Berlin or bust

Back of his motorcycle

Back of his motorcycle, two in the a.m., hold tight! and 

FLY. Berlin barren, alight: Reichstag Brandenburger Tiergarten: 

our very own. And Wannsee! air tinged by earth tree lake, sky 

starred dark. A deer sprints. And. Hope leaps. 

One Year in Berlin

Today. At 9:40 a.m. Exactly.

Now is your chance (while you're here, putting off work you know needs doing) to:

Relive the early hours! The first impressions! And the second!

Reacqaint yourself with Vincenzo! The (horror) flat in Friedrichshain! The incomparable Adam!

Don't forget: Vagina Jones! The girl with the Clothing Paradise! And the Best Soup in Berlin (without question)!

Wow, so many days, so many words. To think they almost didn't let me into the country.

Saturday dusk till Sunday near-dawn

That's how long it took to celebrate my Serbo-Croatian literary hot stuff friend's 35th birthday. And her sixth book. Poetry, just released.

I arrived at nine. Gave knee-high sunflowers. The quiet blonde who climbed the stairs behind me, apricot-hued roses.

Everyone cooed at my silver shoes. You could tell, they said, that they came from New York. Berlin? Never!

Smokers crowded on the balcony. I mooched one off a gallery owner. I joked with the barrel-torso'd sculptor. "We adore red wine," murmured his wife. A Turkish-German poet.

Balkan pop songs played inside. Those who could, wiggled their shoulders.

Literary hot stuff's sister flitted from room to room. Two years younger, a whole head taller. From Frankfurt.

The photographer made a mushroom quiche.Yogi D. made Milchreis, with apple chutney. (Just like New Year's!)

I sipped water. In the kitchen. And learned of the Ex's iPhone: zer-quetsched, zer-splintered. As an iPhone's meant not to do. I cackled. "Harboring ill will?" asked Yogi D. Oh. Maybe.

Artist Bella baked the chocolate Torte. Happy Birthday! we sang. With accent. At the precise hour of birth: half-past midnight. 

Writer Tobias ate two slices. Beside me, on the red sofa. Bitter at a girl who'd once betrayed him.

Literary hot stuff opened gifts. A black beret from her sister. With sparkles. She looked a Parisian wonder.

The clock struck 3. "Oh man," Tobias moaned, "I have to go to a brunch tomorrow." "Me too!" I cried. "All the way in Biesdorf."

"Life is tough," laughed the Turkish-German poet, "when you're living in Berlin."

The photographer gave me a ride. And I learned: The quiet blonde? A famous talk show host cum crime novelist. The woman in the bold black-white dress? A famous lawyer who defends the rights of Turkish wives. The photographer herself? Award-winning -- and heading to a famous retreat once inhabited by the Turkish-German poet. "Take the yellow room," she'd urged. "It's the biggest."

Good thing I had no clue. Me and my stumbling Deutsch: Uh, used to edit in Manhattan, writing a book now, never had one published, not so sure why I'm in Berlin at all...

Four a.m., and I hobbled down Danziger. Heels catching between cobblestones. Surprisingly un-bothered that I'd had nothing more to recommend me than my shimmering Stuart Weitzmans. That and my wide-open love-you-before-I-even-know-you American manner.

That's not nothing, you know. Not in Berlin. Not by a mile.

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.

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.

Lilan discovers a rainbow in the former GDR

Bayreuth Boy drives the rental car. Lilan takes a picture.

 

Together they come upon its pot-o'-gold end. And marvel.

 

There were actually two rainbows, one above the other.
Click on the first picture. Do you see 'em?

There is something happening in Europe...

...of which many of you may not be aware.

And I'm not talking Mr. Bu(ll)sh(it) breaking bread with slump-shouldered Angela Merkel.

Nor am I referencing the winner Heidi Klum and her teutonic panel picked as Germany's Next Top Model. (So much more, um, not black those aspiring fashionistas are than Tyra's hand-picked dozen.)

