I experienced a rite of passage recently. Finally, after 46 years of life on this planet, I journeyed to Ikea. It truly is a transforming event. Here’s how it went down…
We were invited to tag team with our friends, Brendan and Julie. Having gone through the Ikea ritual themselves in the States, they prepared us for what was to come.
We entered the lobby, and Brendan said, “I like to begin with a few stretches.” The man is funny. Then he cautioned, “Look, after about an hour, you’re going to want to kill somebody or get a divorce. Don’t kill or divorce Benjamin. It’s just Ikea overload, and you will get through it.” Julie added with optimism, “Don’t worry. At the end of this, we can meet for hot dogs and ice cream. Good luck!”
And we were off! Wow, this is a place that knows how to sell. This is a place that knows how to appeal to what you think are all your creative and commercial needs. Like I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, it seems to be one of the only big box stores around. Most every native that you talk to has visited Ikea at least once. Berlin has three Ikea stores, so the city is literally surrounded. You can’t escape. You must go.
When you’re inside, and you’re winding, or herding, your way through the room vignettes, it feels a bit like Disney. It’s shiny and colorful and organized. I swear if Ikea pumped in the scent of a fresh meadow or chocolate chip cookies, they’d make even more money. But who am I to judge? Benjamin and I supported the Swedish chain with vigor. We bought a bed frame, two little file cabinets (oh the colors–cherry red and winter white), a booze cart, set of dishes, and bedding (again, the colors, happy, happy turquoise) a lamp, (cranberry red) drink coasters, (shiny silver), curtains (charcoal grey to keep out the ridiculous lingering summer light… that I promise to treasure and miss come winter) and a desk chair (peanut butter brown).
I think, however, that I will cut myself off a bit from this magical kingdom for awhile. It’s part of life here in Berlin, just like drinking beer and eating bread, sausages, cheese, cake, and eis. But I’ve been there and done that. Enough…until I need candles or more plants or maybe or a cute laundry basket. Ha ha ha
Along with Ikea, part of life here, as I’ve mentioned, is visiting the Sunday flea markets.
In our second writer’s group meeting, Jen read a tongue-in-cheek poem about the stuff (or crap) you can buy at the flea markets. I appreciated this poem on both a literary and literal level. There are a ton of cool finds, but like every other flea market in the world, there are rip offs as well. Enter the distressed ladder that briefly held my beloved books, and now rests in the dumpster.
The Floridian in me is a bit embarrassed by what I am about to write. In Florida, I had a charming carriage house (or mother-in-law/garage apartment) in an historic part of Tampa. It was lovely. In order to keep it this way, in a city of humidity and insects, it had to be “treated” for termites. This meant some nasty chemicals and a thorough scrubbing of everything in the apartment once the “tenting” procedure was complete. It meant taking my cat and myself to my parents and staying there until it was over. So, as a woman with wood-eating insect knowledge, I should have known. I should have checked. Also, because the woman at the flea market was a little too eager to sell, I also should have at least hesitated or checked. But I didn’t. My devoted friends and husband dragged the ladder home on the tram, so I could lovingly arrange my books…on a ladder that we would soon discover was riddled with “boles.” Benjamin spotted the pile of wood dust first. I wanted to be optimistic. But I was in denial. “Maybe it’s just sand from where she had it displayed at the market.” Nope. More piles the next day and upon closer inspection, perfect little holes everywhere. Oy! Out it went before the nasty little critters could eat anything else. And we checked. Thoroughly. Mid-century table and credenza? No holes. Whew. Vintage school chairs? Safe. Sigh. Library card catalogue? All good. Exhale. Back to the markets any time soon? Um, maybe we should spend Sunday differently for a while.
Now in this post, some words on balcony life and cooking in my new place. I love my balconies. The one overlooking our street makes for great people-watching. I love that my lavender plant attracts little bees. I love drinking wine out there. My courtyard balcony reveals some intimacies of apartment life in this city, and this district of “pregnant mountain.” There are the constant sounds of children playing and laughing (and crying, screaming, and whining). There are the scents of families grilling out (and adults smoking cigarettes, to balance their nerves I think, due to the screaming babies). And there is the anxious flutter of pigeons on the rooftops and in the courtyard maple tree. I love the maple tree. I hate the pigeons.
I am also seeing a whole new side of my beloved as he battles both these ‘rats with wings’ and the flies that invade our space. No one uses screens here. It’s all about the wide open doors and windows. In fact, it is written in some leases/living contracts that one must ‘air out’ one’s apartment for 10 minutes every day (even in the dead of winter). Swear to God. It is written down. Anyway, Benjamin sets my plant mister on what he calls “laser stun” and shoots to kill when one of those cooing miscreants lands near my flowers. Funnier than this, however, is how he uses our Dyson vacuum cleaner. To use this beautiful piece of mechanical engineering, you must squeeze a trigger. There are attachments for both long reaches and shorter ones. Benjamin uses the shorter reach attachment and “hunts” flies by sucking them up in mid-air. It looks like he’s running around the house with a laser gun. The pacifist in me should be more sympathetic to these winged beings. But I’m not. And my husband is funny.
Lastly, along with missing Target, I miss my gas stove. I don’t want to dwell on this. Suffice it to say that cooking on a Bosch electric is like “Waiting for Godot.” It takes longer for water to boil. I don’t know how this is scientifically possible, but it does at least feel this way. The settings are weird…either super hot or crazy slow to heat. And it takes forever for it to “cool” down. On a positive note, it is easier to clean (at least the top stove, can’t say the same for the inside). Anyway, I am adjusting. This is what living in a new place means. For balance, Benjamin and I repeat the mantra: “Everything is new. Nothing is the same.” And so, I end here as we are quite fine.
