The Journey to Berlin

"If I didn't manage to write anything substantial there, it is because being happy took up all of my time. Besides, we cannot judge as to whether time is lost."

Berlin! Where the Beatles became themselves, where Bowie lived on milk and cocaine, and where monsters call out the names of men. I spent an afternoon here, a beer with my mother on a cruise-ship day-trip, about 15 years ago, but I haven't spent significant time since 1990. A week here with my brother.

We were still boys. The Wall had just fallen. We haggled with the men in the street selling pieces of it, and we lived on currywurst and kakao trunk, our version of Bowie's diet. Prostitutes argued with gypsies in the plazas, and the song "Winds of Change" by The Scorpions played in every cafe and from every car.

I've here this time, almost 30 years later (!!) for leisure, to explore and write and read (my usual travelgoals), but specifically here, Berlin, because Sara chose it. She wanted to see it, and I was ready to travel again. We created an itinerary called "Europe: Known and Unknown."

A week in Berlin, and a week in Slovenia.

The relationship with Sara is new and has started at a time when I feel my heart has healed at last from ancient wounds. It was broken very badly this last year, and I'm sure that was because it hadn't properly set from previous damage. It was like a lumpy old bone that needed to be cracked real good, so it could be tied and grow straight again.

So, it got the crack. And now it's back.

We both have busy professional lives, and I was able to get away before she was, so I'm here a day early to lay the groundwork.

The flight was long. A woman carried an enormous hardbound Spanish/German dictionary, a comical prop larger than her purse. I wondered if it would fit under the seat. So strange to see.

While we boarded, the German flight-attendant said if people were blocking the aisle it was "our duty to overtake them."

I read a marvelous book called The Way of the World by Nicolas Bouvier. There's no pleasure like disappearing into someone else's words. Time and space lose all meaning when the writing is beautiful. I took a chance on it at a thrift store, and it paid off. Inspiring and moving. Eight hours passed like nothing.

I also took a painful nap and watched a well-made bad movie called "Crazy, Stupid, Love." It was free. Carts of duty-free items were wheeled up and down the aisles. Impossible to "overtake." They sold cologne and cigarettes. The cartons of the latter had enormous photographs of gum-cancer on the sides. Massive blown-up pictures of mouth surgery. A promise to the buyer.

The price was excellent, though, and they sold many cartons.

A layover in Munich served only to get my passport stamped and my luggage searched again. I brought too many books. One lives in hope, and books are hope. Heavy hope.

Long, motionless security line at the Munich airport. A father and son with matching blue fedoras sat with a pile of luggage.The boy was four or five. He removed his hat and began licking it.

The hat was fabric, but he treated it like one of those novelty helmets you get ice cream in at the ball park. He nibbled the brim like a goat. The father saw him but didn't stop him.

It made me think they'd had a bet where the kid had said, "We'll make it through security in twenty minutes or I'll eat my hat."

Slept with my mouth open on the short connector flight. Awoke to Berlin in a windstorm. Oh, how the bear-cage shook. I was very tired, but the cold rain in my face felt good. I got a taxi and zipped on down to Urbanstrasse where the airbnb was.

The neighborhood is called Kreuzberg, Berlin's "Little Istanbul."

After the Wall fell and West Berlin absorbed East Berlin, they inherited a lot of poor areas. So, as everywhere, it filled with artists and immigrants. And, as those categories of people will do for an area, it became cool. So... it's full of art galleries and cheap restaurants, and energy, and inspiration, and large spaces to live in. A gang of people from Brooklyn moved here about ten years ago when Brooklyn got expensive. A gang of people from Seattle and Austin have done the same.

The flywheel of gentrification thusly spins.

Strange sights on the ride. The wind was insane. Hey, ho, the wind and the rain. The trees were being violently pushed around. People walked their bikes for fear of being thrown. The car rattled. There were frequent stops giving me audience to little moments, taxicab vignettes.

I saw a dude in a green beret and ragged shorts struggling with a giant Louis Vuitton bag. He fought the wind and rested for a moment on a condom vending machine on the bridge.

Construction workers changed in a glass locker room, their bodies on full display. Muscular backs, tight skin, short-cropped hair, dark jeans.

A man sat miserably outside a night-club shaped like an enormous birdhouse.

The wheel of gentrification thusly spins.

Jumped out at Urbanstrasse and met Ariel, my host. A nice Turkish or Cypriot man. "You are welcome my home," he said, "and I have only two favors in my heart to ask. First, do not lose the key." He paused to put a hand to his heart here.

"And second, after the third day, put a finger in each houseplant to test its ground. If you find it dry, please add water." He walked over to a succulent in a pot on the dresser. He slipped two loving fingers beneath the leaves. "You see?" he said, "like this."

I put my hand on my heart to show I understood.

He left, and I crashed the crash of the damned.

I awoke in the middle of the night. Hungry but well-rested. It was approaching midnight, but it's a big city. Plenty to see and eat. Pulled on a sweater and went out in it. Many branches had fallen from the windstorm. Light from various and numerous casinos painted them red and green.

At a stoplight, I saw the Ampelmann. When he says "stop" he looks like Christ the Redeemer in a hat. When he says "go" he looks like Groucho taking a walk.

A big crowd of hungry drunks swarmed a schwarma place and a rival crowd surrounded something called China Box. This was all around a plaza where the metro station lives. The wind had died, but it was still wet and cold. I felt very alive in it. Explored a little. Got the lay of the chilly midnight land, and got in line at the China Box.

First night in Berlin, mate? You have to try the lo mein.*

*You do not have to try the lo mein.

While we waited for our noodles mit fleisch a car pulled up blasting "Horse With no Name." An early candidate, perhaps, to replace "Winds of Change" this go-round.

Walked back to the apartment with a sloppy box of noodles. The fleisch was probably chicken, but may have been pigeon. I lay down, and unbidden, unsummoned, I had a vision of the mouth of one of the actresses from "Crazy, Stupid, Love." I saw it in my mind and knew sudden darkness.

In the morning, I'll clean up the giant mess I made of the room. Sara arrives in the evening, and I need to teach her how to finger the plants.

I promised I would, and I put my hand on my now-healed heart when I did.