Sunshine and shadows

A certain someone called at 1 a.m. in the morning to wish me good night. I adore you, but this may call for violence. Or at least a ritual spanking that I will try my best not to enjoy …

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The sidewalks of Friedrichshain have burst into café tables like a field of wild flowers. It is hard to contain our collective joy, so we don't. We are a spring overrunning a dry bed, a gurling, bubbling thing; a child just finding his feet and stumbling, rushing headfirst into the sunlight.

There's a Tex-Mex restaurant on the corner serving nothing akin to Tex-Mex this morning. I make my way to a table, unload my German workbooks and feast like the rest on the buffet of everything from dry cereal to an artichoke and feta salad.

I have planned a long day. Solo, although I issue a spontaneous invitation to Martin. I am relieved when he reveals his own solo-day plans. I consider what I will do between a forkful of smoked salmon and my silent repetition of my German reading. I have my books strewn all across the table, and I am alone on this morning seemingly meant for two. A woman at a nearby table tries unsuccessfully not to stare.

I am fueled and watered. I climb the stairs to my apartment to dump my bulky bag and grab my lighter daypack. I am reminded of one of the questions on a single's dating site: what three things would you carry with you to a deserted island? Food, water and flares, I replied. (Really, is there any other reasonable answer?)

No deserted island today. So a book, a map and cash for dinner.

There's construction on what should have been a direct train route to Wannsee, the large western lake. So, instead, I take a train eastbound to transfer to the ring line and another transfer point. It's a gamble. Twice, my attempts to use the ring lines to and from Potsdam have landed me in some far corner of Berlin on trains I didn't realize I was catching. And it's already an hour's journey.

But I have an anxious grip on the map, checking at every station to make sure I have it right. No trouble at the Shöneberg transfer point to the S1 so I enjoy some quiet reading. This time, book two of Otherland. I will quickly outpace Niels, who lent it to me just days ago.

I pass through Wannsee often, but have seen the lake only from my speedy perch in the train. So it is strange to not step across to the train on the other side of the platform, but to instead climb down into the station. There's a large fresh fruit stand in the narrow hall. And an automatic French fry machine. Hot and fresh!

Outside and in the cool sunshine, and I am unsure of which way to turn. There's a nearby group of people and I wonder briefly if they are some kind of tourist group before a city bus rolls up and I, belatedly, notice the bus shelter. There's another sign on the corner, the typical ones telling nearby points of interest. This one says "The American Academy." Well, I think, this must be the way to go.

The street to the American Academy of Berlin is quiet and lined with high gates. The appearance is what I imagine of the grounds of an English boarding school. I am curious enough that I make note of it for a late Google search. (Hilton Als on Blacks in Berlin? Sounds intriguing.)

But I am here for the lake, the sunshine and the air, not for exclusive grounds. I return to the Wannsee station and then walk in the other direction, climbing a green slope until, yes, I see the lake.

At this point along the lake, there is a broad plaza which I imagine in the warmer days of summer must be crowded with people. There are smaller boats here, but also larger docks and, no surprise, a ticket kiosk for day cruises. When Steve was here just a couple of weeks ago, we had snatched a beautiful day's opportunity to be on the water. Just an hour's cruise (and just a few German words understood) from the Friedrichstrasse terminal, but what a gorgeous day and sights of Berlin that I'd never enjoyed before.

I remember now that Martin had mentioned a three-hour version from Mitte to Wannsee. It's a must do. But not today.

I am walking along Am Großen Wannsee, a quiet street, or what would be were it not for my iPod selection. Mm. The "Sexing Niels" playlist. A recent favorite with tracks from John Mayer and Petey Pablo to Tori Amos and Gotan Project. The latter has a new album out, by the way: Lunático. Tango and electronica, and just as great as the first.

I see a break in the trees ahead and a lovely little mansion set back from the street behind tall iron posts. I am curious, so slow my pace to peek in. There is a gate up ahead and, at the gate, a sign:

It says the hours that the grounds are open and that it is a public place. But a man and a girl with their bikes have to be buzzed out of the gate. I take that moment to slip in.

The Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz is nestled in a beautiful garden on a stretch of beautiful lake that belies its history. What I read on a sign just inside the gate is that this is the very site where on January 20, 1942, the Nazi leadership hammered out the details of the Final Solution. Here—in this lovely villa of gorgeous wood floors, high ceilings and bountiful light—it was not a question of why are we doing this, but how will we. To where will we deport the Jews? Which Jews will be exempt for our working needs and which will not? What will we do of those born to Jewish and non-Jewish parents?

The inside of the villa carries a permanent exhibit in the very hall where they drank, smoked and ate while they discussed the protocols that would make the German public departments carry this out as efficiently as possible.

I wander through the rooms in a quiet state of shock.

It seems wrong to speak of the rest. Of watching a small fox making his way across the grounds. Of climbing down to a nearby café to enjoy an early lakeside dinner of salad and fish. Of getting lost on the extensive and tree-dense grounds of a clinic farther up the road. Of watching the sunset over Pfaueninsel while my feet dangle over the edge of the pier.

But I do these things and cling fiercely to my beautiful day.

