Berlin or bust

april is the cruellest month

Maybe t.s. eliot was right. For days now it's been rain rain rain. Pillowy gray sky. Earth wet and dark as espresso grounds. 

Every morning: Hope of sun. Disappointment. My arms sprout goosebumps.

Then again: "Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night."

So said Rilke.

The tulips Bayreuth Boy planted on his balcony have burst forth. He showed them to me yesterday. Apricot and amber and cotton-candy pink. So perfect I thought he must have bought them full-grown at the flower shop, stuffed their cut stems into the planter box.

But that's more my style.

We cooked dinner in his kitchen. Broccoli eggplant carrots cashews — cubed and quartered, sauteed in sesame oil. Also: brown Basmati rice, chunks of tofu — seasoned, salty. A Satay to drown it in. Coconut milk, dots of red, peanut butter unmistakable. Dreamy

I peeled a single garlic clove. Crushed it in the garlic press. The Boy did all the rest.

Afterward he insisted I watch a YouTube video of the White Stripes performing live on Conan O'Brien. I might have gotten the better end of the deal. The song took three minutes. Some bricks now baby, Say let's build a home, Some bricks now baby, Say let's build a home...

Jack White was red and raw and savage. His guitar was one big howl.

Which brings me to this:

"For aren't you and I gods? Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Release life's rapture. Everything is blooming. Everything is flying. Everything is screaming. Laughter. Running."

Nabokov. He always says it best.

Other Matters of Grave Importance

1. Curtains

Beware the gauzy white fabric, drifting languidly from ceiling to floor. Beware even that same diaphanous swathe in a marachino cherry.

Dawn dawns and a rose-tinted sun stains my eyelids, rustling me from my dreams. On Chausseestrasse, thick navy blue beat back the day, granting vital extra hours to this immuno-challenged hypothyroidic Epstein-barrist, especially when caught in jet lag's trap (down at 2 a.m., up at 11).

Now it's three broken nights on Rykestrasse and I am mean and grumpy and downright delinquent. How severe is the prison sentence for stealing navy blue from your previous sublet and slapping it over the window of your current? Stop me before I do it. Please.

2. Cleo

She does not like German-brand salmon paté. She won't speak anything but English. She meows at the Boy and me till we follow her into the living room. It is the loftiest room in the flat, the one she has claimed for her own. Tufts of fur already sprout from the soft white rug. She hops onto the sofa (velvet cushions the color of olives, worn and patchy as fallen gentry). We try to pet her and she bats away our hands. We leave and she follows, peeping at our ankles.

Perhaps she simply needs us near, the scent of us, the heat, reminding her: This is home now. We are here. You are not alone.

3. Girlfriends

When I returned from San Francisco last week, I thought, I MUST foster female friendships NOW. A boyfriend is a blessing. A kindred-spirit cousin causes the heart to swell, the pulse to quicken. And yet. Girlfriends are roots. They fasten the soles of the feet to the ground. Without them, I would keel over at the ankles.

You have met the French waitress. She is boigant and delicious, cheeks the pink of a fresco'd angel. Let us call her Amie.

Ta-ta-ta-tapas

We sat on stools without backs. The restaurant was a swell of sound, of bodies. Hot, loud. Catalan.

A blackboard perched before us. The day's specials jotted in chalk. Incomprehensible to any but the most fluent.

A waiter with a warm brown face swept up to our table. His mouth spilled Spanish. Bayreuth Boy perked his ears. I went dumb. My friend Alesia jumped in. "Out-of-towners," she said, indicating her voiceless companions. She grilled the small man about the menu. She placed the orders.

The Boy asked for Cerveza, I for agua, por favor. "They do quite well for themselves," the waiter told Alesia, laughing. Or something like that.

*             *            *

A Monday in September: I barreled (late) into my German language class. Muttering apologies. It was my second week and the class was accustomed to my (loud) entrances. This time four new faces looked on. I blushed. "Let's do introductions again," said my teacher Anja. Around the table, and there she was: Alesia. Yellow hair. Wide blue eyes. No denying it: a woman my age. Oh joy! In this bastion of twenty-somethings. She lived in Barcelona.

If there's anything I learned from nine years in New York: Work your contacts.

"Barcelona!?" I cried out. "I need your e-mail!"

*             *            *

First came the artichoke. Paper-thin slices, heart and leaves. Crisp to the touch. Golden green.

Then slabs of bread. Wet with oil.

Prawns. I would have bit right in. Alicia yelped. Off with the head. Off with the legs. Peel back the shell.

