What remains

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

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

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

12 cigarette butts (Desmond…)

3 complaints from the neighbors (oops!)

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

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

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

Veal

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

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

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

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

In short, you *love* veal.

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

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

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

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

Yes, you could argue that.

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

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

Rabbit.

Whoosh! and you're off.

A challenge between strangers,
with no word spoken.

You are not yet your mother,
your father in their practical shoes.
You wear your thin jacket
wide open
and it taunts like a red flag.

I am precariously balanced
on the slick track, freezing,
wheezing and careening behind
you.

I see my mother in the fat
of my chin, my father
in the moles that pepper
my skin.

I discover a new one each year.

So I dare to wear my jacket
wide open
and race you through the streets
of Berlin.

Election Day dreaming...

The Democrats are poised to retake Congress and fix everything.
[Click here for audio link to original podcast]

It's the Onion Radio News. This is Doyle Redland reporting.

Democratic leaders say that as soon as they regain control of the U.S. Congress, the sun will shine again, soft soothing rains will fall upon our crops and flowers will bloom year round.

Senate Minority Leader Harry Reed:

"All Americans will be greeted each morning by the most beautiful rainbow they've ever seen."

Reed says that while taxes may increase slightly after the election, the effect will be mitigated by the gold coins and naked ladies that will begin drifting down from the sky above.

Doyle Redland for the Onion Radio News.

[This content provided by the Onion Radio News. Makes me laugh every day. Recommended!]

Soul Cages

Adam turned to me in the office on Friday and asked, "did you hear..."

Yes, I heard. If it is possible for a black woman to turn multiple shades of purple, choking on her screaming, that was me, reading the news on my computer screen earlier that morning.

So the Pastor Ted Haggard was outed by his $200 per hour male escort of three years for being a big ol' hypocrite on the rights of same-sex couples to fuck, love and marry whoever they want. Until just a few days ago, Haggard could be counted on to be photographed with his wife, Gayle, and their five children as a shining example to the rest of us of what God's purpose is for us on this planet. Worse than the mere image of the Happy Heterosexual Home, Haggard lead his flock of 14,000 at the New Life Church and the 30,000 of the National Association of Evangelicals into campaigns against homosexuality and other "moral failings."

Here's an A/V clip from YouTube showing Pastor Ted speaking with his church on the absoluteness of Christian belief on same-sex relationships.

Transcribed:

"We've decided the Bible is the word of God. We don't have to have a general assembly about what we believe: it's written in the Bible. Alright, so we don't have to debate about what we should think about homosexual activity. It's written in the Bible. [He pauses and turns into the the camera, looking directly at the viewer.] I think I know what you did last night. [The audience explodes into laughter.] Haggard continues: If you send me a thousand dollars, I won't tell your wife. [More laughter and applause.]"

So Mike Jones just told your wife, Ted.

Before you joyfully bounce off to the polls on Tuesday, dear readers, smug in your satisfaction that this fallen angel may drag his conservative party backers down into Hell with him, let's take a moment here to beg for mercy.

What you talkin' bout, Willis?

Mr. Haggard (no longer "pastor" as he was stripped of that title by his church board yesterday) must have suffered greatly under the pressure of leading a life in which he could not be fully honest about his desires, whether he wanted to rid himself of them, fully embrace them or simply explore the gray area in between. Ted could not count on this place -- the church to which he devoted his life -- nor on these people -- the ones who claimed to "know" him -- to do anything more than rid themselves of him if his other desires came to light.

I have a lot of anger about Haggard, his religious ideology, and the influence that people like him have had over the political direction of the U.S. Still, if there is mercy, Mr. Haggard will NOT be the poster boy for the next NGLTF fundraiser, but rather the man whose experience leads his congregation to a place of open critical thought on sexual exploration, sexual identity and the complexity of human relationships.

We *do* have to have a general assembly on what we believe.

Have mercy on us all.

---

I dated a woman for 8 months who was not out of the closet about her sexuality. I vividly remember the small terror that flashed across her face when I leaned in to kiss her one morning as we were parting on the downtown bus. She loved me, though, so the relationship was worth what I considered to be small burdens.

Still, when the relationship ended, I swore that I would never do that again.

