Berlin or bust

What the hell am I doing in Berlin?

That was my overriding thought for the duration of the taxi trip from Tegel Airport to Ryke Strasse.

So much for knowing that Berlin is "where I belong."

It was a lot less of a stretch to know that when he-whom-I-now-hope-is-wracked-with-pain- daily (yeah-not-very-enlightened-of-me-but-I-just-can't-friggin-help-it) was in the picture.

Today, outside baggage claim, I looked around. There was no one the sight of whom quickens my heart, bubbles my joy to the surface.

I wanted that one person. The one you tell everything to. (Oh my god one passenger collapsed over the Atlantic they called for a doctor in Dutch and the stewardesses sprinted past me I thought he might die but he was okay I had the chicken and the man next to me wore sunglasses for the whole six hours...)

I did solo-battle with my three very heavy black bags (framed art, hammer, wrench, knee-high Frye boots, Phillips screwdriver will do that). I fought my way to the taxi stand.

And you know what?

I was MAD.

Fuming.

Not this again! This "no one to meet the single girl at the airport" life!

I thought: God is a bastard.

I had just spent two hours reading the Tao Te Ching. Which seems not to have helped.

If you realize that all things change,
there is nothing you will try to hold on to.

Also:

If you open yourself to loss,
you are at one with loss
and you can accept it completely.

Oh, shut up.

Fortunately, Dylan came by later. "Let's have dinner!" she said. Saving me from the sinkhole that is my sofa.

She doesn't know what the hell she is doing in Berlin either.

She said, "It is the first time in five years I haven't had a plan."

I said, "Exactly!"

She said, "There is only one thing to do."

I waited, chopsticks poised.

"Wait," she said. "And pray like crazy." She laughed. "I mean, what I'm asking is, What am I supposed to be doing right now?"

"Yes!" I cried.

The Tao says:

Do you have the patience to wait
till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
till the right action arises by itself?

It is good to have friends who are as smart as the Tao. The Tao is a good read, but it can't give big hugs. Or join you for Vietnamese down the street. Just when you need it most.

So long farewell...

This morning I was kneeling on the stained carpet, before the gaping maw of my suitcase, and the tears came suddenly. A fast loud thrust of a cry.

Then it was over.

There is surely a canyon of grief in me about leaving New York. To be ending this era of my life: It's so big, I can't digest it. Perhaps it will come to me piecemeal.

Today I board the plane. I am relieved. I am sad. I am anxious.

But this I know: Berlin is where I belong. For now.

This I also know: I'll be back. Before you know it.

So get those sofa-beds ready!

Who knew New York could be such medicine?

Two weeks here and I feel gooooood.

Maybe it's the pedicure I got (okay, so I do care). Bing-o Cherry.

Could be be all that Diet Dr. P. I'm downing.

Or the new silk dress from Anthrophologie. The brown linen pants. The snow-white blouse. The embroidered burgundy nightgown, too.

There's the two-day visit from BFF Coley, of course.

Fifteen episodes of Weeds.

The packing/schlepping/cleaning/chatting skills of Moms and Pops. Energizer Bunnies disguised as parents.  

Two Saturday afternoons spent on Rosemary's super-size sofa.

Yellowtail scallion rolls and neon-green seaweed. Warm mushroom salad with truffle oil dressing.

Smiles! Hugs! Good-to-see-yous! So much goshdarn love love love!

And, hey, the attentions of the Sicilian-American lathe enthusiast didn't hurt either.

But maybe it's just the thyroid meds. Finally kicking in.

Tomorrow I leave for Berlin.

Not sure what I'm returning to. The absence of all that I knew in New York? Black-hole longing? Illness, fatigue? An achey-breaky heart, the resurgence of memories about he-whom-I'd-rather-see-never-again?

Or a brand new day. Unchartered waters. Joy. Vitality. Rip-roaring adventure. In subdued German hues, that is.

I wonder.

