Wisconsin Winters Are Tough...

but gorgeous.

Alive and Kicking Like a Two-Year-Old

Wow, longest time between blog posts ever! Yes, I am still alive. Sorry. I did start to feel a teeny bit ashamed about the lag but then I figured you all wouldn't want to hear any more of my crabbing about rescehduled flights or the hell on earth that is LaGuardia's Delta terminal two days before Christmas anyway.

And then there was Christmas.

And Christmas was lovely. I've always been a sucker for the glowing tree, the Christmas Eve candelight service, and the comforting scents that waft from my mother's warm kitchen. But nothing compares to the sweet Christmas memories that come flooding back after spending the holiday with a child.

My niece, Autumn, is two and a half and Christmas is now clearly understood by her. Well, maybe not that whole thing about the birth of baby Jesus but she definitely gets Santa and the presents he brings to good little girls. When she woke up Christmas morning, she stood up in her crib, pointed to the door, and quasi questioned my sister, "Ho ho?"

This all got me thinking about Christmas Eve as a kid when my excitement would be in complete overdrive. I would practically have heart palpitations while lying in bed, listening for reindeer hooves on the rooftop. My parents actually had to determine a start time for Christmas morning and I distinctly remember staring at the clock, waiting for the red light to flash from 6:59 to 7:00, then bursting in on them. ("ARE YOU REDY TO OPEN PRESENTS YET?!?!")

Although I'm glad that I now have the ability to be lax about presents and to sleep quite soundly on December 24th, I miss that burst of energy upon waking up, that excitement about the unknown activities from the night before. What were in those packages under the tree? Did Santa really read my list and bring me what I wanted or did he completely surprise me this year?

Maybe this is the attitude I need to have for the coming year. Instead of lying wide awake in my bed with heart palpitations derived from a very different, not so fun source, perhaps I should kick around under the sheets, wild with excitement about what's yet to come. Maybe it's not Santa looking out for me anymore, delivering exactly what I want but maybe there is another, more powerful source that will find its way inside of me and help guide me into the right direction. I guess I just need to have a little faith that it will all come to me.

So during the next few weeks, I will try to follow Autumn's lead and look for my inner two-year-old and just be excited about the adventure ahead. And in her words, I will try to be as "Happy! Happy!" as she is along the way.

The Christmas Curse

My neck has a huge kink in it after an hour of catching up on emails while simultaneously cradling my phone between my ear and left shoulder. That's how long I was on hold with Northwest Airlines even though the man's voice that came through every few minutes continued to tell me that a representative would be with me shortly. Interesting...

So for the third year in a row, I've had difficulty getting home for Christmas due to crap weather. It's becoming a real joke in my family. When I send them my initial itinerary, typically booked a good month or two in a advance, my mom just laughs and says, "Oh, this is when you think you are coming home, right?"

Right.

New Yorkers are pretty damn wimpy when it comes to "severe" weather and I've found that the area airports are quick to cancel flights due to conditions deemed child's play by hardy Wisconsinites. But this time around, I have to agree that the current weather situation is indeed something to write home about. I have no idea how much snow is out there right now but it's more than I've ever seen here. Although I'm annoyed that I can't have dinner with my Milwaukee friends tonight as planned, I'm also relieved that I can hunker down under a mountain of blankets instead of maneuvering my bags through the drifting snow.

Yesterday, I tried for hours to get through to Northwest but I couldn't even get to the point of being placed on hold. The lines were apparently so busy that I continued to hear the following recorded message: "Due to unusually high call volume, we cannot take your call at this time. Please visit nwa.com for further assistance." Click. Okay. But when I emailed customer service, this was the response:

Thanks for the e-mail. We wish we could answer your question immediately
but we are running behind. You should expect a response within 3-4 days.
We apologize for the delay.

Nice.

So I started over again this morning. After being on hold for an hour and then another hour of discussing possible flights which were there one moment and gone the next (my favorite being NYC to Boston to Detroit to Minneapolis to Green Bay...to arrive late on Christmas Eve!), the super friendly (not being sarcastic) Northwest representative managed to find a flight for me which leaves only 36 hours after my original departure. Yes, I have to fly to Atlanta which is 100% retarded but I will take it if it means getting somewhere FOR ONCE before Christmas dinner.

Anyway, I think it's time to unearth myself from my cozy blankety bliss and make my way to the coffee maker. And as I listen to the sound of metal shovels hitting concrete, I cannot help but be grateful that I am a poor ass who doesn't own property. Look at me, finding more and more things to be grateful for! But you know what would make me even more grateful? Clear, blue skies on the 22nd. Universe, work with me now...please?

PBD Blows

I loved the comment on my latest post, made by a a fellow Midwesterner who has also lived in Berlin. He referred to my current funk as PBD, "Post-Berlin Depression," an affliction from which he apparently suffers, too. That pretty much sums it up, although I would probably have to add a secondary diagnosis of "AWTHND" ("And What the Hell Now? Disorder").

Although I knew coming back was going to be difficult, I had no idea just how emotional and scary it would be. I feel like a comic strip character with one of those balloons over her head, bursting at the seams with all sorts of incessant thoughts. Do I make plans to go back? Do I chill the hell out for a while in NYC? Wait...I'm not making money...perhaps I should focus on that. What about my sweet little cat? Save Baxter!

Oh, and then there's Christmas shopping to do before I get on a plane again on Sunday. Ho, ho, ho! And let's not forget that I'm still jet lagged (Jesus, how long does it take?!?) and ingesting mass quantities of Nyquil in an attempt to get rid of this goddamn, nagging cold.

This is probably the moment that I should take a deep breath and take stock of all the goodness in my life so here I go:

a) I have terrific friends, some of whom hand me tissue and cough drops and give me really good hugs while I melt down on their front stoop.

b) I have a roof over my head and food on my shelves.

c) I am not destitute (yet).

d) I have a fantastic family, including a sweet little peanut of a niece back in Wisconsin who will be greeting me with open arms in a few days.

e) I just got back from an amazing eleven week trip to Berlin, for God's sake. How many people have the opportunity to do that?

So I will try to remind myself of these things as I battle the holiday stress coupled with my full blown PBD and AWTHND. And if anyone would like to join me for a hot cocoa to discuss fun, non-related AWTHN issues, give me a ring. It's time to dig in and try to find some of that holiday spirit, no?

I'm trying, I'm really trying...

"Home" Again...

So I thought I'd be writing you with Baxter the Cat at my side. I guess he's found a new love (i.e. my subletter). As soon as she got home last night, he left the "comfort" of the couch where we had been snuggling and is now apparently sleeping in a real bed with her. Oh, the "other woman." And yes, both are probably still actually sleeping as it is the crack of dawn. I, on the other hand, am jet lagged and anxiety ridden and have been awake since four.

I've already made a "to do" list for the week and it is terribly depressing. It says things like "Fight insurance claim","Replace phone left in Berlin", "Buy shit loads of Christmas presents", and "Figure out how the hell to get to Mom and Dad's from Milwaukee." Not quite the same as "Go to top of Reichstag and check out the view of Berlin."

Did I mention that it is cold and rainy and that it cost me $60 to get home from the airport?

I shouldn't be so hard on NYC. I do love this city. It's just not quite the "welcome home" feeling I had hoped for.

Oh...the sun is coming up. Oh, please tell me there will be sun today...

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

It's always tease, tease, tease...

(Sigh).

In 24 hours, I will be on a big stupid Air France plane, heading back to NYC. In case it's not entirely clear, I'm not quite ready to go. I've developed a mad crush on Berlin which has only gotten worse as my departure draws closer. The big question now is, what next? You see, I have no real job to go back to. Ethan's mom quit her job right before I left and Jack's parents had to put him in full-time day care when I extended my stay til now so umm, yeah...kinda shot myself in the foot with that one.

So no job to go back to. No love of my life to return to. No house to worry about. Seriously, my cat is the biggest attachment I have right now. So what should I do?

I'm trying to figure this all out these days. To me, Berlin and New York City are so alike in many ways. In so many respects, they have the same vibe, culture, and nightlife. However, people can actually pronounce my name here which is pretty nice. (Plus, I swear, the first part of my last name is written on some sign or poster on every block. Love it! I'm no longer the girl with the ridiculously difficult name!)