I didn't keep to that pledge, as you know. But I still strive for it, and so, last night on my way to a BDSM auction, thought of dumping the friend who came with me because she had the same terror on her face.

Don't tell anyone, she asked. Promise?

Yeah. I guess so. But I don't like it.

Arrivals and Departures

On Monday morning, Richard flew from Hamburg for the U.S. It was his first trip outside of the Americas and—because of one very late night of clubbing that is beyond all description—I caused him to sleep through much of the remaining time that we shared in Berlin.

(Yes, yes, darling: what happens in Berlin, stays in Berlin…)

Do come back.

---

I feel as if I have been saying that a lot lately, but it is not true. Just Richard. And Ramona. (Raaaaaamoaaaaannnna. God knows I miss you.)

Ramona deserved more space here than she received. Maybe because I knew she was reading and shyly edited her out. Maybe because I knew that if I kept my mouth shut, she still could run for president. LOL.

And what can you really say of a "best girlfriend ever"?

I will miss you at CSA.
I will miss you on the DFB.
I will miss you in the KKC…purr.

And all that is unsaid because girlfriends keep each other's secrets.

----

Of my own departure, now these many months later, I will say that it was never my intention to stay. You know why I am here. But I applied for and received my temporary stay permit. And last week, I signed on the dotted line with milengo. A contract! Full employment with vacation benefits and a name badge that says "Tammi."

Ok, ok, no name badge. But Adam, if you're reading this, I'd like a really cool milengo shirt. One that looks like I've joined a bowling league. Bitte. Danke.

---

If I click my heels three times,
I am home with you. We have never left
the bed. I am breathing in your skin:
you smell of chlorine, candy rings and our
salty sex. Nur ein Wort,
Liebling: remember. This is still
your land.

Next time, I will pack Ms. Purple.

…whether a man be king or commoner, there is nothing more enjoyable than a good fuck… -- José Saramago, Baltasar and Blimunda, p. 304.

In deference to the ladies and gentleman who insist on reading my blog for some sign of my redemption from sluttery (e.g. one Steve Pickering of the Lake District, U.K.), I will decline to write here of all that I saw and experienced at the Kit Kat Club between 1:30 and 8:30 a.m. on Sunday, October 1, 2006.

But outside of the live sex show that I attended in Amsterdam, I have never seen (nor touched) as many cocks and cunts as I did on this one Saturday night here in Berlin.

Oops. Do pardon my French!

To my dear Aunt Marie, I believe this officially takes me out of the running for President of the United States of America. I thank you, however, for your steadfast support.

Most sincerely,

Tammi

P.S. Yes, the techno music was also very nice.

Blame it on the Arabians...

[To those of the birthday party regarding the events of September 17 at 2 a.m.]

So the six of us -- Ramona, Jeff, Susan, Andreas, Kris and me -- hustle the rest of you good folks out the door so we can get over to the Berghain. Caroline, who was rendezvousing with us at the club later, and I had already been there, so I wasn't creeped out by the back-of-the-yards industrial wasteland that surrounds the Berghain. Kris and I joked that it was like that opening scene of that movie Blade, where the party-boy at the wild dance club all of a sudden finds himself in a vampire blood bath.

Er, I digress...

Anyway, after a lengthy wait in line, I am at the front door with the gang behind me. I am waived in, my bag is searched, my body is given the gentle pat down (by a nicely tattooed babe, I might add). I am pointed over to the cashier, but I turn to wait for the others at the door.

Um, and this is where Jörn's curse on all places with bouncers comes into effect.

One of the guys at the door waves me back and says, "You can stay, but your friends aren't coming in."

At first, I thought it was a joke: a little prank played on the giggly birthday girl or some teasing just to explain the hold up. But he's just waiting for me to say something. I finally give it to him.

"Are you serious?"

He is, he gives no explanation and the gang is simply looking in through the door with their own shocked faces. Chime in here guys with what was said to you directly, because I missed whatever was said while I was getting the pat-down from the nicely tattooed babe.

Anyway, of course I don't stay, but go out instead with them to sort out the confusion.

Eventually, the head bouncer starts to talk with us. He is an African-American guy from New York and he's been working with "these guys" for a while. From his comments, I guess the bouncers at the door are gay, he's not, and we (with the exception of Tammi is-my-bi-showing? Coles), they assume, are not friendly enough to that atmosphere. Ramona drops to him that it's my birthday. It turns out that it is his son's too and he laments that he we didn't point that out to the guys at the door.