Dead-er giveaway that I no longer live in New York

My toenails.... Unpainted.

And I don't even care.

(double gasp)

Dead giveaway that I no longer live in New York

My toenails.... Unpainted.

(gasp)

Filthy blazing clamorous serried

And how can I not love it? This city of my soul.

An hour on the streets, and I wear a second skin. Of grime, exhaust, sweat.

Of fearlessness. Aplomb. Sexuality. Self-respect. 

I arrived nine years ago. My hair was short. My jeans were corduroy. On the A train I was meek. On 107th and Broadway, untested.

The city razed me. Rebuilt me. Gave me all the parts of me that failed me.

I leave a grown-up. A soldier. A writer.

There are not enough words for the thanks I owe.

I would stay if I could.

Yet.

There was a day when New York began to take. It started slow. I didn't notice. A pinch of the Achilles heel. A nibble at the ankles. A year later I turned around. And realized: a nibble is a bite is a gulp is the very corroding of the legs on which I stood.

That is when I had to go.

It doesn't happen to everyone. To me. Yes.

New York whittled me to bone, hardened my edges.

In Berlin, I am rounded. A softness to my bearing. My elbows. My gaze.

New York fired my ambition, forced my pace to a sprint.

In Berlin, I stroll. I work without fear. I notice: Birdsong. Coffee's froth. How green a leaf.

New York stole my breath. Like a lover. Like sex.

And Berlin gave it back.

Like a best friend. Like home.

You know you've been gone a long time...

When American coins seem weird.

Why are they so skinny? And each one composed of only one kind of metal?

I just don't understand.

*            *            *

Yesterday, walking down Nevins Street:

"Hi gorgeous!" He was tall and dredlocked. Not so un-gorgeous himself.

I promise you, no German guy has said "Hi gorgeous" to a stranger on any street in Germany. Ever. If he did, the authorities would check his DNA. "Excuse me, sir, are you sure you're not at least one-eighth Greek? Italian? African-American?"

My grin was sloppy-happy.

He passed me and turned. "You need help with those bags?"

"Naw, I got it." Because such unwanted, lecherous advances oughtn't be encouraged.

Really.

*            *            *

It is essential, on one's first night back, to watch bad American T.V.

First, House. Which isn't actually bad.

I thought: What happened to Hugh Laurie's voice? Why'd he change it since last season? Silly.

Only later, the sudden realization: I've been watching him dubbed for months.

Dolt.

Next, The Bachelorette: After the Final Rose.

The rejected bachelor was being interviewed before a live studio audience. He had gotten down on one knee to propose to the leading lady in the previous episode, only to be told: Nope. Don't love you.

"She had everything I was looking for," he told the interviewer.

"What do you think happened?"

"I really don't know." He was all choked-up sincerity. "In the Bahamas it seemed like just the two of us."

My heart swelled. My eyes teared. I had to change the channel.

That's when I knew I had it bad. I mean, The Bachelorette!

Finally, PBS. The Brandenburg Gate flashed on the screen. A documentary about Stalin and Hitler. Leni Riefenstahl's propoganda images.

Aaah. I felt right at home.

I drifted off into a peaceful slumber. Air-conditioner clattering. Air purifier whirring. Traffic blaring. Brooklyn-style.

No Exit

Back in New York. And not a moment too soon.

God bless yellow cabs and air-conditioning. Cat calls and roadside marriage proposals. Men who cry "Yanks and Mets suck!" for no particular reason

Also. God bless any city three thousand miles away from heartbreak.

Too bad it doesn't work that way. Too bad he trails me, uninvited, unwelcome.

Berlin's Tegel Airport. Here is where he met me on New Year's. A surprise. That's where he stood, overcoated, winter-pale. Here is where we arrived together from San Francisco. After he'd won over my family. Here is where he was meant to depart for New York next week. Had he not walked away.

