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Berlin

Berlin

Follow Me: Playing Tour Guide in Berlin

The Summer 2011 issue of ExBerliner features “Berlin’s most original tours.” While the Trabi Safari sounds fun—an hour behind the wheel of a Trabant, East Germany’s very inadequate answer to the Volkswagen—I’m pretty sure husband and I have this tour guide thing down pat after two consecutive weekends of hosting guests here in Berlin. The weather was abominable for the first—coldest day in July on record and wet to boot—and blazing sunshine for the second. Neither stopped us from dragging our visitors out on bicycles, the transportation method of choice here in Berlin. By now my Pashley has traversed every square inch of path in the Tiergarten and can practically lock itself up outside Der Schleusenkrug biergarten (also, coincidentally, a stop on the Fat Tire Bike Tour). It also knows to slow down when it passes a spot favored by Berlin’s band of nude sunbathers. My prudish gawking over the weekend prompted one FKKer—yep, they have an acronym which comes from a name that translates into Free Body Culture—to wave at my guests and me from his spot on the lawn. I wish I would have waved back, but instead I just bashfully pedaled away.

I have also been hungover in  the Bauhaus Archive (not, as one guest pointed out with some disappointment, the Bauhaus, which is in nearby Dessau), climbed the Norman Foster dome atop the Reichstag, cruised the Spree, forced currywurst on our unsuspecting guests, and visited the DDR Museum and inhaled its whiff of Ostalgia, i.e., snapped a tasteless picture of husband posing in situ on the loo in the authentic recreation of a DDR-era flat. For eating and drinking we mostly stuck to our little enclave on the border of Mitte and Prenzlauerberg, but there was one new discovery along the way. Clärchens Ballhaus is on Auguststraße, a street filled with art galleries, which along with its squatter-chic looking courtyard is why I assumed it was some sort of epicenter of boho. As the name would imply it turned out to be a ballroom, dating all the way back to 1913 and hosting a tea dance that very afternoon. We watched the dancers for awhile and admired the lost-in-time interior, which looked something like the lovechild of the Kibbitz Room and the Derby, then enjoyed a drink in the garden.

In the end we deposited our guests into the charmless arms of Schönefeld Airport in various states—suffering from a cold, hungover, saddle sore, and/or satiated. At least we can say none left Berlin unchanged.

Berlin

Living History

 

When we first moved to Berlin I remember another ex-pat telling us he liked living here because it was “living history.” He was referring to the relatively recent history of the fall of the Berlin Wall and German reunification, and indeed in our former East Berlin neighborhood there is plenty of interest. Mauerpark, a public park that is formerly part of the Berlin Wall and its Death Strip, is only a kilometer away. But even closer there are reminders of an earlier tragic chapter in Germany’s history.

Today I noticed the sign in the top picture on the outside of the building shown in the bottom picture. It is at the south end of my street, about three blocks from where I live, and I walk by it every day on my way to work. Roughly translated it says that between 1910-42 this building housed a Jewish nursery, kindergarten and children’s home. And between 1941-44, at least forty-nine of those children and staff were killed in concentration camps. That led me to this website, which tells the story: http://www.inge-franken.de/fehrbelliner92/introduction. The author, Inge Franken, is indeed ensuring all parts of this neighborhood’s history stay alive.

Berlin

Auf der Autobahn: Berlin to Hamburg

So we finally took our first roadtrip.  Considering the Mercedes that husband deemed to be so essential to our German experience wasn’t driven for the entire month of May, it was about time.  We chose Hamburg, only about two-hundred and fifty kilometers from Berlin and more or less a straight shot along the autobahn.  It’s also a place we know well; husband used to take frequent work trips there and we’ve been there for the Christmas markets the last three years in a row.  This includes last December when it was a tack-on to our Berlin “decision trip” and therefore the site of much agonizing, prolonged unexpectedly for three days while Heathrow tried to figure out how to clear six inches of snow from its runways.  In other words, we needed to redeem Hamburg.