Because they would have made an exception to our "not friendly" group in that case???

"Oh, my, why didn't you SAY that!" says the pierced vampire bouncer. With maybe a little giggle thrown in for solidarity....

Anyway, our New York dude didn't have time to explain, as he was having to deal with some "Arabians."

Huh?

He said that a couple of times: that some "Arabians" had been causing trouble and he needed to handle the "Arabians."

(If they look gay enough, maybe they will just slip in... Those damn Arabians!!!)

Anyway, he *was* trying to be nice about the bouncers, even as he was saying that, as their boss, he didn't want to overrule them by taking our group back to the door. His final advice:

Get back in line and break up your group.

I later try to convince Jeff and Kris to go back with their hands in each other's back pockets but, alas, the straight boys decline. Ramona and I definitely could have pulled it off.

Definitely.

Happy Birthday to me!

This has been an extraordinary year of change for me, some of it deeply painful (lost love, and yes it still hurts) but much of it richly transformative. Am I really writing from Berlin?

Yesterday, I was cycling from the home of my lover, a wonderful man for whom I am more than grateful. I was on my way to work, admiring the densely tree-lined streets, the bridges over sparkling rivers and the lakes worthy of postcards. I wanted to pinch myself. Ich spreche nur ein bisschen Deutsch, aber I live comfortably (even joyously) here in one of the most vibrantly alive cities on the planet.

Tonight, I will have new friends here to celebrate my 38th birthday with me. No, it will not be the same. I remember last year's party: Maya arguing politics in the front den, Doug and Harsha debating the merits of American football and British cricket in the bedroom, and various folks spread across the living room floor nibbling on yet another fabulous cake creation from Meg. I miss you all more than the physical living of 13 years in D.C.

Still, I have done my best to create happiness here for the day. My mother (Vicki called you Ethel, mom!) sent Duncan Hines cake mix and frosting. My friend Martin will, by popular demand, whip up another fantastic dinner for guests. (It won't be his jambalaya though!) And then, some of the more hearty of us will dance till dawn at the Berghain.

The Berghain deserves a special side note. This is one of Berlin's most famous gay clubs and an industrial dream unlike I have ever experienced before. Otherworldly with its three floors of beautiful people (gay, straight, bi and "what *are* you anyway"), bars that keep the drinks flowing all night and all morning, techno music spun by award-worthy DJs and an atmosphere that any D.C. nightclub owner would kill his mother for.

I went there for the first time last weekend with Caroline, a fellow American that I had met just a week or so before at the bloggers' Stammtisch organized by Mike "not-to-be-confused-with-THAT-Michael" Moore. Caroline and I showed up there at sometime after midnight and danced until 7:30 in the morning. On our way out, we saw people stumbling IN from other clubs. No lie.

We learned later that the Berghain's Saturday night party runs until 8 p.m. the following night. That means we left too early. Won't make that mistake tonight!

In praise of dancing, music and my birthday, I have been trying all day to upload a special folder of 13 of my favorite tracks of this last year. Yes, another Tammi mix tape. :) Half atmospheric electronica, half shake-your-groove-thang tracks. And all of them linked to memories of friends, lovers and family. When I get it finished, this link will only be good until Monday, for those of you reading this blog from your offices. Just a birthday gift teaser, please go out and buy the full albums. (Had to say that, but they *are* worth it.) Artists include Thievery Corporation, Frou Frou, Air, Röyksopp and, lol, Wayne Newton (thanks, Keith!).

Note, both the mp3 and mpeg-4 audio files can be played by popular audio players.

Now please go out and make goofy joy in memory of me on my special day.

Tammi

P.S. Whew!!! Ok, it's been zipped as Tammi's 38th Music Mix. [Too late! Link removed as pledged!] Large file so high-speed connections only. Enjoy!

Addendum: Martin and the cake! :)

My Pity Party…but with some balloons.

The iPod died. It was the day after I lost my keys that night of the last World Cup match, and the same day that I had to shell out about 200 Euros to have the lock fully replaced. The whole key thing was frustrating enough, but my pride and joy? I haven't been without an iPod since I bought my first for Christmas in December 2003.