Amsterdam Airport. I glance into my new New Yorker. An article on "The Itch." Oh, I think unbidden, he would like to read that. Then It is his hands I see, cracked and chapped, skin peeled back to raw, my own fingers tracing circles on the hot palms, massaging till I break the burn.

I have an aisle seat. 41D. A young couple smooches. I think: Barcelona. Easyjet. Him beside me, at the window. Banging armrests, flinging his seatbelt, a fit of mock panic. "I am flipping out!" I could not stop laughing. I think: Lisbon, Costa Rica, Milano. All the places we planned on. Never got to.

My cheeks are wet. Mascara's fingerprint. Tears all the way through take-off. For yesterday. For tomorrow.

JFK. I met him here in March. An hour too late. I'd tipped a whole bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper into my purse on the way. We rode in circles on the AirTrain, not realizing our mistake.

State Street. I replace the SIM card in my iPhone. He showed me how. He hacked the damn thing. I wouldn't even have one if it weren't for him. And now, the ring that rang, noon evening night, that rhythm of our days, silenced.

It is not bittersweet. It infuriates.

I want him banished from my brain. Excised from my heart. If he were a limb, I would amputate.

He does not deserve the real estate.

And yet. "Remember everything," said Coley.

That's my job. That's my source. How else: create?

Today I'd trade it in. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, thanks very much. Until the stinging stops.

I totally forgot it was the Fourth of July

How refreshing.

Lilan buys a pair of red shoes

Because on the week to the day that he left you, there is nothing better to be done.

Not to be all Carrie about it. But really.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

And now comes the rage. Now comes the choler.

I want to scorch. I want to claw. I want each word to break the skin. Each sentence to disembowel.

I could, I could. I have that power.

It's me I'd hurt. As much as him. My own heart I'd abandon.

So I shout into the night. Lob f-bombs into Moleskin notebooks. Breathe fire where he won't feel it.

And hold his memory good.

Now is the time for Cuddle Dolls

O, Glorious Women!

You, the ground beneath my foot-soles. The O2 I inhale. The very marrow of my bones.

I would not be sitting upright without you. I would not have left my bed.

My days would be cloaked in black. No chinks of sun. No gasps of hope.

The Incomparable J. wrote: Your love is as big as the sky. The right guy will be lucky to bask in it. Don't make yourself small for anyone, ever.

My mother wrote: I only know you will succeed in swimming this river of sorrow, and on the other bank, all will be better.

Ever-Loving N. wrote: Wait, Lilan, wait till the best enters your life, because it is worth it, I promise.

Damomma wrote: I counter your curse with a blessing: May [this loss] bring you something lasting and good to remember it by.

And Rosemary said: I am so sorry you have to go through this.

Sometimes that is all that is needed. Sometimes that is enough.

Berlin Voted: Best City for a Broken Heart 2008

Because everyone has time. Or they make it.

And they live very close by.

The breaking of the heart happened a week ago Wednesday. In my living room. He and I, on the green velour sofa. Cleo on the fuzzy rug, wholly unaware how suddenly my life had changed.

The door shut behind him. A thousand heart-shards at my feet. And I was barefoot. I promptly iPhoned everyone.

Dylan said: Where are you now what are you doing come meet me now I'm right around the corner.

My cousin said: Lunch, tomorrow!

Photographer K. said: Oh, Lilan, I'm so so sorry. Call me tonight!

The French waitress cried out: No!

That night, Germany played Turkey. Dylan saved me a seat at Bar Gagarin. We cheered Germany's win with boisterous Casey and another American whose name I don't recall. I ate a salad with salmon. As always. Afterward, Dylan came over. She and I, on the green velour sofa. It was already eleven.

I told her everything that had been said. In detail.

I showed her the swiveling, knotted threads of my mind. The bending and arcing of my thoughts -- Chinese acrobats in every position, from every angle. None made sense. My vertebrae ached.

Did I drive him away? I wanted to know. Am I the girl who bakes the cake on the second date, picks the white dress on the third? Was my love psycho?

