Berlin or bust: A West Villager Weighs In (or, Exhibit A)

"I thought it was me!" moaned K2.

Last Friday, lunch. Schwarzwaldstuben on Tucholskystrasse. The sun beat on our backs. A pile of cheese-baked Spätzle on K2's plate. The best Wienerschnitzel in the world on mine.

"I made a couple dates before I came," said K2. He was wearing a shimmery lilac shirt. Tight black pants. "You know, online sex dates."

I did not know, but I understood.

"So I meet one guy at a bar, and I'm telling you, it's totally platonic. We're talking, like getting-to-know-you talk...like friends." K2 shook his head. I'd met K2 once before, at a party thrown by my friend K1. Guests tested strangely brewed beers (chocolate, anyone?); K2 and I lounged on the floor, debating the virtues of Trader Joe's vs. Whole Foods. This Berlin trip, he told me, had been funded by the money he'd saved shopping at the former.

"I went to this club," he continued. "No one was dancing. Everyone's just standing around the edges. What am I going to do? Jump in the middle and dance by myself?"

"Weird," I concurred.

"The only one who talked to me was a Trannie. Well, Trannies have a thing for me..."

I nodded.

"She said, 'Yeah, this club sucks. Try this one in Schneberg.' But I decided, it's just not worth it. I'll do history in Berlin." Tonight, no sex date. Rather, Der Freischutz, Statsoper, 7 p.m.

I ask you, dear readers, what is to become of a Volk with such a seeming dearth of carnality that even its gay men refrain from erotically charged exchanges? Platonic sex dates. It's enough to throw a recently transplanted female into the arms of every Brit, Venezuelan, or American she meets.

K2's revelation was alarming enough to require discussion with an actual Berliner. Or at least a Bayer who's been living in Berlin quite some time. And happens to be related to me.

"Even the gay men aren't aggressive," I complained to my cousin on Sunday.

She gave me a skeptical look. "Well, comparatively," I clarified. She'd never been to Chelsea on a Saturday night.

"It's the same thing with the straight guys," I persisted. "Only non-Germans have asked me for my number."

My cousin considered this. "I think German men don't ask for a number because they don't want you to think they are thinking about sex. Which" — she laughed — "is exactly what they are thinking about."

"But how can I ever tell if a German man is interested?"

"Ohhh," she said. "Believe me, you will know."

Later:
Birthday party for my cousin's downstairs neighbor Karla. We ring the bell at 14:30. Karla's husband Werner answers. His face is ruddy, his nose leans left. My cousin has warned me about him: "He can be off-putting. It's just that he's shy."

"Karla isn't here," he tells us. "She left with the guests for a short play. She'll be back soon."

It's a little awkward: Only Werner is here, with his (odd) sister and her boyfriend. They are camped in the kitchen, drinking coffee and champagne. We hesitate. "Okay, sure," my cousin says.

Werner smiles. "Always happy to let the pretty females in." His eyes dance. Something playful, something male. He steps aside. And in we go.

Later still:
"Werner was perfectly friendly," I tell my cousin.

"I know," she says. "Not off-putting at all." And... "What was that you said about German men not flirting?"

"Um."

Exhibit A, shall we call it?