No, my friends, we are talking...

Fresh-laid grass. Yellow cards. Sweaty headbands. Calves as hard as bone.

Yesterday Turkey shot a winning goal against Switzerland in the game's final minutes, and Berlin erupted into the night. We could hear it all the way from Bayreuth Boy's balcony, rockets blasting the sky, air-pistols. On the Kudamm, Turkish youths swarmed the streets, rocking helpless cars back and forth.

C'mon, I said to the Boy. All they did was beat the Swiss.

Exactly! he said.

The Swiss are notoriously weak as players. They are also notoriously polite and reserved. They are so polite, in fact, they think Gemans are rude...and loud. Hello? If Germans are loud, then Americans are ten monster trucks revving. And Italians are a fifty-piece tuba band warming up alongside those engines.

Last night a Swiss and Turkish player collided, knocking each other onto the rain-logged field, a tangle of muddy limbs. The Swiss helped his rival to his feet, patting his arm kindly. The Turk scowled, wrenched himself free, and roared off toward the ball in play. Which might explain why who won won.

Every day I watch the games. Every day I tune into the post-game commentary. Every day I say things like: Ibramovich hasn't shot a goal in two whole years! And he's Europe's top-paid player.
Or: What an old-fashioned game the Greeks play. So eighties.
Or: Offsides! Offsides!

The Boy cannot believe it. I cannot really either.

Those of you who know me may also know this:

In my five years at CAL, I never once attended a football game. Not even as blue-gold pilgrims swarmed Berkeley's hills, stadium-bound, for the fight against Stanford, an annual battle of biblical proportions.

In my nine years in New York, I never once watched a baseball game. I do not know where Shea Stadium is. I didn't notice when the World Series turned Subway, New York teams head-to-head on the diamond.

I said things like: Oh, the Mets are from Brooklyn?
Also: Like I care.

Yet it took only a single game for me to become a full and irreversible Fussball fan.

The Italians loped across the field, tall and beautiful, their black curls damp, their olive limbs aglow. Their 2006 World Championship title lent a casual arrogance to their step, a tilt to their sharp chins. Then came the Dutch, decked in garish orange. Like pit bulls they came, blasting across the field, ramming the goal, relentless, unforgiving, from game's start to its end. Three fierce goals they scored to Italy's dazed one.

You had to love those little Dutch. And the fans! One had draped fat bundles of carrots over each ear. Another wore a huge Gouda cheese on his head. Atop the Gouda stood miniature replicas of Dutch national treasures, windmills included.

Still. I am wondering: Why? Me? Care?

Contributing factors are as follows:

"basic gravity"

Do you remember Keiko? On New Year's Eve she bit my ear.

It's because she likes you, said the Boy.

Just like Cleo.

Last night Keiko had a solo opening, on Brunnen Strasse. I had seen her paintings before. But not her drawings. Oh!

"The movement!" I told her. "Amazing!"

She gripped my arm. "The movement!" The word came out a yowl. "That is exactly what I want to hear!"

Her scarf was blue. Her pants were white. Her hair was black. Her shirt was yellow.

Later she went wild with a bouquet of flowers.

She twisted and bent. She arced and whipped. She stretched her eyes at us, wide as saucers.

We watched from out on the street.

The dance of her own ink. Burst to life behind a glass pane.

photo by bayreuth boy

Proof that Berlin is not the Germany you thought you knew

This weekend was Karneval der Kulturen in Kreuzberg.

The Boy said, you must see it. He's away, though, visiting family in Franconia. Dylan had work to do. Amie is afraid of crowds. My cousin is in Costa Rica.

So I went alone. Me and my half-ass digi-cam.

The weather was outrageous. The crowds were hyperventilation-worthy. I climbed out of the subway into a mash of hundreds of thousands and nearly dashed back underground. But no. Modern German Culture must be pursued.

Here is what I found:

Your typical Bavarian Schuhplattlers.

