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.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
High Art in the low lands
“You can never get silence anywhere nowadays, have you noticed?” (Bryan Ferry, British singer, musician and songwriter)
On Monday night, Sheryl and I spend some time after the second set talking. She lives here in Holland with her husband and son. It’s been 20 years, so she knows the both the language and her way around the music scene. When I mention that I am staying across from the Concertgebouw, she says “be sure to check out the free Wednesday concert at noon.”
So I stay in on Wednesday morning to do just that.
I have forgotten to change my breakfast order at the Bema, so it arrives with the same bad coffee. Oh well. I choke it down, send my “I miss you” emails, and take my time showering, dressing.
Although I get across to the concert hall early, the foyer is already thick with people. Most have full heads of grey hair, and the chatter is distinctly Dutch. The regulars. Retirees.
I stand and read Gaiman’s “Neverwhere.” It’s not the typical literature of my book group, but I am so hooked that when the crowd begins to push forward into the hall, I am reluctant to put the book away. I don’t really, so I find the perfect seat and continue reading with just the occasional lift of my head to scan the room.
The hall is massive, with majestically high ceilings and beautifully crafted detail. The stage is in tiers that climb to a central hidden organ whose ornately decorated pipes reach high above and behind it.
I am surprised though to find the tiers otherwise bare, missing the tell-tale chairs and stands of any musicians.
A door opens high on the right, and the audience begins to clap for the lone man descending the stairs. They quiet down, and he welcomes us with a joke. At least, I assume it’s a joke, as it is in Dutch and all I can understand of it is his body language and the audience’s appreciative laughter. He finishes, the audience applauds again, and then he climbs the stairs to sit, hidden, at the organ.
It isn’t until the room fills with organ music that I understand that no other musicians are coming. It’s a beautiful composition by the French organist Louis Vierne, but I am just too engrossed by the novel. I carefully turn the pages as to not disturb my fellow concertgoers, and I look up with each pause in the symphony as if it had my undivided attention…
The concert is over too soon, just thirty minutes of it before we are back out in the cold.
It *is* colder today, so my motivation to randomly walk about is low. I need to pick up another tram pass, so I hop aboard a passing one headed to the central station. But I am hungry for lunch, so hop off north of it…into the middle of tourist hell.
Oh the kitsch! Totes, hats, magnets, mugs, t-shirts, bottle openers, bracelets, bells and spoons…
[A side note to my mother: N-O]
And food food food. McDonald’s. KFC. Burger King. The glut of the mundane creates fierce competition for business. Restaurant workers call out to me directly to come here here here.
I’m ravenous but overwhelmed. I duck into an alley and find a quiet shop serving Chinese and Indonesian dishes.
What’s the better choice, I ask.
Chinese, says the Chinese waiter.
By the time I have eaten and made my way to the train station, it is too late to cross town for the museum. Besides, there’s postcards to mail, coffee to drink and books to read. Except I’ve finished “Neverwhere” and find myself with nothing but maps and the hotel’s complimentary visitors’ guide.
The nearest bookstore?
I accost a woman on the street. She’s short, dark-haired, in her 30s, and a real cutie with her glasses, jeans and backpack. I smile and play helpless. She stands close and runs her finger over the map. Merely asking for directions hardly warrants an introduction, but I consider it. Let it go.
Scheltema. She has to say the name of the store three times. She smiles, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
It’s within walking distance, and her directions are solid. It’s your typical box style bookstore: a Borders, a Dussman, and now a Scheltema. I thumb through a Lonely Planet guide to Amsterdam on a hard-as-a-rock chair that I had flopped into expecting some yield. There’s a lot I am missing without a proper guide book. I drift over to the literature in English and enter an internal debate about having something weighty (“Lolita” or “A Wild Sheep Chase” or “Life of Pi”) versus something light (namely, another Gaiman novel). Guilt gets the best of me and I purchase a novel by a Dutch writer named Hans Maarten van den Brink. “On the Water.” I skip the higher priced Lonely Planet for an older and discounted copy of Let’s Go Amsterdam at a nearby kiosk Little changes in city life in a couple of years. But just outside it begins to hail with a fury, and the sidewalk is quickly slick with ice.
I am cold and just want to sit with my new book someplace warm. I spy a bar in the basement of a colossal building. CafeCox. I buy a cappuccino and watch the hail turn to fat, wet flakes of snow.
It’s quiet, more a function of good design than the absence of people. There are plenty who, like me, are waiting out the snow. It doesn’t stop though, so I finish my coffee and search for a proper place for dinner, this one a recommendation from the guidebook.
The place is Balo, and all it serves is Indonesian cuisine. The prices have not changed at all since the guide was published. I have my fill on a heaping plate of beef, chicken and pork. (Yes, that was “and.”)
I toss back a beer and all is well with the world.
***
“If you visit one of the women, we would like to remind you, they are not always women.” (On the Red Light District, Gouden Gid’s Visitors Guide to Amsterdam 2006, p137.)
I am sitting on a stool in a kebab take away that is just too bright for the dark streets beyond. I am nursing another cappuccino and thinking it through.
Directly across the street is a ticket outlet for the Casa Rosso, a homegrown Amsterdam establishment known for delivering the “classiest” live sex show in town. I had read about it in the Let’s Go book, and decided it was a must see. Or a maybe see. Or maybe a don’t see. Hence the cappuccino and more thinking.
To get there, I first stop at the Prostitution Information Center. The Saturday before my arrival, they had coordinated the first ever Open House of the Red Light District. It’s election season, and the prostitutes are defending their turf against conservative political elements (who are no doubt among their best customers). The public response was absolutely overwhelming. About the Casa Rosso, the Amsterdam Weekly reported “By mid-afternoon, the hourly ‘dry-fuck shows,’ with partially dressed performers, had to be increased to every half hour in order to accommodate the long queues.”
Unfortunately, the PIC is closed for a private tour group when I arrive so I miss the chance to buy their pamphlet on the best spots.
Instead, I wander among the alleys. The canal views are still there, and even a large cathedral with a bell that sounds out the time. But ringing the cathedral are red-lit windows with the stuff of fantasy. Blond. Brunette. Slender with flat bellies. Round with thick thighs. White. Black. Asian. There are bikinis, thongs, heels and bare feet. But they are also real. On their cell phones. Brushing something from their outfits. Laughing into doorways to their friends.
But now I am nursing a cappuccino. Is it worth it to pay, I wonder. It’s a show after all, and the things that I like about sex—our fleshy shapes, our honest moans, the ouches of a too sharp bite or a sudden tug—will be something too choreographed.
At least that’s what I presume.
But I don’t want to presume.
I finish the coffee, settle the bill and cross the canal to the kiosk. The man who sells my ticket is the one who had drawn me back. I had passed plenty of places along the way, but I like him most. Middle Eastern and a big guy. But his good humor and sincere “I’ve seen it all” way makes him almost huggable in a teddy bear kind of way. I consider it a bizarre, but good sign.
He hands me my receipt and says, Have a good time.
The Casa Rosso is a small theatre. Most of the people there are men, Japanese, Chinese and Korean from what I can see in the near dark. But there are two couples. I am the only single woman.
I walk in just after Nicole has started her set. It’s just her, and she’s in some latex outfit. She doesn’t look aroused, she looks bored. And her eyes are not resting with the crowd but somewhere above our heads to the back. Maybe she’s concentrating on her cuing. The dance number reminds me of something from a cheerleader’s tryout. She slaps the pole with her whip. Strips.
The next act arrives in a nun’s habit from behind me. Her partner is on the stage and standing with legs planted apart under a black shroud. She climbs the stage to the figure, and strips out of her habit into a black latex bikini.
I guess this is someone’s fantasy.
Then she undresses the shrouded figure. Like her, he’s blond and long-haired. It’s not long before they are both naked, and she’s got him in her mouth. He’s semi-erect, no doubt from already having been at this for hours, if not days. She has a metal ring through her labia.
Yes, I am watching that closely.
But, again, they are bored with us. They are talking to each other, and I can see that they have the easy nature of people who have worked together long and well. The act is over when the music ends and the announcer asks for applause. We’re a generous audience, so we clap appreciatively. They wave, a bit self-consciously, before the curtain draws.
I won’t give you the, er, blow by blow of each act. But I will confess to dancing with Nicole on stage (they were asking for volunteers from the audience, and she asked me directly… twice…while dancing next to me in this really skimpy costume). It’s all a blur, but there was a guy in an ape costume, his hands cupping my breasts and then me eating a banana from Nicole’s raised and spread legs.
I did take a bow before taking my seat again. I do remember that distinctly.
But the rest was what you imagine a live sex show to be. A choreographed show. With naked people. Penises. Vulvas. Boy on girl. Girl on girl. (The latter gave one of our audience members a rise and the guy with the flashlight—there’s always a guy with a flashlight—had to tell him to put it away.) Lots of tongue. Lots of pounding.