The journey there was a snap: all blue skies and clear roads along a mostly flat expanse of agricultural land.  (The only industry I saw was a Dr. Oetker factory, a company that makes things like frozen pizzas and cake mix.  It reminded me of another German brand named after a doctor, Dr. Loosen Riesling.  I like how having “Dr.” in the label somehow makes eating pizza and drinking wine seem marginally healthy, like how the British call some cookies “digestives.”)  We soon arrived at the Nippon hotel, our normal crash pad and only a few blocks away from the lake, the Aussenalster.  We continued as creatures of habit, making our way to our first lakeside beer stop on hotel-lent beach cruiser Schwinns.  For our next beer stop we broke ways with the past and explored the River Elbe-adjacent neighborhood of Altona.  There’s an historic fish market here, but that starts to wind down at around 7AM so we had to settle for an Irish bar.  Doubling back on ourselves we turned into what seemed like a parking lot along the river to investigate the thatched roofs we could see peaking out from behind concrete buildings.  Jackpot: StrandPauli beach club, complete with sand, lounge chairs, and piña coladas.  It was a little bit of Key West on the docks.

So far this roadtrip thing was working out.  I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening dropping suggestions for future outings on the autobahn — Saxony Switzerland, Dresden, Prague, Copehagen via Rostock, Bavaria! — into casual conversation without so much as a hint of pushback from husband.  Maybe it was just the loveliness of our waterside dinner at Harms & Schacht, a favorite of ours and, I am glad to say, successfully “redeemed” with new good memories after being the official agonizing site over Berlin back in December.

The next morning we took a jog around the Aussenlaster followed by bagels and orange juice at elbgold (home of the best veggie cream cheese ever, E. coli be damned), then headed back to Berlin.  Traffic was, well, as you would expect for a Sunday afternoon on the last day of a long holiday weekend.  What took us two and a half hours on the way out took four on the way back.  Somewhere on a self-styled detour around Neuruppin husband snapped and insisted Germany was “one of the worst countries on the planet.”  When I suggested this may be veering towards hyperbole and that I could think of a few other war-torn examples that may give Germany a run for its money in achieving this title, husband accused me of unreasonably defending Germany, like I was “born here or something.”  Back in Berlin he blew off steam yelling at Roger Federer in the French Open final and posting things on Facebook about the “lie” of German efficiency.  So much for my dreams of a life auf der Autobahn.

Berlin

Return to Berlin

When I moved to Berlin in February it was not my first extended stay in the city. That was back in the summer of 1981. I was nine years old and visiting my father, who at the time was flying shuttles back and forth to Frankfurt for Pan Am. He had an apartment in West Berlin that I remember well, mostly because I spent a lot of time stretched out on the living room floor watching Bjorn Borg play in Wimbledon (and thankfully not because, as my mother recently told me, the previous tenant had committed suicide, which is why my father had gotten such a big apartment so cheap).

Actually, I remember a lot of things really well from that trip. It’s not that it was my first big trip—by then I was a seasoned traveller, with regular trips to California to visit my grandparents and a previous European vacation under my belt. Maybe it was my age or Berlin or the combination of the two, but I think I remember a lot of things from that trip because it was the first time I realized there were a lot of people out there in the world living a life a whole lot different than mine. I learned from the squat down the street that not everyone lived in a suburban subdivision with a name, Whiskey Creek, that was much more interesting sounding than the tract houses in it.  (I also learned what a squat was and that the residents were called punk rockers, at least by my father.) I learned that there were more ice cream flavors than the 31 Baskin Robbins would have you believe, and subsequently ate a kirsch eis every day I was there. And of course I learned about the Wall, developing a mild obsession with the Checkpoint Charlie Museum along the way, and that just behind it there were people willing to risk death for their freedom while I watched Wimbledon and ate cherry ice cream. I’m not sure what good any of that experience did me, but I like to think it made me a more open or tolerant or at least curious person than I otherwise would have been.

Twenty-nine years later I moved back for another stint in Berlin. Husband is still baffled about why I wanted to do it, and I have undoubtedly made our lives an order of magnitude more complex in logistics alone. But I think there are some answers lurking in my very first visit to the city.  Husband has been pushing to move back to California for a few years now, and I promised him I would go quietly if he would give me this, a last hurrah in Europe. Sooner than we know it we will be back in Los Angeles, a lovely, lovely place to live, but one where you might easily forget there are places in the world where the sun doesn’t perpetually shine and the waiters aren’t actors. I guess I figured we needed to stock up on a dose of the-world-is-bigger-than-you-think perspective before we head back, hopefully more open or tolerant or at least curious people than we were when we left.

