike for its perspective on the canyon and, wow, no kidding. Despite the mule droppings and the folks just walking a few feet in with small kids and flip-flops, it's easy enough to feel elated by a sense of accomplishment as the cliff walls shoot higher and higher above you. Everything about the hike charmed: the college-aged maintenance workers raking rocks (hey, someone has to do it), the color of the canyon walls, the fellow hikers breezing down and the fellow hikers wheezing up. I've got a goofy smile on my face most of the way down, but I'm seriously watching the path too. One trip on a loose rock and it's a busted nose or a slip over into the canyon.

Or, at least, that's what my wild imagination offers me.

All the water I sipped over lunch is nagging the old bladder. I skip the plan to just turn back at 45, and focus instead on getting to the toilet and water station. I stop a climber on the way down with "Do you speak English?" Not an unreasonable start as I've heard Japanese, French, Vietnamese, German and plenty else I couldn't recognize. Not only does she speak English, I'm just a few switchbacks above the station, she says. I'm excited...ABOUT A TOILET. I curse myself for not thinking ahead on that matter, but walk on.

Just before the station, the trail turns a beautifully rusty orange. It's soft, so I am kicking it up and practically dancing in it. It's the Orange Brick Road to my OZ reststop. I pause to take a photo of the toilet sign and climb the steep steps. My knee is still a bit sore but, oh well, no way but up!

It was little more than 45 minutes down, and I surprise myself with just over an hour back to the top. I creep the entire way, "just one foot in front of the other." (Indeed, the old Easter special with the bunny singing that line plays over and over in my head. That, and I am counting my steps, 1-2-3...) I am passed by expert hikers who've climbed from farther below the canyon; I pass people who believe they are expert hikers and who've pushed themselves too quickly. I imagine that my chubby-thighed self is an annoyance: "How can she do it?" they groan. My imaginings keep me motivated when my calves and thighs are burning.

Near the top, I get an ungodly burst of energy. It's like my lunch-fuel decided to kick in. I ride the wave to the top, and quit only when I am back past the trailhead. Two women in their mid-forties stop me with "How far'd you go?" To the rest station, I reply with a big smile. "You did that?!" I respond with an even cheesier grin, if you can imagine.

I'm in a wicker chair on the patio of the El Tovar looking over the canyon just a minute after that exchange. I've fallen asleep just one minute after that, and don't wake for 20 minutes.

Guess the hike tired me out.

I decided against staying for dinner. The previous night, I'd driven back in the dark. I had the iPod playing, but -- damn my wild imagination -- I worried about hitting a stray deer. Ok, not so imaginative, as one did leap into the road in front of my car on the way up. I had plenty of breaking room, and was more pleased than scared at the time. But that was daylight.

Despite my fear, I had pulled off the road shortly before the small town of Valle to take a look at the night sky. I must admit it: I was terrified. The road was COMPLETELY dark, COMPLETELY silent and the sky was brimming with stars. I was out of the car for just seconds, looking up into that expansiveness and feeling very, very small. I dashed back in.

I figured that I would redeem my cowardly-ness, by taking into the Lowell Observatory open house. They were starting at 7:30, so leaving the Grand Canyon shortly after 5 should have given me plenty of time. All would have been on time, but I spot what I thought was a very realistic elk statue near a Tusayan hotel. It turns its head and I realize THAT'S NO STATUE.

I turn the car around and join the throng of shutter-happy tourists. I take a picture from my window, and then a couple walking near ask me "What is it?" and takes my camera to get a closer shot. I yell, Not too close! and shake my head in amazement as some big guy strides up. I'm driving off and watching him in my rearview mirror. He's gotten even closer and I wonder if I will read about him in the next day's news: Grand Canyon tourist gored by elk.

Film at 11.

My phone just rang, and I'd forgotten it was on. It was Mark who, learning that I am sitting in front of a computer screen, chides me for being a geek. "Can't you do that when you are home?" It's all about discipline, I reply.

Ok, ok. Let me sum up by saying that, after another nap and a quick shower back at the hostel, I took the dark road drive out to the observatory as planned. It was beautiful, and a lot less frightening to share the night sky with other admirers. I even met some people: Alexis and Greg who were traveling from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and Jay, who was driving through from seeing his son in Pomona and heading back to Hastings, Nebraska. I even got to hang out with Jay back in Flagstaff and hear about his near-retirement joys and old-musician blues.

If you're listening, Jay, here's a shout-out.

Off to Sedona...

That can't be real...

2005-09-25T16:58:00.000+02:00

I skipped back to the Downtown Diner for breakfast before heading out for The Big Day. There was just one other table occupied when I arrived and the waitress was a chatty blond. Turns out she is from Virginia Beach, and just arrived a few weeks ago. Small world.

Backpack, water, a salty snack and a book -- the basics for any outdoor excursion -- and I was on the road. According to the signs, it's just 87 miles north to the Grand Canyon from the Museum of Northern Arizona. Despite the 75 mph postings, it seemed to take forever. Of course, I stopped along the way to take a few photos, so that might account for the length of the trip. But who could resist? The landscape between Flagstaff and the Canyon is just STUNNING. It's a varied picture of pine forest, scattered shrubs, fields of flowers, farms with mountains rising in the background... Just amazing.

I arrived at the Canyon shortly after noon, parking just past Mather Point and heading first to the toilets. I didn't want to spoil my view of the Canyon by doing "the bathroom dance" on the rim.

I have just a few more minutes on the computer this morning before heading back up there, so let me just say that the Grand Canyon is as otherworldly as many travellers say. Indeed, my first impression was that the distant rises and drops were a massive and shifting backdrop to an equally unreal canyon in the foreground. Bizarrely, it reminded me of a Star Trek episode. Um, I'll stop there.

I spent a good hour doing the typical tourist thing of drifting between the lookout points and the ever-cheesy gift shops. Knowing that I would return on Sunday, I figured that I should get that out of my system early.

Thereafter, I set my sights on reaching Hermit's Rest on foot from the Shrine of Ages. It's the farthest point of the Rim Trail, paved nearest the commercial sites and then rough and railing-less for the bulk of it. I will have to calculate how many miles I did in those many hours, but know I did work-off the brownie I had treated myself to back at Bright Angel Lodge. LOL.

I did that, and then some.

Still, I didn't make it all the way on foot. The sun was just setting when I reached the Abyss, and there was nothing but more largely-solitary and close-to-the-cliff trail ahead. I hopped a shuttle from the Abyss to Pima Point and then hiked and ran the trail to Hermit's.

Yes, ran. Who knew that trail running could feel so liberating?

Wait 'til you see my victory photo... :)

My first canyon

2005-09-23T21:30:00.000+02:00

I was well rested after a deep sleep. The earplugs worked perfectly, leaving just the faintest trace of a passing train whistle and the occasional shout of a drunken college student. I showered, dressed and made a brief sketch of what I wanted to see for the day-- mainly Sedonna, but I gave that up after just minutes at the Downtown Diner in Flagstaff. Great staff, an ever-full cup of coffee, and the "no worries" atmosphere that simply begged for me to just hang out in town. I spent hours there, reading the local LIVE paper, studying German (yep, brought the textbooks with me), scribbling out the "wish you were here" postcards, and thinking of what I'd write in yesterday's blog.