God Bless the Hühn

Signs I have been gone too long:

1. The Upper Westside. Stores sardine-canned. Every time I bumped a shoulder: "Sorry" came swifter than a blink. "Oh," I would say. "Sorry!" A beat too late to count.

2. Rosemary's bathroom. Closing the door onto darkness. Split-second panic: Is the light switch outside? Or in?

3.  Lunch menu. Thursday: Grilled chicken salad. Friday: Grilled chicken salad. Saturday: Grilled chicken salad. Unbreaded. Unfried. Unschwein. I cannot get enough.

Voted Best Soup in Berlin, 2007

Restaurant: Toca Rouge

Soup: Shanghai Surprise

Menu Description: King Shrimps im Bett von Mincemeat mit Mi Ming Wasserspinat und Chinesischen Reiskuchen

Panel of Judges: Katrinka, Lilan

Tastings: Thursday, Friday, Sunday

Sunday 19:00 (following Sony Center viewing of Ratatouille)

Judge No.1 (Katrinka): What I love about the dumplings is the shrimp inside.

Judge No. 2 (Lilan): Oh. That's the Shanghai Surprise!

No.1: Yes!

No.2: I like the rice things. (flat, white discs made of rice flour)

No.1: I love them. They are like Gummis!

No.2: It's so weird. It tastes like a German soup. But Chinese too.

No.1: Look, seaweed.

No.2: Also Vietnamese. It's the ginger. You don't expect that seasoning with the meatballs.

No.1 (drops her spoon, grabs No.2's shoulder): Oh, it's so good! Why is it so good?!

No.2: Ouch.

Tuesday 19:45 (Adam accompanies Judge No. 2 to Toca Rouge)

Adam: Um.

Judge No. 2: You don't like it? How can you not like it?

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.

I Was Sitting in Adam's Kitchen

He placed a bowl before me. I poked my fork into a mushroom chunk. Pushed aside a wet green leaf.

Adam: Okay?

Me: Sure. (scooping ground meat and mystery bean into mouth) Yeah. (looking around for salt) What's in this chili anyways? (spotting a small saucer with tiny white grains; pinching and tossing some into bowl)

Adam: Bell pepper, spinach, garlic...

Me: Spinach? (tossing another pinch)

Adam: Yes. And a boyjohn cube.

Me: A what? (tossing another pinch)

Adam: A boyjohn cube.

Me: ???

Adam: You know. A little square of chicken stock.

Me:  Oh, bouillion!

Adam: Exactly. Boyjohn. And I browned the meat with the onion first.

Me: Aha. (grabbing pepper bottle, shaking it over bowl)

You Asked For It

Several requests have been made for photographic evidence of the makeover à la Sasha. Voilá!

Note ever-widening thighs (left) due to standard Berliner exercise regime (i.e., nothing) coupled with standard Berliner restaurant offerings: Sahne Soße Sahne Soße Sahne Soße Sahne Soße. Not to mention: Würstschen Wienerschnitzel Döner.

Light flirty waves intended as top-heavy distraction to below-belt entropy. Success rate of said experiment yet to be established.

Gemischter Salat mit Schafskäse

Ignore what I said about reconsidering Prenzlauer Berg.

Right now I am in viv Lounge on Schönhauser Allee. Airy and serene. Perfect padded bench. I have inhaled a mixed green salad for lunch. Not topped with fried salmon, mind you, nor with sautéed mushrooms and potato chunks (a Gorky Park special, day 4). No. We're talking fresh tuna and sheep's milk cheese. Daikon and grated beets. Un-dressed. Every last bite of it Bio.

Next door is the expansive viv health-food store.

How can this not be the place for me? I'd be even more blissed-out if the free wireless worked (password: Cappuccino). Careful what you wish for. Could send me wafting heavenward, knock my bad-haired head against the lofty ceiling.

To my left: A child-sized table and chairs. A rocking sheep (horses are so over). Brio train tracks. When I got here, two mothers were packing up their snot-lipped brood of three. I'd be less happy if they were here making a ruckus round my feet. But such is the cost of life in the land of the fecund.

Oh! I got the wireless working (cap that C). I may have to stay the night here.

Hummus in a Can (or, Bobby's Big Three)

Do we have this in the states? Please say no.

It was purchased from the young Turkish shopkeeper on the corner, late Thursday evening. "Do you have hummus?" I asked, piling tomatoes and toothpaste on the counter. "Sure!" He darted away, then darted back. "Oh..." I stared. "I'm from New York. We buy it refrigerated. Fresh." He explained that you could get it fresh, at the big Plus store around the corner (now closed). A guy sold hummus from the trough. "But here, you know, people don't buy it and it goes bad."