Berlin

Gastronomic Infidelity

I give up. It seems like for the duration of my stay in Berlin this blog is destined to be a food blog. And why not? Food played a central role in getting me here in the first place. Despite a foot of dirty snow, I was wooed by a perfect pastrami sandwich on our apartment hunting visit back in December; husband fell for the spatzle with gravy at Schwarzwaldstuben. And now even though husband reminds me on an hourly basis that I’ve ruined his life by dragging him to Berlin, he will readily admit that the restaurant meals in between the complaining are some of the best he’s ever had.

The problem is there are so many good places in Berlin that it is impossible to remain faithful to any one. (I am convinced Berlin has the highest volume of value-for-money eateries of any European capital city.) Just when you thought you had found the best flammkuchen, the one with the pear and goats cheese and walnuts on top, you taste Gorki Park’s (pictured) speck and zweibelen (onion) version. (To say nothing of their Peasantry Platter—slice boiled potato topped with pickles is really very good—that comes with an optional shot of vodka.) I was sure we had found our pizza place, La Foccaceria, early on too. Then I tried the “goatie”—spinach, goats cheese, red onion, and toasted sesame seeds—naan version of pizza at W-Der Imbiss (der Imbiss is German for fast food), a dish to which I think I might now be addicted.

The other night I was enjoying a goatie at W-Der Imbiss and feeling only a little bit guilty about my lack of recent patronage of La Foccaeria. The ambiance reminds me a lot of Los Feliz / Silverlake, what with the mixture of the Tiki Ti’s interior design (totems mounted on framed leopard print) and the American guy in the corner with the lambchop sideburns and just-stepped-out-of-the-Derby-circa-1995-outfit holding court with a story of how he kicked his Xanax dependency. Everything would have been perfect had the restaurant not run out of white wine.

But then it was perfect.

The chef offered to go get a bottle from the restaurant next door, and before I knew it a wine waiter appeared bearing a bottle of  Robert Weil Rheingau Riseling. It cost about three times as much as the pizza, but Rheingau and goatie are an awfully nice match.

Schwarzwaldstuben
Tucholskystraße 48
10117 Berlin, Germany
+49 30 2809-8084

Gorki Park
Weinbergsweg 25
10119 Berlin, Germany
+49 30 4487286 ‎
gorki-park.de

W-Der Imbiss
Kastanienalle 49
10119 Berlin
http://www.w-derimbiss.de/

Berlin

My Name is Not Roberta

Late this afternoon husband and I went out for a jog. Instead we ended up eating käsespaetzle—German macaroni cheese—washed down with a half-liter of gruner veltliner at a tiny diner called Roberta kocht (Roberta cooks). And how could we not? When we passed by the chef herself was standing outside wearing an apron and knitted cap, smoking a cigarette, drinking a glass of champagne and beaming from ear to ear. She noticed us checking out the place and explained she didn’t usually drink champagne on the job. It’s just that today she and her neighbors were celebrating the historic victory of the Green party in Baden-Württemberg, the southern German state from which she and the food she cooks hail. I am more or less ignorant of German politics, but even a die hard conservative would have been won over by the ebullient mood. And so we went inside to let the woman we assumed was Roberta cook for us.

Inside there was music playing on a record player and a thimble-sized, gold-rimmed glass of champagne to greet us (I assume the complimentary champagne is reserved for historical political moments). A German doppelganger for kd lang brought us a plate of homemade bread and some olive oil as a precursor for the main carbohydratic event: käsespaetzle topped with fried brown onions. In my three months in Berlin I have become something of a käsespaetzle connoisseur, and though it pains me to play favorites, this was the best—looser and creamier than the others I’ve tried, not to mention those onions.

As we heaped compliments on the chef, she told us more about the restaurant. It is only open Thursdays through Sundays because, as she explained, she only has that much love to give. And most importantly no, her name is not Roberta. (It turns out Roberta was an Italian singer, but that’s a whole other story.) I don’t care what her name is, the lady can cook.

ROBERTA kocht
Zionskirchstr. 5, 10119 Berlin
+49 157 73346020 

Berlin Books

Life is Not a Petting Zoo

The other night I went to see David Sedaris at a venue here in Berlin.  He was signing books in the lobby before the reading started, so I lined up hoping to get a photograph with him.  When it was my turn I apologized for not having a book for him to sign but swore I was a big fan, gushed about how many hours of reading pleasure he had brought me, and asked for a pic.  “Oh, I never do photographs,” he replied before being whisked into the auditorium by a stern German frau.

