Last spring, Brad Pitt visited an architectural office on Borsigstrasse, in Berlin Mitte.
The press noted his presence. They also noted the renovation of a rooftop apartment on Borsigstrasse. The landlord was called. "Is this to be the Berlin pad of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?"
"Kein Kommentar," replied the landlord. No comment.
Photos of building under renovation promptly appeared in every media outlet.
Several months ago, my cousin and her brood moved into a newly renovated rooftop apartment. One morning, she walked to the Bäckerei at the corner. "Did you know," whispered the girl behind the counter, "that Brad and Angelina live on this street?"
"Really," replied my cousin coolly.
"Borsigstrasse __!"
"No," she said. "That's me."
But now, my dear friends, it is I who live in the apartment of Angelina Jolie. My cousin has abandoned gray Berlin for sunny, exotic isles. I have abandoned shit-ridden Friedrichshain for...
Slanted ceilings, 15-feet. Private balconies, seven (count em!). Raw silk curtains, two-toned. Shower-head, one foot in diameter ("like standing beneath a waterfall," cooed a wet-haired Katrinka). Elevator onto stained wood floors (key required).
You ain't seen nothing yet.
Climb the stairs. Bend around a pure white wall. Emerge.
There is my cousin's writing desk. Laptop. Copy of Moby Dick (reference text for her new novel: "whiteness" thematic). There is her old bed (now sofa), wrought iron, beige pillows. Coffee table, wooden slab. White candle.
That is not what you are looking at. Believe me.
Because. Wall of windows. Balconies that wrap. Berlin, 360 degrees.
Gabled roofs. The Reichstag, silvered, slivered. The Fernsehturmn, needled globe. Die Neue Synagogue, golden bulb. Potsdamer Platz, sails of glass. The Berliner Dom, baroque and hooded. Chimneys chimneys chimneys. The full moon, blurred behind strips of cloud.
There is nothing you cannot see.
My home. Five blessed days.
Katrinka is sleeping in the tower, though. A selfish act, actually, because my nights require darkness, and instant bathroom access.
Katrinka doesn't seem to mind.
Yesterday she arrived from London. I know her only a little.
February 2007, Kripalu Retreat Center, the Berkshires. Day two: Our yoga mats lay side by side. We downward-dogged, Anusara-style. "Now find a partner," teacher Todd announced. I turned left: Scary man named Jaguar. She turned right: Scary man named David.
I turned right: Girl so pretty it hurt the eyes. She turned left: Me. We clutched each other's wrists. Nodded wildly.
After that we never parted. Especially when Jaguar slunk in. I had watched him hit on her Friday. On Saturday, he turned to me. "I think you're beautiful," he said. "You have a lovely butt." Me: "Eh, eh…"
Katrinka is 28. Bostonite. Jazz singer. Her mother was at Kripalu, too. Doing nothing but reading high-quality novels. Together, swift of tongue, sharp of wit. Amidst glass-eyed Deepak Chopra-ists, a pair of skeptic seekers. I fell right in. Earned "honorary daughter" status by weekend's end.
Eight months ago, Katrinka and I struggled. She, yearning to leave London for New York, terrified to leap. How to trade a successful jazz career for nothing, a British-boy love for aloneness? And I, caught in the bud of my illness, hungry for Berlin. How to trade a successful editorial career for nothing, fast friends for aloneness? Terrified, most of all, that sick would never end.
We meditated under Todd's tutelage. Inhaled "a universe that loved us." Grew wet-eyed as we journaled.
We did not believe.
Next week, Katrinka returns to London. Suitcases packed, she flies to New York. "Breaking up with the boy was the hardest part," she tells me.
Tomorrow, I register at the Mitwohnzentrale on Linienstrasse. We examine sublets in Prenzlauer Berg and Mitte. Eight months, I will say. At least.
Perhaps the universe does love us. Or perhaps we sprouted wings.
In any case, I think we needn't worry. Because, if Vagina Jones can make it, so can we. Oh, Vagina. I'll save her for another day.
the apartment sounds DREAMY! 8 more months? really? you coming home any time in between? SF home, I mean...
Posted by: Julie | September 28, 2007 at 04:50 PM
I'll be home for Christmas! Tell me you're not going to L.A. between december 22 and 28...
Posted by: Lilan | October 06, 2007 at 07:15 AM