Author: Michelle (page 13 of 15)

August 21, 2013 / 0 Comments

First Restaurant in Praha

Upon the recommendations of our friends, Roman and Laurel, as well as our B&B host, the lovely Veronika, we chose to have traditional Czech food on our first night in Prague.

Some may say that the food from Czech Republic is similar to German food, and I suppose to some extent, this is true. The basics– beer, cheese, bread, potatoes, and sausages are there, yes. But the food and beer in Prague, at least at a restaurant called Lokal, is beyond the basics. It is exceptional.

We had a creamy, tank beer that was so fresh and served blessedly cold, dumplings like my Mom used to make, and the most buttery potatoes. I chose a simple chicken breast, and Benjamin opted for the pork schnitzel. Both were cooked simply and perfectly.

The atmosphere was also perfect. We sat in the front of the restaurant as the outside seating was full, and I am so glad we did. Our table faced the beer tanks, and we were definitely nestled among the local cast of characters. A man to my left had a golden lab dog sleeping beneath his table. He was watching the TV intently. There was something on that looked like the Olympics, and a Czech runner was taking the lead. When she won, this man stood up, raised his beer, and cheered. He also yelled at anyone who blocked his view of the TV, even though his table was right next to the hostess stand, where people had to wait to be seated. I love an ornery old man when he’s this colorful.

A man to my right had a T-shirt on that said something about poetry or the Czech ‘poezie’ (of course he did; I am a poet magnet, ha ha). He and his lady friend looked like bikers. They were sun weathered, and their eyes were bright, like they laughed easily. When I was little, I told my Mom that I wanted to join “a really nice motorcycle gang.” Of course she was not surprised. The best dancing I have ever done to Cajun music and blues has been in biker bars both in the Midwest and the South. I am still comforted by folks who love the road.

And a few words about words in the Czech language…wow, is it ever a pretty, pretty tongue! Reader friends, if you want to hear something lovely, go to Google translate and type from English to Czech the following: red wine, please. You ears will be soothed, I promise. I continue to think of German as a nice language, and I still maintain that unlike what many people think, German is not harsh or “ugly.” But while German sounds lilty and cute with everyone saying “Genau” and “Tschuss,” Czech rolls off the tongue as pretty as Spanish. My whole body relaxed in Lokal as the people spoke to one another. Czech also sounds a lot like Polish, so somewhere in me, perhaps in a childhood memory eavesdropping on my Grandpa and Grandma, I heard the familiar. Complete, corny Romantic that I am, I felt a little teary as I listened to the crowd and ate food that tasted like home.

But I will not end on the nostalgic. Instead, with the amusing, I shall close. In Lokal, when you order a beer, the waitress gives you a piece of paper for your tab. On the paper, you see a checklist where she ticks the number of beers you consume. The total on this piece of paper is somewhere around 100. Pivo z tanku, prosim, ano, ano, ano!

August 21, 2013 / 0 Comments

First Lingering Look at Praha

Praha is a city of quiet buildings. Everywhere is a statue, sculpted figure of some sort–saints on bridges, angels over church doors, a wizard with wolves guarding the front of a municipal building, even dragons curled around the park benches. All of these, in their stone or metal stillness, and in the fairy tale wonder of it all, seem to be watching the constant flow of the tourists, as much as the tourists are snapping pictures of them.

I grew up both near Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin,* and then near Orlando, Florida, so I am somewhat desensitized to throngs of tourists. I don’t want to hang out with them for a long time, and after a while transcending them is a feat, but put a margarita in my hand, give me a table with a view, and this slice of humanity can be quite entertaining. Seeing the tour guides shepherding their groups with raised umbrellas of varying colors was, well, both horrible and funny. Horrible because the people looked hot and exhausted (especially the women who chose fashion over comfort for shoes), and funny because well, c’mon, you’re basically in a parade, trying to listen to snippets of huge history, while simultaneously trying not to run into the person in front of you, schmooshing them with your drippy gelato. It’s just a human phenomena I suppose, to tour like this. I’ve done it in the Dells and at Mickey’s Kingdom. Guilty as charged, yes, as a youth, I’ve ridden the “ducks,” sampled the fudge, and taken Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Now that I’m older, however, I need things slower, and this includes how I experience a city and its history. I need to look longer. From our Air B&B window in Mala Strana, we gazed; we had to, because it would have seemed irreverent not to pay homage to the vast styles of architecture, right outside the window–Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, Art Noveau–just to name a few. In the distance, we could see a tram car climbing an impossibly steep hill through a medieval orchard, leading to monastery and convent. All the while the half moon shone perfectly misty above. Romantic, yes indeed.