I eventually walked back over to the hostel, dumped the study gear, blogged, and headed out for the Museum of Northern Arizona. It's just about 5 miles from downtown on a lovely winding road and nestled amongst the pine trees. The museum was quiet, as it was a weekday. I noticed that a class of high school students made their way through, forced, no doubt, by a well-meaning teacher to look at and appreciate the museum's anthropology collection. They looked like teenagers do: bored, and wishing they were elsewhere.

Too bad, because the museum had some really nice offerings. I was very taken by the weaving samples, which were surprisingly well-preserved for their age and so intricate that I wanted to dash off with one as a prize. Gotta look into a basketweaving class. (Just kidding.)

The museum had two special exhibitions. One hall was taken by the large-scale oil paintings of Joella Jean Mahoney. I'd never heard of her, and couldn't tell if she'd garnered an audience beyond Arizona's borders. But her work was very impressive, with an incredible savvy for portraying the oranges, yellows and browns that make a desert landscape. Ha, I speak like I am well-aquainted! Well, no, but I certainly appreciated her obvious awe and long-time love of the place. She made me want to take more time here to see what she had seen.

The exhibit on petroglyphs and pictographs was not as nice. Too many rock art pieces crammed into one place made my head ache. Too much! But I did like the part about the role it played in early time-keeping and the tracking of the seasons. We humans are an ingenious lot.

After a little more browsing and the prerequisite stop in the gift shop, I ditched the museum for an afternoon lunch at a local cafe about a mile from the museum. Yum, had a great turkey club with avocado. I stayed just long enough to plot my way to Walnut Canyon National Monument.

About Walnut Canyon...wow. My photographs will never do justice to what it was like looking over into that canyon. Ravens were wheeling about on the great breeze, the sun was shining but not burning and the few other visitors were in great spirits. (I overheard a couple gabbing in German! I resisted the urge to try out my few classes worth.)

There are 200+ steps down into the Canyon along the Island Trail. I stopped some folks on the way down, asking them to snap my picture. It's the one downside of travelling alone, complete with the looks of pity or concern when the rangers, waitresses or other travellers get that you're out hoofing solo. I don't think men would get the same, but that's mere speculation.

In any case, I had a FANTASTIC few hours at the Canyon and highly recommend it. I imagine that my view of the Grand Canyon may eclipse it to some degree, so I am glad I saw it first.

The rest of the day was just as perfect. I took a self-guided tour book for a walk around Flagstaff's historic buildings. Nice! And I ate at THE BEST restaurant, this place called Racha Thai. It's new in town, and I was persuaded to go by the recommendation of the hostel staff and the posted review of a local food critic who said it was the best she'd had since leaving Bangkok. I've eaten a lot of Thai food, but I've never seen the dish I tried on any Washington menu. It was ground chicken with basil leaves, red pepper strips, cabbage and onions topped with egg and baked casserole-ish in a coconut curry sauce. Spicy and outstanding. I saved the leftovers to take with me to the Grand Canyon for lunch.

To complete the evening, I headed back to the museum to catch a one-man show that I'd seen listed in LIVE for the amazingly low price of $5 per adult. The show was Tortilla Heaven, and starred a comedian who'd had some time on Comedy Central and the brother of the actor who was supposed to perform that night. The show was well-worth the price, painful and poignant and hilarious. I was surprised by how much of it was in Spanish, and pleased to pick up a few phrases and get the gist from the staging. Kudos all around.

I'd say more but it's time to pack my bags for the Grand Canyon. Adios, tschuss and ciao.

And on to Arizona

2005-09-23T00:41:00.000+02:00

I'm writing from the Grand Canyon International Hostel in Flagstaff, Arizona. I've wanted to get out to Arizona for years, and finally treated myself for my birthday. Glad to share the joy of my new adventure with you folks.

The morning's start was difficult. On the eve of my departure, Cori and four others were performing at mothertongue at the Black Cat. Expecting that they would arrive around 10ish, I had offered my place to crash for the night. Egads, they arrived after midnight, barely eliciting grunts and directions to the living room before I crept back to bed and sleep. At 4 in the morning, my alarm clock was practically deafening. I leapt from bed, called Vicki (Mr. Woofy's Taxi Service!), and grabbed my bags for a dash out the door.

I slept all the way to Phoenix.

The Phoenix airport was little improvement over the Philadelphia transfer point. Thankfully, I was warned of the area around the airport: it looked just as blighted and unwelcome as LAX. I had already decided to nix Phoenix from my "see Arizona" plans, but that definitely confirmed it. It took about an hour for me to pay for and pick up my rental car, and to get on the road out of there.

I was well on the road listening to a wonderful classic rock station (100.7, I think) when I realized that I didn't have my iPod's radio transmitter for the desert north of the city. Meine Gute!

I would love to say that my first stop in Arizona was a lovely national park but, alas, I couldn't do without a constant stream of music for the nearly 3 hour drive to Flagstaff. So, sigh, I stopped at a Super Wal-Mart. Yeah, yeah, I know. But with 100+ degree temperatures, it made sense to also stop for water to keep in the car.

Watered and with music, I hit the road again in search of a local place to eat. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a sign for Byler's Amish Kitchen? Amish? In Arizona?!

Turns out that the restaurant was opened by an Amish couple that migrated to Arizona sometime in the 70s. The "formerly Amish" line was thin and I can't recommend the decor, but the food...ohmygod. For 8 bucks, I got a simple salad, a still-makes-my-mouth-water-at-the-thought chicken and dumplings entree, and a scrumptious apple betty. The woman who served me (the owner? a relative?) was so Southern Hospitality that I think my own ya'll and ma'am crept back into my language. YUM-E!

Up the road a ways, I found the signs for Montezuma Castle. No, Montezuma had nothing to do with the place, but the early assumption that Aztec's had built the cliff dwellings stuck.

My pictures don't do it justice, but it's a lovely place, and the home of about 50 Sinagua (yes, without water) residents many hundreds of years ago. Despite their name, the Sinagua lived next to a creek and used irrigation techniques for farming. There was more evidence of their handicraft another 7 miles north at Montezuma Well, a naturally replenishing spring with some beautifully shaded areas down near the water's edge.

Still, these areas of water are in otherwise dry land. It reminded me of Colorado, and I feared that the expansive brown would only make me long for the green East Coast. But about 30 minutes outside of Flagstaff the landscape makes a dramatic shift to lush greenery. Indeed, with the 30 degree temperature drop, the incredibly blue sky and the evergreen trees, it became just what that Arizona reporter said to me last week: "God's country." (It reminded me of New Zealand. Sniffle!)

Flagstaff itself has the feel of a college town or a ski resort: the route in on the highway has its Denny's and McDonalds, but they give ground to an historic downtown of local bars and craft shops. The very active train station -- some 5 trains pulled through while I was still awake! -- only ads to the charm.

Although my plan had been to drop things off at the hostel and head right back out to Sedona for the evening, I decided instead to leave the car behind and simply hoof it around town to see the shops. I made a guilty purchase of some Simple tennis shoes. (See the picture; aren't they just the cutest?)

And I had dinner at Charley's. (Julian, I do NOT recommend their steak. Ugh.)