Just like my Oma used to dress.

How much do you love her?

And him?! Work that orange velour. 

This dude was attached to...

...this thing. Which had something to do with...

...this thing. Um. Really, I have no idea.

Hula hoops. Never out of style.

Do you see her? World's tallest, palest Mariachi dancer, twirling in the background.

The riot of color! The flurry of motion!

And again!

A little less color, a lot less motion: Your intrepid ex-pat photographer. Getting a friggin' tan while on the job (she who has not had a friggin' tan in seven years). Woo-hoo.

New York Times Travel Special, featuring...

...American expats (sort of) like me! Read it here. 

As for the Ex-Berliner, whose editors are interviewed in the Times article's opening paragraphs, fuggedaboudit. It's all unreliable critic's choice listings (just ask Katrinka) and sub-par prose (high demand for English-language zine +  relatively few English-speaking writers abroad = lowered literary standards, natch).

But that ping-pong table you see pictured? It is the shit. I stood and watched, late one night, as forty Berliners clustered at its edges: the start of a new round. Each held a beer in one hand, a paddle in the other, and so began the slow circular march, players winnowed away failed hit by failed hit, until a mere two remained, hacking at the ball like China's spryest pros.

"Oh, that girl," said Bayreuth Boy, nodding at a broad-shouldered chick in a white hoody, "always wins." This time, however, she did not. By then the counterfeit Marlboro smoke (sold for cheap from Poland) was choking the breath out of Peter and me. So we left.

And that is about the extent of partying I do in this devastatingly hip arty-party city. Perhaps if I had arrived here five years younger, I might better fit the Times article's (sensational) expat demographic.

As it is, you will be reading posts about boilers and stomach flus, leftist movers and unhinged felines.

Hope that suffices.

Do Not Underestimate the Importance of a Functioning Boiler

The apartment I moved into has an old metal bathtub. Deep and beveled. Long as a bed. There is a silver-dollar-sized spot near the drain where the enamel has chipped. My new subletter was worried this would distress me.

The last time I lived in an apartment with a tub it was 1997 and my hair was dyed black and my fingernails painted robin's egg blue.

Actually that is a lie.

The apartment I just moved out of had a tub. However, the water ran hot just long enough for me to stand beneath the showerhead, wet myself down, swiftly soap up, and barely rinse off. Two and a half minutes. I timed it once with a Kelly Clarkson song.

First it seemed romantic. Nostalgic, even. When my mother lived in West Berlin in the sixties, resources were so limited she could shower no more than once a week.

Then winter came. And it was no longer romantic. Hair like mine takes a minimum two minutes to shampoo, followed by five to rinse. That left me with negative four and a half minutes of hot. Result: Many consecutive days of hair as slick and stale-scented as an aging otter pelt. When vanity finally had its way, I ducked face-down into the kitchen sink, stream of lukewarm pouring down my neck, futilely shampooing from behind but at least sparing myself an entire body doused in ice.

Therefore. Chipped enamel? Not distressing.

New Year's Eve, Berlin-style

Yogi D. made Milchreis. With almonds, cinnamon sticks. Mango chutney, too.

Sculptor J. brought Keiko along.

Floppy-limbed C. carted stereo speakers.

Keiko blew a balloon doll, lips and eyes inked in.

Felix wore it around his neck.

Crisse wrapped dates in bacon, served them hot and fried.

Steffi smoked Gauloise (Felix is not the only one).

The Boy cooked couscous. Added mint leaves. Tomato. Garlic wafting from each kernel.

Everyone blew noisemakers. Long before midnight.

Crisse purchased bottle rockets. The big kind.

Felix set them off, in his hand.

I dared light a fire-spiral. Child's play, the others said.

The doctor from China stood back, shell-shocked.

Sculptor J. burnt the bread.

Felix took his shirt off. For no apparent reason.

Alex and his girlfrend tried Bleigiessen. Every shape came out fetus-like.

