Friday Itinerary (Katrinkay Day 3)
11:30. Borsigstrasse
I lie in my cousin's master bed. White blanket. White walls. White overhead lamp. All is tinted pink. Ceiling-high rose curtains hold back the day. Katrinka walks to Mörder Café. Returns with Milchkaffee, foamy tall, and Tasse Kaffee, black and rich. We sip from paper cups. Mine advertises T-com cell service. On hers, black female body, cartooned, neck to knee, white bikini. Hot, it reads below her frontal view. Kaffee, below her ass. "Um," I say, "that's disturbing." She drinks the coffee anyway.
14:30. Jüdisches Museum, Kreuzberg
The Axles tilt you as you walk. Angle you upward and sideways. Show you: The menorah left behind. The violin never reclaimed. The package left for safe-keeping with a neighbor, unwrapped by strangers decades later: soap, clean underwear, notebook paper. The things she thought would matter.
The Holocaust-Turm is hard enough. The door closed upon you. High concrete hollow. Single line of light. Walk to tightest corner. Back against the hard. Breathe emptiness. Breathe cold. Libeskind knew what he was doing.
Emerge outdoors. Tall concrete pillars. Tight lightless rows. On a slant. Above you grow leaves, branches. Hope. Just out of reach. You, caught below. Garten des Exiles. You, one among them.
Inside. Climb stairs. Anxious for right angles. Space like you know it. Not yet. Memory Void. Menashe Kadishman’s Gefallenes Laub, a thousand crying metal faces. Walk atop them. That’s what he wants. Heads dip beneath your heels. Eyes and mouths gape. Clang with every step. I dare you not to feel fault. With Daniel Libeskind, you are victim. With Kadishman, perpetrator.
Had enough? You haven’t even reached the main exhibition.
16:30. Jüdisches Museum, Gift Shop
Bright red umbrella. 16 Euro.
Outside: Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain<
16:45. SUMO, Bergmannstrasse, Kreuzberg
Miso soup. Seaweed salad. Salmon slabs. We sit by the fish tank. Katrinka likes the black one, with the bulging eyes. "These edamame are overcooked," she says happily. "Nice and mushy." I eat half her portion. Half her sticky rice too. She is busy with two soups. It's her thing right now. The cold won't leave her bones.
20:00. Radialsystem V, Friedrichshain
Vagina Jones left me timid. But I took another chance. The Ancient Mariner, performed by Odense Internationale Musikteater, of Denmark. How to resist Coleridge — dour, impenetrable — rendered as a blend of "pop ballads, Irish folk music, rap, blues, gospel, and rock"?
We don’t want to leave the flat. The meanest weather Berlin has shown me yet. But I already bought the tickets. We call for a cab. No company answers. We run for the S-Bahn. Run into Radialsystem. More concrete than the Holocaust-Turm. Five stories’ worth. Here it doesn’t hurt.
We sit in the back, at a table, cabaret style. A woman blocks my view. Princess Leia buns. So I stand. Start to finish.
The Ancient Mariner speaks. The Wedding Guest listens. The Ship sets sail. The Storm attacks. The Ice grabs hold. The Bird gets shot. The Sun is bloody. The Crew expires. The Curse is cast. The Sea is wide. The Wind arises. The Reaper jokes. The Ship hits harbour. The Hermit sings. The Ancient Mariner shuts up. The Wedding Guest leaves. The Poem ends.
Guess what? It works. A sextet of Blues Brothers: black suits, white shirts, black ties. Piano, sax, guitars. Accordion. All sing. Four play. A white stretch of fabric, satin and tulle, symbolizes bride, then albatross, bloodied by a single shot. Video montages flash stanzas, flapping wings, raindrops. License is taken. "Fuck" is used. Black sunglasses signify blindness. The hermit turns Baptist.
The audience claps. The audience hoots. Even professional musician Katrinka is impressed. Who knew? Coleridge, so fucking fun.
22:45. Toca Rouge, Torstrasse
Mission: Order Best Soup in Berlin. To Go.
Extenuating Circumstances: Katrinka too tired to eat in.
Prognosis: Failed.
Contributing Factors: No Take Out.
Alternate Plan: Consume parsnips Katrinka left roasting in the oven.
Prognosis: Highly Positive.
23:30. Borsigstrasse
I lie in my cousin’s teenage bed. Upstairs, the penthouse. (Katrinka made me switch). Window-Turm. I was afraid it would be too light up here, too far from ground. But no. The city cups me in its center. I am floating, palm-held. It sparkles wet, every direction.
Today it gave of itself. Dark and varied. Bleak and stunning. Cold, mushy, entertaining.
Good is not relative. Vagina is forgotten.
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