By the time 8:30 rolled around though, my wacky sleepless night and hikes about the area had worn me out. I put the ear plugs in (those trains!) and called it a night.

P.S. You know who you are, and you know you are missed.

Rainbow's End

2004-10-05T19:43:00.000+02:00

I had planned to just reach Taupo, four hours north of Wellington. There, I would find a night's accommodation, wake to a sunrise over the lake and then slowly creep into Auckland for the business of international flying.

That was the plan.

Instead, after breakfast, I wandered about Wellington searching for a new backpack. The one I had purchased last year in Victoria, B.C. gave up the ghost when Dan and I were wandering around in Te Papa. Although I eventually found one -- a garish yellow color and emblazoned with a huge Nike logo -- somewhere over the period of the search I decided to do it. To drive 8 hours to Auckland.

In hindsight, it was a good decision. The southern towns and hills of the North Island were awash in rain showers all afternoon. Nice. A strong rain, as I learned from my Greymouth to Nelson trip, makes it easier to stop the i-should-haves, as in "I should have hiked to the top of Victoria" or "I should have stopped to view the falls."

I stopped every two hours to stretch my legs and to nibble at the food stands. I enjoyed a very tasty chicken kabab pita in a little town called Bulls. The restaurant owner also happened to own a large, brass Indian elephant bell of the type that I have been collecting. It was an exquisite one. He wouldn't let me buy it off of him, and the antique shop on the corner didn't have any more. Bummer. In Taupo, I stopped for the loo and wolfed down the baklava that I purchased at the kabab place. Damn, that was yummy. Outside of Hamilton, a couple hours north of Taupo, I pulled off the highway and ate at KFC, known locally as "Kiwi for Chicken." LOL, it tasted like the same Kentucky-fried of my youth though!

With the rain, there was little I could note of the passing scenery south of Taupo. But just before Taupo, the sun burst through the clouds and created a spectacular rainbow. I whooped like I'd never seen one.

In the last stretch of highway coming into Auckland, the signs for the airport also announce "Rainbow's End." It turns out that Rainbow's End is Auckland's theme park, with rollercoasters, bumper cars and cotton candy. I prefer to think of the sign as I first imagined it: my notice that my lovely vacation is at an end.

There is a lot I want to say here: about the way that thoughts of work wormed their way into my dreams last night, about what "going home" means for a woman who recently left her marriage, about what I would have done differently in this trip, about my thoughts of a future living abroad... Lots to say.

But it is 7:30 a.m. here in Auckland and the city demands that I pay attention. I have to go move my car.

See you all soon.

Wellington with Dan

2004-10-04T21:38:00.000+02:00

Wellington, like any urban center, is a parking nightmare. I woke at 5 a.m. yesterday and every hour thereafter, worried about moving my car from the street and into the garage. Well, at least I was ready for the day to begin.

Car safely stowed, I joined the bustle of downtown in search of breakfast. Despite the number of commuters in their cars, on the bus or on foot, there actually weren't many breakfast spots open at that hour. I eventually found another Caffe L'affare (who knew they were a chain?) and settled in for a yummy breakfast and more of Desirable Daughters.

My only "to do" item for the day was to finally meet Dan Mortimer. When I was using the internet over at Base Backpackers in Auckland, I saw a post there from Dan, who was looking for a ride south. By the time I had made up my mind to fly rather than drive to Christchurch, he had already made it to Wellington. We kept in touch via email while I bopped around the South Island, with a plan to rendezvous if I made it to Wellington before he departed. I did, so we made plans to meet at Te Papa in the afternoon.

The morning remained my own. Despite the guidebooks warning that the walk to the Botanical Gardens required oxygen and a base camp, I was eager for the walk. I had also eaten a rather generous breakfast and really *needed* the walk. Still, I took plenty of little breaks on my 40 minute hike into the hills, occasionally harassing passersby for clarification on my direction. I saw the Wellington Cable Car cruise up on its tracks and resisted the urge to scurry to its platform for a lift. I walked on.

The Botanical Gardens are certainly worth the trek. It is expansive, with two hiking trails passing through, a children's playground, a treehouse information center, an old observatory, the Cable Car Museum, and all the green-growth that you could desire. I particularly loved the succulents garden worked into a hillside terrace and the California redwood towering next to the information center. (Damn, I need to get back out to the U.S. West Coast.)

I rode the cable car back into town (charming!) and walked from the end station back to Wildlife House. They didn't have any singles available when I checked in late on Sunday night, so I was sharing a dorm with three other women. This was the first time during my trip that I have and, urgh, never again. One of the women, Victoria, was great (maybe it's the name, Vicki?), but the other women were rather cold. And one of them made little eating noises in her sleep that *just* grossed me out. Wildlife had a single opening up, so I moved into it, took a shower and headed out for lunch before meeting Dan. (Mmmm, chicken tikka masala and onion kulcha. Oh, life is swell.)

Speaking of swell, Dan Mortimer is too. (If you have found my blog, Dan, feel free to correct me on my details.) Dan and I had no trouble meeting each other in Te Papa. (There are not a lot of dreadheaded black women in Wellington.) Dan is a 32 year old, blonde Brit from Weymouth. Bored with his job training teachers in IT and getting over a heartbreak, he decided to chuck it all for the beauty of New Zealand. He applied for residency before leaving the U.K., but is in the country, now, on a six-month travel visa. He's not sure if he will make it. Although he sold all his things and did all of the goodbye parties, Dan misses his friends much more than he anticipated. Has he done the right thing? Stay tuned.

More thanks to Neil Tangri for the recommendation: Te Papa is superb! It is New Zealand's premiere museum, a well-deserved honor. The high ceilings, the layout, the coloring -- what a nicely designed space. The displays of Maori artifacts, history and recent political struggle are thoroughly engrossing. There were also exhibits on wool -- baa! baa! -- the replication of the natural world in architecture, and contemporary art. Although I have enjoyed traveling on my own, it was nice to have Dan there to laugh and talk with about the things I was seeing.

Dan and I wandered about Te Papa for four hours until they kicked us out. (Heck, we only made a dent in the place.) We walked along the waterfront, watching the canoe (kayak) polo team practice their speed in the water and chatting about the other sights that Dan has taken in during his 10-day stay in Wellington.

Dan and I managed to have enough to talk about -- family and friends, aspirations, music, travel drama, and more -- to carry us through dinner at a yummy (and cheap!) Malaysian restaurant and a shared bottle of wine at a very chic, and very hidden, late-night bar.

For those of you expecting to hear more, what kind of woman do you think I am? (Don't answer that.) Dan walked me back to Wildlife and, after thanks and goodbye hugs, made his way off into the rain.

It's time for me to checkout of Wildlife, to rustle up some breakfast and to eventually make my way to Lake Taupo for the evening. I leave for home tomorrow night and, thanks to the beauty of the International Date Line, will be there within four hours of my departure. Not really, but that's what the clocks will say. Ah, time travel...

Where did the time go?

The countdown begins

2004-10-03T11:39:00.000+02:00

I am exhausted. The travel to Wellington took, in total, 8 hours. That was 2 hours driving to Picton to catch the ferry. Then, it was 1.5 hours waiting for the ferry to arrive (it was late). Between loading and unloading cars and on-foot travelers, the ferry consumed another 4.5 hours. Again, I'm exhausted.