Okay, I'm digressing a bit. Point is, I adore both cities. Quite frankly, though, even with the shitty exchange rate, Berlin is much more affordable. That culture and nightlife I was speaking of? I can actually go out and enjoy it here. Not so much the case in New York City where cocktails hover at the $10 mark.

But what's a girl to do when she draws inspiration from both cities? And when she enjoys amazing friends on both continents? I have no clue.

However, I know I can't cut all ties to Berlin. Therefore, I am leaving a bag of clothes and other random items with a friend here. These are things that I can definitely live without but am I using this bag o' stuff as some kind of excuse to return? Perhaps I need a little carrot in front of my nose? Such a tease, tease, tease...oh Berlin, you've got me on my knees...

Ugh. Anyway, next time you hear from me, I'll be back on my home continent. I'll probably be writing you with Baxter the Cat at my side, snuggling with me in the ole' Brooklyn pad which is a pretty warm, cozy thought, too. So strange.

Okay, I know my German really sucks so is it appropriate to say "Bis dann" here rather than "Auf wiedersehen"? I really hope so...

xoxoxo,
Rachael

Screw the Imbiss!

We made our own damn currywurst and it was divine!

I Sense a Theme....

Gad Almighty!

The Nightway Ponders Surgically Removing Own Throat

This will be short and sweet since I feel like death at the moment.

Last month, I wrote a whole post about how I believe in the power of the jinx. WHY then I decided to jinx the **** out of myself by announcing the other day, "I can't believe how healthy I've been these last few months!" is beyond me!

It started last night shortly after a friend and I headed out to the Eastern Comfort Ship's weekly party. Neither one of us felt exceptionally well last night. We both complained of stomach aches but it was not severe enough for us to not get on a boat and have a few drinks for God's sake! However, in the few hours that we were there, I started to lose my voice and she began to get queasier. On the U-Bahn ride home, we sat in silence, both recognizing that we were getting some sort of bug. That became much clearer when as we transferred, she suddenly flew to the wastebasket and heaved into it. Poor thing!

Now today, we are both a mess. She's still dealing with stomach issues and I have a froggy voice, an achy body, the chills, no appetite, and a sore throat that conjures up visions of swallowing shards of glass.

Did I mention that this is my last weekend in Berlin? Yeah, the one that I was hoping to party the hell out of? Wah, wah, wah!!!

Okay, I'm done now. Time to sleep for fourteen more hours.

Ugh.

Stupid American #2

No, this isn't a plate of gigantic rabbit turds. And for future reference, I probably won't ever feel the need to capture an image of poo on film. (Then again, there was that time when my buddy, Dawn, and I were trying to track the paths of bears in Yellowstone and were taking note of the evidence along the way. But anyway...)

It's a plate of prunes. Like a 78-year-old woman, I love prunes. Really. So when I was wandering around the Turkish market the other day and saw bins of them, I ponied on up to get me a little sack of them. Problem is these Europeans and their incessant use of grams! Damn! The prunes were being sold by quantities of one hundred and even though I know I am slightly cognitively delayed when it comes to the metric system, my mind immediately pictured 100 grams = 100 prunes. For two euros?!? Sure!

Instead, this is what I came home with. Stupid, stupid American. Maybe it's time to go home after all?

Finally...Getting My German Eats On!

I'm sure that there are tons of wonderful, authentic German restaurants in town. However, I have somehow managed to avoid all of them until this week. I'm not sure what my problem has been since I adore trying new foods. I think a teeny part of me has been scared of getting into a situation where I am catapulted back to the days of almost crying at the kitchen table because I don't want to eat the blood sausage my grandparents have prepared. I can still remember that smell. Ugh. My stomach just flipped and not in a good way.

However, a few nights ago, a Berliner friend of mine insisted that I come over for an authentic German meal. Her husband is from the south and cooked an amazing spaetzle made with typical Bavarian mountain cheeses and onions. (I would have taken a picture of it except that like everything else technologically related, my camera has now gone on the fritz, too). Needless to say, after wine, salad, spaetzle, cookies, and coffee, I rolled my happy self home.

And now I have friends from the UK visiting. They have never been to Berlin before so of course, I am now on a mission to show them a fat, sausagy German time. Last night, we had an absolutely lovely meal at Max und Moritz in Kreuzberg. Wow.

As I've mentioned in the past, I eat a mostly vegetarian diet. However, I quickly threw that lifestyle to the wayside, stuffing myself with sausages, meatballs, and some sort of beef fillet alongside dumplings and potatoes. In addition to the marvelous food, the atmosphere was so very warm and cozy. We sat at a candlelit table in what seemed to be a grand ballroom, complete with a baby grand and a Christmas tree. A bit of wine, a bit of whiskey and we had finally convinced ourselves to head back into the rain.

Now we are greeted with another rainy day. However, I was reminded that today is St. Nick's. Apparently, we are going to celebrate this by cooking a typical British dinner tonight. All I know is that we have red cabbage, apples, and a Christmas pudding sitting on my kitchen counter at the moment. Have I mentioned that my "cleanse" did result in a three pound weight loss? Hmmm...I think I can say hello to my friend, the kilo, again very soon. Oh well, there are worse things, right?

(Sigh)

Lovely, creamy, foamy Sundays...

And Back to One

No Jack.

And now, no Jack's mom.

It is suddenly very quiet in this flat, just like the beginning of my stay in Berlin. However, unlike before, I am now staring at an empty high chair. I am feeling a strong desire to kiss some soft baby cheeks. I am also missing the fun chats I had at all hours of the day and night with Jack's mom. I always feel, at moments like these, the need for a bit of closure, some sort of farewell, like in your high school yearbook where you hashed out all the fun one last time to mark an end of an era.

Hmmm...let me conjure up seventh hour...Mr. B's physics class, not doing a lick of work but rather writing in my good buddy's yearbook. It would go something like...


HEY, CHICKIE!!!!!

Wow, the time sure has flown by, hasn't it? Can't believe we are almost out of here!! What a crazy time it's been, huh? I gotta say, as much as that whole internet crap got us down, all in all, it's been a pretty great ride. The stress was totally worth it, don't ya think??? Besides, if we hadn't been a little bit stressed, would we really have polished off that bottle of wine and then the rest of the brandy all in one sitting?! Ha, that was nuts! And as if the drinking wasn't fun enough, we sure got our fill of some pretty fantastic eats. Remember those AMAZING cakes from that little bakery down the street? I'm soooooooo going to miss that place!

But I guess now we're on to bigger and brighter things, huh? Or at least that's what they say :) Man, I've got a lot to figure out over the next few months. Then again, there's no huge rush to face the real world, right? We're too young for that. FUN ONLY!

Okay, chickie, I'm taking up too much space here so I'll just say this...congrats on making it through and good luck next year! I know you'll do great!

xo,
Rachael

P.S. I still have your stupid Journey cassette in my car. Get it out before I stomp on it!

No Wonder I'm Always So Confused...

The King of Clubs

You probably have deduced that I am a bit of an adventurous soul. Painfully shy in some situations, I'm still often eager to try new things, like currywurst, for example.

But here's a first that I never counted on...I set my alarm for 8:30 this morning so that I could peel my ass out of bed and go clubbing at what is being hailed as the hottest techno club in Europe.

Let me back up. Before leaving Berlin, Jack's mom wanted to hit a club and I, of course, always wanting an excuse to dance, was eager to join. She decided on Berghain, the quintessential Berlin club experience. It is no secret that techno was born in Berlin; however, some say that it actually started in this very club. Not only is it a scene in itself (cameras are strictly prohibited), it attracts the best DJ's in the world.

We talked about going last night but neither of us had the energy to head out at 5am as we were instructed to do. In fact, we were each told by multiple people that if you really want to avoid lines (let me add that this club can fit some 1500 people), you should go around 10am on a Sunday morning. Hence, the alarm buzzing before nine this morning.

Sipping coffee in our sunny kitchen, we wondered if we really had the gumption to go to a dark, cavernous club. We decided that we did. So as people were going to church or heading to the shops, we donned lipstick and headed to the king of all clubs.

Wandering the streets around the Ostbahnhof station, Jack's mom said, "I know it's around here somewhere." As soon as the words left her mouth, we turned a corner and were greeted by mmmcha, mmmmcha, mmmmcha.

