"For an instant, the fried fish gleamed like gold ingots on our plates, then the sun sank below a purple sea and drained the colour away. I thought of those loud lamentations with which primitive civilizations accompanied the death of the light each evening, and suddenly they seemed so appropriate that I was prepared to hear behind me a whole village in tears. But no, not a one.
Apparently, they had got used to it."
I always add a mental, "in court" when I pronounce it. Ziehen court. It makes no sense. It's part of how my brain copes with the difference, I think.
See ya in court!
It gets me in a little bit of trouble when I'm exploring, because I'll call something like Skellssten Strasse "Helter Skelter Street" in my head, then look up to see where I am and forget which strasse I'm straddling.
All this is to illustrate that my mind is constantly moving and processing when I travel, taking the input and reformatting it. It means I wake up early. On this first day, I was up before the sun waiting for a famous Turkish restaurant to open. Sesame bread rings and strong coffee were what I needed.
A Berlin Breakfast.
I set my music player to random, felt my way through the dark apartment, and made my way out into the wet streets of Kreuzberg.
"Surfin' Bird" was the first song that played, and there could not have been a more random, more ill-fitting tune for the scene in front of me. Loud, brash novelty nonsense in such a still, stark setting. It was, to me, hilarious.
I moved passed the Hermanplatz station laughing and singing. It was freezing.
At the Turkish bakery I ordered with a rusty German accent that must have made me sound like the English equivalent of: "Uh carfee whit malk and no shoogurt."
Strong and rich, this coffee was, and they had burek. Burek! That marvelous baked Eastern treasurefood I learned to eat in Sarajevo!
A white witch could get me to betray my family with a box of it.
I sat and read and let the coffee do its work. The counter-turks paid me no mind until they noticed I had left them a tip. Then they waved me over to take it back.
A tall madwoman read old newspapers and paced back and forth to the sugar counter. She mumbled "guten morgen" to me each time. I called her Morgen Fairchild.
A woman rode in on an automatic wheelchair. Her very young daughter stood on a platform on the back. I had never seen this configuration before. The child look like Yoda riding on Luke during a training montage. Faster you must go, stale the bread grows.
The breakfast foods were greasy and crispy and good. It was burek 'til I burst. Burek 'til I died.
Outside, two jackdaws ruffled their wet feathers on a street sign. My first cardigan crows of the trip. They mean "Europe" to me more than any other symbol.
I strode along the train tracks toward Gorlitzer Park as alive as a panther. As greasy and living as a panther. With my full, hot, belly, I felt dangerous and beautiful in the shadows of the track. Street art. Murals. Children walking to school. Cold and wet.
Then my brain changed the lyrics of Surfin' Bird to "Surfin' Burek," and the illusion melted. I was no panther. I was a ridiculous person.
Bur bur bur, bur is the whir, buh buh buh, bur bur bur, bur is the whir.... surfin' bur... ek.
Ridiculous, quick to laughter, and ready for adventure. The laughing panther. The surfin' burek.
I felt inspired and happy. I leaned against a wall and scribbled a million notes, working out some plot issues for the new play. There was a kind of certainty that what I was writing would make the final version.
I was nodding as I wrote, like I was describing it to myself and agreeing with myself. Yes, yes, that's how it should go.
Berlin.
A man came up to me pumping his thumb up and down, flicking it. I totally froze. I had been in such a writing zone I almost couldn't register what was happening. He was saying "feuer! feuer!"
I knew this meant he wanted a light, but all I could think of in German was "rauchen verboten!" which means "No Smoking!" and, all in microseconds, I knew that wasn't what you were supposed to say to someone who wanted a light.
I just stared at him like a simpleton racing through phrases and rejecting them. No, nein, uh, kein cigaretten. I said nothing, and he made a frustrated sound and left.
I moved on to the park working out what I would say next time, assuming I didn't just grab some fire for my pocket.
Some men on Jamaican hats approached me making "smoking" gestures. Redemption! I said I didn't have a light!
But they were trying to sell me hash.
Many murals and some beautiful cars. I got more coffee and some sort of fried egg on a roll. It was incredibly delicious. There was some kind of... sweet mayonnaise?... under the egg and each bite was wet with grease and yolk and butter and.... sweet mayo?
Women in knee-high boots summoned children or ragged little dogs. There was at one point, a woman slapping her thighs as I walked toward her. She cried out "Rocky! Rocky!" and there was a beautiful, powerful certainty I would hear the scramble of claws, a snuffle of breath.
And then I heard Rocky, and then he was past me, and then he was in her arms.
Back in the apartment I wrote and read. A little dude in tights was laying on the couch. He went into his room and cranked up some industrial dance music. I have come to think of him as the Sex Dwarf for few legitimate reasons.
Content and warm. I napped.
I awoke to coordinate for Sara's arrival. Her departing flight was delayed and there was some math to do. I read some more and, shamefully, played a video game a little bit. I'm addicted to a game where you match jewels to other jewels. When I play, I call it "clearing my sparkles."
I cleared my sparkles and ate some ketchup-flavored potato chips. I transform into a lazy teen very quickly.
Sara was scheduled to arrive at the Hermannplatz subway station, and I waited on the stones, a lively farmer's market around me. Hundreds of Berliners rose up from the depths. A marvelous variety of hairstyles and clothes and colors.
She was never one of them. About half an hour after the expected meeting time I went back home. There was a new message from her about taxi confusion. I waited in the doorway and cleared more sparkles. An hour in the drafty doorway. It was like the Land Before Time. Quiet and cold.
And then she was there. One of the people walking by was her. I thought she would be tired after delayed flights, long flights, airport stress, taxi mishaps... but she was like, "Where does a gal get a kebab around this place?"
So... I showed her.
We sat on a bench and watched Berliners board the bus. We ate falafel and doner. We bought buffalo grass vodka and cherry soda.
At home, we mixed cocktails and slept.
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