Oh wait, there was a stolen one in there…Heartbreak.

The struggle to get this latest one replaced has been exhausting. It was under warranty, thank goodness, but the choices were: (1) a few days for a new replacement, but without the "Love strikes twice." inscription or (2) three weeks but with the inscription. I won't lie: I cried. I am grateful for the wonderful chaps at Service Offensive who handled the replacement and me with such care.

But the new one came back four weeks later—inscription and everything—and then promptly died. Martin, resist whatever comment you want to share here…

In any case, love will not strike again. The next will be here tomorrow, says Service Offensive, but without the inscription. Sigh.

In the interim, there's been radio. RADIO. Lord have mercy.

Ramona reminded me that NPR is now broadcasting here in Berlin. I tuned in for a while, but the "Hezbollah aggressor/Israel victim" perspective was so sickening, I just had to stop. From today's news, this:

"We did not think, even one percent, that the capture [of the two Israeli soldiers] would lead to a war at this time and of this magnitude," Hassan Nasrallah, the cleric who leads Hezbollah, told Lebanon's New TV channel. "You ask me, if I had known on July 11 ... that the operation would lead to such a war, would I do it? I say no, absolutely not."

For further perspectives, here's a Sky News interview clip of British MP George Galloway on Israel's aggression and media bias. You have to watch it in IE not Firefox. He doesn't hold back with his outrage. U.S. Democrats don’t have a fraction of his outrage. Frickin' sellouts.

And there is always the Common Dreams News Center to provide alternative news and commentary for you who are starving for it.

World wars aside, Niels and Irene reminded me that radioeins is broadcasting some great music. True. I'm now FASCINATED by MIA., whose Tanz der Moleküle [RealOne clip] is also getting a heavy rotation on MTV. uuhuhuh...uhuhuhuhuuhu / Mein Herz tanzt. Absolutely stuck in my head.

The bakery smells are driving me crazy. I have to get some grub. But, for my bestest buddy and fellow goofball, Vicki Linton, I offer this final link to NiceCupOfTeaAndASitDown.com, a site that is dedicated to tea and the occasional news story of ghosts biscuits.

Mmmmm about that time in fact...

Get this…

So I am biking home last night at around 11 or so.

Huh?

Come on, 's not so late. I was out with Jörn last night.

Jörn. I already told you about him.

Whatever. Keep up. Anyway, he just got back from this fantastic hike with a co-worker of his. It sounded AMAZING.

Shit, I can't remember…oh, wait, the Dolemites??

Um, noooooo, I don't know exactly. I need to pull out a map.

CAN I FINISH MY STORY?!

Ok, so I'm biking home… Oh, wait, remind me to tell you about the movie we saw.

Well, I *wanted* to see Zombie vs. Ninja but fucking forgot. Jennifer went though. I got an email from her this morning. It sounded heeeelarious.

Jennifer? Do you actually *listen* to me when we talk?

Oh. Right. Well, we went to see Dave Chappell's Block Party at the Central. Exxxxxxcellent movie and a funky little cinema tucked away....

Ack, I'll tell you about the movie later!

So I'm biking home and it's this great night. The moon is HUGE. Just bright and, er, like something out of a movie. Movies on the brain! Anyway, it's dark, I'm pedaling pretty fast 'cuz I just want to get the hell home and sleep, and, I don't know, I'm worried because it's dark…

Aaaaaarghhh. This is not D.C.!!!! It's just hard to see the pavement and any bumps or dips. Bike accident recently, remember?

CAN I FINISH?!

Anyway, so it's this full moon up and I am just thinking how great life is (yeah, yeah, shut up) when, get this, there's this guy (I think it was a guy?!?!) and he's bending over in the dark and his PANTS are down around his knees.

Full moon, no lie.

Why would I make this up?!

Damn, it is so hard to tell you anything.

Run away with me.

First a moment for William (Bill) Goggins, the former editor-in-chief of my most favorite technology magazine, Wired. He died on Sunday at the San Francisco Marathon, his first. He was 43 and, according to friends who saw him at Mile 21, running strong.