"Mmm, I think that's it," I said, pointing to what appeared to be an old, abandoned building where people were trickling in and out. Once we got to the door, we were most definitely checked out, head to toe by the bouncer and our bags were thoroughly searched. Twelve euros later (ouch!), we entered.

My senses were immediately overwhelmed by the earsplitting baseline amidst near darkness. A former power plant, Berghain really is an amazing setting for a techno club. As we climbed the metal stairs, the thump, thump, thumping vibrated throughout every inch of my body. I could practically feel my hair standing on end. At the top of the stairs, we found ourselves in an incredible space under red, gold, and purple lights; yet the dance floor was quite empty. We decided to keep exploring and soon discovered the Panorama Bar. This was where the party was still in full swing. Contrary to my assumption that everyone would be completely strung out at this point, we instead stumbled upon a group of seemingly sober people, ridiculously happy to be dancing at 11am on a Sunday morning.

And that's just what it appeared that most of them were there to do: dance. There weren't loads of people just sitting around the bar. There weren't tons of creepy guys leering at the women. Don't get me wrong...it's definitely still a sexually charged atmosphere, evidenced by the little nooks that are set aside for umm, other non-dancing activities. However, the majority of the patrons seemed to be like me, just wanting to dance their asses off before they were too old or tired to do it anymore.

Despite its dinginess, the room was amazing. Not only were there incredibly high ceilings (thank God the smoke could go somewhere), I was shocked to see actual windows, too. Although shuttered, light still managed to stream in a bit which kept everyone fully conscious that yes indeed, we are dancing in a crazy busy techno club on a bright sunny morning!

In regards to Berghain being choosy about who they let in, I'm not sure what that criteria is. In NYC, a strict door policy usually means you must be dolled up. As I looked around the dingy dance floor, strewn with broken glass and empty cigarette packs, I realized that this was the grungiest, grimiest, sweatiest, smelliest, unpretty dance club I'd ever been to. And I loved it.

Yes, there were hip young 'uns but there was also a good amount of crows feet and despite these differences, people were mingling and acting like they had known one another for years. Now I'm not completely naive. There could have been a good amount of feel good drugs circulating in these bodies but I really didn't get that sense. Rather, it seemed like people had revived themselves and were now onto part two of their day (night?).

We ended up dancing for three hours straight. I normally hate techo but I was loving it. Our DJ (yes, I will refer to her as "ours" as she truly seemed to be there for us, not as a job) was a tiny woman with boy short hair. A giant smile plastered on her face, she danced right along with us as she went from one record to the next. I've never experienced a DJ being treated as a real, live musician either. Most of the crowd, thumping and bumping, still managed to face her which I found endearing and respectful. They'd encourage her, jumping into the air and screaming when she did something particularly unique. At one point, she made everyone go totally insane when at the exact moment she changed tracks, she threw open the shutters of those floor to ceiling windows, bathing the entire dance floor in sunshine. Weeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

At half past two, we left so that I could go to my "Thanksgiving" dinner in Prenzlauer Berg. Totally sober, sweaty, and revved up, we walked out of the club into the sunny Sunday afternoon.

And started our day.

And Don't Even Tell Me to Roast a Pumpkin!

I give up. No Libby's canned pumpkin anywhere. But I did try.

Some German friends of mine felt bad that I was missing Thanksgiving and offered to have a little feast with me tomorrow. I immediately offered to bring the quintessential pie before realizing my quest for this godforsaken pureed vegetable would make me a little nutso.

My first stop was the neighborhood grocery store where all the employees speak perfect English like little angels sent from above. However, when I asked for canned pumpkin, they presented me with a jar of pumpkin chunks, floating in some sort of liquid. I stared at it for a moment, wondering if I could possibly mash up the chunks into the necessary puree but decided to pass on it. Good thing. My German friend told me later that this is a pickled type of pumpkin. I made a very dramatic gagging noise and then proceeded to the next store.

I tracked down a young employee who unfortunately did not know the English word for pumpkin. (Can you blame her?) I then found myself playing charades, tracing the rotund shape in the air while just repeating over and over, "Well, it's a vegetable. It's orange....round..." Although she tried to grasp what I was saying, I realized that I was just a babbling idiot in the middle of a HIT grocery store.

My last hope was the mama of all department stores/food emporiums: KaDeWe. It is the largest department store in Europe, filled to the rafters with every household item imaginable. Upscale and pricey, I don't bother shopping anywhere except the 6th floor "food court." Beautiful and terrifying at the same time, I've only been there twice. It seems like such a tourist trap but from what I can decipher, there are lots of Germans there, too. The whole floor is packed with people as well as almost every type of food imaginable. There's the cheese counter, the delicatessen, the wine shops, the champagane corner, the cigar area, the sushi bar, the pasta counter, and then there are the shelves of hard to find groceries, typically American brands. Hence, my pilgrimage on my bike on a cold, rainy day.

I was sure they'd have my pumpkin. However, when I asked a woman to help me locate it, she just scowled at me and shooed me off. I began to wander around myself, hoping to be successful on my own.

I know I've mentioned that Germans are quite keen on their pastries so it shouldn't surprise you or I that instead of finding the damn pumpkin, I instead found rows and rows of beautifully encased cakes and tortes. I couldn't help but stare at their magnificence, drooling like some junkie who needs just one more slice! You see, as of yesterday afternoon, I was still on my no gluten/no dairy/no sugar cleanse and apparently was up for some self-torture. However, I managed to get through it. I looked. I admired. But then I just kept walking, oh so proud!

And then I walked straight into some sort of chocoland. It's hard to avoid really. I mean, I have never, ever seen so much chocolate in my life. I'm not just talking about the standard truffles and bars either. I'm talking chocolate ornaments, Santas, reindeer, lollipops, and anything else you can possibly imagine, wrapped up in red and gold paper. And there was no escape from it! Each time I turned a corner, another display of another brand would greet me. Rows and rows and shelves upon shelves of beautifully wrapped chocolates, ready to be slipped into someone's Christmas stocking. But even I, who doesn't think that the world will ever cultivate enough chocolate, was ready to shout, "Enough already!"

It didn't help that a coffee stand apparently run by Satan was nearby, it's deep, dark scent tickling my nose. I could only imagine dipping one of those tall, chocolate Santas into a rich cup of joe. I almost gave myself permission to do just that but feared that I'd end up acting like a crack addict who was given a handful of rocks and told, "Only one!" Right.

It was during this excursion, however, that I finally let go of my shame about my sweet tooth. Several friends cannot believe the extensiveness of it. They don't understand my strong desire for a bit of chocolate (or at least a mint for God's sake!) after dinner. They don't understand how truly difficult it is for me to strike sugar from my diet for an entire week. As I looked at the sea of chocolate around me, though, my brain began to scream, I am genetically predisposed to crave buttery, sugary goodness! It's not my fault! Diving into a piece of cake just means that I am one with my people.

But you know what's amazing? I left without tasting a single thing. (I also, unfortunately, left Libby-less. Apparently, this year's pumpkin crop really was a doozy). I thought perhaps my sweet tooth was waning, that is, until I found myself faced with a bowl of gummies six hours later. Oh, well. My body is made for it.

Now it's on to pie. Apple, that is.

Did I Miss Something?

Ummmm...."live" is not exactly the first word that comes to mind....

Can I Get a Ride?

After two years of working in Bugaboo infested Brooklyn, you'd think I'd be used to the crazy expensive stroller bit. Those families are pushing Swedish engineered machines that are no doubt, better able to handle rough terrain than my old '81 Chevette, although that's probably not saying much.

But then I get to Germany where these folks most definitely don't play around when it comes to their engineering/carpentry/robots of the future. I am constantly thinking about my dad (of German stock) who has absolutely no tolerance for anything that's not 100% solidly built. You better be able to crack your head open on whatever he builds; otherwise, it's just a shoddy job or in his words, "Mickey Mouse."

So anyway, these past few months, I've noticed a new type of stroller thing on the streets of Berlin. Okay, so it's not actually a stroller at all but it does transport kids. It's this bike/cart thingie that reminds me of those old school ice cream carts of the 1950s where the ice cream man is leisurely peddling down tree lined suburbia behind his fox o'treats. Anyway, every once in a while, I see some poor soul pedaling two or three kids around in one of these things and I am immediately depressed, knowing that such exercise at this point would most certainly throw me into cardiac arrest. But I'm not about to talk about my doughy midsection again.

