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.