No, said Dylan, resolute. You were NOT Crazy Girl.

Thursday, my cousin arrived at my door at 12:45. In her arms an exploding bouquet: fleshy peonies, small white stargazers. She hugged me hard. Tears in her eyes. 

At Bar Gagarin, we downed hot borscht in the sun.

I've been thinking a lot about it, she said. She offered me her theories.

I took a cab to my holistic doctor's. The assistant hovered Chinese charcoal sticks above my navel. She stuck tiny burning cones beside my ankle bones. She placed her palms beneath my sacrum, my lumbar, my shoulder blades. She worked the spot between my eyebrows with her thumb-pads.

Do you want to stay here? she asked when she was done.

Yes, I peeped. All of me small and weepy. The room was smoky. The window wide open. Acupressure books lined the shelves. I lay on the table and let my mind spin. 

An hour later, the doctor popped in. She knew of what had happened. She bent over me, cupped my chin. "I would have wished something so different for you." I began to cry. She said: "You are just right, Lilan, just right." Because she knew what I was searching for. The thing wrong in ME to give the story sense.

My photographer friend K texted me nightly, at midnight: I'm home now, still awake, if you need to talk.

The French waitress called every noon: How are you, Lilanchen? Are you okay?

Friday my new Serbo-Croation literary hot-stuff friend met me for dinner. Tofu in curried coconut. Her hair was yellow, her face a perfect Valentine. We spoke of energies, of psychoanalysis, of mourning the very men who'd seemed most right.

Sunday Philip came from Hannover. We sat in the too-hot sun at Salotto Coffee Bar. He offered his boy perspective.

Tuesday I lay in my bed for hours after waking. The grief was like a canyon, its walls too sharp to scale. The iPhone rang. It was the French Waitress.

What she said was so much less important than that she said it. Afterward, I could leave my mattress. I could wash my hair. I could walk to the Coffee Bar. I could act like a perfectly normal person on a Tuesday in July.

And I could even almost feel it.

Memory's Breath

You wash your hair. You remember how he loved it. Dark and bold, Italian.

You chop garlic. You remember how it was your job, always, to peel the cloves and crush them, when he did the cooking.

You glance at the wrist of a man who sits beside you. You remember his Casio. Silver. So eighties.

You speak to an Englishman at Bar Gagarin. His eyes are kind. You play the movie forward. Impossible. How can the language of love be anything but German? It is meine liebe kleine Lilan you want to hear. And nothing else.

You take his photos from the wall. You delete him from your Facebook friends. You throw away his contact cleanser. You remove him from your SKYPE.

And it does not matter.

He is everywhere.

A Blessing for the Breakup of a Relationship

by John O'Donohue

Now you endeavor
To gather yourself
And withdraw in slow
Animal woundedness
From love turned sour and ungentle.

When we love, the depth in us
Trusts itself forward until
The empty space between
Becomes gradually woven
Into an embrace where longing
Can close its weary eyes.

Love can seldom end clean;
For all the tissue is torn
And each lover turned stranger
Is dropped into a ruin of distance
Where emptiness is young and fierce.

Time becomes strange and slipshod;
It mixes memories that felt
The kiss of the eternal
With the blistering hurt of now.

Unknown to themselves,
Certain small things
Touch nerve-lines to the heart
And bring back with color and force
All that is utterly lost.

This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.

Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.

If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.

Read O'Donohue's A Blessing for a Friend on the Arrival of Illness.

Every Day Different

Saturday night I was walking to Dylan's. She had invited me to join her and three young Italian friends in the making of summer rolls. She would provide the rice paper and sprouts, the plum sauce and beef-ginger filling. I was the bearer of fresh mint leaves. Essential ingredient.

The air was summer cool. My feet hit the sidewalk, flat-soled ballerinas. I rounded the corner of Stubbenkammer Strasse. Without warning, I felt suddenly, startlingly strong.

I was hollowed out, but grounded. Wrung dry, but clarion.