A while ago, I was browsing through the Exberliner magazine when I saw an actual ad for these dealios which are apparently called transportfahrrad (cargo bikes). The ad goes on to say, "SAVE BERLIN! Get rid of the car and jump onto the ultimate family transport solution for urban living. A cargo bike let you transport all you need, the kids love it (which is more than you can say about car rides) and you save the planet at the same time."

Okay, first of all, this is clearly not for the "ultimate family transport solution" unless mom is sitting on dad's shoulders or vice versa like some intergenerational circus act. Secondly, kids often do love car rides. Or at least it takes them to Sleepyland which they probably love. Okay, maybe it's just the parents who love nap inducing car rides. Whatever. Getting back to the "ultimate family transport solution," why in the world would we want to stimulate these already hyperactive little beings with fresh air and changing scenery, making them all the more alert and chatty?!?

So anyway, underneath the ad's photo of the hip, but ever so responsible dad biking with five (!!!) kids in the cart is a list of different brands of these cargo bikes. You can see the "classic" model made by Christiania Bikes here which was also the cheapest listed at 1850 euros. The top model, the "Porsche equivalent" according to the ad, is made in Denmark by the Nihola Cigar Family (this family doesn't quite sound like the bike riding, healthy type) and it goes for 2650 euros. My fellow Americans, in dollars, this is almost $4000. For $4000, I would save my quads, buy myself another '81 Chevette and throw the kiddos in there.

Regardless, I am my father's daughter and cannot help but respect what looks like a solid piece of engineering. This is most certainly no Mickey Mouse crap.

I Miss the Pound

Let me clarify...not the British pound. Please. As if the euro's almighty power over the dollar hasn't already made me want to jump off a cliff. No, I'm talking about that unit of measurement which has disappeared from my life these past couple of months.

It's bad enough that I miss out on the full dramatic effect of my friends' stories ("I swear, he was over two meters tall!" or "And then to make things worse, we had to drive 40 kilometers to the next town!") or that I don't know what 16 degrees feels like. (My brain, though, has learned to calculate this general formula in 1.7 seconds: temperature x's 2 + 30). However, the real bugger is the kilo.

A reminder to my American friends: 1 kilo = 2.2 pounds

Although I am generally unable to imagine any type of distance or weight, I can sort of envision 2.2 pounds of potatoes. However, this does not mean that I want 2.2 pounds of potatoes. Yet, I quickly learned when going to the neighborhood market that you cannot ask for less than a kilo of anything. At first, I thought I was getting snowed as a foreigner. I purposely learned the phrase "halbes kilo" (half kilo) to make sure that I didn't make the same mistake as I did the first time. (I had come home with an overflowing bag of spinach that was coming out our ears for days simply because I was too chicken not to play by their rules. Hence, my acquired talent in regards to spinach soup, spinach omelets, spinach with applesauce - that one was to trick the baby- among many others).

Regardless, I have no idea how to get the Turkish guys at the market to give me less than a kilo of anything without the accompanying huge sigh or eye roll. The other day, when I asked for one avocado, you would have thought I had asked him to squirt the contents of it directly into my mouth. SHEESH! Then again, there are plenty of people around me who are apparently feeding army brigades. Their carts are overflowing with massive quantities of fruits, vegetables, fish, cheese, and bread. Then there's me, trying to buy three little kiwis, desperately hoping not to be abused in the process.

But even worse than my inability to envision and more imporantly assess the appropriateness of a kilo of cabbage in our apartment is my inability to accurately gauge my own expanding girth. Sure, the grunting and shimmying that is now involved when donning my favorite jeans is a bit of an indication that someone's getting a little tubby. So is the panting that results from biking just a few subway stops away. Yet, without a proper scale at my disposal, it hadn't truly sunk in.

The first time I stepped on the bathroom scale at our sublet, I felt like I was sucked into some kind of time warp. Double digits?!?!? Am I in third grade?? My mind could not compute. I had to walk into the other room, fire up the laptop, find a conversion website and then I understood what was normal for me in kilos.

But recently, I decided (against my better judgment) that it was time to recheck the ole' weight status. I figured if I had a visual of numbers, taunting me in red blinking lights, I'd feel more compelled to stop patronizing the local cake shop. So I quickly stepped on the scale and noticed that the number had only gone up two notches. Ahh, no big deal, I thought. Maybe I'm just retaining a little water. There's certainly no need to deny myself of baked goods!

And then suddenly, I remembered. I didn't just gain a couple of pounds. Kilos, stupid. A couple of kilos actually equals five pounds. Five pounds! In one month's time?!? Unless there's a zygote inside of me, there is no good reason for this! Feeling quite certain of my zygotelessness, I had flashbacks to last week's "cake for dinner" bonanza and felt completely ashamed.

Since I enjoy others being miserable with me, I was comforted to learn that Jack's mother can't button certain pants either. Therefore, we made a pact that we would commence a cleanse this week. I'm not talking some crazy lemonade/cayenne pepper deal. I mean lots of fruits, veggies, rice, and tea and absolutely no bread, dairy, alcohol, or refined sugar. This decision was made shortly after we polished off the nutella in the fridge alongside a bottle of red at 3 am.

So forgive me if my next post is a little grumpy. I may be experiencing the shakes or something. Or maybe I'll actually be all calm and serene in my detoxification. Who knows? All I know is that I damn well better get into my favorite skirt again. Berlin, you already know you've got my heart. Don't try to steal my clothes, too.

It's a Global Problem Really

Remember how I said that German men confused me, too? Check out this comedian, talking about her experiences with men in Berlin.

Is it terrible that I love it when others can share in my misery?

I Need New Pants

You know your desire to consume delicious food is a teeny bit obsessive when you find yourself purposely exercising (in my case these days, climbing the cobble stone streets of Madrid) simply so you can eat more of the awesome food your host mother has prepared upon your return. Paella, pisto, croquetas, oh my! Then there's all that bread and cheese and those interesting Spanish fruits, too. Whoa, los pantalones are feeling just a tiny bit restrictive these days.

And I cannot forget my favorite Spanish pastry, the napolitana (most typically known as a cream or chocolate croissant). La Mallorquina, a Madrid institution located in the Puerta del Sol, is known for its amazing napolitanas and chocolate truffles (trufas) amongst all sorts of other goodies. (Just look at 'em!) Typically packed to the gills, I am never discouraged from making my way through the crowd at least once each time I visit Madrid. The other day, I tried to get a small trufa but they only sell the big ones singly (about an inch and a half in diameter) so I had to eat the whole darn thing. Such a travesty.

This morning, I made a special trip back to the city center for one more stroll and also for one last visit to La Mallorquina. When I'm in Spain, I make a mental checklist of all the things I must eat. (Is this a clinical disorder??) Even though I never, ever expect my host mother to cook for me, she knows what I love and very sweetly prepares almost everything I secretly have stashed in my brain's "to eat" list. However, one doesn't just whip up a napolitana. Hence, my little trip this morning to La Mallorquina. Did I mention that I used to have a Spanish class just above this place? Guess where Rachael and her crew went every day during their break? While the teacher smoked approximately seven cigarettes during a ten minute break, the rest of us were chowing down on chocolately goodness and cafe solos. Oh, memories!

I am now sitting here, post dinner stuffed with croquetas, cheese, cafe con leche and napolitanas. In a few hours, I will be heading "home" to the land of cake, cheese, and beer. I am now going to write these words so that I will feel responsible to someone: FRUIT and VEGETABLES. And another little reminder: DUDE, YOU HAVE NO MONEY FOR NEW PANTS!

Okay, kids. Make me true to my word.

Yours truly,

Rachael (aka Ms. Hedonism)

How Did I Forget Such a Love?

After getting over the fact that I felt like an idiot, wearing boots in nearly 70 degree weather like some Williamsburg hipster, I took my last full day in Madrid by the horns and said, "Enjoy, damn it!"

I'm quite certain that Madrid cannot be more different than Berlin. While Berlin is still reinventing itself after a devastating war along with the more recent destruction of the wall, Madrid is classic as ever. I adore Berlin with its wide avenues, its green spaces on every block, its impossible to ignore hip, artsy vibe but then there's Madrid with its medieval center, full of narrow, winding streets, plazas, and churches pressed against discotheques. I appreciate the aura of each so much, if someone held a gun to my head and told me I must choose, I'd be a dead woman.