When we walked in Prague, we did not rush, we meandered. We wandered the side streets, away from the masses, and we experienced a tranquility among the stunning architecture that was quite humbling and beautiful. Simply knowing that the buildings were thousands of years old, that they had survived wars, was enough to create pause. But the beauty, the knowledge that architects of these various times made choices in the name of not only longevity, but also sheer aesthetic pleasure was enough to make me sigh and smile.

In art school, we were instructed to ask questions like: What is beauty? If beauty can be defined, should art be beautiful? My answer now is the same as it was then, an even more resounding, yes! No, not everyone sees the same things as beautiful, of course not. And maybe the average person riding the tram to work in Prague becomes immune to the gorgeous views surrounding them. Maybe. But this slow tourist wishes to thank the makers. Praha, you are lovely.

*Wisconsin Dells is a tiny town in the south /central part of the state, which grows three times its size in the summer due to, among other things, curiosity about the indigenous culture, the beauty of Cambrian sandstone, and an unusual attraction to homespun fudge.

August 8, 2013 / 0 Comments

Searching for Mexico in Berlin

Ah, adding to the previous posts of quirky things here in Berlin, I must describe the experience Benjamin and I had as we looked for a familiar food–refried beans.

Benjamin grew up in Colorado, so food from the Southwest US was a part of his upbringing. He’s not that big on cooking, except for this kind of food. He makes delicious quesadillas and guacamole. Everywhere we have lived (Chicago, Raleigh, DC) we have made these, as well as burritos, enchiladas, and tacos. In each city, we have searched for good restaurants seeking mole, tamales, horchata, and the queen of summer drinks, margaritas. Because I have taught adult ESL, my extremely generous students from Latin America have always cooked for us. Thinking about them with their joyful senses of humor, I admittedly become a little teary with homesickness. But I won’t dwell on this. Instead, here’s a little more background on our food history, and then onto the quirk.

I grew up with a father who is multi-lingual. When he took a job working with Mexican farmworkers, my brothers and I accompanied him. As he worked with the adults in the fields, translating and helping to ease any conflicts between the Mexican workers and the non-Spanish speaking managers, we were under the care of a woman named Zulema. I used to sit in her kitchen and watch with fascination as Zulema flipped flour tortillas over an open flame. I remember wondering how she didn’t burn her hands. My mouth watered as I waited for her to smear those tortillas with butter and put them on my plate. I remember her encouraging me to taste my first avocado, how as a little kid I wasn’t sure about putting that “green stuff” in my mouth. Then I recall how surprised I was that it tasted so fresh. When Zulema’s daughter, Glenda, dared me to take a bite of a small green pepper, I was a little scared. But I took the dare. As my eyes watered, Glenda laughed (She was my friend, but when you’re little, even friends can play mean tricks), and I felt like my whole head was on fire. Zulema came to my rescue. She simultaneously scolded her daughter while pouring salt on my tongue to neutralize the heat. So I grew up with the real deal–Mexican food, not only homemade, but part of home itself.

In Berlin, we have found one restaurant that has good Mexican food, and we are on the search for others. I know, I know, it’s not like geography plays in favor of Latin American delights here in North Europa. Still, this city has been called the “New York of Europe,” so one could hope for a variety of international restaurants. And when you’re homesick for a certain taste, your taste buds rule over your logic. So when Benjamin said, “We should try to find refried beans to make burritos at home,” I was game.

Here comes the quirky part. Did we find them at Kaiser’s, the well-known chain grocery store here? No. Did we find them at Nah und Gut, the neighborhood market that carries a nice line of bio products? No. Did we find them at ANY of the bio markets? No, again. Where would one look at this point? Advice from other expats said, “Go to Galleria.”

Now, Galleria is a department store with four or five levels. It is very organized–men’s clothes on one level, women’s on another, bedding and house stuff on a third, escalators…you get the idea. So this was weird, but whatever. Again, taste buds over logic. We walked in, through the barrage of scents in the cosmetic and cologne section, to the back of the first floor where there is, yes, a gourmet food market. Tucked way in the back of this strange, mall market is the International section. And on the shelves marked “Mexico,” we found our coveted can of beans. To describe what was on the shelf market “American” would require me hiding my face in shame. Let’s just say that the good folks at Galleria are hip to the US junk food addiction. Please know, my German compadres, that some of us don’t eat like that.