A man in a hat howled.

Yogi D. drank Bionade.

The Boy and I danced fierce. Hips grinding. Eyes on fire.

Keiko stole my glasses.

Day 2

Entailed one and three quarters hours at Druck & Stempel.

Poor Herr Loescher. I must have seemed an easy enough customer as I crossed the threshold of his stamp store. But:

Algerian D or Bookman Old Style? Boxed in or bare? One-millimeter space between letter and line, or two- Shadowed edges or plain? Corner diamonds or starbursts? Old-fashioned wood or pre-inked metal?

"Can you make the diamonds 7 point? Can you set them outside the box? Are you sure the lengths are even? Can you align both words? Can you shrink the top one? Let's try... Is it possible... Wait, I know..."

Someone somewhere sometime might have referred to me as a perfectionist.

Herr Loescher maneuvered the mouse, slipping in quips about what the young lady might next desire, while I ogled Adobe Photoshop through gi-normo prescription shades (normal specs languishing bedside).

"Try these," he said, handing me his own wire rims

The screen erupted into ripples. "Waah!" I handed them back. He re-anchored them atop his glossy pate.

Unprecedented

Blue skies! Clarion.

Only the barest breath of cloud.

In Berlin.

As if to ease me back in. Or, at least, offer me one fleeting chance to sport the Ollie shades (prescription lenses! I can see!) I just picked up on Astor Place.

How good is God. Or, at least, how very beau monde.

But Some Things Germans Do Very Very Well

Yesterday's post prompted a complaint.

"The french do it better?!" texted [anonymous]. "come on!"

Thus I concede:

Recycling
Freeways
Schuhplatteln (oh please click this link)
Wurst
Bureaucracy
Dark Thoughts
New Car Smell
Pronunciation of "ch"
Pilsner
Wagnerian Opera
Weihnachten (please please please)

Further suggestions? Submit below. Comments to be closely monitored for sarcasm. ("Pop music"? Don't even think about.)

— The Establishment

What (Else) I Love About Berlin (or, Karussell)

Friday, September 7. K2, a friend of K1, met me for Schnitzel. Our waitress was French. Flustered. Her first day at Schwarzwaldstuben. "She could be my sister-in-law!" I told K2. "You must take a photo." K2 unsheathed his digi. "Can we take your picture?" I asked. She nodded. "Besides, you are beautiful." She blushed. K2 pointed.

Monday, September 17. Mode Schau. My cousin introduced me to The Zwillinge. "You're from New York?" they said. "You must write for our Madonna book!" Two days later I emailed my ideas.

Tuesday, September 25. Radialsystem V, Gary Shteyngart reading. In the lobby: The Zwillinge. They rushed to me. "Thanks for your email! We're sorry we didn't reply! We've been so busy! Your ideas are super!"

They had just pitched a Madonna Conference to Radialsystem's director. "He's all for it! He's super! But you should meet him!" They corralled me to him. Short man, fluffy hair. Shirt buttoned to the Adam's apple. "This is Lilan," they said.

"I'm contributing to the Madonna book," I said. "I'm from New York."

Beside the director, an even shorter man. His beard was Tolstoyesque. "This is Gary Shteyngart," said the director. "Oh!" I said. Suddenly dizzy. "I loved Russian Debutante's Handbook."

And the Tide Turns

Monday, 13:15. my cousin and I are walking down Auguststrasse. Off to sushi lunch at Kuchi. We detour past a Baustelle (one of Berlin's many). A slender brunette crosses our path. Skinny jeans. Leather handbag. "N__!" says my cousin.

They get to chatting. N. is a bit frazzled. Preparing for a three-month stay in Boston.

My cousin looks from N. to me to N. again. "What about your apartment?" she pipes. She is fast like that. "Oh!" I say.

Standing empty, it will be. "It's beautiful," says N. "Full of light." No plans to sublet but, Sure, if I need a place, come by and take a look, why not.