Ohmygod. Someone ask me about the brother with the large… Or about the woman with the candle... Her kegels...
I left happy.
Bouncing.
On Monday night, Sheryl and I spend some time after the second set talking. She lives here in Holland with her husband and son. It’s been 20 years, so she knows the both the language and her way around the music scene. When I mention that I am staying across from the Concertgebouw, she says “be sure to check out the free Wednesday concert at noon.”
So I stay in on Wednesday morning to do just that.
I have forgotten to change my breakfast order at the Bema, so it arrives with the same bad coffee. Oh well. I choke it down, send my “I miss you” emails, and take my time showering, dressing.
Although I get across to the concert hall early, the foyer is already thick with people. Most have full heads of grey hair, and the chatter is distinctly Dutch. The regulars. Retirees.
I stand and read Gaiman’s “Neverwhere.” It’s not the typical literature of my book group, but I am so hooked that when the crowd begins to push forward into the hall, I am reluctant to put the book away. I don’t really, so I find the perfect seat and continue reading with just the occasional lift of my head to scan the room.
The hall is massive, with majestically high ceilings and beautifully crafted detail. The stage is in tiers that climb to a central hidden organ whose ornately decorated pipes reach high above and behind it.
I am surprised though to find the tiers otherwise bare, missing the tell-tale chairs and stands of any musicians.
A door opens high on the right, and the audience begins to clap for the lone man descending the stairs. They quiet down, and he welcomes us with a joke. At least, I assume it’s a joke, as it is in Dutch and all I can understand of it is his body language and the audience’s appreciative laughter. He finishes, the audience applauds again, and then he climbs the stairs to sit, hidden, at the organ.
It isn’t until the room fills with organ music that I understand that no other musicians are coming. It’s a beautiful composition by the French organist Louis Vierne, but I am just too engrossed by the novel. I carefully turn the pages as to not disturb my fellow concertgoers, and I look up with each pause in the symphony as if it had my undivided attention…
The concert is over too soon, just thirty minutes of it before we are back out in the cold.
It *is* colder today, so my motivation to randomly walk about is low. I need to pick up another tram pass, so I hop aboard a passing one headed to the central station. But I am hungry for lunch, so hop off north of it…into the middle of tourist hell.
Oh the kitsch! Totes, hats, magnets, mugs, t-shirts, bottle openers, bracelets, bells and spoons…
[A side note to my mother: N-O]
And food food food. McDonald’s. KFC. Burger King. The glut of the mundane creates fierce competition for business. Restaurant workers call out to me directly to come here here here.
I’m ravenous but overwhelmed. I duck into an alley and find a quiet shop serving Chinese and Indonesian dishes.
What’s the better choice, I ask.
Chinese, says the Chinese waiter.
By the time I have eaten and made my way to the train station, it is too late to cross town for the museum. Besides, there’s postcards to mail, coffee to drink and books to read. Except I’ve finished “Neverwhere” and find myself with nothing but maps and the hotel’s complimentary visitors’ guide.
The nearest bookstore?
I accost a woman on the street. She’s short, dark-haired, in her 30s, and a real cutie with her glasses, jeans and backpack. I smile and play helpless. She stands close and runs her finger over the map. Merely asking for directions hardly warrants an introduction, but I consider it. Let it go.
Scheltema. She has to say the name of the store three times. She smiles, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
It’s within walking distance, and her directions are solid. It’s your typical box style bookstore: a Borders, a Dussman, and now a Scheltema. I thumb through a Lonely Planet guide to Amsterdam on a hard-as-a-rock chair that I had flopped into expecting some yield. There’s a lot I am missing without a proper guide book. I drift over to the literature in English and enter an internal debate about having something weighty (“Lolita” or “A Wild Sheep Chase” or “Life of Pi”) versus something light (namely, another Gaiman novel). Guilt gets the best of me and I purchase a novel by a Dutch writer named Hans Maarten van den Brink. “On the Water.” I skip the higher priced Lonely Planet for an older and discounted copy of Let’s Go Amsterdam at a nearby kiosk Little changes in city life in a couple of years. But just outside it begins to hail with a fury, and the sidewalk is quickly slick with ice.
I am cold and just want to sit with my new book someplace warm. I spy a bar in the basement of a colossal building. CafeCox. I buy a cappuccino and watch the hail turn to fat, wet flakes of snow.
It’s quiet, more a function of good design than the absence of people. There are plenty who, like me, are waiting out the snow. It doesn’t stop though, so I finish my coffee and search for a proper place for dinner, this one a recommendation from the guidebook.
The place is Balo, and all it serves is Indonesian cuisine. The prices have not changed at all since the guide was published. I have my fill on a heaping plate of beef, chicken and pork. (Yes, that was “and.”)
I toss back a beer and all is well with the world.
***
“If you visit one of the women, we would like to remind you, they are not always women.” (On the Red Light District, Gouden Gid’s Visitors Guide to Amsterdam 2006, p137.)
I am sitting on a stool in a kebab take away that is just too bright for the dark streets beyond. I am nursing another cappuccino and thinking it through.
Directly across the street is a ticket outlet for the Casa Rosso, a homegrown Amsterdam establishment known for delivering the “classiest” live sex show in town. I had read about it in the Let’s Go book, and decided it was a must see. Or a maybe see. Or maybe a don’t see. Hence the cappuccino and more thinking.
To get there, I first stop at the Prostitution Information Center. The Saturday before my arrival, they had coordinated the first ever Open House of the Red Light District. It’s election season, and the prostitutes are defending their turf against conservative political elements (who are no doubt among their best customers). The public response was absolutely overwhelming. About the Casa Rosso, the Amsterdam Weekly reported “By mid-afternoon, the hourly ‘dry-fuck shows,’ with partially dressed performers, had to be increased to every half hour in order to accommodate the long queues.”
Unfortunately, the PIC is closed for a private tour group when I arrive so I miss the chance to buy their pamphlet on the best spots.
Instead, I wander among the alleys. The canal views are still there, and even a large cathedral with a bell that sounds out the time. But ringing the cathedral are red-lit windows with the stuff of fantasy. Blond. Brunette. Slender with flat bellies. Round with thick thighs. White. Black. Asian. There are bikinis, thongs, heels and bare feet. But they are also real. On their cell phones. Brushing something from their outfits. Laughing into doorways to their friends.
But now I am nursing a cappuccino. Is it worth it to pay, I wonder. It’s a show after all, and the things that I like about sex—our fleshy shapes, our honest moans, the ouches of a too sharp bite or a sudden tug—will be something too choreographed.
At least that’s what I presume.
But I don’t want to presume.
I finish the coffee, settle the bill and cross the canal to the kiosk. The man who sells my ticket is the one who had drawn me back. I had passed plenty of places along the way, but I like him most. Middle Eastern and a big guy. But his good humor and sincere “I’ve seen it all” way makes him almost huggable in a teddy bear kind of way. I consider it a bizarre, but good sign.
He hands me my receipt and says, Have a good time.
The Casa Rosso is a small theatre. Most of the people there are men, Japanese, Chinese and Korean from what I can see in the near dark. But there are two couples. I am the only single woman.
I walk in just after Nicole has started her set. It’s just her, and she’s in some latex outfit. She doesn’t look aroused, she looks bored. And her eyes are not resting with the crowd but somewhere above our heads to the back. Maybe she’s concentrating on her cuing. The dance number reminds me of something from a cheerleader’s tryout. She slaps the pole with her whip. Strips.
The next act arrives in a nun’s habit from behind me. Her partner is on the stage and standing with legs planted apart under a black shroud. She climbs the stage to the figure, and strips out of her habit into a black latex bikini.
I guess this is someone’s fantasy.
Then she undresses the shrouded figure. Like her, he’s blond and long-haired. It’s not long before they are both naked, and she’s got him in her mouth. He’s semi-erect, no doubt from already having been at this for hours, if not days. She has a metal ring through her labia.
Yes, I am watching that closely.
But, again, they are bored with us. They are talking to each other, and I can see that they have the easy nature of people who have worked together long and well. The act is over when the music ends and the announcer asks for applause. We’re a generous audience, so we clap appreciatively. They wave, a bit self-consciously, before the curtain draws.
I won’t give you the, er, blow by blow of each act. But I will confess to dancing with Nicole on stage (they were asking for volunteers from the audience, and she asked me directly… twice…while dancing next to me in this really skimpy costume). It’s all a blur, but there was a guy in an ape costume, his hands cupping my breasts and then me eating a banana from Nicole’s raised and spread legs.
I did take a bow before taking my seat again. I do remember that distinctly.