Anyway, what a quirk-fest it was to basically go to the mall to get refried beans. I wonder what would seem equally odd to a Berlin native if they visited the US? Hmmmm…

August 8, 2013 / 0 Comments

Potsdam and The Saints

Benjamin and I recently took a train ride out of Berlin. We needed a little break from the city and our city weekend routine. It was so good to do this!

We rode the U2 to Alexanderplatz where we negotiated the maze of signs trying to find the S7. This part of the journey was an exercise in patience, as it is whenever you’re trying to transfer trains in a bigger station. From the perspective of someone who walks with a crutch, it was a challenge indeed, and a little reminiscent of DC’s system, as we encountered busted escalator after busted escalator. Sorry DC Metro, but you know I speak the truth. When we did finally reach the correct platform, however, all was well. The S7 came right on time and off we went.

The ride out to Potsdam on this line takes you West out of the city through Grunewald, a dense forest, famous for its lakes and nudists. I have learned about a movement here known as Free Body Culture or Freiekörperkulutur (FKK). It began in the 1920s, was of course banned by the Nazis, but stayed active and remains particularly popular with some East Germans. Some ‘theories’ suggest that people shed their clothes as a rebellious response to all the uniforms and badges that Communism once dictated. But this movement is also, from what I have learned, mostly centered on communing with nature, being strong and one with nature.

Here in the city, in some saunas, it is considered healthier to be naked in them rather than clothed, so nudity is a requirement. Hmmm…of all the things I have had to adjust to so far, this may be one of the biggest cultural challenges. I loved the saunas in Minneapolis, particularly in the winter. I went into them regularly as a reminder of lovely humidity. Now, with arthritis, I know that sauna humidity would relieve some of the pain. To strip or not to strip? This is the question indeed. If I do do it, I will not be sharing this in blog form. ha ha

So we didn’t see any nudists from the train. What we did see was trees, beautiful, beautiful trees. Berlin is a green city with parks everywhere, but there is nothing like seeing big pines and maples and oaks without the buildings as interruptions. Everyone who needs nature knows this. To look out a train window is also good for deep breaths. At least for me. So good.

For a paragraph now, however, I am going to include one rather “picky, North American” observation. I just have to. On one part of this trip, two musicians jumped on board. The duet included a man who had a trumpet and a woman who was carrying a CD player. She made a loud announcement and pressed ‘play.’ Then, she and the trumpet player began a bizarre karaoke version of “When the Saints Come Marching In.” I can’t help it now. Please forgive me, but I have to poke at this a little bit. This song, which we hear a lot in Berlin played by various buskers, is a rather sacred song for me. Having lived in Chicago, visited New Orleans, and attended countless live performances of blues and jazz, I feel like these forms music, with their sorrowful and powerfully strong histories, belong on a altar. They are worthy of reverence. This is my opinion. So when I hear renditions of “Saints” done in pop form, I cringe. I can’t tip the buskers. And a last word of advice to those buskers…if you are going to try to sing this lovely, deeply rooted song, at least know the lyrics. Please don’t mutter them and pretend to know, as the trumpet player blasts past your voice to cover you up.

But away from my opinions on music, and back to the beauty that lies just outside of Berlin. We got off the train at Wannsee, and transferred to the S1, where we rode only one stop to Griebnitzsee. There we exited, and it was a short, easy walk to the bike and kayak rental place. I loved the man who worked there! He was friendly, helpful, and funny. He got us our green beach cruisers, and we smiled like little kids, how we always smile when it’s time to bike.

We cycled first through a neighborhood of giant mansions or I believe former Prussian estates. We passed the Truman Haus Villa, Churchill Villa, Gugenheim Villa, and the Stalin Villa on a street appropriately named Karl Marx Strasse. We then entered Park Babelsberg, where we hugged Glienciker Lake and the Havel River while simultaneously passing castles. This was a first for us. We’ve ridden on some gorgeous trails in the US, but we have never looked into the distance to see a castle. Ah, the fairy tales of Europe come to life indeed!