My cousin and I trot away. "She's a textile designer," she says, squeezing my arm. "I bet the flat is amazing." Her outfit alone speaks volumes.

Tuesday, I zipped over. A mere three blocks from my cousin's. Outside: Dove-gray building, 19th century. Iced like a cake, sills ribbon-strung. Inside: White walls, high ceilings. Wooden floors, fat golden planks. 90 meters squared. Office. Living Room. Dining Room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bath. Windows windows windows. So much air.

N.'s sketches on the wall. Her textiled pillows on a low-lying sofa. Her textiled lamps hanging above a low-lying bed. Off-whites and warm grays and patches of beige.

Nothing not good taste.

Back in Borsigstrasse

This time among The Little People.

Can you believe I am related to such cuteness?

Proof of Happiness

Please don't make me leave. Ever.

It might be the Cola Zero speaking. But I don't think so.

Dark, Wet, Chewy, Fun

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.

Top-Rated Moment(s) #3

Karla's Party, No Socks, Watermelon

I already told you of Werner. The (welcome) flirtation upon arrival. Next came better-than-professional cappuccinos. Sweet foam pillow. My cousin and I sunk lips in. Nikolai B-lined for the plastic racetrack. Rosa tap-danced before us, crowing about something or other.

"That girl has a voice on her," said Werner's (odd) sister.

"Always did," said my cousin. "Even as a baby."

"Rockstar in the making," said the sister.

"Yes, and she sure doesn't mind being the center of attention."

How is it that I hadn't notice? Hard and croaky. Made for sex appeal. "Janis Joplin," I offered.

"Oh," said the sister. "We were up all night, bawling."

"Watching YouTube," explained her boyfriend. He sat deep in the sofa's center.

"Performances by Joplin, Dylan, all the greats."

My cousin, Internet-deprived, was confused. But I was happy: Something that I knew. "You've got to be careful," I said. "YouTube is addictive." I was not not nervous to be at this party. The pressure to MAKE conversation with strangers. Worse yet, in a foreign tongue.

"They had Allende's speeches, too," the boyfriend said, impressed. The (odd) sister fell into the cushions beside him.

Top-Rated Moment #2

Sunday Afternoon, 2 Small Bodies, Sofa

My cousin's apartment. Post-lunch linger. Salad bowl emptied. Plates, too…almost. On Rosa's, a crescent of toast under pale green paste—a 4-year-old's fork-pressed grapes. On Nikolai's, a chunk of half-bitten bread, dark and grainy. Even a slab of butter, near as thick as the bread itself, cannot render it toddler-edible.

Dad has already risen, off to scuba-diving practice. The children are DONE. As children can be. They scamper from the table.

I pick at a last few leaves of lettuce. My cousin leans back in her chair. I describe writing English with a German mind, rebuilding each sentence in a foreign order. She pulls a book from her shelves, lays it beside my plate. A Japanese writer. She moved to Berlin, now poured German words into Japanese structures. 

Rosa, from the living room: "Lilan! Lilan!"

My cousin: "Rosa, let Lilan finish her lunch."

Rosa: "I want to read a book!"

Cousin: "Give me a few minutes, Rosa, I'm almost done here."

Rosa: "Lilan, we can read Pippi Langstrumpf!"

Cousin: "Not yet, Rosa. We are trying to have an adult conversation."

A recurrent, and fruitless, refrain when I am visiting. Evidence thereof: Within one minute I have been dragged onto the sofa. Nikolai clambers onto my lap. Rosa opens her book onto my thigh. "Here's Pippi's pony!" she cries. "What are those?" I point to the Pony's spotted pelt. "Polka-dots, of course." Less a lesson in German for her than for me.

The sun spills onto the carpet. "And here's where they find the treasure…" Nikolai burrows his head into my chest. His hair is silk beneath my chin. Rosa squeezes against my side. I can feel her legs wiggling. The room is oven-warm.

My cousin emerges from the kitchen. Grabs her digital camera. Points.