---

Thursday, July 27

The front tire slips into the groove of the tram track like a slender foot into her perfect, ruby red slipper. I am so near the apartment that I am no longer on my bike anyway: I am walking in the front door, I am dumping my bag on the kitchen table, and I am showering the lake from my skin. That's the error. I should be on my bike. Present.

But it's that moment's distraction that betrays me, and the bike quickly takes advantage of the moment to lock in and hold. I am here now, but my thoughts—in those moments before I am sliding across the pavement leaving blood and flesh behind—are racing ahead.

Wow, I think, this is going to hurt.

In this split second, I also remember my last road accident. I was on the back of Ray's motorcycle. It was a perfect summer day, and we had taken the bike out to a construction project that he was working on. (He was a real macho guy and could swagger with the boys. Of course, he also loved to dress in women's clothes and looked quite fetching in a pair of pumps.) We were returning along Rock Creek Parkway when a driver, a woman in a small car, races to take turn in front of us. She realizes she has cut too close, hesitates and then guns her car away. Ray loved his motorcycle, and I had been out with him enough to really trust him. I knew he would see us through. I clung tight to him, curled around his body while he skillfully put us down on the pavement.

I used the gel of my Aloe Vera plant on the wound I suffered from that accident. I think about it as I crash now.

Cars are braking behind me. The owner of the nearby pizza shop is quickly in the street at my side. But he's offering assistance in German, and I am a bit too muddled to say more than I am okay. We gather up my wayward bag and shoe, pull my indifferent bike to the side of the road, and checkout the wounds. I am bleeding, but not broken. I don't have to look up to know that the tables crowding the pizza shop are packed with people who are curiously looking on. It's the nature of accidents: we are drawn like flies.

I gently brush away the pebbles and the concerns of the shop owner. Thank you, I say. But I live nearby. My German is bad, I apologize.

I pour the last drops of my water bottle over my leg, sigh, climb back onto my bike and go.

---

I don't want to leave you with this. Death, accidents and wounds. I had a glorious day. Heiliger See with Niels and David. The three of us perfectly naked on our lakeside blanket. Bright sunshine. A slow steady swim across the lake. The pier with Niels. And being on my bike. Flying.

Michael.

His first excuse is that he doesn't have his swimming trunks with him. His last is that he hasn't swum in nearly 6 years. But I am persistent. I want to swim today and I ask again, are you coming?

It is nearly 6 p.m. when Michael and I arrive at the Schlachtensee station. There is nothing but bright sunshine this afternoon, so the lakeside is teaming with sun worshippers and the footpath round the lake is crowded with runners, walkers and toddlers.

I worry aloud about where we could lay out our blanket. But Michael spies the boat rental and asks, what about that?

We rent our boat from a woman whose face and spirit could be the dictionary entry for "hag." Michael needs those first moments pushed away from the shore just to shake himself of her. But then it’s the middle of the lake, the lap swimmers cruising by, the splashers loud at the shore, the waterfowl small and large… He gets practically giggly with joy.

Ok, ok, he concedes. He strips and jumps naked into the lake. I strip and follow.

Happy perky sun-kissed lake-wet nipples. Absolutely.

The End Game

Italy won the World Cup with 5 of 5 penalty kicks against France. I was estatic and, possibly during those jumps for joy, promptly lost my key in the dark field of Treptower Park. I didn't realize it until Matthias and I had made our way back to the S-Bahn station and stopped, just briefly, to watch the Italians celebrate on a small cafe's TV.

I rip apart my purse, repeat, and then drag a drunk-but-sobering Matthias back through the dark.

We shuffled around in the field, searching. A whole afternoon and night's revelry -- from Seeed concert to victory kicks -- yields empty wine bottles, tossed beer cups and everything else but keys. Where is the lost and found office? I am grateful for Matthias' native German, but frustrated to hear the same response from the police and the security staff: come back tomorrow.

So I am "back tomorrow."

My bike is still here, but no keys are tucked under the rear tire. The grass at least offers up 65 cents, which I pocket as a possibly downpayment to a locksmith.

This is the second time since arriving that I've needed one. The first was as I stole a good-bye kiss with a certain someone on the bright landing just beyond the door's reach. The wind, no doubt jealous, slammed the door firmly shut to us both. I had on no shoes, no bra, no panties...but the sheen of our Sweet Good Morning Fuck (we had given it a name by then) was still on my skin.