Along the trail, when we stopped for photo ops, we met some nice people. The first two were a mother and son (I think) from a town in Germany famous for being the film location of a well-known police show. I’ve forgotten the name of the town now, but the pair seemed to think it was amusing trivia. After chatting a bit, we shared that we were trying to learn German. Oliver, the son, said,”Oh to speak this language, you have to make it sound ugly. It’s not beautiful like Spanish.” Aw, of course I disagreed with him. I know that this is the stereotype of German, and it is difficult for me to pronounce, but I still maintain that it’s a soft language. If I have to do as Oliver says, and sound “ugly” to be correct, than I’d rather mispronounce things.

We also met a lovely man who stopped to talk where we were lounging under a tree by the river. All of us were fascinated by the trio of ravens perched above. Again, the fairy tale feeling presided. He had been bicycling through another part of this area known as Berliner Forst Duppel, and he said there was nothing but woods for kilometers. At this point, we had biked quite a bit, so as much as we wanted to check it out, we marked this for next time.

When we got hungry, we biked out of the park to discover a little Spanish tapas cafe between two churches, St. Antonius and Friedrichkirche. It was lovely and a bit surreal, to sit outside and sip sangria in a village, a true village, while our rented bicycles were propped next to a tree close to our table. It felt a bit like time travel, and this was a great feeling, a why-we-came-here feeling. Potsdam is so filled with beauty it begs for several excursions, and we will be making this trip again. Lovely Saturday.

July 13, 2013 / 0 Comments

Ikea, Floh Markets, and Things I Love and Hate

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.

July 12, 2013 / 0 Comments

Brushing Your Teeth With Licorice and Flowers

Settling into our new apartment has been a series of lessons and luck. In earlier posts, when I referred to the 4 H’s of relocation, (honeymoon, hostility, humor, home) I had been in Berlin for only a week, and I was of course in the honeymoon stage. Everything was new and enchanting. I am an easily enchanted person, and I still feel very much this way. Admittedly, however, a little healthy skepticism has crept in. I wouldn’t call it hostility though. In fact, as I sit down to write this, I actually do find a lot of what we have experienced pretty funny. As I write this. When new challenges in a new country are happening to you, it isn’t so funny. It’s frustrating and exhausting. Thank goodness for retrospective, and as Blanche from “Street Car” would say, “the kindness of strangers”…

Tall Uncle Paul

We had to buy a mattress, so we could sleep in our new home. We could have taken the train to Ikea, (which seems to be the only big box type of store that Berliners hold in esteem, and this is good, except when you need a lot of various things all at once) but we decided to try a nearer option. We walked to a local shop to support small business. After finding the mattress we wanted, we asked the saleswoman if she spoke English. She shook her head. In her expression, I recognized a small fear that I used to see in every older student of English. I decided to be patient. I used body language, (easy to do when you walk with a crutch, and it’s clear that you need a good mattress) and I smiled. She warmed up a little, but I could tell it was still a struggle for her. She didn’t really want to speak English, and I suppose, why should she? This was Germany after all. We should be trying harder in her home tongue.

But then a miracle happened in the form of a tall German man whom I swear looked like my Uncle Paul (May he rest in peace). “You need English?” he asked. “Yes, please,” we responded gratefully. He proceeded to translate for us. As she realized that we were serious, some very clear sales English came out. I had to tease her about this. She smiled, blushed a little, and went to the desk to get the paper work for purchase. Tall Uncle Paul then took us aside furtively and said, “Don’t buy the frame. The mattress, ok. But you can get the frame from another place for cheaper.” I loved this exchange! There is something in the buying and selling of things here that seems old world, an understanding about shopping that I remember my grandparents had and one that they passed to both my mother and me. Seeking a bargain is not only valued but also prized. If you find a good price for something in this Ma and Pa environment, you share this discovery proudly with your friends, and small business flourishes as it should.

The Case of the Mysterious Duschvorange

At the same time, if you think you are not getting a deal, you leave that store immediately. For this, I will not name names. I have heard that there are cultural taboos here about this. If you insult someone publicly, they may have you arrested. I don’t know how true this is, but I won’t take any chances in writing. I suppose this makes sense. In the U.S., people sue one another for slander. Another taboo is jay walking. If you do this in front of a child, there is a good chance you will get yelled at. Makes sense. Even the dogs in this city wait for the lights. But there is a cultural thing here that I have noticed that does not make sense, and it can indeed involve a little yelling or scolding. In the U.S., when you ride public transportation, and you are handicapped or elderly, people get up to give you their seats. When I have ridden here, it is rare that anyone moves. Once, on the U-Bahn, a nice woman around my age did get up for me. She pointed her finger and scolded every younger person who surrounded us. They looked back at her like placid cows.