But she needn't have.

The moment is already captured. No memory card required.

Top-Rated Moment #1

Saturday Night, the Spree, Alone

The first ride on the new bike. From Charlottenburg to Friedrichschain. I hit the Spree halfway through the Tiergarten. Spun along the path. Pale concrete sloped upward on my left. Across the water: White concrete and bluish windows. A vast glass circle set inside a solid box, stark poles marking off space. The Kanzleramt, or the "Waschmaschine" as Berliners call it. A post-modern play of shapes. But I love it.

The sky was windless. The moon tucked away. The path suddenly deserted. I stopped. Silver flecks glistened and shimmied on the Spree's black ripples.

I was overwhelmed. I began to cry. Just for a second. (So, I'm not one for small reactions.) This was a Berlin I hadn't seen. A Berlin I could fall in love with. Still. Private.

Mine. 

The path turned to sand, curved under a bridge, butted against a wall.

I U-turned my bike. Said good-bye to the moment. And returned to the street.

The BEST Thing About Berlin EVER

You can sit. In cafes. For hours. And hours. And hours. And hours. And hours.

The waitresses do not look at you funny. They do not slice their eyes in your direction. You do not have to order a second cup of coffee. Nor an accompanying pastry. Nor a glass of water. Nor anything else. You can just nurse that first cup and type and type and type without the slightest pang of guilt, and when you leave, you do not have to give more than a 5 percent tip. In fact, if you do, then they will look at you funny. Foreigner!

Right now I am at one of many booths in the expansive Cafe Euforia, where I already wrote for three hours on Wednesday, and where I am guaranteed to be ignored by the waitresses until it's time to pay. When my battery loses its juice, I can wander a little further down the block to another (much smaller) cafe, where I know the handsome Turkish owner will allow me to plug my power cord beneath the fan he has pointed at the counter to cut the humidity. On Wednesday I walked in and said simply "ich suche eine Steckdose," before even ordering anything.* He happily complied, even asking whether I would prefer the French Cabaret music be turned down, and offering me a piece of cake, gratis.

This BEST THING about Berlin EVER is something so very good, it might be all it takes to seduce a footloose writer into staying. For a very long time. And not just in the cafe, I mean.

*A girl at a nearby table tittered when I made my request. Later I discovered Steckdose might also be slang for "female," the Steckdose being the thing you stick the Stecker into. Not sure. (Will a real German please weigh in? Roland? Silke? Moms?) At least I didn't say "ich bin eine Steckdose."

What I Love (so far): Addendum

1. The city after Donnerwetter

Monday night God turned the sky into a bucket. He flipped it over and wouldn't stop dumping. I woke to thunder claps, and rain that fell too thick for raindrops. I didn't know it could fall like that. Then I drifted back to asleep and dreamt of life-sized posters of Käthe Kollwitz.

In the morning my parents helped me bring my bigger suitcase to the sublet. How it happened that the two of them, ages 67 and 74, were the ones to hoist the monster-case up three flights, I don't know. I was futzing with the house keys and weighed down by a backpack and another bag — but still. I should be ashamed. Instead I laughed and conducted them up the stairs like a traffic cop. Fortunately they were smiling.

Pretty soon, I was not. Smiling. The cable connection the subletter (-lettee?) had set up for me only worked for her own junky PC, not my Vaio. I was desperate to post the blogs I had saved on my laptop, not to mention I type like a cripple on German keyboards. Bad enough that it was cable, not wireless, and I'd be forced to sit on a hardback chair at a tiny falling-apart desk. I had already fought and failed to hook up at Hotel Am Zoo and now suspected my laptop was to blame. I felt sick.

My parents had sunk into one of the bulbous sofas, paging through a Berliner weekly for cultural offerings, while I fumed at the computers, wishing I had pocketed one of Parenting.com's IT guys for the trip, or better yet, my coworker Jesse, who knows everything and beats me at Boggle every time.