Okay, the day had its good points.

Right after checkout (and laundry, ugh), I took a long stroll along the Matai River in Nelson before doing a steep climb up to the "Geographic Center of New Zealand." The advertising and signage about the Geographic Center of New Zealand (with caps, thank you very much) is more impressive than the site itself. Still, the beauty of the river walk *and* the awesome view of Nelson and Tasman Bay from the hilltop made the two-hour trek worth it.

LOL, isn't everything here lovely?

I made my way back down into town and grabbed a bite at the (you guessed it) lovely Caffe L'affare, where I had enjoyed a breakfast the day before. If you are traveling in Nelson, I definitely recommend them. Not only are their dishes savory, but their presentation makes you think you are dining at a place billing twice the price. I lingered there for about 2 hours, reading Desirable Daughters, the October assignment for the book group. I just started but, already 100 pages in, I find it pretty compelling reading. For those of you who recently saw Vijai Nathan's one-woman show, Good Girls Don't, But Indian Girls Do, at the Takoma Theatre, this book is the same "Hindu woman coming into her own" story but with a lot more detail.

Okay, enough.

It's 11 p.m. here, and I am fading fast. I'll skip the details about the showing of The Bourne Supremacy on the ferry or info on my new lodging at Wildlife House for a chance to get some sleep. Let me just say that today is the 3rd, my departure is on the 6th, and the thought of flying home is bumming me out.

Okay, enough. Sleep.

A kayak on the deep blue

2004-10-02T08:59:00.000+02:00

Yesterday's tour of Nelson's galleries was a real pleasure. The Suter Gallery had an outstanding exhibit called "Handycrafts, at home with textiles," which had tongue-in-cheek artistic takes on the domestic arts of a 50s housewife. I *loved* the crocheted toilet seat cover! And the harried-looking hen tea cosey (knit) with her baby chick egg coseys was hilarious. The needlepoint sampler on email, laptops and the like -- hell, all of the exhibit was inspired. Well done, Suter!

The World of Wearable Art Museum continued that thread (no pun intended). This is an annual show in which artists submit, er, thematic art that can be worn as garments. It's wild! Vivid colors, crazy materials, and truly inspired designs. Some of the "Bizarre Bra" competitors made me laugh out loud: wolves, boobies (the animals, "these are not boobies"), and the chandelier attachments...This year's winner, Booby Trap by Hilary & Judy Unwin of Nelson is fantastic! (Women, I think we should make our own theme bras for Halloween this year.) Check out the other winners at www.WorldofWearableArts.com

With a little bit of time before my plans to catch Shark Tale at the cinema, I drove down to Tahunanui Beach. Even at low tide, there were a number of kids playing on the beach as their parents sat by at the cafe enjoying drinks and food. I sipped some tea and read some more of the (still bizarre) Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Speaking of bizarre, how about Shark Tale. No, no, it wasn't the movie itself. It was seeing a movie featuring, predominantly, Black America in a theatre where I am the only Black American. I was pretty sure that most of the cultural references to Car Wash, 70s afros, hip-hop and reggae (including jellyfish tentacles as dreadlocks) were sailing right over people's heads. And, hey, when I laughed aloud at the Krispy Kreme bag that Oscar (Will Smith) pulls out, nobody else laughed. Hilarious.

Not surprisingly, the offerings of the natural world did nothing but enhance the lovely human-made pleasures of Nelson.

Bright and early this morning, I was off with Kiwi Kayaks for a full day of kayaking and hiking in Abel Tasman National Park. (Thank you, Neil Tangri, for the recommendation.) There were just five of us on the trip: Spencer from Lake Tahoe, Judith from Germany, Avi from Israel, a young Japanese student whose name I am sad to say has already slipped from my brain (Sapa?), and our guide, Locke. After a brief introduction to the gear, the trek and each other, we took out three two-seater kayaks onto the water.

Because this is still off-season for most companies, we were blessedly and amazingly alone on the water. I saw only one other kayak the entire time we were out there. Unfrigginbelieveable.

What an amazing day. We kayaked into four different bays. Locke chatted with us about the coastal scenery, history of the specific islands we passed, wildlife, and (lol) getting better at our stroke technique. We stopped for an early breakfast of tea and biscuits (cookies, for you Americans) and later cruised to our last beach for lunch. Spencer and I then broke off from the other three who were on a tour that sent them higher up the coast, and hiked about 3 hours back to a point near our start. The hike -- with views of all the beaches that we had kayaked by -- was just glorious.

Spencer kept me in stitches, too, with some great banter about politics, extreme sports (he's quite the adventurist), family and the like.

Oops, just 10 minutes before I need to ditch this lovely internet shop. Let me sum up as I have before:

Life is good.

Nelson, in a driving rain

2004-10-01T00:46:00.000+02:00

My visit to Greymouth and the Global Village Backpackers was lovely, albeit brief. The bikes there were barely usable, so I ditched them in favor of a hoof into town.

Greymouth is rather unremarkable, actually. I walked past a number of car mechanic shops and the mix of light industrial buildings on my search of a coffee shop. I found one that could make a soy latte, and enjoyed a very yummy salad there of spinach, English bacon, brie and grilled scallops in a balsamic vinaigrette. I wouldn't have put those ingredients together myself, but everything's an adventure on vacation. :-)

I booked myself for an evening tour of the Montieth Brewery. I heartily recommend it! For about $15 USD, we merry drinkers got an hilarious tour of the brewery, with samplings of raw malt and (if you were crazy enough) hops, a look into a huge vat of beer, generous samples of five Montieth brews, and the equivalent of three large pints of your choice brew. Yeah, I got a little tipsy. Blessedly, our tour guide was six years sober and could get us back to the host hotel for our (included!) buffet meal with steak.

One of the other people on my tour asked if there was ever a time when Montieth had to toss out a batch of brew. Twice, replied our guide. Once, when the local water turned salty. It killed the yeast and, as a result, the beer. The second time was when one of the brewery staff, leaning over the vat to skim off yeast, fell into the beer. It turns out that there isn't enough oxygen in beer to keep you buoyant, no matter how good a swimmer you may be. He sank to the bottom like a stone. Not surprisingly, they tossed out that beer.

I spent the rest of my late evening back at Global Village, curled up in front of the television for a showing of Yi Yi. My choice: I hadn't seen it before and video showings at Global are free. It was a nice film. Or, rather, I think it might have been. I fell asleep in the middle of it. The thing is three hours long! I woke up, watched about 45 minutes more, then ditched it and went to bed.

I woke in the middle of the night to the strong drumming of rain on the roof. I managed to get back to sleep, but it woke me again in the morning. That hard, driving rain was predicted to last all day, so I decided that it would be a good time to push on north to Nelson and the Tasman Bay.

The west coast of the South Island, north of Greymouth, is spectacular. I know I have used the word before, but trust me when I say that I am not using it lightly. I ditched the idea of capturing its beauty with my camera; the rain was unrelenting. But I did make a couple of stops along the way to stand and gape in the rain.