But the rest was what you imagine a live sex show to be. A choreographed show. With naked people. Penises. Vulvas. Boy on girl. Girl on girl. (The latter gave one of our audience members a rise and the guy with the flashlight—there’s always a guy with a flashlight—had to tell him to put it away.) Lots of tongue. Lots of pounding.
Ohmygod. Someone ask me about the brother with the large… Or about the woman with the candle... Her kegels...
I left happy.
Bouncing.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
A speck of dust on a canvas of stars.
The knock on my door came at 8:30 a.m. as promised. But I am groggy from a restless night’s sleep that includes dreaming of someone else wearing my favorite patchwork socks.
They deliver breakfast to your door at the Bema. Early. Nothing fancy: a boiled egg, a slice of meat, a slice of cheese, toast, jam, juice and coffee. The coffee is God-awful (no, really), but I drink it anyway, munch slowly on the rest, and blog.
I take my time. My knees ache from the previous days roaming, as my clogs have well-worn heels. I think about getting some shopping in.
By the time I finish the blog, shower and pack up, it’s approaching 1 o’clock. It was snowing when I woke, turned to rain while I typed and is now hail. I ditch the idea of returning to Gambrinus, and duck into an equally charming French café. At least, I think it is French. I walk through its entry of heavy burgundy drapes and am taken by the chalkboard menu and the multi-level seating. It’s quiet. There’s a couple enjoying lunch in the front window, and a man sitting alone and watching the hail fall from the side windows. I climb to a third floor perch and settle in for a while.
I have a Portuguese fish soup in a clear and lightly seasoned broth. It is served with some of the best bread I’ve had in Europe. Dark long slices with a hearty, crunchy crust.
Hm. Not French.
I’m reading and occasionally speaking to the café’s cat. He loves me…or my bowl of fish soup. The slut. He wanders among the legs of the table, rubs his back against my bag (and makes a gift of his hair) and refuses to leave me until I stroke him appreciatively.
I take care to wash my hands later, but I’ll eventually rub my eyes and…
Damn allergies.
I decide that I’ll do just one touristy thing each day. Today: Jordaan. It’s a neighborhood of Amsterdam known for its small shops tucked into its small, winding alleys. I’ve forgotten my camera again, but the weather makes it just as well. I am simply walking again, admiring the views, window shopping…
…and fighting my own moodiness. I’m on vacation, but the bigger questions about The Future trouble my calm. Graduate school? Germany?
I push them aside and find a place for tea and more quiet reading. It’s a hip coffeebar downtown with a large window onto the street. It’s the end of the workday now and the commuters are streaming by on their bikes. There are more everyday cyclists here than in Berlin, and its amazing to see. There’s actually cycling “traffic” so the distinct car- and pedestrian-free lanes are crowded. It’s a joy.
It’s too late to find new shoes, and my left knee aches enough that I decide to call it an early night. I hop a tram back to my neighborhood, and find a relatively cheap takeaway serving the usual.
Wait, do I spy ribs?
mmmmm
I am complimenting the owner on the meal and paying the bill when he asks me where I am from. America? He claps and exclaims with joy.
He’s a Kurd, and formerly of Iraq.
The Future? Complicated.
They deliver breakfast to your door at the Bema. Early. Nothing fancy: a boiled egg, a slice of meat, a slice of cheese, toast, jam, juice and coffee. The coffee is God-awful (no, really), but I drink it anyway, munch slowly on the rest, and blog.
I take my time. My knees ache from the previous days roaming, as my clogs have well-worn heels. I think about getting some shopping in.
By the time I finish the blog, shower and pack up, it’s approaching 1 o’clock. It was snowing when I woke, turned to rain while I typed and is now hail. I ditch the idea of returning to Gambrinus, and duck into an equally charming French café. At least, I think it is French. I walk through its entry of heavy burgundy drapes and am taken by the chalkboard menu and the multi-level seating. It’s quiet. There’s a couple enjoying lunch in the front window, and a man sitting alone and watching the hail fall from the side windows. I climb to a third floor perch and settle in for a while.
I have a Portuguese fish soup in a clear and lightly seasoned broth. It is served with some of the best bread I’ve had in Europe. Dark long slices with a hearty, crunchy crust.
Hm. Not French.
I’m reading and occasionally speaking to the café’s cat. He loves me…or my bowl of fish soup. The slut. He wanders among the legs of the table, rubs his back against my bag (and makes a gift of his hair) and refuses to leave me until I stroke him appreciatively.
I take care to wash my hands later, but I’ll eventually rub my eyes and…
Damn allergies.
I decide that I’ll do just one touristy thing each day. Today: Jordaan. It’s a neighborhood of Amsterdam known for its small shops tucked into its small, winding alleys. I’ve forgotten my camera again, but the weather makes it just as well. I am simply walking again, admiring the views, window shopping…
…and fighting my own moodiness. I’m on vacation, but the bigger questions about The Future trouble my calm. Graduate school? Germany?
I push them aside and find a place for tea and more quiet reading. It’s a hip coffeebar downtown with a large window onto the street. It’s the end of the workday now and the commuters are streaming by on their bikes. There are more everyday cyclists here than in Berlin, and its amazing to see. There’s actually cycling “traffic” so the distinct car- and pedestrian-free lanes are crowded. It’s a joy.
It’s too late to find new shoes, and my left knee aches enough that I decide to call it an early night. I hop a tram back to my neighborhood, and find a relatively cheap takeaway serving the usual.
Wait, do I spy ribs?
mmmmm
I am complimenting the owner on the meal and paying the bill when he asks me where I am from. America? He claps and exclaims with joy.
He’s a Kurd, and formerly of Iraq.
The Future? Complicated.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Yesterday really starts with the night before.
The grand plan had been to spend the afternoon tidying up the apartment, to grab an early evening’s bite out with Martin and then to pack a bag just before getting into bed for a solid night’s sleep.
Instead, at about 10:30 at night, Martin and I are climbing five flights of stairs in a deserted building that looks as if every part of it is under construction. There’s plaster dust everywhere, and gaping multi-floor holes where walls had formerly been. Most importantly, we make it to the very top and the movie theatre that we had expected to find amidst the mess is not there.
Martin’s certain that it’s here somewhere. So we descend to the ground floor and wander around in the dimly lit courtyard looking for some sign. In the second yard, I see the blue light beacon of a large screen shining from another fifth floor window.
I’m out of breath when we reach the top. Damn asthma.
It’s an odd little place, run more like a film night at a friend’s place than a formal business. Although we’re already very late, the movie has not even started, and the projectionist—who is also the ticket seller—tells us to hang out in the lounge for a bit. She dases off. We buy drinks and chips and admire the beautiful night view of Kreuzberg from the lounge window.
It’s another ten minutes, and she’s back and now ushering everyone in for the showing.
In keeping with the “friend’s place” atmosphere, the seats are not seats but, rather, long, draped, comfortable couches in a midsize room. It’s a total make-out scene...except that Martin’s not that kind of friend. He places the bag of chips between us, and keeps his legs a careful distance from mine. He swigs his beer. I settle deep into the folds of the cushions with a Bitter Lemon.
Despite some great flaws, Jim Jarmusch’s “Broken Flowers” is an equally great film. His ability to describe a place through setting—the carefully manicured, but bare lawn of a McMansion housing development, for example—is remarkably evocative and, well, emotionally manipulative. I mean that in a good way.
Martin and I have plenty of time to talk about that and more after the film because, with the late start of the movie, we have a late departure and, in turn, miss the last of the night trains.
This is the second time that this had happened to me recently. When John was up from Leipzig the weekend before, he and I missed the last trains from Alexanderplatz. We were so wrung out by the Berlinale showing of “Candy” that we both wanted to drink. A late beer, a late train and next thing you know we’re hailing a cab.
The joy of being with a native speaker is that the alternatives are readily apparent. Martin wastes no time in using the information call-button at the station and navigates us through two bus routes to Warschauer. Thankfully, because we live within walking distance of each other—albeit on opposite sides of the Spree—we are headed in the same direction. I think it’s nearly 2 a.m. when I turn the key in the lock.
A late night equals a late morning, and I don’t want to miss my train. But when it rings at 6:45, I simply re-set it. So it’s well after 7 when I do get up, and my drain departs promptly at 8:51. I grab a quick shower, quickly pack a bag, and make a run for the station.
I arrive shortly after 8:30 and enjoy a moment’s pride at being early…just a moment though, as I then read the departure schedule. My train leaves at 8:30?!
I race up to the platform and find myself among a group of irate passengers. I cannot understand a word of what they are saying, but they are pointing at the platform schedule and clearly angry. A DB worker is trying to calm them, and also trying to answer me as I’m practically tugging at his sleeve like a child. I pull out my ticket, thinking that there just must be some kind of mistake. There is. He takes my ticket and shows it to my fellow passengers with a satisfied grunt. I can’t quite understand what he then says, but I get the point: *they* are all angry because they had expected to leave by the posted time of 8:30. My ticket, he shows, proves that he was right: the train isn’t due until later. He returns my ticket to me and gestures for me to stay put. I do.