With a side of humble pie, please

For a number of weeks, I've been enrolled in a German class at Die Neue Schule. It takes me two trains and about 45 minutes to get there. To my German friends when they ask, I call it My Weekly Humiliation.

There are just six of us tonight: Timory, who hails from Hawaii; Joel, her partner in life and an Aussie; Fernando, a photographer from Brazil; Jacob, a relatively new student from the Netherlands; me, of course; and Peter, our instructor and (gulp) the owner of a nice ass in his black jeans. I notice (and try not to notice) how nicely dressed he his tonight. Timory is not so timid, so asks if he has a new girlfriend. I think he actually blushes.

As I expected, Peter turns to each of us and asks about our Easter break. I envy my peers that the German seems to slip so readily from their tongues. Still, I am eager to try the few lines that I had practiced this morning with Niels. Über Ostern hat mein alt Freund, Steve, mich besucht. Wir waren im Reichstag und...

But when Peter turns to me, and my classmates in kind, it's stage fright. I get out the first line. Even the second. Then... well...

What I meant to say was that we ate at a number of German restaurants, but what I actually say is that we ate a couple of German restaurants.

That's right. Brick by brick, and the wood presumably slathered with a good German mustard.

Choo Choo Ch'Boogie.

Martin is on vacation, lives nearby, and had the time so…

Wanna meet for lunch, I ask.

Sure, he replies.

When he says that he'll need about an hour and a half to get ready and get over to my place, I laugh at him.

You're such a girly-man, I tease.

He makes it in an hour.

It's a gorgeous spring day, so I am certain that the outdoor cafés will be crowded. Which choice? Thai, Chinese, Italian, German, French, Tex-Mex, Japanese, Indian—and those are the choices just within a couple of blocks of me.

I offer them up by continent: Asia, Europe or the Americas?

We settle on the nearby Tex-Mex restaurant and even score the one outdoor table remaining. Good eye, Martin.

We both have our books with us: Otherland by Tad Williams for me and, for Martin, Kaltblütig, the German translation of Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. Martin and I had seen the movie a number of weeks ago just before Philip Seymour Hoffman won the Oscar for his performance. It was my second time seeing the movie. Hoffman is amazing.

I want to just share some quiet time with our books, but Martin is feeling chatty. Twelve members of his family are coming into town next week, and he's trying to pull together an itinerary of river boats, restaurants and …

Museums, I offer.

He scoffs. For family?

I bob my head in understanding and spear another spicy taste of Barbacoa.

Here in Germany, you can sit at tables for hours without even a moment's harassment from restaurant staff or other patrons. You are expected to take your time.

Martin and I sit, nibble, talk and, yes, read until the sun moves away and we feel the chill of the shade. It's just in the 50s after all.

We are stuffed, so a walk seems very much in order. We decide to follow the remaining sunshine, avoiding the shaded sides of the streets until we are far deeper into the neighborhood than I had gone before. I am surprised by what I see. I think Marianne, my landlady (the German, "meine Vermieterin" sounds better to my ears) had wanted to warn me about just some of the streets after dark, but what I remember her saying is "go north, south or west but don't go east." Nein, nein, nein.

But Martin and I are chasing sunbeams into the East and the streets feel so new. No, the ubiquitous graffiti is there. As is the litter, the dog poop and the discarded cigarette butts. But the shops and restaurants are all so new to me I feel guilt about not having really seen the neighborhood that I crow about.

We eventually make our way to Ostkreuz, the neighboring S-Bahn station. Martin points out a favorite brunch place that he'd previously told me about, when I assumed that the destination was much, much farther. The place is on a bright corner, and I want to sit for a coffee. But Martin wants to walk on, so we do.

As if the walk has given us permission to indulge, we loop back to Kaffeeladen for cake and coffee. I savor a warm brownie with plump raisins and slightly roasted walnuts (yes, nuts, Meg) served with a healthy dollop of fresh whipped cream and the most delicious coffee I've enjoyed in days. Martin's so thrilled with his orange cream layer cake that his eyes are practically rolling into the back of his head with ecstasy. I've eaten a slice of that one before. Yes, it's that good.

Martin and I are going to see a movie, but we can't agree on which one. He pulls a newspaper and one of the city magazines from the wall rack and we consider the options. He really wants to see Good Night, and Good Luck, but I saw it before I even left Washington. I'm feeling too relaxed to see anything to serious anyway, so I suggest Ice Age II.

No, says Martin, with no room for argument.

Eventually, we make a seemingly silly compromise. The Sony Center at Potsdamer Platz shows film in their original language and it has both Ice Age and Good Night, and Good Luck. The films start within minutes of each other so…

There. Settled.

There is still plenty of daylight between now and then, so I invite Martin across the street to be my first guest on the balcony.

What a joy! We pull fat living room chairs out into the sun, make ourselves some tea, and kick back to read and listen to Louis Jordan.

Headin' for the station with a pack on my back
I'm tired of transportation in the back of my hack
I love to hear the rhythm of the clickety clack
And hear the lonesome whistle see the smoke from the stack
To pal around with democratic fellow named Mac
So take me right back to the track, Jack

Choo-choo, choo-choo, ch'boogie, woo-woo
Woo-woo, ch'boogie, choo-choo, choo-choo, ch'boogie
Take me right back to the track, Jack

Life is good.