One hour long break was at Paparoa National Park to see Dolomite Point and its famous pancake rocks. The 15 minute walk from the visitor center was intense, with high, whipping wind and cold, cold rain. I spent more time in the cafe then out in that crazy weather, but the view was breathtaking. The odd-shaped rocks look like stacked pancakes, and the water had carved out natural bridges under which the waves thundered and thundered. It would have been great to stick around...if I weren't soaked to the bone.

I dragged myself away from the warm cafe to hit the road again. It's a beautiful drive inland through the Victoria Range-- the kind of landscape deserving of an RV and a family camping outing. I was determined to get to Nelson by late afternoon, so my stops in the Buller Gorge area for the toilet and in Murchison for a muffin and water were very, very brief.

From Murchison it is long, lonely stretches of rolling hills. Please excuse me while I make a commercial break here. I couldn't have done the trip without my iPod and Belkin radio transmitter. Except from tracks by The The (Julian, I am deleting them when I get home), I jammed to Radiohead, Ziskakan, Ani diFranco, The Cardigans, A3, Cesaria Evora, Erykah Badu...you name it, my whole damn collection in six hours on the road from Greymouth. Ok, end of commercial.

I lodged last night in the Palace Backpackers. The place is in a worn-down but architecturally beautiful Victorian mansion. The place makes you eager to purchase and renovate. While my room had a fantastic view of the town and the distant mountains of the Richmond Range, a cat roaming the premises had me sneezing and reaching for the Visine. I am writing at the local internet cafe while they prepare my room at Tasman Bay Backpacker.

I am off to see the World of Wearable Art gallery this afternoon, and to take a peek in the Suter Gallery near the Queen's Gardens. I actually hope to get into Tasman National Park tomorrow. I want to kayak! Wish me luck.

God's Country

2004-09-29T04:48:00.000+02:00

I decided to leave Christchurch for the west coast of South Island via Arthur's Pass. The guidebook had spoke of its beauty and, having enjoyed my brief hike into Lyttelton, I wanted a little more higher up in the mountains.

I hadn't counted on snow.

Snowfall started when I was about 22km outside of Springfield, a small town on the route where I had planned on stopping for coffee and the restroom. There was a sign on my approach though: Arthur's Pass was closed to all vehicles that didn't have chains on the tires. No way! But, true enough, the snow increased until the surrounding land was covered in a thick blanket.

By the time I arrived in Springfield, I was almost certain that it would be my home for the evening. Unbelievably, I could see children making a snowman in the open ground near the fuel station. I pulled over.

I decided to use my cell phone to call Mountain House, an accommodation in Arthur's Pass Village. Jan, the co-proprietor, confirmed the worst. Yes, there was thick snow in Arthur's Pass and, no, there was no getting in there until the snow let up. In fact, cars without chains were being turned back on the road.

Sigh.

The Cottage Cafe in Springfield was a godsend. There was a wood stove in the corner, comfy seating, plenty of food offerings and not a care in the world if I stayed 10 minutes or 10 hours. I stayed for 4, reading my book (back to The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle) and nibbled on scones with cream. The cafe owner would question every person entering. Which way did you come from? If from the Pass, she asked about if they had chains and what the conditions were like. There were some who thought they would drive through who had indeed been turned back. We all sat down -- locals, travelers, kids and adults -- for a long number of hours.

The snowfall gradually lessened around 3 in the afternoon. I gathered up my things, did a quick run to the toilet, paid my bill and headed off.

Let me summarize the rest of that day like this: Arthur's Pass will make a believer out of any atheist.

This part of the Southern Alps is magnificent, glorious, jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring, breath-taking...you name it. The road winds its way through simply spectacular landscape, and the snowfall had made it that much more incredible.

I pulled over many times to take pictures. I also laughed my head off. (I don't know if that's ever happened to any of you, but sometimes the emotion simply overwhelms me to such a degree that I simply have to make noise.)

I hope that my photos can capture some of what I experienced, but I believe only Ansel Adams could do the place justice.

But wait, there's more.

The Mountain House backpackers and cottages were outstanding. Jan was a wonderful, laughing-eyes type with a quick smile and not a worried thought in her head. She is a relocated Canadian who has been in New Zealand for more than 15 years. I can't say enough pleasant about our brief time together.

And the cottage? Cold! but incredibly charming with those same spectacular views. It had shared toilet and shower facilities, a well-equipped kitchen, and -- oh yeah -- a fireplace.

My cabin mates were great people. Aussies Debbie and her daughter, Lauren, were on their first international excursion. Lauren had actually won their roundtrip airfare through a contest at her retail job. Of all the people she could have taken, she chose her mom. (Insert the appropriate "ahhhh" here.) Debbie plays a mean game of Scrabble, beating the two of us handily by about 30 points.

Our other cabinmates included a fellow American, Mary-Anne. She's a nutritionist and former Blue Ridge, Virginia organic farmer. (Vicki, she knew Thornton Gap!) She was great to chat with. Although absent from the States since May, she was up-to-date on all the election craziness and did her fair share of ranting about W without a prompt from me (hey, I'm on vacation). In the U.S., she lives on an island off the coast of Maine. She's fighting to get her absentee ballot sent, which is more about small-town ineptitude than grand schemes to keep Our Dear Idiot in the White House. She took me on a short walk up to some lovely waterfalls near the visitors center. She also took me to the local chapel - also near the visitors' center and stunning in its simple, inviting beauty. You can see the waterfalls just beyond the sanctuary window.

I stayed just last night and this morning in Mountain House. I struggled with the decision for almost two hours, but Jan told me that the forecast was calling for rain this evening and the chance for more snow by tomorrow morning. If I wanted to avoid being snowed in at Arthur's Pass, I had to go.

I am in Greymouth now at a place that Mary-Anne had stayed at called Global Village. The ambiance is exactly as she described it: warm, with world music in the common areas and art from all over the world decorating the walls. I have taken a moment to post this email but, shortly, I will borrow one of the free bikes and peddle my way into the town center. I am also thinking of taking in the local brewery tour.

Life is good.

How not to hike

2004-09-27T20:43:00.000+02:00

I have been watching the car patterns for days, anticipating turns and checking driver responses to posted signs. I wanted to be familiar with driving on the left before I actually got behind the wheel.

It wasn't until I actually had the EZ Rental car keys in hand that I realized that I was terrified. There's some foundation for this. When I was talking with Steve, the non-pierced family man of my LAX to AKL flight, he recounted a horrible story. His New Zealand brother-in-law had crested a hill in his big truck when he crashed head on into an American family that was driving on the wrong side of the road. All of them died. He continued that lots of Americans die behind the wheel in New Zealand.

I'd thank Steve for creating deep and lasting paranoia, but he probably did me a favor by forcing me to pay attention. I sit very upright. I grip the wheel tighter.

I wasn't sure where I was headed, but a snippet in the Footprints guidebook about a harbor town called Lyttelton caught my attention. It wasn't too far from Christchurch, so why not.

I was more aware of my driving for most of the trek than the surrounding countryside, but a sign about a "gondola" in Heathcote diverted me from my destination. Good thing. As the promotional material states, the Christchurch Gondola, is located on the crater rim of an extinct volcano at a 15 minute ride from Christchurch. Visitors take a gondola (or "sky tram" in Americaneze) to the top to enjoy a 360 degree panorama. There are views out to the bay and ocean on the one hand and the Southern Alps in another.