I’m too afraid to leave the tracks for something from the food hall, so I buy a cheese croissant. I’ve barely paid when the train arrives. I have a reserved seat on a non-smoking car. It’s spacious, in part because there are racks for bikes and special seating for laptop users. It doesn’t matter really. After a little gawking at the passing landscape—it’s so bright out today that the rivers look just stunning—I fall asleep.
I drift in and out of sleep for three hours. When I am fully awake again, I stumble back to the food car and buy a perfectly mediocre sandwich from a perfectly surly attendant. The trip takes longer than I expect—there’s an hour delay at one point—but I spend the time catching up on postcards, reading a book that Irene lent me (I want to meet Neil Gaiman.) and listening to my iPod.
To which, I want to recommend here the Yeppie.org “sexsoundlovers” podcast. LOL. “We have sounds created by members, motel sex, neighbor sex…” Bottom line: you can have loud wonderful sex, but the people next door may be recording it for posterity. Funny and arousing!
There was a brief slip at Ameersfoort. My ticket states that I am to transfer there so I disembark with my bags. Since the train was late, where do I go, I ask the conductor? He looks at my ticket and, instead, hustles me back on the train. That was a mistake, he says. My eyes go wide.
I arrive at Amsterdam Centraal and realize with a start that I am ill prepared to be here. I know not one word of Dutch, not even the basics. Please. No. Excuse me. Thank you. Where’s the toilet. Do you speak English.
Nothing.
The woman at the information center is multi-lingual. (I learn later that most people are.) She sells me a map and a three-day tram pass and says the tram I want, number 16, is just outside the station’s doors.
It takes me 30 minutes of wandering in the rain before I find the right stop. And it is right outside the door.
Sigh.
I cannot pronounce the name of my street, but part of it starts with “concert.” The driver knows what I am talking about, and I am at the Hotel Bema within minutes. I arrive just as two other women open the door so I follow them in. There is no first floor. I am at the base of a narrow staircase so steep that it reminds me of “The Exorcist.” You know, the one where the priest falls to his death.
These are steeper.
I think of Meg, and how pissed she would be about not being warned. I think of Irene, and how kind she was to lend me a small duffel for the trip. I climb the stairs.
The Hotel Bema is tall and spacious home that has been converted into low-cost rooms and apartments. At 35 Euros per night for my own room, it was the best deal I could find on Lonely Planet…at least if I wanted to avoid potheads at the local youth hostel.
Smoking pot is legal here, even served on the menus at local coffeehouses, and it’s a big draw for tourists. Even Irene had her story to tell of getting high on laced brownies here, hallucinating and certain she was going to die. She tells me this over tea back in the park on Saturday. I am laughing. She is not.
No one is smoking at Bema. Joanna checks me in, carries my bag up another steep flight of stairs, and shows me my room and the shared toilet and shower facilities. There’s nothing “beautiful” about the Bema, but it’s clean, and the unpretentiousness of the place has its own charm.
With the delay of the train and the time roaming for the tram, I am ravenous. Joanna pulls out a map and directs me away from all-things-touristy, bless her. I post a couple of “I’m here” emails, and head out the door.
On a whim, hop a passing tram in Joanna’s suggested direction. When it takes an unexpected turn to the south, I hop off and walk. I’m so hungry I can’t think, but I am bizarrely ruling out most. No Asian. Sick of Asian. No kebabs. Sick of kebabs. No pasta. Sick of pasta.
There’s a pub on the corner and what I can see through the windows draws me like a magnet. The lettering on the glass: Gambrinus. The natural, thick beams of wood. Even the guys smoking at the bar. The posted menu is in Dutch save this: spare ribs.
I’m in.
I can’t recommend this place enough. Everything about it is as perfect as the first glance. There’s a dark brew on tap that is worth returning for alone. But the food is superb. My waitress brings out a complimentary basket of think rounds of bread and an absolutely delicious olive tapenade. The ribs are mouth-watering: dry, no sauce, but perfectly cooked to fall off the bone. And it comes with a plenty of sides: an exquisite green bean and mushroom medley generously sautéed with garlic (lol, not for you, Niels), a mesclun salad topped with pine nuts and a perfect creamy dressing, and thick wedges of fries served (as I was warned by the hotel guidebook) with mayonnaise.
After all that good eating, I need to walk and walk and walk.
It’s raining out, so I decide to catch a tram to a good starting point. But I am all turned around. I just get on the next one passing. A funny and elderly man working the tram ticket window asks me if I am one of The Pointer Sisters. The old charmer! He points out that I am on the wrong tram for where I wish to go, so I hop off an quickly get on another. But that tram driver tells me that I am again going in the wrong direction.
Did I mention the rain?
An elderly couple at the tram shelter look over my map with me and suggest I just walk it. You will love the architecture, and it’s not too far. Where are you from, the husband asks?
Amsterdam is beautiful at night, even in the dark and the rain. I walk for hours, meandering through narrow streets, pausing to take in the views along the canals, peeking in shop windows, admiring the art of small galleries. (The Reflex Gallery. Highly recommended.) There are little stops along the way too, including getting a better map from the female owner of a gay men’s sex toy shop.
It’s not what you think. I really just needed a map.
But I had heard so much of the Red Light District that I decide that I want to see it for myself. I never make it there, at least, not to the part with women sold from display windows.
Instead, I fall into the Casablanca, a narrow little bar where the big band jazz spills out into the street. It’s me, a rum and coke, a small appreciative crowd, and a 12-piece band fronted by a vocalist from New York.
Her name is Sheryl. And she’s singing my favorites.
Instead, at about 10:30 at night, Martin and I are climbing five flights of stairs in a deserted building that looks as if every part of it is under construction. There’s plaster dust everywhere, and gaping multi-floor holes where walls had formerly been. Most importantly, we make it to the very top and the movie theatre that we had expected to find amidst the mess is not there.
Martin’s certain that it’s here somewhere. So we descend to the ground floor and wander around in the dimly lit courtyard looking for some sign. In the second yard, I see the blue light beacon of a large screen shining from another fifth floor window.
I’m out of breath when we reach the top. Damn asthma.
It’s an odd little place, run more like a film night at a friend’s place than a formal business. Although we’re already very late, the movie has not even started, and the projectionist—who is also the ticket seller—tells us to hang out in the lounge for a bit. She dases off. We buy drinks and chips and admire the beautiful night view of Kreuzberg from the lounge window.
It’s another ten minutes, and she’s back and now ushering everyone in for the showing.
In keeping with the “friend’s place” atmosphere, the seats are not seats but, rather, long, draped, comfortable couches in a midsize room. It’s a total make-out scene...except that Martin’s not that kind of friend. He places the bag of chips between us, and keeps his legs a careful distance from mine. He swigs his beer. I settle deep into the folds of the cushions with a Bitter Lemon.
Despite some great flaws, Jim Jarmusch’s “Broken Flowers” is an equally great film. His ability to describe a place through setting—the carefully manicured, but bare lawn of a McMansion housing development, for example—is remarkably evocative and, well, emotionally manipulative. I mean that in a good way.
Martin and I have plenty of time to talk about that and more after the film because, with the late start of the movie, we have a late departure and, in turn, miss the last of the night trains.
This is the second time that this had happened to me recently. When John was up from Leipzig the weekend before, he and I missed the last trains from Alexanderplatz. We were so wrung out by the Berlinale showing of “Candy” that we both wanted to drink. A late beer, a late train and next thing you know we’re hailing a cab.
The joy of being with a native speaker is that the alternatives are readily apparent. Martin wastes no time in using the information call-button at the station and navigates us through two bus routes to Warschauer. Thankfully, because we live within walking distance of each other—albeit on opposite sides of the Spree—we are headed in the same direction. I think it’s nearly 2 a.m. when I turn the key in the lock.
A late night equals a late morning, and I don’t want to miss my train. But when it rings at 6:45, I simply re-set it. So it’s well after 7 when I do get up, and my drain departs promptly at 8:51. I grab a quick shower, quickly pack a bag, and make a run for the station.
I arrive shortly after 8:30 and enjoy a moment’s pride at being early…just a moment though, as I then read the departure schedule. My train leaves at 8:30?!
I race up to the platform and find myself among a group of irate passengers. I cannot understand a word of what they are saying, but they are pointing at the platform schedule and clearly angry. A DB worker is trying to calm them, and also trying to answer me as I’m practically tugging at his sleeve like a child. I pull out my ticket, thinking that there just must be some kind of mistake. There is. He takes my ticket and shows it to my fellow passengers with a satisfied grunt. I can’t quite understand what he then says, but I get the point: *they* are all angry because they had expected to leave by the posted time of 8:30. My ticket, he shows, proves that he was right: the train isn’t due until later. He returns my ticket to me and gestures for me to stay put. I do.