Because of Matthias' hospitality -- a bed of my own and a shower to wash away the dust of the field and the salty-sweat of my dancing -- I present myself clean and fully dressed to the park staff.

Come back at 6, she says.

I want to curse.

Auf der Fan Meile / On Fan Mile

Germany beat Argentina in an EXCELLENT match that had me biting my nails. Good lord. The first half sucked, but thereafter we had a tight game, 30 minutes of overtime and then penalty kicks where Lehmann quieted his critics and saved the day. I screamed, I cried... WHAT A GAME!!

Wish you were here! Yours.

Über Alles

First a word from our sponsor...

When I was growing up in the church (yes, you read that right), the call to come to Jesus was pitched somewhat like this: "you could get hit by a bus tomorrow." That's right. Be saved by Jesus today or, when you're hit by that bus, crashing in that plane or in some other unforeseen tragedy, you'll find you got a one-way ticket to Hell grasped tight in your dead fingers.

While I no longer practice the faith of my parents, The Baptist Bus Strategy continues to resonate with me…with a bit of adaptation. "Live today because…" well, you get my point.

Thank you, Jesus, and amen.

---

Cameron writes that I should stay off the streets tomorrow. Argentina is sure to beat the Germans, he says, and the resulting sorrow could lead to all kinds of street violence.

LOL. What, is this England? Columbia? Dude, I'm in Berlin!

Still, I pass on Cameron's "concern" to Martin here. No point in that really as Martin is too happy to give it any attention. He and his officemates will be on a rooftop terrace above Potsdamer Platz on Friday night, no doubt watching the game with glasses of champagne and little French pastries (screw the German wurst).

Yes, I am jealous.

Still, the ride up to tomorrow night's game has been spectacular. I didn't come here as a fan of Fußball (or fussyball, as Vicki puts it), but only the most sour have been able to resist its pull. In my neighborhood alone, the streets are packed every night with people sitting at the outdoor cafes watching the games on large screens and cheering on their favorite teams, Deutschland included.

From Niels, Martin, and Jörn, I learn that cheering on the home team marks an important shift in German thought. In the aftermath of World War II, rampant German patriotism in word, deed or symbol has been decried and fastidiously avoided. What we Americans have accepted without question—the Stars n' Stripes on every store window, SUV bumper, bikini and Tommy Hilfiger shirt—is anathema here.

At least, was.

Just last Saturday afternoon, Michael and I sat in Treptow Park, cross-legged on the hard pavement at a Biergarten that was packed with fans decked out in black, red and gold. Face paint, t-shirts, dyed hair, funny hats and flags. I expect no less for Friday's game, what Sports Illustrated is calling "the best matchup of the Cup."

Sports Illustrated. Oh Baptist-bus-driving God, I've fallen so low.

Back to School.

Peter makes funny faces, growls and jumps out the window to emphasize to make his points. Auf, mit, an, durch. Prepositions, boys and girls, in case you are guessing.

But no more Peter. He is soooooo last week. That is, I ended my German lessons at Die Neue Schule last Wednesday to start with Friedländer today. German class, Monday through Friday, 8:15 to 11:30 a.m. At such an early hour, I can only hope that my new instructor is as funny and engaging as Peter. Thankfully, it's mere blocks from here, and to open the door of my balcony is to be enticed to the bakery below. Oh the smell!

I lean over and the tables are already there.

---

Korey says I need more about this place, Berlin, and it got me to think about the wonders of blogs and to search (oh not too long) for those other random foreigners scattered here in the city with their laptops and silly chatter. I enjoyed a lovely email exchange with Beaman, a young Englishman whose blog had me crying with laughter. I need to get ready for class but sharing the joy first…

Beaman in Berlin's post of Constance: Noodles and Laxatives in Berlin

Bowlserised's post of Dog vs Sprog

Broke in Berlin's post of Luton Airport

Maybe I have some gunk on my screen...

...but did I read correctly? You are staying in Germany? Bloody GERMANY? What about the holiday dessert party?? What about the wine parties? What about all of us who already miss you??

Doug, my mother got the news just as you did. Um, she was a bit more harsh.