But away from the cows and back to the rip offs. In some of the stores here, seemingly simple things are priced bizarrely. Enter the case of the mysterious duschvorange. Yes, in the land of big bathtubs and lovely bathrooms, the shower curtain is almost mythical. Everyone knows what one is, but no one can tell you where to get a real one, a decent one, for a reasonable price (Again, the answer for any apartment need is, “You gotta go to Ikea.” In a recent email to my friend Christine, I confessed that I really missed Target). In the search for this elusive item, Sophie, my tutor, and I first went to a store similar to a U.S. department store. We found that shower curtains there were 45 euros. What? I thought maybe this was because it was a designer label or something. No. When Sophie asked the saleswoman why they were so high, she responded, “Quality.” Uh huh. Our dubious faces told her that we were buying neither the curtain nor that justification. Sophie is a very funny young woman. In this department store, she laughed openly at the toilet seat covers saying, “Who really needs a fuzzy toilet?” Also, when we were filling out the gazillion forms to get our apartment, she helped interpret an essay type prompt that basically asked why we wanted this particular apartment. Again, she laughed and said, “This is like asking, ‘Do you like my potato salad? Tell me why. Really.'” Funny woman.

So she and I moved on to a store that was similar to a a drug store, because we thought we might find a cheaper, simple shower curtain there. I should mention that all I wanted was a white one or a beige one. I thought these neutral colors would be easy to find. We asked the saleswoman if they carried shower curtains. Nope. Sorry. She suggested that we go back to the department store. We argued that that store was too expensive. “True,” she said to Sophie, and then with her hand cupping her mouth, she whispered, “Try a hardware store.” Ah, the top secret, underground world of the duschvorange was headquartered with the hammer and nails. Of course. Totally get it.

Benjamin really wanted to take a shower, so later that week, he and I ventured out to a corner hardware store. We found a curtain there that was white. It had roses on it, but whatever. I could live with this. We put three items on the counter. A dish rack, a small fan, and the curtain. The young cashier rung it up. “One hundred euros, please.” What? Why was this the total? Oh, we didn’t look at the price of the shower curtain…65 euros. This was getting ridiculous. Why so high? You guessed it. Quality. Ha ha ha

In desperation for cool water on his head, Benjamin went to another local store whose name I will mention for flattery. It’s simply called, Anytime. Not only is it awesome in terms of its name, and the variety of what it sells, it is fair in price. Here Benjamin bought a curtain that was thin (like a lobster bib) but functional, and only 4 euros. Still, it did not match our bathroom, so we knew we were in for further shopping.

Finally, we discovered the sacred space known as OBI. This is the equivalent of a Home Depot in the States, right down to the orange uniforms of the employees. It was there, on the second floor, that our dreams were fulfilled. A white, simple curtain for 16 euros shined among the variety of other shower curtains equally priced. Yes! Finally. All was well.

Brushing Your Teeth with Licorice and Flowers (and the occasional menthol cough drop)

In earlier posts, I sung the praises of the apothecaries here. I still maintain that the German belief in the power of homeopathic, nutritional, or herbal cures is admirable. It is in keeping with what Benjamin and I espouse. In the U.S., we questioned Western medicine and doctors in general. We kept the book Prescriptions for Nutritional Healing in our kitchen and used it faithfully. I personally wore an ancestral badge of honor having descended from East European healer-witches.

However, never before have Benjamin and I felt more Westernized than when we went in search of pain killers (aspirin, Advil, etc.) and cold medicine. Wow. Both of us were struggling with allergies or a mild cold during our first week in this apartment. I think, after all the stresses of moving, our bodies finally decided, “Ok. You have your own bed now. It’s time to let go.” We had stuffy heads, sore throats, and coughs. We wanted Alka Seltzer Nighttime Cold Medicine. We wanted to knock ourselves out, get the sleep we needed, and move on. Well, no. Here in the apothecaries, there is nothing like Alka Seltzer. Apparently, there is aspirin, but we learned this post sniffles. There are cheaper “drug” stores here, but they still sell herbal stuff and vitamins. They are simply cheaper than the apothecaries. So we did what most North American kids do when they are sick, we asked Mom for drugs. Soon, (by shipping standards 5-10 days, or more) we will hopefully receive our first care package filled with chemical cures. Hallelujah.