I’m too afraid to leave the tracks for something from the food hall, so I buy a cheese croissant. I’ve barely paid when the train arrives. I have a reserved seat on a non-smoking car. It’s spacious, in part because there are racks for bikes and special seating for laptop users. It doesn’t matter really. After a little gawking at the passing landscape—it’s so bright out today that the rivers look just stunning—I fall asleep.
I drift in and out of sleep for three hours. When I am fully awake again, I stumble back to the food car and buy a perfectly mediocre sandwich from a perfectly surly attendant. The trip takes longer than I expect—there’s an hour delay at one point—but I spend the time catching up on postcards, reading a book that Irene lent me (I want to meet Neil Gaiman.) and listening to my iPod.
To which, I want to recommend here the Yeppie.org “sexsoundlovers” podcast. LOL. “We have sounds created by members, motel sex, neighbor sex…” Bottom line: you can have loud wonderful sex, but the people next door may be recording it for posterity. Funny and arousing!
There was a brief slip at Ameersfoort. My ticket states that I am to transfer there so I disembark with my bags. Since the train was late, where do I go, I ask the conductor? He looks at my ticket and, instead, hustles me back on the train. That was a mistake, he says. My eyes go wide.
I arrive at Amsterdam Centraal and realize with a start that I am ill prepared to be here. I know not one word of Dutch, not even the basics. Please. No. Excuse me. Thank you. Where’s the toilet. Do you speak English.
Nothing.
The woman at the information center is multi-lingual. (I learn later that most people are.) She sells me a map and a three-day tram pass and says the tram I want, number 16, is just outside the station’s doors.
It takes me 30 minutes of wandering in the rain before I find the right stop. And it is right outside the door.
Sigh.
I cannot pronounce the name of my street, but part of it starts with “concert.” The driver knows what I am talking about, and I am at the Hotel Bema within minutes. I arrive just as two other women open the door so I follow them in. There is no first floor. I am at the base of a narrow staircase so steep that it reminds me of “The Exorcist.” You know, the one where the priest falls to his death.
These are steeper.
I think of Meg, and how pissed she would be about not being warned. I think of Irene, and how kind she was to lend me a small duffel for the trip. I climb the stairs.
The Hotel Bema is tall and spacious home that has been converted into low-cost rooms and apartments. At 35 Euros per night for my own room, it was the best deal I could find on Lonely Planet…at least if I wanted to avoid potheads at the local youth hostel.
Smoking pot is legal here, even served on the menus at local coffeehouses, and it’s a big draw for tourists. Even Irene had her story to tell of getting high on laced brownies here, hallucinating and certain she was going to die. She tells me this over tea back in the park on Saturday. I am laughing. She is not.
No one is smoking at Bema. Joanna checks me in, carries my bag up another steep flight of stairs, and shows me my room and the shared toilet and shower facilities. There’s nothing “beautiful” about the Bema, but it’s clean, and the unpretentiousness of the place has its own charm.
With the delay of the train and the time roaming for the tram, I am ravenous. Joanna pulls out a map and directs me away from all-things-touristy, bless her. I post a couple of “I’m here” emails, and head out the door.
On a whim, hop a passing tram in Joanna’s suggested direction. When it takes an unexpected turn to the south, I hop off and walk. I’m so hungry I can’t think, but I am bizarrely ruling out most. No Asian. Sick of Asian. No kebabs. Sick of kebabs. No pasta. Sick of pasta.
There’s a pub on the corner and what I can see through the windows draws me like a magnet. The lettering on the glass: Gambrinus. The natural, thick beams of wood. Even the guys smoking at the bar. The posted menu is in Dutch save this: spare ribs.
I’m in.
I can’t recommend this place enough. Everything about it is as perfect as the first glance. There’s a dark brew on tap that is worth returning for alone. But the food is superb. My waitress brings out a complimentary basket of think rounds of bread and an absolutely delicious olive tapenade. The ribs are mouth-watering: dry, no sauce, but perfectly cooked to fall off the bone. And it comes with a plenty of sides: an exquisite green bean and mushroom medley generously sautéed with garlic (lol, not for you, Niels), a mesclun salad topped with pine nuts and a perfect creamy dressing, and thick wedges of fries served (as I was warned by the hotel guidebook) with mayonnaise.
After all that good eating, I need to walk and walk and walk.
It’s raining out, so I decide to catch a tram to a good starting point. But I am all turned around. I just get on the next one passing. A funny and elderly man working the tram ticket window asks me if I am one of The Pointer Sisters. The old charmer! He points out that I am on the wrong tram for where I wish to go, so I hop off an quickly get on another. But that tram driver tells me that I am again going in the wrong direction.
Did I mention the rain?
An elderly couple at the tram shelter look over my map with me and suggest I just walk it. You will love the architecture, and it’s not too far. Where are you from, the husband asks?
Amsterdam is beautiful at night, even in the dark and the rain. I walk for hours, meandering through narrow streets, pausing to take in the views along the canals, peeking in shop windows, admiring the art of small galleries. (The Reflex Gallery. Highly recommended.) There are little stops along the way too, including getting a better map from the female owner of a gay men’s sex toy shop.
It’s not what you think. I really just needed a map.
But I had heard so much of the Red Light District that I decide that I want to see it for myself. I never make it there, at least, not to the part with women sold from display windows.
Instead, I fall into the Casablanca, a narrow little bar where the big band jazz spills out into the street. It’s me, a rum and coke, a small appreciative crowd, and a 12-piece band fronted by a vocalist from New York.
Her name is Sheryl. And she’s singing my favorites.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Tammi's V-Day Tip: never regret love.
This is definitely not my typical post. I admit to being an unrepentant romantic. And it's the Hallmark Holiday! So...
...a virtual hug to my friend, Vicki, for my SpongeBob Squarepants Valentine's Day card. Still whistling!
...best wishes to my brother, Chris. Mom sent me the photos. I love her smile! I hope love is as powerful for you as it has been for me. Worth every moment.
...because this list could go on forever, much love to all who sent me off to Berlin with well wishes and to those who welcomed me.
And, never finally, I remain
Yours.
...a virtual hug to my friend, Vicki, for my SpongeBob Squarepants Valentine's Day card. Still whistling!
...best wishes to my brother, Chris. Mom sent me the photos. I love her smile! I hope love is as powerful for you as it has been for me. Worth every moment.
...because this list could go on forever, much love to all who sent me off to Berlin with well wishes and to those who welcomed me.
And, never finally, I remain
Yours.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
I wanna take you to a gay bar.
Korey warned me that there would be days that I felt like this. Lonely. Bitter. Jaded.
I at least understand that the key to today’s recovery is to escape my apartment. I’ve been cooped up for 40 hours in my own silence, the “benefit” of finally having DSL access at home. I need noise, other people, unfamiliar smells.
Don’t get me wrong. The week has had plenty for me beyond my FAMM hours. This past Monday, I had my second dinner party. Seven of us—Jörn, Irene and her new office mates crowded around my kitchen table, drinking and playing games. All in German, mind you. I understood about a third of the evening’s conversation. It was a blast.
Except for my spaghetti sauce. Oh god. Don’t ask.
And I’ve enjoyed the other outings of the week: meeting Niels on Tuesday and, just last night, having tea and Scrabble in Martin’s beautifully painted kitchen.
It’s a passionate orange color. I think of teasing him about being gay. Restrain myself.
But today, Saturday, I wake late and cranky. I need to go.
I pull out my map and decide on Oranienburger Tor. James is out of the country, but he lives in that area. Lots of prostitution on the streets, he’d said. Legal, but I am not shopping.
I have breakfast at the corner restaurant and make my way to Warschauer Straße station. I’m on the train listening to my iPod on shuffle when this gem of a track by The Streets starts playing
Today I've achieved absolutely nought
In just being out of the house, I've lost out
If I wanted to end up with more now
I should've just stayed in bed, like I know how
I start grinning. Feeling better already.
The train just reaches Hackescher Markt station when I spy what I believe is a street fair…with a parade of dump trucks.
Huh?
I decide to hop off the train there. This parade is actually a massive street demonstration. I’m stunned. I unplug the iPod and tune in to the street. There are tens of thousands chanting, whistling, carrying banners and rattling noisemakers. And it’s no group of dreadlocked white kids either. I’m looking at middle-aged moms and pops here. A labor march.
I watch for quite a while, just as obvious a gawker as the protest. I tune back into my music and navigate the crowd’s edges. Nina Simone growls in my ear
Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin’ on by you know how I feel
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good
I dash across a break in the crowd, making my way to a coffee shop to sit out the rest. The place has high ceilings, moody décor and a well-healed set that bears little resemblance to the crowd outside. I share a table with a small, young blond. She’s journaling. I order a cappuccino and a croissant with Nutella.