Then there's the weather factor. I cannot tell you how much I needed this sun after six weeks of gloomy weather. Yesterday, I took a little siesta in Retiro Park (the Central Park of Madrid) while listening to quiet chatter and a saxophonist in the distance. Despite the saxophone player working on a loop that consisted of "My Way", "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You," and "Tequila" (???), I found the whole scene amazingly relaxing. Clearly, as my own snoring woke me up a few minutes later.

The rest of the day, I visited my old stomping grounds...cafes, shops, the clubs where my friends and I would dance the night away, the ole' churros and chocolate place we'd hit afterward as the sun was rising. Perhaps I even stopped by a familiar waffle (gofre) stand where one can perhaps buy a gofre smothered in chocolate. And while I wandered the cobble stone streets of the city center, gazing once again at the grand opera house, the breathtaking palacio, and the ridiculously romantic Plaza Mayor, I truly fell in love all over again. Radiating this happiness, I smiled at every dingy tapas bar I passed, filled with old and young alike, drinking Estrella at the bar while chomping on olives and arguing about the upcoming soccer match. I then planted myself on a plaza and drank a few copas of sangria while chatting with a couple of very sweet Spanish guys, who unbeknownst to me had paid my bill before they slipped into the night.

I then took advantage of the evening sky and strolled by the palace, the opera, and the Plaza Mayor one more time to take in their beauty, this time with lights twinkling. Although I was glad to go home and hang with my host family, I'm quite sure I could've walked the whole night. And probably the next day and the next week, just like I used to do. I'm not sure what this "homesickness" means exactly but I'm reminded of what a slutty heart I have, lovin' up cities all over the place.

Tomorrow, it's back to another love. Berlin, I haven't forgotten you but you sure have some tough competition. Time to woo me a bit more.

El domingo in Madrid

It went something like this:

9:30 am - Woke up to the sound of my host mother furiously preparing the first steps of what was to be our paella feast. Proudly refused offer of chocolate croissant and cookies. Instead consumed piece of toast and yogurt like a good little American.

11:30 am - Headed out to the Rastro (huge market near the Plaza Mayor) with host mother. Finally got on the ball with my gift buying. Amid some serious junk and bull stamped T-shirts, I left with some pretty great finds.

3:00 pm - Sunday dinner. Observed my host mother assemble the paella in a gigantic pan: the rice, the spices, the chicken, the salt, the mussels, the peas, more salt, the shrimp, the cauliflower, and a bit more salt. I planned to take a photo of it before we dove in but dudes, I'm still on a German schedule. I was ready to bite my arm off by the time we sat down to eat at 3:30. Hence, no time for photos.

4:30 - 6:00 pm - Siesta (Duh!)

7:00- 8:30 pm - Took part in the usual evening paseo with my host parents. Stopped at a tapas bar for beers and patatas bravas (next to croquetas, my fav in the tapas world).

9:00 - 10:00 pm - Laid around, chatting with the fam.

10:00pm - Despite not being even slightly hungry, I dug in with the rest of the fam for dinner. Ham, cheese, bread, garlicky carrots, alioli and crackers, wine, and chocolate torte. More laying around to follow.

11:50 pm - Currently in pajamas, rubbing tummy.

As my dad would say about a day like this, "Not too shabby." Nope, not at all. Gracias, Spain. You kinda rule.

Te Quiero, Madrid (hack, hack!)

I couldn't help but laugh the moment I arrived at Bajaras Aeropuerto yesterday afternoon. I truly knew that I had arrived in Madrid when upon entering the airport, I heard a "Smoking is Prohibited" announcement while I was simultaneously hit by a cloud of smoke. Even though I was parched from the three hour flight, there was no water fountain in sight. But then I remembered that I was in Spain. Water, shmater. The "Para Fumar" room was clearly of much more importance. The first thing I spotted, I found that it wasn't doing such a great job of containing the smoke. Maybe one hundred square feet, this cube was packed with chain smokers who must have gone through pure hell, cigarette-less on whatever flight they had just endured.

Despite being annoyed that finding water seemed to necessitate some sort of treasure map, I also had to smile. Never had I thought that the stench of cigarettes would make me so sentimental.

Ahhh, Spain. Although I could do without your incessant smoking, I cannot help but tie it to the things I do adore about you...your Rioja, your manchego, your flamenco, your sun drenched plazas, your sangria, your raucous soccer matches, your three o'clock siestas, your Sunday afternoon feasts...If I must endure a little secondhand smoke in the process, I guess I will take it.

Now, pass that sangria, wouldja?

Exchanging my Wurst for Chorizo

Then, again, I really hate chorizo so maybe it should be Exchanging my Pilsner for Rioja.

My head sort of hurts this morning. I've been living a life of English, German, Spanish, and Greek. Obviously we are, umm, rather surrounded by German these days. I also speak my broken Spanish to Jack (my fluency level is about on par with a 16-month-old student), and his mom sometimes speaks Greek to him. Due to a recent burst of ambition, I had been studying my German phrase book but now I have to switch gears and get back into the Spanish mode.

In a few hours, I'm going to board a plane for Madrid and visit my old host family. These are the peeps I lived with seven years ago. In exchange for room and board, I taught English to their 10-year-old daughter and 13-year-old son a few hours a day. The parents truly treated me like another one of their kids, taking me to dance recitals, Christmas dinner, and family celebrations. They even had a Thanksgiving dinner for me so that I wouldn't be too sad about missing out on the festivities back home.

Point is, they are awesome and I cannot wait to see them again.

I've visited them a few times since my original six month stint but it has now been three years. The kids aren't really so much kids anymore. I'm sure, though, that my host parents are exactly the same.

Oh, a funny thing that I exposed them to while I was there...the wonder that is the chocolate chip cookie. The first time I made them, the whole fam went absolutely nuts. The entire batch (40ish cookies?) were gone in one day. So last night, amid my frantic packing, I whipped up a batch. They are currently nestled somewhere deep in my suitcase.

Eeeek! Gotta go...not yet ready and must have sufficient coffee in my system. Okay, Berlin...hasta luego. I will see you next week!

Where in the World is Thomas Pynchon?

"Firsts" accomplished in the past six weeks:

- Have consumed a large bottle of beer while walking down the street without fear of ticketing.

- Have been "controlled" (translation: asked for my ticket by undercover type agents on the U-Bahn). Sort of terrifying.

- Have attended art exhibit opening in Berlin.

Prior to the exhibit opening, I attended an open studio night at the Reichsbahnausbesserungswerks, better known as RAW. (I just wanted to see if I could type that whole ridiculous word out). And here's what's super awesome about art galleries in Berlin: they might just make a waffle for you right on the spot. But I digress.

Through a friend back in Brooklyn, I was linked to a German artist named Ralf Tekaat. It was his studio, filled with beautiful landscape drawings that I toured at RAW. However, last month, I went to his exhibit opening at the G.A.S.-Station. In 2002, Tekaat spent some time in New York City, working on the prized piece he currently has on exhibition at this space in Kreuzberg. I had the opportunity to chat with Tekaat at the opening and learned that his fascination with American writer, Thomas Pynchon and specifically the novel Gravity's Rainbow, led to his creation of photos and text strewn across the walls. Although based in New York City, Pynchon has kept such a low profile throughout the years that his identify and very existence have turned into quite a mystery. Tekaat plays with these questions against the gritty backdrop of the Big Apple, inviting the onlooker to join the chase like some chain smoking NYC detective.

I am most definitely no art critic but I found Tekaat's exhibit fascinating. Although NYC is not my real home, it was strangely comforting to see photos of the city, despite all of the accompanying German text. The incongruence between the images and language resulted in a "so close and yet so far " feeling, something I experience so often in my life. Wait, kind of like a certain artist "chasing" a certain author?

Hmmm....job well done.

Sweepin' the Clouds Away...

Damn, I wish someone would sweep these clouds away!

Okay, I'm not going to complain about the weather again. What I really wanted to say was a big "Happy Birthday!" to "Sesame Street." This week, Sesame Workshop began airing its fortieth season! My heart is absolutely warmed, knowing that some people can still identify quality programming.