On a lighter note, when we needed toothpaste, and we didn’t want to walk all the way to a “drug” store, we went into the apothecary. We knew it would most likely be more expensive, because you pay for convenience (or quality). What we didn’t know was that there exists a toothpaste that tastes like a combination of licorice and flowers. Delightfully different! When this ran out, we tried another brand. Again, no names, but this one tasted like you were brushing your teeth with a menthol cough drop. Not so yummy. Sigh… I do miss Tom’s of Maine with baking soda and mint. Spoiled, picky North American. La la la Finally, we found one with our craved baking soda and mint. We only needed to look harder in the Bio market.

Sleeping through the Light

Next, in this post of lessons and lucky strikes, I shall touch on the hemisphere where I have landed. Summer in north Europa means that the sun doesn’t set until 10 pm, and it rises promptly at 4:30 am. Adjusting to this has been, to use my favorite, horrible art school word, “interesting.” In our temporary place we had white shades and red curtains. These blocked the light, a little. Here in our new apartment, we have white curtains purchased from the former tenant. They do absolutely nothing to block out the light. I am an early riser by nature. Too many years as a teacher and my body is conditioned to be tired by ten (but wait, everyone is out on their balconies drinking) and rise by six (ok I am still doing this, and the city is lovely and quiet, except for a few hipsters stumbling home from a night out, and they inspired me in the first week to get up and write again, but wow this makes for a long, and I mean long day…as long as this parenthetical aside…good grief).

Once again, it was the wisdom of friends to the rescue. Julie and Brendan found what they call “like a Japanese Target” (did someone say Target?). Here at this magical place, they sell eye masks to help you sleep. This will be a great solution until we can afford really dark curtains. Hopefully, we will get one or the other soon. Until then…

July 11, 2013 / 0 Comments

Casa Dulce Casa

I am a bit tardy in writing, because we have been preoccupied, racing to find an apartment, getting settled into the one we finally got, and waiting for internet (which takes 4-6 weeks). Here’s a slightly abridged, somewhat exaggerated, version of how the process worked for us…

As I have described in earlier posts, we arrived in Berlin with the understanding the we would stay in an air B&B for one month while we searched for a place of our own. For the first steps to do this search, we spent hours looking on-line using several websites, choosing places that looked good, and trying to set up appointments for viewings. We networked with friends who have been living here for a few years, and we supported and commiserated with newly arrived friends in the same situation.

The first place that we physically viewed was nice. Just nice. Crispy clean but a little too urban in terms of the lack of view. We are selfish artists. Home has to feel like a place where we can compose, record, make visual work. This one just didn’t. We were spoiled too. Our apartment in D.C. had a view of the National Cathedral and Rock Creek Park. This one looked into our neighbors’ windows. Sorry. No.

When we saw the second place, we fell in love with it. Unfortunately, so did about 20 million other people who scurried to apply. It had high ceilings, soft colors, two balconies with views of trees and gorgeous architecture, so much light and charm! For pragmatic items, it had a lift (yay, my hip could live), a washer and a dryer (dryers are a rarity here), a fitted or fully equipped kitchen (in Berlin, rental places are sometimes shown without appliances…if there are appliances in the space, you may have to buy them from the previous tenant…this was not the case with this one, in terms of it having a fridge and stove, but we would have to buy the washer and dryer), a big bathtub, storage in the basement, a huge wardrobe, (which we would have to buy from the former tenant…not a lot of closets here in Berlin) and a nice sofa (again, we’d need to buy this from the former tenant, but we didn’t have one anyway, so why not). Benjamin and I only had to look at each other because we knew. This needed to be our home. With tenacity, we stayed until we were the last of the viewers. We talked with the previous owner and the agent. We wanted them to remember us.

I mentally started decorating. This was something that some of my friends cautioned me not to do, and I could understand why, but I did it anyway. Another friend said it was ok, even good, to visualize. I went with this feeling. I couldn’t help it. As time dragged on, however, and the bureaucracy that is part of finding a home required paper after paper, I started to lose my optimism, and so did Benjamin. We were exhausted with waiting. But we had no choice.

We were encouraged to keep looking. So we did. We saw a third place that again was nice. Clean and a slightly better view (only slightly…it overlooked a courtyard just above a kids’ play area…I like kids, but they are not trees or the National Cathedral). Additionally, this place was a duplex, and the stairs felt steeper than they had looked in the picture. Why would I want to climb every night, just to go to bed? Sorry. One more time. No.