The woman behind the gondola counter asked, "One way?"

As it turns out, visitors can buy either a roundtrip ride to the cafe and visitors center at the top or ride to the top and, well, hike the hour down. Hike back to the starting point or hike into Lyttelton and take the bus back from there to your car.

How could I resist? The day was fantastic. No clouds in sight (or so I thought then), sunshine and a light breeze. I had my backpack with me, stuffed with guidebooks, Speaker for the Dead, cell phone and the works (or so I thought then). A hike?

"One way, please."

I rode up to the top with a man about my age and his two, very enthusiastic, young sons. Between my crazed snap-taking, he and I chatted about the area. He was raised in Dunedin, further south, but lives in Christchurch. It seems that the Christchurch region has seen explosive development in the last 5 years. Did he say 70,000 new residents? I think so. It has its downsides, he said, but, overall, "I feel lucky to raise a family here."

I spent a little time in the ubiquitous gift shop, and more time drifting in the exhibit room downstairs. They had a great display on the Maori folktale of the creation of the Southern Alps-- with fiery gods and mountain ranges that were formerly men. And a high-end video on the formation of the crater region was fantastic. There was also a positively creepy setup of the hull of a ship, with wax figurines "talking" to each other about the harsh conditions for European travelers to the region. Thank god it was just voice over and not their mouths moving; I expected one of the figures to grab for me at any moment and to drag me, screaming, into the display like some bad rip-off of the Twilight Zone.

My overactive imagination didn't help me on the hike either.

First, let me say that there was nothing about the hike itself that was difficult. Sara, you, me and Lynne would have enjoyed this trek without a worry! Still, I was alone on the trek, without another person in sight until the very end. So, in the "how not to hike" framework, I'd like to share a sampling of my thoughts on the way down.

(1.) "What if I get eaten by a mountain lion?" (2.) "Does my cell phone work?" followed by rustling in my bag and then trying to call mom. It didn't work. (3.) "If I encounter a pack of wild dogs, should I get down on my knees like that guy did in The Truth About Cats and Dogs? Would they eat my Oreos if I offered them?" (4.) "What if I break my leg?" followed by thoughts of that movie, Into Thin Air, and me imagining myself crawling down the rest of the mountain to help. (5.) "Tammi, did you bring any water?"

Mind you, there were lovely sights all around me: the mountainside was covered by low flowering plants and scrubs rather than towering trees, so I had gorgeous, open views all the way down.

Still, I was actually talking ALOUD to myself when, near the bottom, a man emerged around the bend with a baby strapped to his back.

I laughed, "I thought I was alone here." Having no doubt heard talking before he saw me, I am sure he thought I was a loony. He paused before saying, "Another busy day in Lyttelton" and passing on.

There are never busy days in Lyttelton, I learned. The hike ends right in the backyard of a town resident. It's another 20 minute steep walk down the road into the town center.

"Town center" is more about location than offerings. Lyttelton is a charming, quiet working-harbor kind of town.

I bought a bottle of water at the local liquor store (mmm, the clerk was yummy) and then wandered down the street in search of something sweet. I had just told the owner at Satchmo's (yes, Satchmo's!) Cafe that I wasn't sure what I wanted, when it started to pour outside. So much for my cloud-free day.

I heartily recommend Satchmo's chocolate mud cake. It's served warm in a pool of chocolate liqueur with ice cream and whipped cream on the side. Exxxxxxcellent. And with the jazz playing in the background -- Satchmo et al -- it made sitting in from the rain in Lyttelton the best thing on earth.

I have just a few moments before I am out of internet time and must be on my way. I am leaving Christchurch today for a drive out to the west coast via Arthurs Pass. Into the mountains! But before I go, I want to share a little humor about my dinner at Lone Star. Yep, Texas-style eating in New Zealand. Well, not exactly. Menu items included the "Baked Redneck Ribs" with hoisin, orange and sesame seed sauce and the "Dixie Chicken" filets in a wine, garlic and spring onion sauce. My waiter could not figure out why I was laughing!

My steak dinner there was SUPERB, Julian, so put it on your list.

Christchurch

2004-09-26T19:15:00.000+02:00

My plan to go to Rotorua was an "if" one. As in, "if I got a cheap car" or "if the bus schedule were favorable I could be soaking in a thermal pool by the afternoon." On a Sunday departure from Auckland, neither was actually a great option for price or timing. So when Frazer at the Aspen House suggested that I jump south and drive north, well, I jumped south.

Frazer quickly booked me a flight, a car and a shuttle to the airport and I was on my way to Christchurch on the South Island. I was so engrossed in Speaker for the Dead (thanks, Julian) that there were no fond last looks at Auckland from the shuttle bus nor disappointment that my Qantas aisle seat kept me from a aerial view of the South Island landscape. There may be time for both at some later point. (Needless to say, I recommend the book.)

The flight to Christchurch was short, and soon I was in another shuttle winding my way through the sunny day toward Stonehurst Accommodation, a highly reviewed backpackers hostel. The praise is well deserved. Although located on a stretch that looks fairly suburban, it is just blocks from central Cathedral Square. My very small room is nevertheless charming, and the layout of the entire place makes it easy to get to a large kitchen, laundry, rec room and pool. I kept my oohing over the Stonehurst to a minimum and strapped on my bag for a walk to the Botanical Gardens.

Christchurch quickly proved to be a much more pedestrian friendly city than Auckland. And cleaner. It actually has the look and sentiment of a quiet European town, with an architectural mix of "swiss chalet," "roman cathedral," and "city tower." This is, I think, Canterbury township, with all of its English references.

As it was Sunday, the streets were extremely quiet. The few people I passed on the way seemed to be fellow travelers, backpack-laden and guidebooks in hand. With the exception of the souvenir sellers, most shops and restaurants were closed. I noted an open Korean restaurant, told my rumbling belly that I'd stop on the way back from the gardens, and pressed on.

Although my hunger kept my visit to little over an hour, I did enjoy my stroll through the gardens. The sunny day had really encouraged the local and visiting community to take a stroll, so the paths -- while not crowded -- were rarely absent of others. Spring is just arriving in Christchurch, so while there were some beautiful offerings from the early bloomers, I could only guess at the awe-inspiring display to come later. Still, it was great to see the kids dashing about, the man asleep in a quiet patch of sun, the lovers walking hand-in-hand, and the many small and large groups posing for just the right photo memory. I even saw a small gondola go by along the snaking Avon River.

I didn't exactly run for the Korean restaurant when I left the gardens at 5, but I certainly didn't stroll either. Mmmmm, bi bim bahp. The restaurant that I had chosen turned out to be tasty, with large dishes at very cheap prices. It's 5:30 a.m. now, and if I thought they were open at this hour, I wouldn't be sitting in front of this terminal.

I roamed a bit more after dinner, not ready to return to the Stonehurst. I stopped a local woman on a bicycle and asked her where the local cinema was. She pointed it out and then pressed me with questions: where are you from, how long are you here, etc. Although a fellow cyclist and helpful with the information, she wasn't exactly "warm." I was relieved when the light changed again and she hastened on her way.