Notice how I sneakily avoided the classification of "child" programming? That's because it's really not. Although geared toward children, it is a program that the whole family can sit down and enjoy together. In fact, that has always been a huge part of the show's mission. Its earliest creators had done the reasearch. They knew that children took away the most from television programming when their parents were watching it with them. They also knew that irritating characters and grating songs could encourage parents to poke their own eyes out rather than keep them in the room. Hence, the hysterical sketches like "Letter B" sung by the Beetles and the more recent "Special Letters Unit" a la "Law and Order." As an adult, I can now undestand why my parents eagerly reminded me when it was "Sesame Street time!" They needed their fix, too.

Not only was I raised on "Sesame Street" but a few years ago, I tried my darnedest to get a job at the Sesame Workshop. In fact, that's partly why I ended up in New York City. After working in the depressing trenches of social work, I decided that I wanted to work for children in a more creative setting. I wanted to have some fun in the process. And the idea of working for an organization that I felt really good about seemed like a dream come true.

So I knocked on the Workshop's door more than once. Many kind people took time from their busy schedules to talk with me and show me around. They saw that I had skills to contribute to their organization but alas, there just wasn't any room for me. The past year was especially devastating for them with a huge cut in funding which led to massive layoffs. Good, creative, kid lovin' folks without jobs? How does this even happen?

But before I digress into some diatribe about how people need to get their priorities aligned and support educational programming, I will instead say this: Check out Babble.com's "Top 50 'Sesame Street' Moments." I cannot begin to count all of my favorites but number eight is definitely a high ranker.

Anyway, congratulations to you, "Sesame Street"....excuse me, "Sesamstrasse". I toast you with (what else?) a cookie!

I DO Take Photos Every Now and Then

Remember how I said I went down to Potsdamer Platz and the Brandenburg Gate before the madness that was last night? Well, here are a few pic's of what I saw. Sorry about the blur factor. I've been having some camera issues (excuse me, technology issues). Hopefully, the next batch will be better!

Twenty Years Later....

Oh my God...so much to talk about these days, it's hard to even know where to begin!!

Actually, it's not.

Folks, I was at the Mauerfall celebration tonight....as in the anniversary celebration of the fall of the Berlin wall. Yes, that little party.

Last night, I took a ridiculously long walk from our apartment to Potsdamer Platz and then onward to the Brandenburg Gate. I'm really, really glad I did this since I would not have stood a chance of seeing much of anything tonight. Last night, I got to see the exhibit of "dominoes" up close which traced over a kilometer of the course of the former wall. These dominoes were decorated by everyone and their mother it seemed...artists, activists, school kids, and so on. Great stuff. Clever, too. Tonight, they were toppled over to symbolize the dismantling of the wall twenty years ago.

Twenty years ago. Honestly, can you believe that?

Anyway, I knew I was taking a really big, stupid chance, leaving the house precisely when the fesitivities began. I knew there was a good possibility of Times Square on New Year's Eve type crowds. But it's Germany. Who knows what to really expect here, right?

Sigh.

The rain and cold did not dissuade many people, it seemed. On the contrary, there were tons of folks like me, donning layer upon layer while trying to navigate the crowd, clutching either umbrellas or bottles of liquor. As expected, I couldn't get anywhere near the Brandenburg Gate (the police had sealed off the crowds at a certain point) so I woefully decided to catch the nearest S-Bahn home. However, when I arrived at the S-Bahn stop at Potsdamer Platz, I was pleasantly surprised to discover quite a party going on. A video screen mounted, I, along with hundreds of others, chose to screw the gate and watch the programming just down the street.

The program was a little boring, I will not lie, especially for a girl who speaks no German. Lots of dignitaries making very serious sounding speeches. Bad music.

But the dominoes were cool. And the crowd was fun. Some very excitable while others, quite subdued. Some drunks. Some trying to recreate some type of rebellious escape scene by jumping heavily guarded gates, only to be hauled right back out by the no nonsense polizei.

In the midst of it all, I tried to sort out where I figured into this equation. Even though I ventured out by myself, I certainly didn't feel lonely. I was just enjoying myself, observing the crowds and trying to get inside their heads. Who were these people? How many were Germans? How many were foreigners like me? Who were just looking for a reason to party? Was it national pride that brought them out? Curiosity? A feeling of "Oh my God! I can't believe I'm in Berlin during this! I can't not go!"? I'm guessing it was a good mix of all of the above.

Sufficient with my read on the crowd, I decided to leave. I tried really, really hard to make it to the end but then I started to lose the feeling in my toes, a la Wisconsin tundra style. I would have killed for some piping hot mulled wine at that point but alas, I decided to call it a night.

As soon as stepped into my neighborhood, I was greeted by the sound of fireworks. When I turned around, I could see them illuminating the sky. My heart did a little flip flop. I know I can't relate to what today means for so many people but in my typical ultra emotional, ridiculously empathetic way, I got a teeny bit choked up. And then I smiled. Sometimes, it feels really good to be grateful.

No Treats, Just a Big, Fat, Dirty Trick

I really missed New York City this past weekend. (Sniff, sniff). Berlin, you are awesome in so many ways but I gotta say, you really fell short on what was supposed to be a rockin' Saturday night. I mean, you are the home of techno and the capital of all night dance parties. So why, WHY on a night when you can be freakier than ever did you choose to go all lame-o Holly Hobbie-like on me?

I should probably explain that I get ever so slightly excited about Halloween. It's my favorite holiday, mostly because I believe that it encourages people to act the way they really wish they could on a regular basis. Loud, silly, in-your-face, and apparently for some, super slutty. Whatever. If that makes you happy...

I also adore the creativity that comes with it. When I was a kid, my mom would brainstorm with my sisters and me for weeks in advance to come up with the most creative or silly costume possible. Most times, she would sew, construct, or paint the winning ideas for us, all on her own. I remember in fourth grade, coming down to pee in the middle of the night, and finding my mom still at the sewing machine, putting the final touches on my Statue of Liberty outfit. Mom, have I told you lately how kick ass you are?

Anyway, then there's Halloween in NYC. Folks, if you've never been there for it, try to see it, just once. Freaks on parade, I tell you. Literally...there is a Halloween parade in Greenwich Village and there is a host of accompanying freaks. It has a real Mardi Gras, spooktacular flair to it. And then there are all the revelers on the subway. By midnight, about 90% of mass transit passengers are trying to navigate themselves in their giant, ridiculous outfits while total strangers hoot and holler their approval. Now that's the spirit!

But in Berlin? (I am giving my biggest thumbs down ever). Sure, a few people were dressed up but they were mostly very un-fun costumes like witches or "Hey, I'm a dude dressed up as a lady!" type deals. Hilarious. And the non-costumed/costumed passenger ratio on the U-Bahn at 1:00 am was about ten to one. Bummer.

Jack's mom, a friend of hers, and I went out (don't worry...there was another sitter hired for the baby. We didn't just give him a stock of bottles and say, "Go to it, little dude. And don't forget to leave the door open!") to experience the city on Halloween. We did a little bar hopping, stopped at a comedy club, and then made our way to Kreuzberg for a Halloween party. After jumping on the U7, we shamefully threw on our equally lame-o costumes: kitty tails, ears, and somewhat crooked whiskers. (Sidenote: I couldn't find any good costume shops!!)

We arrived at the party to find only a few stragglers left. Granted it was 1:45 am at this point but still... it's Berlin! I was glad, though, to see that there were people very much in the Halloween spirit, clad in both spooky as well as silly get-ups (all Americans, I later found out). We also quickly realized that we didn't have the energy to strike up conversations with total strangers who probably had a few bottles of whiskey already in them. So we left.

Once on the street, we looked at one another's black noses and said, "Now what?" I, or course, advocated for snacks and the German woman quietly suggested, "Currywurst?" (More on the specifics of currywurst later). For my non-German readers, late night currywurst is the equivalent to getting a fat Domino's pepperoni pizza at 3am when you are half in the bag.

So our wild Halloween ended up with three little kitties, chomping on ketchup slathered currywurst and pommes frites on the street at 2 am. Although a fun evening all in all, not quite the Halloween experience I had expected in a city that is all about embracing its outlandishness.

I know that part of the "fun" of going to different countries is experiencing their traditions so I am trying to accept that Germany just doesn't get into the Halloween experience like America does, especially NYC. But it made me little homesick for you...you loud, grimy Big Apple, you. See you next month. Perhaps I will wear my kitty ears just for you.

The #1 Reason I Miss Having a Boyfriend (Perhaps the Only?)