At this point, we felt downtrodden. We tried to distract ourselves as we waited. We watched ‘Portlandia’ and ‘Mad Men.’ We took walks and ate gelato. We took deep breaths and started again with the apartment websites. But our hearts were heavy. We wanted Apartment # 2, and all we could do was practice patience.

Finally, finally, finally, Benjamin got the call. We were approved by the Housing Agency, and we could sign the lease for our favorite choice! YAY!!! I received this news right before my first meeting with my new writers’ group. I now had two reasons to feel excited! I will save my writers group reflections for another post, because it was incredible to work with three new writer friends, and our meeting warrants a fuller description. To end this one, however, I’ll simply say that Benjamin picked me up at Shakespeare and Sons, and we properly celebrated our new home at Maria Bonitas over margaritas and tacos. Casa dulce casa!

June 4, 2013 / 0 Comments

Match Box Man, Little Italy, and Post Fur Den Tiger

The past two days have been filled with both quirky and lovely surprises.

To the quirky first…Benjamin and I needed both juice and bottled water, so we decided to go to a place across the street. Berlin is filled with what I suppose could best be described as convenience stores, but they are not like the ones in the U.S. First of all, you are not accosted by fluorescent lights. In fact, these stores are usually dimly lit. It goes without saying that they are in buildings that are much older, and they are not attached to gas stations. Beer, wine, and alcohol are sold here but not in a gazillion buzzing coolers, and while gum and some candy are present, these are in much less quantity than in the U.S.

The thing that is the same is that the employees are usually, and rightfully so, dismal and grumpy. It has to be a thankless job. I’ve been in a few convenience stores in the South where the man or woman behind the counter has politely asked, “Hey, how ya’ll doin’ today?” But these greetings have been rare. So we expected the same mood in the store across the street. Not so. Enter, MatchBox Man. The man across the street has the walls of his shop plastered, and I mean every inch of wall space above the bottles covered, with what look like MatchBox semi trucks. Still in their packaging. Serious collectors. This was awesome! And he was friendly! He spoke no English, but we thought we understood, through his pointing and writing down some figures, that we were to bring the bottles back for a refund. To top off the experience, he sold Kahlua! Now Julie, Brendan, Benjamin and I can realize our dream of making homemade white Russians in honor of “The Big Lebowski.” Ah, good times.

For absolute loveliness, all I had to do was walk down Stargarder Strasse. Nick and Dad, I hope you’re reading. Keep in mind, this was only one street, one in Berlin. I wandered into a gallery, because I saw book art in the window, and I spoke with the owner who was from Italy. She informed me that there was going to be both an opening and a workshop this coming weekend featuring some graphic designers(of course from Italy). “Also,” she said, “we have publishers come here quite a lot as we are a bookstore and a gallery.” The books in there were beautiful. Hand drawn, simple bindings, children’s books, and art books. I will be returning!

I walked a little further to discover a little market that sold, yes, food and wine from Italy! There were pastas, chocolates, cookies, olive oils… I closed my eyes and wished really hard that there would be olives for sale and yes, when I opened them, there they were! Ah, fresh olives from a little shop. The woman behind the counter was really nice, and I promised to come back to buy wine. Viva Italiano!

I had gone out originally in search of a German children’s book, as per the instruction of my soon-to-be tutor, Sophie. I ambled into Buchbox, a bookstore with tons of children’s books across from Wohnzimmer Cafe. The young woman in the store enthusiastically showed me some of her favorites and shared the plots of each. Because she spoke with particular affection for one called Post fur den Tiger, I had to pick it up. This story features two friends, a bear and a tiger. The tiger is sad because he never receives any mail. So the bear decides to write to him, and the adventures begin. Perfect! I was grateful for her help and of course I will return.

Another nice day of wandering, and the sun is back. Thank you, Berlin.

June 1, 2013 / 0 Comments

Kaleidoscope Girl and the New Gang

May moves to June in Berlin. It’s been raining and raining for days, but the forecast looks like a little sun is on the way. Thank God!

Benjamin and I spent this past weekend looking for apartments, meeting with friends, making new friends, and doing some pretty fun people-watching. I will write about the apartment search later, because we are still waiting to hear if our application was accepted for this totally gorgeous place, and I am too excited and nervous. I am also trying to stay hopeful as it is competitive here.