I was just in time for a showing of The Village, by the same guy who did The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable. Julian, was it you who told me the ending? In any case, I can say that knowing what was real and what was not did not take away from the creepy nature of the movie. I thought it was pretty good, certainly a fine way to spend a few hours on a quiet Christchurch evening. Certainly better than the laundry that kept me up until 11.

In just a few hours, the car rental company will pick me up, process me and send me on my way. I don't know where I am headed, but I expect to figure it out when I get there.

Leaving Auckland

2004-09-25T21:03:00.000+02:00

It turns out that gathering up my will to leave this city is harder than I had expected. There is a certain comfort in being on foot, in knowing Janene is close by to chat with, and in running into people that I have already met.

But I didn't come here to stay put.

So, by car or bus, I am leaving Auckland this afternoon. I am back at the Base internet lounge now "researching" the car options. Just two really, both with good rates by U.S. standards.

After a long drive with Janene in the countryside, I am looking forward to doing the same on my own out to Rotorua, near the eastern coast. (Neil and Joan, you should be pleased!) The Rotorua hot springs are supposedly superb, and I am sooooo looking forward to a dip after the chill of last night. I am going to try to book a room at the Kiwi Paka , but (1) this is a student vacation week and (2) Rotorua is a popular tourist destination.

Wish me luck.

The sea, the sea

2004-09-24T22:29:00.000+02:00

I wasn't sure what I wanted to do yesterday. Another museum? Another neighborhood? I did know that I was hungry after yesterday's long post, so I headed out with the intent of returning to Cima for more eggs and, er, bacon.

It was grey and breezy. Ah, another beautiful day in Auckland, I thought. The sidewalks were crowded, but I was plugged into 80s music on my iPod. A Birkenstock shoe store caught my eye, and I was just turning in when someone called my name. Impossible, I thought, but I heard it again, louder this time.

It was Mickey. She was very obviously hungover from the previous night's festivities. Scott the Brit (not to be confused with John the Scot) was upstairs in the internet area of the Korean owned kebob cafe (go figure) and why don't I join them.

So I did. Mickey filled me in on the stuff that happened after my midnight departure. It sounded a lot like my own birthday drink fest, with, er, urgent bathroom visits and the like. Scott took some glee in showing me a photo that he had taken of me and John the Scot speaking. He hadn't realized when he took the photo what we were talking about... Mickey told me that I had reached icon status. LOL. Here I was just trying to have a good time...

I parted with them with nary a clue about what I should do. Scott had suggested that I head down to the Viaduct, where the America's Cup boats were. I was drifting in that general direction, when the Britomart travel center caught my eye. I had been thinking about getting across the water to Devonport, which the travel guide had described as being a village in look and sentiment.

The Britomart is all steel-glass modern. I learned later that it cost quite a pretty penny to build, so much so that they had to skip on the trains that they were planning on purchase for 1950s throw-backs instead. Someone lost their job over that one. But I was in the wrong place for travel to Devonport anyway. Head to the ferry, said the information attendant graciously. I wasn't the first clueless tourist to show up at his window.

I bought my ticket at the very scaled down ferry office and made a mad dash for the departing boat. I spent some of the quick minutes across to Devonport writing out some postcards. More on that later.

Devonport is as charming and village-like as the guide stated. It reminded me so much of Friday Harbor in the San Juan Islands area of Seattle, Washington. Yes, in that memory, I thought of Ned and our time there. Sigh.

I wandered in and out of the shops there. Julian, I think you will like the Strawpeople cd that I bought there. (Hear clips from that album here.) They are a NZ electronica/dance band. Nice sound. Jeff#2, I saw something at the antique shop that you might be interested in: an HMV portable gramophone. Masters Voice, if that rings a bell. Was that the kind of machine you were talking to me about the other day?

Mt. Victoria is near the end of the main walk in Devonport, with a paved road taking visitors to its summit. The view at the top is unbelievable, even if the photo below shows the grey, grey day.

It took me forever to include that photo here, and I am due to meet Janene in just minutes. Oh, Janene, for those who don't know, is the Aucklander that I met in Nairobi, Kenya some ten years ago. I met up with her and her long-term friend Frances last night. Oh, I have to dash. More later.

***

It is 8:20 p.m. and I am here in the Base Auckland internet room. I have missed my third chance to see Sophia. This evening, I seem to have arrived at the wrong place. Last night, I had departed with Janene and Frances just moments before her arrival -- which I learned from the note on my door when I returned. :-(

If I have a moment tomorrow to post, I will talk about the lovely time I enjoyed with Janene today, roaming the farmland north of Auckland. If not, then I am on the road to Wellington.

In any case, I need some sleep.

Yesterday's novella, complete with drama and dreams of romance

2004-09-24T00:57:00.000+02:00

The weather turned better than the morning's rain suggested, becoming much like my ideal Spring or Fall day: warm enough that a sweater and light jacket was too much, breezy enough to whip the hair all about my face like some Medusa, and softly shaded so that all the greens and browns took on rich hues. I'll say more on the last a little later.

Rather than hop the bus, I decided to walk the few miles over to the
Auckland Museum. I took the long-route along Queen Street to hunt out some eggs and bacon, a supplement to the yummy but unsatisfying raisin-nut toast I had at the Aspen House. I found my breakfast at a place called Cima, accessible by a back alley that a street sweeper pointed out. It wasn't until they put the plate in front of me that I remembered that the bacon would't be the good ol' Smithfield variety of the South, but the kind that you, Julian, crave. For those of you who are not British, I'll describe it as a cross between a thinly sliced breakfast ham and bologna. Ok, that's not entirely fair, since the taste is superior to bologna. But it ain't Smithfield. I gobbled it down just the same.

I flipped through the New Zealand Herald. Did you folks catch that
Cat Stevens (Cat Stevens! now Yusuf Islam) had his plane diverted from a D.C. landing to Boston and was removed from the flight because he is on the government's terrorist-link list? The guy's a peacenik! Fucking insane (if you will pardon my French, Mom). Emigrating to New Zealand looks better and better...

But not to Auckland. I learned from Matt, the pierced guy of yesterday's flight, that Auckland had a lot in common in L.A. Uh huh. I saw that myself. Downtown is congested, packed with retail hell, tagged by local street "artists" and very cosmopolitan. This ain't the landscape of Lord of the Rings, folks. Maybe in the urban sequel? Come on, can't you see the Wraiths riding down Queen Street? I can.

Still, the walk to the Auckland Museum was charming. I'm on vacation, so what's not to treasure about each new-to-me billboard or shop? I took some photos as I crossed the Grafton Bridge. When I get to a USB-ready computer, I will post a photo, but in its absence I'll say that that one shot shows the freeway below and the harbor in the sunlit distance. The other shows the curve of the suicide-prevention glass that they have installed on the bridge. It is actually very appealing in a futuristic way. Ok, that might be just me...

The museum is on the grounds of something called Auckland Domain. It is a beautiful multi-acre parkland. (Harsha, you'll appreciate that I actually saw some guys playing cricket and, hey, could identify it as cricket. Thanks.) The light at that moment cast everything in the richest, jaw-dropping green. The slope from the cricket area curved up to a grove of trees that was simply unearthly. If you recall the promo poster for Big Fish, it was like that and just as magical. I headed for the greenhouses in the background.