I’m weak.
The book that I had packed with me for the day is You Are Not a Stranger Here by Adam Haslett. I open to the first story of the collection and am immediately taken by the narrator’s voice.
I have shot Germans in the fields of Normandy, filed twenty-six patents, married three women, survived them all, and am currently the subject of an investigation by the IRS, which has about as much chance of collecting from me as Shylock did of getting his pound of flesh. Bureaucracies have trouble thinking clearly.
He’s not thinking more clearly. He’s manic depressive, and the author wrenches real humor and pain from the man’s last visit with his son.
The last of the demonstrators has marched past. I forgo another story and more Nutella. (Although I manage to get a streak of the latter along the side of my nose. The subject of much of the staring I receive the rest of the day, I figure out later.)
I hoof up Oranienburger Straße, wandering in and out of shops in both deference to my curiosity and my need for warmth. It’s another cold day in Berlin, of course. And gray.
Still, it’s too early to head home, so I decide to return to the KaDaWe department store. (I’m craving American style bacon again.) I can’t quite remember the station, so I approach a man on the platform at Zinnowitzer. He’s dark-haired and handsome. His son plays at his feet.
Did I mention the Nutella on my nose?
I don’t ask him if he speaks English, and he doesn’t try it. In German, I ask if he knows the KaDaWe store. He does. He’s patient, repeating the directions twice when I look a bit confused. Go to Friedrichstraße, walk upstairs to the S-Bahn, take that train to Zoologischer Garten.
Got it.
He’s not sure I completely understand him, so at Friedrichstraße he hesitantly moves toward me on the train. But I’m already on my feet, and thank him with a wave and a smile.
I am looking at my map again, wanting to take the connecting train in the right direction. A squat, grey-haired woman passes close on my left, stops and asks—in English—may I help you?
I reply—in German—yes, I am looking for Zoologischer. I’m proud of myself…until she switches to speaking to me in German and I have to stumble through the rest of it. She’s exceedingly kind though, and even compliments me on my attempts. We get on the same train, sit across from each other, and exit at the same station.
Have a good day, she says in English.
Thank you very much, I reply, also in English.
I’ve not quite remembered how to say “you too” auf Deutsch.
This is the first time that I’ve been to Zoologischer, having gotten to KaDaWe by Nollendorf Platz previously. Zoologischer is a madhouse, packed to the rafters with tourists browsing retailers that include The Body Shop and Tie Rack.
Boring.
I am excited to find a newsstand, though, and to buy an English-language newspaper, the first since my arrival. A bit of heaven, I tell you!
The first article I read is about the nationwide strike in Germany that is set to start on Monday. Well, that explains the protest march. I refrain from reading more, because I just want to get out of the station.
The street is no less packed. Crowds, crowds, crowds. And they aren’t calling for workers’ rights.
I stand on the corner with my map. Which way to KaDaWe? But my eye is caught by the municipal sign pointing to nearby tourist sites. That way to the sex museum? Whoa.
Beate Uhse’s Erotik Museum is nestled amid a gawdy neon-lit strip of shops hawking American hot dogs and round-the-clock porn. The first floor of the museum is actually a well-stocked sex shop. I’m the only woman there, amid a bevy of men looking for porn DVDs and new equipment. I’m a stand out, and I get my fair share of glances.
Maybe it’s the Nutella?
I resist the urge to slink out.
I have my ticket and I am up on the third floor starting point. The museum is dimly lit. I imagine being propositioned, and led into some corner. Unlikely, as the museum’s visitors, unlike the shoppers downstairs, take great pains to avoid eye-contact.
No, no, let’s focus on that large phallus over there instead.
The museum is an unfocused collection of erotic paraphernalia. There are marriage books, illustrated sex guides for new brides from 18th and 19th century Asia. There are glass snuff bottles delicately painted from the inside with frolicking maidens from 19th century Europe. There are statue-like drums with phallic-shaped sticks from Africa (I can’t recall the period).
Your museum of the cock and cunt as presented in statues, paintings, illustrations, toys, carvings, jewelry and more.
On the way out, I browse the special leather room and then the main toy shop. Dreaming…
The rest of the evening is anti-climatic. ;-)
I skip KaDaWe for a small bowl of goulash and a quick dash home. Irene and I are meeting for dinner, and I want to take a run around Kaisers to see if they have bacon.
They do.
I am home just long enough to put the food away, to discover and wash away the Nutella, and to turn on the television. Pimp My Ride is on. I love that show.
I convince Irene to sit for tea and the telly. She can’t believe I actually can stand Pimp My Ride. And she doesn’t bother to comment at all on the German version, Pimp My Whatever, where they do a complete makeover of a doghouse. It’s got a draw bridge and turrets.
We make out way to the local pan-Asian restaurant—where the cooking makes me tear up, it’s so spicy—and then go roaming for a simply coffeebar. We find a little nook just up the block from me.
Irene notices it immediately upon walking in.
Something’s weird, she says.
And then my gaydar goes off.
I at least understand that the key to today’s recovery is to escape my apartment. I’ve been cooped up for 40 hours in my own silence, the “benefit” of finally having DSL access at home. I need noise, other people, unfamiliar smells.
Don’t get me wrong. The week has had plenty for me beyond my FAMM hours. This past Monday, I had my second dinner party. Seven of us—Jörn, Irene and her new office mates crowded around my kitchen table, drinking and playing games. All in German, mind you. I understood about a third of the evening’s conversation. It was a blast.
Except for my spaghetti sauce. Oh god. Don’t ask.
And I’ve enjoyed the other outings of the week: meeting Niels on Tuesday and, just last night, having tea and Scrabble in Martin’s beautifully painted kitchen.
It’s a passionate orange color. I think of teasing him about being gay. Restrain myself.
But today, Saturday, I wake late and cranky. I need to go.
I pull out my map and decide on Oranienburger Tor. James is out of the country, but he lives in that area. Lots of prostitution on the streets, he’d said. Legal, but I am not shopping.
I have breakfast at the corner restaurant and make my way to Warschauer Straße station. I’m on the train listening to my iPod on shuffle when this gem of a track by The Streets starts playing
Today I've achieved absolutely nought
In just being out of the house, I've lost out
If I wanted to end up with more now
I should've just stayed in bed, like I know how
I start grinning. Feeling better already.
The train just reaches Hackescher Markt station when I spy what I believe is a street fair…with a parade of dump trucks.
Huh?
I decide to hop off the train there. This parade is actually a massive street demonstration. I’m stunned. I unplug the iPod and tune in to the street. There are tens of thousands chanting, whistling, carrying banners and rattling noisemakers. And it’s no group of dreadlocked white kids either. I’m looking at middle-aged moms and pops here. A labor march.
I watch for quite a while, just as obvious a gawker as the protest. I tune back into my music and navigate the crowd’s edges. Nina Simone growls in my ear
Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin’ on by you know how I feel
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good
I dash across a break in the crowd, making my way to a coffee shop to sit out the rest. The place has high ceilings, moody décor and a well-healed set that bears little resemblance to the crowd outside. I share a table with a small, young blond. She’s journaling. I order a cappuccino and a croissant with Nutella.
I’m weak.
The book that I had packed with me for the day is You Are Not a Stranger Here by Adam Haslett. I open to the first story of the collection and am immediately taken by the narrator’s voice.
I have shot Germans in the fields of Normandy, filed twenty-six patents, married three women, survived them all, and am currently the subject of an investigation by the IRS, which has about as much chance of collecting from me as Shylock did of getting his pound of flesh. Bureaucracies have trouble thinking clearly.
He’s not thinking more clearly. He’s manic depressive, and the author wrenches real humor and pain from the man’s last visit with his son.
The last of the demonstrators has marched past. I forgo another story and more Nutella. (Although I manage to get a streak of the latter along the side of my nose. The subject of much of the staring I receive the rest of the day, I figure out later.)
I hoof up Oranienburger Straße, wandering in and out of shops in both deference to my curiosity and my need for warmth. It’s another cold day in Berlin, of course. And gray.
Still, it’s too early to head home, so I decide to return to the KaDaWe department store. (I’m craving American style bacon again.) I can’t quite remember the station, so I approach a man on the platform at Zinnowitzer. He’s dark-haired and handsome. His son plays at his feet.
Did I mention the Nutella on my nose?
I don’t ask him if he speaks English, and he doesn’t try it. In German, I ask if he knows the KaDaWe store. He does. He’s patient, repeating the directions twice when I look a bit confused. Go to Friedrichstraße, walk upstairs to the S-Bahn, take that train to Zoologischer Garten.
Got it.
