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?