The Mix Tape

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?

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.

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!

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...

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.

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.

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...

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

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?

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.

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

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...

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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.