He’s not sure I completely understand him, so at Friedrichstraße he hesitantly moves toward me on the train. But I’m already on my feet, and thank him with a wave and a smile.
I am looking at my map again, wanting to take the connecting train in the right direction. A squat, grey-haired woman passes close on my left, stops and asks—in English—may I help you?
I reply—in German—yes, I am looking for Zoologischer. I’m proud of myself…until she switches to speaking to me in German and I have to stumble through the rest of it. She’s exceedingly kind though, and even compliments me on my attempts. We get on the same train, sit across from each other, and exit at the same station.
Have a good day, she says in English.
Thank you very much, I reply, also in English.
I’ve not quite remembered how to say “you too” auf Deutsch.
This is the first time that I’ve been to Zoologischer, having gotten to KaDaWe by Nollendorf Platz previously. Zoologischer is a madhouse, packed to the rafters with tourists browsing retailers that include The Body Shop and Tie Rack.
Boring.
I am excited to find a newsstand, though, and to buy an English-language newspaper, the first since my arrival. A bit of heaven, I tell you!
The first article I read is about the nationwide strike in Germany that is set to start on Monday. Well, that explains the protest march. I refrain from reading more, because I just want to get out of the station.
The street is no less packed. Crowds, crowds, crowds. And they aren’t calling for workers’ rights.
I stand on the corner with my map. Which way to KaDaWe? But my eye is caught by the municipal sign pointing to nearby tourist sites. That way to the sex museum? Whoa.
Beate Uhse’s Erotik Museum is nestled amid a gawdy neon-lit strip of shops hawking American hot dogs and round-the-clock porn. The first floor of the museum is actually a well-stocked sex shop. I’m the only woman there, amid a bevy of men looking for porn DVDs and new equipment. I’m a stand out, and I get my fair share of glances.
Maybe it’s the Nutella?
I resist the urge to slink out.
I have my ticket and I am up on the third floor starting point. The museum is dimly lit. I imagine being propositioned, and led into some corner. Unlikely, as the museum’s visitors, unlike the shoppers downstairs, take great pains to avoid eye-contact.
No, no, let’s focus on that large phallus over there instead.
The museum is an unfocused collection of erotic paraphernalia. There are marriage books, illustrated sex guides for new brides from 18th and 19th century Asia. There are glass snuff bottles delicately painted from the inside with frolicking maidens from 19th century Europe. There are statue-like drums with phallic-shaped sticks from Africa (I can’t recall the period).
Your museum of the cock and cunt as presented in statues, paintings, illustrations, toys, carvings, jewelry and more.
On the way out, I browse the special leather room and then the main toy shop. Dreaming…
The rest of the evening is anti-climatic. ;-)
I skip KaDaWe for a small bowl of goulash and a quick dash home. Irene and I are meeting for dinner, and I want to take a run around Kaisers to see if they have bacon.
They do.
I am home just long enough to put the food away, to discover and wash away the Nutella, and to turn on the television. Pimp My Ride is on. I love that show.
I convince Irene to sit for tea and the telly. She can’t believe I actually can stand Pimp My Ride. And she doesn’t bother to comment at all on the German version, Pimp My Whatever, where they do a complete makeover of a doghouse. It’s got a draw bridge and turrets.
We make out way to the local pan-Asian restaurant—where the cooking makes me tear up, it’s so spicy—and then go roaming for a simply coffeebar. We find a little nook just up the block from me.
Irene notices it immediately upon walking in.
Something’s weird, she says.
And then my gaydar goes off.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Tea with a vodka chaser.
It’s Sunday morning, and I am to meet Martin at 10 a.m. at Café Morena, that hip little coffee bar/restaurant that I had blogged about before. He lives just blocks from there, and we had talked weeks ago about their great brunch. The plan is to enjoy a meal together and to then set off for my second day of Berlin sightseeing.
I am relying on my memory, so I leave the apartment with neither the address nor Martin’s cell phone number. But I am leaving early—about 45 minutes for what should be about a 20 minute walk. I figure that I will have time to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee on my own before he arrives.
Uh huh.
I am 40 minutes late. Forty.
That Martin is still there is a surprise. That he had refrained from eating until I arrived… Ouch.
I apologize profusely of course, even pulling out the map to show my Family Circus-like route and filling in details about the taxi drivers and random strangers I accosted with my question: Wissen Sie Café Morena?
That translates to “stupid lost American,” in case you’re guessing.
Martin is altogether gracious, but the breakfast is nonetheless strained. Some strangers are easier to talk to than others? Atop that, the waitress (or “kellnerin”) is on her own for this busy brunch…and appropriately cranky.
I hope the rest of the day offers a reprieve.
We finish up breakfast and head to Museum Island in Mitte. We are going to take the train, but I ask Martin if we can take a walking detour along Oranienstraße first. Jörn had mentioned to me that there might be a small games shop on the street but, as it is Sunday, most of the stores that Martin and I pass are closed.
We discover a beautiful Turkish spice shop though. It smells just heavenly, and all the spices and teas are artfully arranged in open wicker baskets. I buy a packet of chewing gum there that is just indefinable. I don’t mean this in a good way. Take your usual piece of gum, chew it for five days and the flavor that remains is what makes this gum.
Martin explains—after I’d already popped a piece in my mouth of course—that Turkish gum is known for being flavorless. Huh? I keep waiting for the flavor explosion, to reach some juicy sweet center that will justify the effort. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.
We make our way to Alexanderplatz station and walk the remaining distance to the Pergamon Museum.
My guide book says “if you see just one museum in Berlin, make it the Pergamon.” Glad to take that advice, as not even the Smithsonian can top this collection.
The central feature, beautifully described in my English audio tour, is the Pergamon Altar, a Greek temple with its ascending steps that has been reconstructed in the huge central hall. The reliefs that adorn the original temple hang here on the surrounding walls, each panel depicting some story of the battle between the giants and the gods.
Rather than attempt to explain the ancient history behind what I see, here’s a link to the Pergamon Museum entry in Wikipedia. Note the mention of other outstanding pieces in the Pergamon, namely the Ishtar Gate of Babylonia in the Middle Eastern collection and the Mschatta palace façade of their Islamic Art collection.
Between the morning’s walk and the extensive tour of the Pergamon, Martin and I are both ready to collapse. The Tajikiches Teestube that Jörn had introduced me to is just a couple of blocks away, so Martin and I make our way there for a late lunch/early dinner. We decide on the Russian tea ceremony—yummy with small cookies, candied citrus rind, a samowar of tea and, lol, a shot of vodka.
Balancing out all that sugar we add a delicious bowl of goulash. Highly recommended, and a nice finish to a cold day.
I am relying on my memory, so I leave the apartment with neither the address nor Martin’s cell phone number. But I am leaving early—about 45 minutes for what should be about a 20 minute walk. I figure that I will have time to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee on my own before he arrives.
Uh huh.
I am 40 minutes late. Forty.
That Martin is still there is a surprise. That he had refrained from eating until I arrived… Ouch.
I apologize profusely of course, even pulling out the map to show my Family Circus-like route and filling in details about the taxi drivers and random strangers I accosted with my question: Wissen Sie Café Morena?
That translates to “stupid lost American,” in case you’re guessing.
Martin is altogether gracious, but the breakfast is nonetheless strained. Some strangers are easier to talk to than others? Atop that, the waitress (or “kellnerin”) is on her own for this busy brunch…and appropriately cranky.
I hope the rest of the day offers a reprieve.
We finish up breakfast and head to Museum Island in Mitte. We are going to take the train, but I ask Martin if we can take a walking detour along Oranienstraße first. Jörn had mentioned to me that there might be a small games shop on the street but, as it is Sunday, most of the stores that Martin and I pass are closed.
We discover a beautiful Turkish spice shop though. It smells just heavenly, and all the spices and teas are artfully arranged in open wicker baskets. I buy a packet of chewing gum there that is just indefinable. I don’t mean this in a good way. Take your usual piece of gum, chew it for five days and the flavor that remains is what makes this gum.
Martin explains—after I’d already popped a piece in my mouth of course—that Turkish gum is known for being flavorless. Huh? I keep waiting for the flavor explosion, to reach some juicy sweet center that will justify the effort. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.
We make our way to Alexanderplatz station and walk the remaining distance to the Pergamon Museum.
My guide book says “if you see just one museum in Berlin, make it the Pergamon.” Glad to take that advice, as not even the Smithsonian can top this collection.
The central feature, beautifully described in my English audio tour, is the Pergamon Altar, a Greek temple with its ascending steps that has been reconstructed in the huge central hall. The reliefs that adorn the original temple hang here on the surrounding walls, each panel depicting some story of the battle between the giants and the gods.