So I will instead describe some of the nice moments we’ve had with people here. I must begin with a little one I am affectionately naming “kaleidoscope girl.” As Benjamin and I sat outdoors at an Indian restaurant, this little girl, couldn’t have been more than three years old, toddled by, very, very slowly. She was wearing a red kerchief on her head, and she was holding two kaleidoscopes up to her eyes as she tried to walk. She’d put both of them up to her eyes, pull one away and look at only one, shift to the other one, and change again, all the while trying to walk and giggling with delight. She then went up to a young man sitting near us, total stranger, but she didn’t care, and handed him a kaleidoscope. It was like she was saying, “Aw man, you gotta see this.” The nice younger man did as she asked, smiled, and handed the toy back to her. She smiled and kept doing her goofy little walk. Her mother patiently watched shrugging her shoulders and smiling too. “Kaleidoscope girl, wherever you are, thank you. You made my afternoon.”

Brunch at Butter was really nice this past Sunday too. Julie and Brendan introduced us to two new friends, Aubrey and Terril. I hope I am close with the spelling of their names. Aubrey is a SoundClouder too and a total sparkle face. She’s really animated when she tells stories, and she’s very funny. Terril is a sweetheart, and I immediately liked her because she said she loved to diagram sentences. Aubrey joked that we should get together one night for wine and sentence diagramming, but I am grammar geek enough to do this for real. Anyway, I hope we can hang out with them again.

Another nice new meet was Sophie, an intern at SoundCloud.
She went with us to view the apartment (the one we really really want), and she helped tremendously! She interpreted for us, asked questions, and then helped us fill out the rental application. We did this paperwork at a cafe called Suicide Sue. Again, this is another fantastic place to eat and write–great music, great coffee, great bread with all kinds of yummy fruit and vegetable spreads. Sophie was so nice and patient with us. It was an absolute pleasure to meet her and a complete comfort in this process of relocation that seemingly goes on and on and on.

AND ON that note, I will close. Hopefully, my next entry will be about an apartment, or our plans for our first trip out of country. We are seriously thinking it’s going to be Prague for a long weekend/summer trip. We shall see…for now I dream of balconies…

May 31, 2013 / 0 Comments

Calvin and Hobbes

Third week in Berlin, and it has been one of mixed feelings.

I continued to completely enjoy my time writing at Shakespeare and Sons. Even when I am blocked, or I think my work sounds awful, I remember that I am still here in Europe, and I am still writing. I can’t say enough about how lovely this cafe is. It’s perfect, really. I hear different music each time I’m there, from Townes Van Zandt to the Icelandic music of Sigur Ros. My friend Allen would totally make fun of Sigur Ros as a hipster’s choice for sure, but it is nevertheless good background for writing, and now that I think of it, perfect also for the gray, “emo” weather that he likes. Good Lord is gray a part of life here in North Europa! My Florida blood is hanging in there, but I am simultaneously researching how to get to Barcelona or Lisbon or anywhere close to the Atlantic. The coffee and sweets at S&S are delicious, and the owners, baristas, and regulars are friendly and funny. Tomorrow they will be serving fresh bagels. Yes! Benjamin and I will be there to partake.

I’ve also become more comfortable grocery shopping, and I’ve found a new craft shop. I don’t know if other people who have lived in a foreign country experience the same thing, but I have found that little things make a big difference. Like when you’re in a grocery store, and you find something familiar (for me it’s been chick peas and salad dressing). Or when you find a cheap and decently tasty bottle of wine. Or when the woman behind the counter at the craft store doesn’t speak a word of English, but she’s still kind to you. She smiles, you smile, and you manage to buy what you need. Or when the little kid riding the bike behind you says, “Toot, toot” because he doesn’t have a horn on his bike, and he is politely trying to get you to move aside. These are the little things that matter, at least to me, being in a new and foreign place.

The week has had its sadness too. There was some bad news from home, and my heart has been with my little brother for days. It’s hard, being far away, and wanting to be back home for him, to be both a sister, and more importantly, a friend. Because I am not there, I need to put my trust in the power of writing and music to help him somehow. So, little brother friend, if you can “hear” me, I am sending you Calvin and Hobbes, because I know they make you smile. I am sending you “Red River Valley” and all the cowboy songs you love. I am sending you the Be Good Tanyas with a little Nervous Turkey thrown in for dancing in the dirt at Skipper’s. I am sending you a rainy street in the suburbs where we once danced like idiots to songs from the musical “Hair.” I am sending you Monty Python movies too, for the time we skipped school to watch these on VCR. Most of all, I am sending you a woods filled with oak and pine where you can wander all you like. Breathe it in and know you are loved.