Considering the rest of your message, I know you understood me. I would like to say that I have given all of this the extreme consideration that is due, but I haven't. Instead, I am willing to trust that the decision overall is a good one and that the details will work themselves out. That's how I got to DC, and I hope that it works for Berlin.

Still, I am not too foolish. Bills have to be paid, so if a summer's study of German doesn't create the opportunity for me to find meaningful employment, I will take the safe road, return to DC, work and, lol, raise money to return. At least, I hope that's what I do. You are part of this great circle of people that has supported me (and kicked me in the ass) when I needed it. Those folks are hard to come by, and returning to DC might so remind me of that that I might never leave again.

In the meantime, why not Berlin? It's beautiful and so much of it is unknown to me that the daily act of just walking out my door is immense discovery. I have many years of playing it safe behind me and no doubt plenty more to ease me into my grave. In between, yes, some risk is welcome!

To which, a poem that was given to me by Karin, in a period of despair over a man much loved. An ocean and many moons away.

Mary Oliver - The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

It sure ain't ABBA

Korey says that he wants to read about more German culture in this blog. No more tasty restaurants and cute boys. (Or is that cute restaurants and tasty boys?)

How about satanic rockers?

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The 51st annual Eurovision contest is on, and Martin and I are kicked back, drinking beers and eating nachos. What is Eurovision? Think "American Idol" writ large but without Simon.

I had almost forgotten about the event, but catch notice of it in Der Tagespiegel. And Steve writes from the U.K. with a reminder

Get that telly switched on. A live event like no other. It'll make you feel all warm and fuzzy about being a European.

Martin and I are hootin' and hollerin' like simpletons. (But European simpletons, thank you very much.) Eurovision is flash and flair, high-heel strutting for the girls and cheesy please-love me crooning by the boys. There are some notable exceptions: Bosnia-Herzegovina has a great chance with Hari Mata Hari's performance of "Lejla" and, new-resident pride aside, Deutschland's entry of Texas Lightning with "No No Never" is very good. (Er, yeah, Germany's top contender is a country western band singing with a cactus tucked here and there on the stage…) Even Lithuania's UT Limited with "We Are the Winners" is a humorous, albeit pointless, relief. Most of the rest I scratch in my notebook as the competition's "low points."

Among my list of low points is Lordi, Finland's, er, noteworthy entry. Lordi is a metal band dressed head to toe in "ghoul." Where most of the contestants are dressed in flowing whites, Lordi is metal studs and leather black. They are the un-dead / in-your-face / up-yours reply to Eurovision's sequins and slick hair. Still, I tell Martin that my vote for Best Costumes doesn't raise their offering, "Hard Rock Hallelujah," above "mediocre."

Turkey closes out the final performance, and Martin and I use the ten-minute intermission to dash to the Imbiss next door for something more substantive than chips and beer. The phone lines are open and each nation is quickly tallying votes. We're back just in time for the counts, with famous actors and comedians calling in votes from each nation's capital.

Martin points out that even though you can't vote for your own country, the votes fall along predictable lines. (z.B. Germany's Turkish community casts votes for Turkey.) But Martin and I are screaming as the votes come in. No way!

Who wins Eurovision?

Ladies and gentleman, Lordi with Hard Rock Hallelujah.



I feel so warm and fuzzy.

Change is…

Scary. Beautiful. Exciting. Terrifying. Today is that day. Change. And as vast as our night sky.

Another party. Three classmates—Timory, Joel and Jacob—plus Irene, David and me. We drink leftover wine from the Werde Baumblütenfest. We play Scrabble, the card version, in every language we know. English. German. Italian. A Hindi-not-Hindi word makes it to the table, although not without some argument. David and I are gracious because, with two 50 point words, we can afford to be. Maja? Sure, we will accept that.

Jacob, David and I up on the balcony until 1 p.m. Venus is bright in the sky and both Jacob and David see two stars shoot past. How could I miss it? I am tucked under my blanket and mellow from the Birne Wein. Jacob is relaxed in the chair, with his feet propped up. David is slightly bopping to the music. They are both looking skyward, but I am looking at Jacob. He is so beautiful.

We argue over the meaning of life. What does this mean anyway? I am adamant that it is nothing more than what we make of the moment.

Like today. With it's scary-beautiful-exciting-terrifying-ness.

Mom, I am not coming home. Love, Tammi.