The greenhouses sit on what's called the Wintergarden. I wasn't
impressed by the structure itself, but the greenhouses -- one Cool
House and one Tropical House, by name -- were spectacular. Vicki, I
took plenty of lovely flower photos in the Cool House. Ohmygod what a fragrance in that place. I took so many photos and notes there and in the Tropical House that a couple of guys on staff started to chat with me about all the offerings -- golden shrimp, torch ginger, etc.. It was so clear that they loved their work, that it still makes me smile. The older one asked me "is horticulture your field back at home?" LOL, don't I wish!

If you get to Auckland, *do* visit there. (Especially you, Kim!) And check out their Fernz Fernery there. Unfrigginbelievable. My photo will never do it justice.

The Auckland Museum sits atop the lip of a crater beyond the greenhouses, and it is quite foreboding. I learned later that it is also a war memorial, so that explains the grand columns and the imposing character. I won't say much about all the exhibits I saw. Hey, it's a museum after all (complete with yucky cafeteria food), and after living in the shadow of the Smithsonian all these years, it is hard to be impressed by what I see abroad. (Louvre aside, of course.) But the Maori artifacts -especially the waka (war canoe) and reconstructed meeting houses -- were superb! I also saw a lovely exhibit called "Fashion on Wheels: The New Zealand Gown of the Year," about an annual 1960s national contest for the best ballroom gown. Consider it the precursor to American Idol, complete with traveling sites, popular votes and stardom. It was interesting, too, that many of the designers behind these treasures were housewives who sewed for extra money on the side.

After the museum, I hopped a bus into Ponsonby. It is supposedly Gay Auckland, but there wasn't much. The Surrender Dorothy bar had an amusing graphic of a hairy-legged man in ruby slippers. I also found the local feminist bookstore. Nice, but small and dominated by "healing" books. Sigh. I sat for a while at a local cafe, had a yummy chicken-cranberry-brie wrap and started reading Speaker for the Dead. Julian, I hope I get some points for the latter.

Between the walk, the hunt for food, Cat Stevens, Dorothy and the wrap, I was a bit tired. But I still had committed to getting out to a happy hour that some folks on the backpacker board had organized. I got back to my room, unloaded some of my gear and had a pep talk with myself when I was considering just bailing out. LOL, I'm glad I didn't. I met the most lovely woman...

I was lost. It was 7 o' clock, which would make me on time (or grossly early), but the bar wasn't where it was supposed to be on the street. Maybe addresses worked differently here, but wasn't 62 Fort Street supposed to be between that 58 and 64? Grrr. No matter, I thought, there goes a cutie that I can ask... ;-)

So Sophia is from Germany and living with her aunt since she arrived 6 weeks ago. Like me, she didn't know a soul here, but was willing to help a stranger if she could. It turns out that she had been to Base at 62 Fort before and led me there directly. She was going to the travel center there, but, after depositing me in the bar, said, yes, she'd come back to have a drink with me.

While I waited for her and the rest of the backpacker group, I forced myself to accept the invitation of some guys who were just sitting and drinking which, as you all know, ain't my thing. Two were from Canada, military enlisted and the other an officer. I don't know where the others were from, and they weren't really all together. The Canadians were on break from Dubai, which they couldn't wait to leave in just four more months. The chat was quite difficult (I think they needed more alcohol), so I was very relieved when the members of the board arrived.

I was a little nervous when I went over to introduce myself, but the organizer, Mickey, greeted me like an old friend -- a loud HI! and a hug. (Thanks, Mickey!) It broke the ice for me, and I slipped into the round of introductions: Dean the French Canadian, Simon the Pole, Amanda from Michigan, Marc the Aussie, plus May, Joanna, and many other names I will never remember. John the Scot made an early bad impression: "you look like Whoopi Goldberg." Yeah. Uh huh. Sophia showed up just afterwards and it began to feel like any party at home: easy, funny, and new.

Not surprisingly, we all began to drink a little too much and to talk a little too loudly. Mickey and I got it into our heads to go dancing at another bar that she'd been to the night before (80s music!) and gathered up about 10 to go there. Sophia wasn't sure-- she was waitressing in the morning. No problem, I said, you can sleep over with me if you need to. Oh, Tammi, you are soooo slick.

There was no dancing at the other bar that night so we all headed back to Base for more drinking silliness. And this, of course, is where things took a turn for the worse. I was chatting with Micki, Joanna and Amanda when I learned that John the Scot (of Whoopi fame) had offered each of them, privately, a chance to see him via web cam in his Speedos. LOL!!!! To Joanna, he also mentioned that he had a thong with the Bristish Jack on it. Holy Mother of Christ! And they were sharing a dorm with this guy! At this point, having confirmed that they were collectively subject to his bs, they were NOT happy that he was there and were uncomfortable that he still wanted to hang out with them for the evening. I was STUNNED that none of them had told him to simply get lost.

So I did it.

I would like to say, in my defense, that I was sober when I pulled him aside. I would like to note, too, that my peer women were openly slapping me on the back and offering to ply me with drinks for the rest of the night. But oh, did it cause a scene! He said that I should tell them all to "fuck themselves" and he stormed off, not before telling his male buddies that "he wanted to hit someone" and "I'm getting a new room." Heeheehee. Strike another blow for feminism!

Ok, I have a lot more to post -- about Marc, for example. (No, Julian!) But I will simply have to leave that for another day. Hm. Hopefully there will be more to share...

Hm. I'll need that coat.

2004-09-22T22:45:00.000+02:00

My first stop of the day may have to be the local thrift store. The
light jacket that I brought with me will handle today's light rain,
but the chill makes me long for thermal underwear. Of course, it was sunny and very warm when I left Washington. Go figure.

Obviously from this post, I have arrived in New Zealand in one piece. It was a full day's travel to get here, made easier by the two men I met on my way from LAX. Get your mind out of the gutter, Meg. One was 19, and just out of a Hamilton, New Zealand high school. He reminded me a lot of Christopher Kaufman --known as the Guru to some of you -- but with extra piercings and shockingly black hair. (Ok, ok, he was a cutie.) The other was 43 and traveling with his family. He is a native of Australia but a 14 year resident of Atlanta with his New Zealand wife and their three kids. They are relocating home. Quite a shock to their American born children, as you can imagine. Both men made the long (12-hour!) jump from L.A. enjoyable.

It's nearly 9 a.m. here. I am ditching the comfort of the Aspen House for a rainy walk to the Auckland Museum. I need to stretch my legs, breathe the air...and find a coat.

It had to come to this

2004-09-21T15:41:00.000+02:00

What I imagined was a leisurely morning, coffee in one hand and the Washington Post in the other down at the Dupont Starbucks. No last minute rush. I certainly didn't imagine this - me, naked in front of my computer, and my apartment looking like Ivan tore through here on his way to drowning the Southern coast. Jeff says that it's a character flaw that I should want a clean apartment to greet my return. His own travel preparations -- kids, minivan, booster seats -- resemble a recent nightmare...

I am otherwise ready. The grant proposals are the mail, the bills are paid, the iPod is charged, and my mother has been given all my travel information she's been demanding for days. (Mom, I am not coming home. Love, Tammi.)

I suppose it's time to get my clothes on.