FREE BACK RUBS.

I was reminded of this today after my little adventure called, Rachael Gets a Haircut in Germany. You can picture the accompanying Dick and Jane illustration, right? Rachael/Jane is looking quite shaggy. She then learns from perusing the dictionary with Dick that she must be on the lookout for the word, Friseur. But then she suddenly comes to her senses. She realizes that there is no way in hell she's going to walk into a German salon and mistakenly allow a non-English speaker to sheer her hair into some crazy crew cut due to her inability to say "short but not too short."

Enter the Toytown website where someone recommended the Holfeld Friseure and Spa. I cannot say enough about these folks. Tucked away in a lovely Prenzlauer Berg neighborhood, this Aveda salon/spa is staffed with English speakers. I had the amazing luck of walking in yesterday afternoon and finding that I could come back in a few hours for a haircut.

When I returned, in good Aveda fashion, I was given a cup of tea (highly appreciated after checking out the sights of the former east for three hours) and then, I was asked if I might like a little shoulder massage. I seriously don't think that the sweet young man had the words out of his mouth before I exclaimed, ever so brightly, "YES!"

And then, ahhhhh...hands digging into my shoulders. Then the neck. Oh, my god, the head, too? I wanted to fall asleep sitting up. Yes, please, more! I stopped myself from begging when he tapped my shoulders, that little sign for Yep, we're all done here.

As I looked at my reflection in the mirror, my flushed cheeks and tousled hair, I couldn't help but smile. "Mmmm...thank you," I murmured in a way that looking back, may have been a bit disconcerting to this poor guy who was just doing his job, for goodness sake.

Anyway, those five minutes reminded me how much I miss that aspect of relationships. It's just sort of an unspoken rule, right? You dole out the massages to your significant other knowing full well that you're gonna get them in return. (Otherwise, what's the flipping point?) And aside from a few doltish boyfriends who didn't know what they were doing, the trade was usually worth it. Strange how I don't really miss hand holding or cuddling but some strong hands on my shoulders and neck? Wowee...what a tease you were, Mr. Salon Man.

By the way, the owner of the salon ended up cutting my hair. He spoke perfect English and understood exactly what I wanted, even though I didn't really know myself. Awesome. I walked out with a cropped, sassy haircut, relaxed shoulders, and memories of old boyfriends, the good along with the bad.

But then I returned home to a warm kitchen with soup on the stove, a kind friend, and a goofy baby and those old boyfriend memories flew right out the window. I was quickly reminded how content I am with my life right now, solo in that non-partner way but surrounded by wonderful friends and family, even when I'm halfway around the world from most of them. Would I like to have some fun dating experiences? Sure. But for now, I prefer to pay someone to massage my shoulders rather than enter into anything new. Or maybe I'll just make the baby start walking on my back. That works, too.

Who Knew That Being Green Could Be So Hot?

I am all about businesses enticing their customers to be more green but this is really quite creative. I hadn't realized that the world's oldest profession was also suffering a hit in this crappy economy. Next step: sending their customers home with a little potted plant? I can see it now...tree huggers with a little spring in their step.

Sloping It

Check out my latest piece on Hip Slope Mama regarding the terrible, horrible, oh-my-god-why-do-you-hate-me-so two's.

Although I’ve taken care of many kids throughout the years, I’m never fully prepared for the frustration of the defiant toddler. I’ve seen even-tempered little ones undergo the most rapid personality changes, leading one to question if some little demon had burrowed in. My toddler niece fascinates me with her ability to play happily one second, then become red-faced and spout irrational tears the next. And Ethan, my normally obedient two-year-old charge, has recently decided that he is going to “forget” every rule that he had previously learned. In fact, he seems to have identified several Rachael pushing buttons and I, in turn, have learned what really turns my crank.

One recent afternoon, Ethan was definitely displaying some testing behaviors (i.e. doing the polar opposite of everything I had asked of him). However, as the day progressed, he seemed to be shaping up so I allowed him to take his new scooter outside. After several blocks of good behavior, I decided it was only fair to reward him on a warm, sunny day with some ice cream. Still donning his adorable dome shaped helmet, we sat on the steps of the Tasti-Delight, sharing a melting cup of vanilla soft serve.

As he proceeded to dump the remaining bit, I said, “All right. Let’s get going to the park!” at which he jumped up and yelled, “More ice cream!”

“You just had ice cream, silly!” I laughed. “Another day.” Now I don’t know if there was any correlation between the ice cream and the crack-like induced state that followed but here’s what happened:

Even though he didn’t tantrum or even really complain, within seconds, the horns surfaced. After scooting a few feet down the sidewalk, he suddenly stopped, dropped the scooter and just started running! The kid was greased lightning, I do not jest. I bolted and managed to grab him by the collar which made me feel like sort of bow-tied store clerk from the 50’s who was going to teach “those darn hoodlum thieves a lesson!” I pulled him close to me, got down to his level, and said, “What are you doing? You can’t run off like that!” while pointing at the cars that were “very, VERY dangerous!” I thought it registered in his expression. He looked solemn enough. A bit remorseful, too? Or so I thought…

For the whole story, click here.

Give Me My Internet or Give Me Death!

Sorry for the lack of posts, friends. I was without the internet for about twenty hours and if felt like my life stood still.

Yes, like when I first arrived, we are having problems again. We seem to be the proud parents of a very temperamental internet connection. However, unlike two weeks ago, this time Jack's mom got to freak out with me.

We unplugged, replugged, blew dust out of every crevice we could find, sent a panicked message to the dude we are subletting from, called German friends begging for help, and finally contemplated buying a bottle of gin and drinking our sorrows away. We were at a complete loss. No cell phones. No email. No skype. Even though we have a land phone line, most of the phone numbers of my German friends are saved in my google account. (Making mental note to copy down on paper momentarily...)

Of course, either one of us could have walked two blocks to the local internet cafe but we were too damn mad to do it. We are supposed to have a wireless connection here! Technology must not fail us! Ever!

After a good two hours of ranting and raving about how unfair life is, we decided that we needed to just ignore the problem for the rest of the night before insanity ensued. I mean, there is a baby involved.

The night ended with her going to bed at nine o'clock because she didn't know what else to do with herself and me, heading out to dance the night away.

Today, we woke up praying to find the green light blinking at us, a "Hey! I'm ready for you again!" message but alas, nothing. Jack's mom received a phone call back from a German friend who gave us some information about the local internet service provider. We both ended up talking to the English speaking (THANK CHRIST!) German representative who spoke to us so politely and so patiently that I could only envision him sitting behind his desk with a pair of wings attached and a halo looming over his headset. He was able to register both of our laptops so that we could at least connect via the ethernet cable. He told us the router was shot.

After we got off the phone, we sat stared at one another from across the coffee table, she with her Mac and me with my PC.

"I guess we're gonna have to make appointments to use the internet," she half joked as I tried to compute how difficult this would be for two individuals who both desperately rely on an internet connection on an hourly basis.

As I held my head in my hands, she started to laugh. I looked up to find a quizzical expression on her face. "Oh my god," she said. "I have a wireless connection."

"Don't tease me!" I screeched, grabbing my laptop. Sure enough. Suddenly, we were both reconnected.

"How? Wait...what?" I could only sputter.

And then like kids on Christmas morning, we giddily opened up email accounts, checked Facebook, and continued life as know it. I feel like a real human again, a person who can communicate with the outside world. I can even blog again.

Wow, absolutely pathetic, huh? Yes, I know. Funny thing, though, is that with just twenty four hours away from the internet, I have a shitload of emails to catch up on, skype calls to make, plane tickets to book...I really do rely on the internet so much to complete every day, normal tasks. It's absolutely terrifying when it's suddenly gone.

However, it also reminds you of the fun and amusement you can connect to without a cable of any sort. Speaking of, I hear a little person babbling to his mama in the other room. I think I might have to go play with his drooly self for a bit.

Later, folks (I hope). Pray to the Gods of Technology for me!

Put the Bread Down NOW!

For the past year, I've been trying to get on top of my fatigue issues by experimenting with my diet. I have a strong suspicion that gluten and sugar could be the culprits so I've been doing my best to reduce my intake of both. I'm not doing so well with the sugar thing (take my cookies and I'll break your arm) but I've managed to cut out an amazing amount of gluten products.

And then I arrived in Germany.