So I paid 1 Euro 69 for the can. Knowing I shouldn't. Feeling too guilty not to. I get stupid like that in stores sometimes.

I left the shop, rounding the corner, when the shopkeeper came charging after me. He was waving my mega-pack of rainbow sponges (let us not discuss the condition of the sponges my subletter left behind). He wanted to know how long I'd been here, and why my German was good. His name was Deniz, he said, with a Z. I asked him where to find good Middle Eastern food. I told him I'd had the worst falafel of my life in Prenzlauer Berg. (Imagine: A falafel without crust. Without kernels. Tahini without taste. Three balls of pure mush. Mealy tomatoes. Now bite. A man I once loved taught me the essence of a falafel. And that was not it.)

Grounded

Ugh, I really am sick. Can't do much but lie in bed. Hope this hurries up and passes.

But I will NOT feel sorry for myself. NO. I knew this might happen. I knew the body I was bringing here was prone to slippage and breakage. I gave myself permission: You are allowed to move to Berlin and be ill. You are allowed to move to Berlin and go to bed at 10 p.m. every night. You do not have to be the traveler you think you should be.

What I wanted to do tonight was go to the Lange Nacht der Museen. All over the city, museums stay open late (and free), with special exhibits and plays and musical performances. At the Jewish Museum, a whole menu of events is planned around the amazing Charlotte Salomon. Born in Berlin 1917, killed in Auschwitz 1943,* she managed in her short life to paint a diary of 1300 gouaches, often accompanied by literary excerpts and musical scores — a soundtrack for her days. She is, as you might imagine, a gi-normous inspiration to me. Almost as much so as Super Grover himself.

I was planning to attend with Isabel, an American friend of my friend Katherine. Isabel's lived in Berlin for 12 years and works as a freelance translator. She's the one who clued me in on the closed-toe-shoe strategy, back on the 16th, when Katherine was flitting through town after a trip to Gdansk and the three of us met. Isabel took us to a non-gastronomically retarded Thai restaurant, and pointed out SUMO, another non-gastronomically retarded restaurant — sushi, no less!

You Can't Not Take It With You

I would like to tell you all that the transplantation of the self to a foreign land has led to the immediate rectification of all bodily ills. I really would.

But today I could not leave my bed until 15:00 (listen, if I have to deal with these weird o'clocks, so can you). My legs ached, my shoulders ached, my ears ached, my jaw ached. Even the bones in my fingers ached. My head was one big cotton swimmy thing.

It didn't surprise me. I could feel it coming for days.

I've been afflicted since I arrived, eyes all a-puff, ear canals keening. Back in Brooklyn, I'd taken to blaming kitty Cleo for these ills. How sad to learn that an ocean away, in a life without dander, I'm no better off. It's probably the vast downy pillows that are to blame, first at Hotel Am Zoo, now at the sublet. In the states, I'd replaced my goose-feather pillows with special anti-allergy brands, and outfitted everything else that could be outfitted with dust-mite-proof armor.

As for the gut, oh, the poor, tormented gut. That first bite of gluten on that first day seemed okay. It's been one swift downhill slalom from there.

Schnodderig mit Witz

If there's a better word than "schnodderig" I have not heard it. C'mon, just say it — and say it fast — shnodrick. Feels good as a mouthful of potato salad with little pickle chunks.

You know how native New Yorkers have their style? Get outa my way you fuggin' asshole! So foul-mouthed and fearless, you kind of have to love ‘em for it? Well, Berliners have their style, too. Don't expect subservience. Don't expect extra effort. Take our hotel staff, who spared us only as many words as humanly necessary, and beneath every one was ice so slick, we went sliding straight across the lobby and crashing into the glass doors whenever we dared expect more from them than they thought we deserved. An apology, say, when they'd royally screwed up our reservation.

I arrived at the hotel at 9:40 a.m. on Wednesday the 15th. This was after the Russian surround-sound flight, remember, and the near-arrest in Frankfurt. I straggled to the front desk with my two-ton bags. "My mother has reserved rooms," I mumbled in sloppy German. "Under Bobby Patri, I think?" A tight-faced girl with a blond ponytail tapped around on her computer. Nothing. "Gertrud Patri, maybe? Gertrud Reich?" Yes. But only one room, with a double bed.

I was very confused. Did The Moms expect us to share? "Under Lilan Patri?" I asked.

Nothing. "There is a single room available for tonight. Would you like to book that?"

I thought I'd better wait for The Moms. "I'll just check into the one room for now."

"Check in is at 13:00."

I stared at the girl. You know when you are so tired you kind of want to die? That's how I'd felt five hours earlier. My blouse was a wad of wrinkles. My back begged for full recline. Even my skull ached.