I thought, A hurricane could come now, could raze the walls of these buildings, red brick could tumble round my ankles. And I would stay standing.

I thought, So this is what this time will make me -- these relentless months, caged by illness, fatigue's breath in my bones, limbs virus-addled, mind a soup, and then, just as I was lifting my head, just as my blood seemed to quicken, the swift-shock loss of love. My best friend my lover my playmate my anchor my sail my soul, gone to me. For good.

Wise, I thought, the trials of my body would make me. Deep, I thought, the flailing of this heart. But strong? That I had not anticipated.

It felt pretty good.

Today I sat before my laptop at Cafe MaiBach. My intention: write a synopsis of the memoir to pitch it to an agent. I was blinking at the screen. There was just No Way. I was the razed buildings. I was the red brick, crumbled and riven. The cry was in my lungs. I gulped down the still water, paid the waitress, hurried into the sun.

I thought, I will lie in the park, I will stare at the clouds, this will calm me.

I found a bench beneath the trees. The sky was pretty blue. The clouds were puffy. The wind was strong, the leaves brushed and jostled -- the shush-shush-shush of soft bodies.

I heard. I saw. I felt. And it did not matter. I was in battle. My mind flinging itself at what my heart can't comprehend. One conversation after another. With him.

The sun vanished, the breeze chilled my skin. I left. Stopped at the bank. Bought cat food.

By the time I reached my flat, the grief had me bunched up, doubled over. Inside out and upside down, dangling by my ankles.

I did not feel strong. Not even a little.

I thought, I can never leave the sofa. I called my mother. "I'm having a" --my voice broke-- "hard day."

Oh, Schatz, she said, I know, I know. I wish I could be there. I wish I could change it.

I said, Life is asking too much of me. I just can't do it.

I cried very hard. I cried very long. I cried until there was no more crying. Until the next hour seemed like it might be livable. Even the next two.

My mother said, Your father, he crossed my path just as my other love was dying, just as I thought there could never be another. What happened to me gives me such hope. I know you can't imagine it now, but...

Also she said, Your heart was big, Schatz. And that is always good.

All Berlin is sad. Not just me.

The Germans made it all the way to the Finale. Along with the Spaniards.

Tonight they played.

My poet friend Dylan and I sat on folding chairs at Bar Gagarin. The game unfolded on the outdoor TV.  Beside us, an Englishman who spoke no German. I ate a salad with salmon.

The Spanish scored early on. The Germans couldn't seem to manage. Every pass they kicked went straight to Spanish cleats.

"No!" we shouted. And: "C'mon!" And: "What was that?" And: "Just one goal, please."

We held out hope till the 93rd minute.

"They really could do it," said Dylan. 

"Tell them that," said the Englishman.

The whistle blew. The boys in white and black clustered, faces ashen.The boys in yellow and red marched their silver Europa Cup around the field.

They sang "We Are the Champions."

Which struck me as excessive.

But they played the better game. That I'll grant them. And Spain hasn't won for 24 years. So if someone was gonna beat Germany, I'm glad they're it.

Berlin is quiet. The bars already empty. The TVs now silenced.

We return to our homes. We return to our beds. Somber. And waiting. For the day the men we believe in live up to our dreams.

Oh but it hurts...

Even if there's a reason for it all.

What if everything is exactly as it's supposed to be?

What if he was supposed to cross my path for nine short months?

What if I was supposed to love him?

What if he was supposed to leave me?

What if I am supposed to feel this grief, this shock, this red-hot aching of the chest cavity?

Maybe my love was more a gift to myself even than to him.

Maybe his leaving was a favor that I didn't know I needed.

Maybe from the ashes in which I stand, the charred remains of the future I'd imagined, there will grow a seed, and from the seed will sprout a bud, and from the bud will bloom a peony.

Bright pink and full-bodied. Satin-petaled, unfurling.

And one day I'll find I'm ten times the woman I ever thought I'd be.

Maybe.