There's all sorts of talk about the french baguette which I am not going to deny, is pretty damn fantastic. I have very fond memories of devouring one with a block of cheese under the Eiffel Tower many moons ago. However, I am quickly learning how awesome the German breads are and just how damn accessible they are! There's a godforsaken backerei on every block which I swear, sadistically opens its ventilation system ever time I walk by.

This week has been particularly bad. It started with the rolls at Sunday brunch coupled with cheese and jam. Mmmm... Then I decided to buy a loaf of that wonderfully dark, hearty bread that reminded me of Hartter's brownies. Milwaukee, do you remember these blocks of heaven? The turtle brownies in particular?? They were like bricks...well, bricks of rich, gooey goodness that almost broke your wrist when you snatched them from the cashier. Anyway, that is what this loaf of bread is like...chock full of seeds and nuts and all sorts of things that probably helped someone go plow a field at one time, not sit on her ass and blog.

Shortly after that, I made a wonderful, creamy soup from scratch and well, you just cannot not have some warm fresh bread next to that for dipping!

And yesterday, Jack and his mom arrived so I had to buy a loaf of her favorite: a nutty, seedy organic type that makes me have to floss every six seconds.

And because it's now cold and blustery, I decided that there's nothing better than warm, vanilla, cinnamon speckled bread pudding so I dropped everything to whip up a pot of that. (And how divine it will be coupled with delicious, dark coffee brought by Jack's mom all the way from Brooklyn!)

So anyway, I've been on a bread bender and I think I felt the need to confess to it. But I'm sort of on vacation and isn't this the kind of stuff you get to do when you are away from home? It wouldn't be so bad if I ate like a glutton the whole time I was in Germany as long as I promised myself to get back on the wagon when I got back to the States, right??

Another cold, dark morning. Hot, teeth staining coffee on the way. Perhaps I will have some muesli with yogurt. And perhaps I will ignore that half pot of bread pudding in the fridge or the remaining baguette on the counter. Or maybe I will remind myself that when in Rome...

It's Always Nice to Know You're Missed

After being a cat owner for a decade or so, it's really strange not to hear a little meow on the other side of the door as I fumble with my apartment keys. And I can't help but be a little sad that my clothes are gradually becoming lint free.

Luckily, I have an awesome roomie and subletter back in Brooklyn who are taking very good care of Baxter the Cat while I'm gone. I mean, seriously...how many people would take the time to send a photo like this, just to make me laugh?

Thanks, ladies.

Stupid American

Dear Faithful Readers,

I hate to admit it but I feel like "Stupid American" could become a regular column. I could easily chart all of the experiences that lead me to feel like an idiot on a regular basis while in foreign lands. God knows I will never forget the ungodly amount of time it took me to figure out how to close the blinds in my Madrid apartment. Dumb, dumb, dumb...

Anyway, considering that we are easing into a new week, I don't think my self-esteem is quite ready for a good flogging yet. I think I'll keep it simple for now.

Oh, Germany, I love you so but sometimes you scare the dickens out of me, especially your...

1) Trams.

This is something that the bulk of Americans are not used to. In fact, we don't even call them trams. We refer to them as streetcars or those cute-as-a-button trolleys of San Fran. Anyway, for those of you who know me, you can attest to my tendency to be well, a bit oblivious to my surroundings at time. Actually, let me clarify. When I need to be on, I can read body language like nobody's business and quickly react to it. Is she nervous? Is he angry? Is that dude gonna try to swipe my purse?

However, when it comes to general daily life on the street, I'm not so good. I've had friends yelling at me, trying to get my attention but it won't be until they step right in front of me that I actually notice them. I guess, most days, I'm just too much in my head.

Throw in the crazy stimulation of a new city and well, well...a big pink elephant could be dancing around and I would only notice the cake shop two feet ahead.

So let's combine this inattentiveness of mine with the trams in Berlin. Do you see where this is going?

I remember my mom having a similar experience in Germany when she was a young lady, bumming around Europe. She and her friend had rented a car and as Americans from rural Wisconsin, didn't quite notice all of those tram tracks. They were too busy reading the map and in the process, almost got themselves flattened out.

For me, I was standing in the median (because New Yorkers cannot wait for the "walk" sign and will dodge across the street, even if it means only getting halfway), observing the traffic flow from the other direction. It was slowing down and as I leaned forward, a mere second from touching my little toes to the street, I was almost knocked over by the wind of a tram zipping by from the opposite direction.

People, this thing was clipping along, a whole six inches from me and I didn't even hear the thing coming or see it zoom by. I felt the air and then it was gone.

Meanwhile, my heart was in my throat. I know my mom worries about me when I travel abroad but it's due to me meeting so many strangers. I highly doubt that she worries about her youngest being taken out by a tram. Or maybe she does because sometimes, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Your faithful correspondent (tucked safely away in her apartment),

Rachael

But What if You Are in Love with the Pie?

So I'm going off the Germany track for a moment...

I've noticed that there's been a great interest amongst my readers regarding my relationship/dating posts. A few people have even emailed me directly, asking, "What is going on? We haven't heard about your latest date yet!" It doesn't matter if they are single or married. This confirms my theory that most human beings cannot wrap their heads around what makes relationships really work. And don't worry, I've got more to say about the dating scene....I will post soon enough about that.

In the meantime, let me tell you how much I adore the blog, Fork This. I'm not going to pretend that the woman behind Fork This is not a friend of mine either. She is fabulous and we have done a pretty good job eating ourselves around NYC throughout the past year. Anyway, she regularly posts about local foodie events or her own delicious recipes but this latest post is a bit different and it absolutely resonated with me. I wonder if it will with some of you, too.

So go check it out unless, of course, you are in the throes of a new romance and are too busy canoodling over pie.

The Waffle Didn't Last Long Enough to Photograph...

My new German friend invited me out for coffee at the KaufBar in charming Friedrichshain (which I cannot appropriately say to save my life), the family friendly, yet Bohemian cool neighborhood in the former east. My first impression of Friedrichshain is that this is where the former singletons from Kreuzberg move to after they find themselves married and preggers (but still hip and cool). I have no idea if this is at all accurate but it's the vibe I got.

Anyway, dying for a decent cup of coffee, I ordered what seemed to be an Americano while my friend got this lovely foamy I-don't-know-what but it came in a big glass and made me want to immediately shove an almond biscotti into it. Casually perusing the menu as I wasn't really that hungry, I was quickly reminded that when it comes to sweets, I can always find room. I suddenly found myself ordering a waffle with a plume marmalade (apparently quite typical). It came smallish (in comparison with the American version of a gigantoid Belgian waffle) and light and I enjoyed every bite of it.

Besides, who needs a candelit dinner when you can have candles, coffee, waffles, and a lovely conversation with a new friend at noon on Tuesday?

Perfect, I tell you.

I've Got Chills (and They're Probably Multiplying)

A friend posted this link on Facebook and I feel compelled to share it with all of you. These are AMAZING photos from "The Berlin Reunion" (the giant marionettes I wrote about the other day), compliments of the Boston Globe. Makes you wanna cry, they're so beautiful. Sigh.

Perhaps Bloomberg Should Start Subsidizing Xanax

As much as I love New York City, it's nice to have a little vacation away from the...umm...extroverts. I find the Germans quite calming. "Quintessential New York?" Yes, I believe so which is why I think my blood pressure might be on its way down.

Did I Seriously Just Come Home With Salami?

Why, yes, yes, I did and no, this is not some dirty euphemism related to my previous post!

I felt compelled. I cannot even explain it. I eat meat at home once in a very blue moon. Yet, in the supermarket today, I was overwhelmed by the endless sausage links, the wurst, the 600 kinds of pastramis and salamis and suddenly, I was transported to the family gatherings of my childhood in Wisconsin, listening to the adults chat while I constructed delightful little trios of cheddar, salami, and Ritz crackers.

And suddenly, I needed to have that (okay, I have no idea where/if I can find Ritz crackers in Berlin so I found a lame replacement but whatever...). When I got home, I ripped open the packages and immediately built a little plate of heaven. And as I leaned over the counter, savoring the goodness, I got to pretend that I was in Grandma Gertie's kitchen again, drinking cherry pop while Grandpa rolled dice and everyone screamed with laughter.

Now, if only my Uncle Tom were around to mix me up a Seven and Seven, the night would be complete.