Rather than attempt to explain the ancient history behind what I see, here’s a link to the Pergamon Museum entry in Wikipedia. Note the mention of other outstanding pieces in the Pergamon, namely the Ishtar Gate of Babylonia in the Middle Eastern collection and the Mschatta palace façade of their Islamic Art collection.
Between the morning’s walk and the extensive tour of the Pergamon, Martin and I are both ready to collapse. The Tajikiches Teestube that Jörn had introduced me to is just a couple of blocks away, so Martin and I make our way there for a late lunch/early dinner. We decide on the Russian tea ceremony—yummy with small cookies, candied citrus rind, a samowar of tea and, lol, a shot of vodka.
Balancing out all that sugar we add a delicious bowl of goulash. Highly recommended, and a nice finish to a cold day.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
No, it is not weakness.
I told Eckhart that our tour of Berlin couldn’t start until noon. I’m having folks over for games on Monday night, I said, and I need the morning to sweep the floors, wash laundry and otherwise get the apartment in order.
I spent it, instead, simply goofing off. A little reading here. Some music there.
Eckhart arrived on schedule, and bearing a little present. Pumpkin seed oil. He travels quite a bit for work, and he’s recently been to an area of Austria made famous for it. We’d talked about it briefly when we were together just a few days ago, but I am still surprised that he’d remembered. The oil has a strong nutty scent.
The day is not as cold as I had expected but I am nonetheless happy to skip the U-Bahn for a tour in his car. He points out landmarks as we speed down the city streets. Even in English it’s too much for my brain to absorb. It makes no sense to say it, but I feel it: there’s so much history here.
We pull over just past the Tiergarten station on Straße de 17 Juni. The street is the date of a significant uprising in East Germany that was quickly and brutally suppressed by Soviet troops. Other than the street’s name, there are no other monuments to mark the event. Instead, despite the gray day, there’s another street bazaar of sellers hawking books, art, antiques, jewelry, Soviet-themed pins…and food.
We have a tea scheduled in the afternoon, but I decide on a pretzel while Eckhart chooses a thing he calls “Schmaltz.” Is it really called that, I ask with a laugh. I try to explain the typical English usage of the term, while he tries to explain what it is. It’s a wide slice of German bread with fat smeared on it. Fat, I ask. Do you mean butter? No, fat. Duck fat. It’s very popular, he says. The seller generously salts it, folds it in half and hands it to him. Eckhart offers a bite. It’s disgusting. I take another bite anyway. He gobbles up the rest.
We drive back up the street a bit to see the Siegessäule, a towering monument topped by a golden winged angel of Victory. The Nazis had relocated the monument to this central place in the Tiergarten and, as Seán tells me later on the phone, one of their last battles was fought on either side of its base. Didn’t you see the bullet holes, Seán asks.
No. Instead, I focus my camera on the graffiti that covers nearly every inch of the grey-walled climb to the top. Someone plaintively scrawls “is it a kind of weakness to miss someone so much?”
It’s a steep climb, and it doesn’t have nearly the charming reward of the Völkerschlachtdenkmal of Leipzig. (Seán says it’s especially unpleasant in summer, when the heat of the day and suitably worn tourists merge into one overpowering stench.) Still, it is a beautiful view of Berlin. We encircle the angel’s feet, Eckhart pointing along the broad avenues that spike away from this center to Postdam, Mitte, and more.
I dutifully snap photos.
Our next stop is at the restaurant at the top of the Reichstag/Bundestag. That’s the parliament building, so being on time for our tea reservation means factoring in a security screening. We get back in the car, find parking within a reasonable distance, and slip-slide our way across the ice to the building. With the tea reservation, we bypass the larger tourist queue, thankfully. And the security checkpoint is surprisingly quick.
I learn a new word: Käfer. It’s the name of the restaurant and of the class of insects that includes the ladybug (or Mariankäfer), with which the napkins are appropriately dotted. Eckhart explains that Käfer is a well-known, family-owned restaurant out of Munich/München. And it's either Jörn or Irene who fills in later that the place caters to the Stars. I can imagine it. The simple onion and fennel soup is outstanding with a capital O. Even Eckhart who had said he wanted nothing more than dessert couldn’t stop himself from first sampling then spooning up the rest.
It’s much better than Schmaltz, so I don’t stop him.
My apple strudel is certainly much better than the one I shared with John in Leipzig, but it does have just the slightest hint of “refrigerator.” LOL, I am no food critic.
We take our time there in the quiet. We’re seated in the enclosed glass verandah and the view of Berlin all around is just beautiful.
When we finally do leave, it’s to walk through the much more stunning glass dome that sits atop the Reichstag. (Seán is quick to point out later that it’s the work of a famous British architect.) Well, kudos to the designer. It captures the light just perfectly. I learn another word. Sonnenuntergang. Sunset.
The light. The view. I laugh aloud, and Eckhart asks why.
Life is good, I reply.
Sehr.
I spent it, instead, simply goofing off. A little reading here. Some music there.
Eckhart arrived on schedule, and bearing a little present. Pumpkin seed oil. He travels quite a bit for work, and he’s recently been to an area of Austria made famous for it. We’d talked about it briefly when we were together just a few days ago, but I am still surprised that he’d remembered. The oil has a strong nutty scent.
The day is not as cold as I had expected but I am nonetheless happy to skip the U-Bahn for a tour in his car. He points out landmarks as we speed down the city streets. Even in English it’s too much for my brain to absorb. It makes no sense to say it, but I feel it: there’s so much history here.
We pull over just past the Tiergarten station on Straße de 17 Juni. The street is the date of a significant uprising in East Germany that was quickly and brutally suppressed by Soviet troops. Other than the street’s name, there are no other monuments to mark the event. Instead, despite the gray day, there’s another street bazaar of sellers hawking books, art, antiques, jewelry, Soviet-themed pins…and food.
We have a tea scheduled in the afternoon, but I decide on a pretzel while Eckhart chooses a thing he calls “Schmaltz.” Is it really called that, I ask with a laugh. I try to explain the typical English usage of the term, while he tries to explain what it is. It’s a wide slice of German bread with fat smeared on it. Fat, I ask. Do you mean butter? No, fat. Duck fat. It’s very popular, he says. The seller generously salts it, folds it in half and hands it to him. Eckhart offers a bite. It’s disgusting. I take another bite anyway. He gobbles up the rest.
We drive back up the street a bit to see the Siegessäule, a towering monument topped by a golden winged angel of Victory. The Nazis had relocated the monument to this central place in the Tiergarten and, as Seán tells me later on the phone, one of their last battles was fought on either side of its base. Didn’t you see the bullet holes, Seán asks.
No. Instead, I focus my camera on the graffiti that covers nearly every inch of the grey-walled climb to the top. Someone plaintively scrawls “is it a kind of weakness to miss someone so much?”
It’s a steep climb, and it doesn’t have nearly the charming reward of the Völkerschlachtdenkmal of Leipzig. (Seán says it’s especially unpleasant in summer, when the heat of the day and suitably worn tourists merge into one overpowering stench.) Still, it is a beautiful view of Berlin. We encircle the angel’s feet, Eckhart pointing along the broad avenues that spike away from this center to Postdam, Mitte, and more.
I dutifully snap photos.
Our next stop is at the restaurant at the top of the Reichstag/Bundestag. That’s the parliament building, so being on time for our tea reservation means factoring in a security screening. We get back in the car, find parking within a reasonable distance, and slip-slide our way across the ice to the building. With the tea reservation, we bypass the larger tourist queue, thankfully. And the security checkpoint is surprisingly quick.
I learn a new word: Käfer. It’s the name of the restaurant and of the class of insects that includes the ladybug (or Mariankäfer), with which the napkins are appropriately dotted. Eckhart explains that Käfer is a well-known, family-owned restaurant out of Munich/München. And it's either Jörn or Irene who fills in later that the place caters to the Stars. I can imagine it. The simple onion and fennel soup is outstanding with a capital O. Even Eckhart who had said he wanted nothing more than dessert couldn’t stop himself from first sampling then spooning up the rest.
It’s much better than Schmaltz, so I don’t stop him.
My apple strudel is certainly much better than the one I shared with John in Leipzig, but it does have just the slightest hint of “refrigerator.” LOL, I am no food critic.
We take our time there in the quiet. We’re seated in the enclosed glass verandah and the view of Berlin all around is just beautiful.
When we finally do leave, it’s to walk through the much more stunning glass dome that sits atop the Reichstag. (Seán is quick to point out later that it’s the work of a famous British architect.) Well, kudos to the designer. It captures the light just perfectly. I learn another word. Sonnenuntergang. Sunset.
The light. The view. I laugh aloud, and Eckhart asks why.
Life is good, I reply.
Sehr.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Fahrrad
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?
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…
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.
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.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, January 20, 2006
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 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!
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, January 16, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, January 09, 2006
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