As I took my seat I was sore at his refusal.  After experiencing a few years of obliging authors at the Cheltenham Literature Festival, I had come to think I was entitled to posting pictures of myself with authors I admire on Facebook.  I felt like yelling out to David, only three rows away, that Alain de Botton didn’t mind having his picture taken!  Who did he think he was?  Instead, I sat quietly while Mr. Sedaris explained that the book he was there to promote, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, had been titled Life is Not a Petting Zoo in Germany.  OK, I thought, I am being unreasonable.  Maybe having his picture taken makes him feel like he is in a petting zoo.

Mr. Sedaris then proceeded to strap on a pair of bunny ears he had bought in a shop next door to his hotel in Berlin.  How could he resist, he explained, when they were so perfect for the story he was about to read: a fable about an aggressive bunny who kills a bunch of innocent creatures in a misguided effort to protect his woodland community, failing to notice the real predators until it’s too late.  In the end the wolves get the bunny, and the bunny gets what he deserves.

As Mr. Sedaris spoke, I noticed a man in the row in front of me surreptitiously videotaping him on his mobile phone.  Others snapped the bunny ear-bedecked author from their seats.  And in the end, I couldn’t help thinking the author got what he deserved.

Berlin

The Glass Jar

The only time I’ve heard of a pay-what-you-want business model was when Radiohead released In Rainbows in 2007 and let people decide what to pay when they downloaded the album.  Although it did garner the band exceptional publicity, to call it a business model seems like a stretch. It was more of an experiment.  But it turns out pay-what-you-want is a thriving, decade-old business model right here in our neighborhood in Berlin, in Corner Wine Bar no less.

On a typical weeknight we hit Corner Wine Bar around 6pm for a post-work Riesling or three. We’re usually gone by 8PM, but the other night we were there a bit later and noticed the place started to fill up as certainly as Cinderella’s coach turning back into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight. It turns out everyone had arrived for the pay-what-you-want buffet dinner — crocks of braised beef, penne, and red cabbage, perfect for the wintry night — and self-serve wine bar. You rent a wineglass for €2, but other than that no price is dictated. At the end of the night you just pay what you see fit into a glass jar set out on the bar.

There are two more pay-what-you-want restaurants owned by the same people who own Corner Wine Bar, both within a few blocks of our apartment. FraRosa serves a four-course dinner from 8PM. The first time we went we had no idea it was pay-what-you-want; we assumed the lack of pricing on the menu meant we should expect an exorbitant bill to arrive later. I was shocked when the petite German waiter explained there was no bill, pointed me in the direction of a glass jar, and refused to provide any guidance on what was expected. Thankfully there were some English-speaking Swiss at the next table who had been there before and recommended €20 a head for the food.

Having been through this drill I was prepared when we visited Perlin last night. It’s the smallest of the three places and my favorite. Unlike FraRosa, which has a choice of two options for each course, at Perlin you take what’s on offer. (Last night it was a pureed lentil soup garnished with fresh coriander and lamb braised in wine.) After a week at work where I was expected to make decisions every minute of the day, there was something luxurious about the lack of choice. Our only decision was to pay €20 a head again for the food.

Berlin

An Expat’s Guide to Making Friends

There is a lot about moving abroad that makes you feel like you are back on the mean streets of adolescence, a.k.a. the hormonal halls of middle school. For example, I immediately felt thirteen again upon having to figure out exactly how to use applicator-free, organic cotton German tampons. Then there’s the whole problem of making friends because, well, all of a sudden even though you thought you were a well-adjusted adult approaching mid-life, you don’t have any friends. At least not in Berlin. In Berlin you are roaming the metaphorical halls of middle school, searching for a clique that you actually want to be a part of and that will have you.

Luckily I had some experience to draw from.  I had done this once before, almost six years ago when we moved from Los Angeles to London. And thus I have devised my handy Expat’s Guide to Making Friends in three easy steps.

Step 1:
Accept invitations from anyone, including well-meaning work colleagues with whom, upon reflection, you have nothing in common other than work. How else would you end up eating brunch at a Siberian restaurant and listening to aforementioned well-meaning colleague deliver a joint monologue with his wife about how they ended up in Berlin that lasts, unbroken, through three trips to the buffet table? And yes, apparently Siberia has a cuisine, which based upon the evidence of this brunch resembles that of a down-at-the-heels church potluck. Still, it was nice of them to invite us.

Step 2:
Solicit invitations from anyone/place/thing. This is easier than it sounds. Just Google the International Womens Club in your city. I did this in Berlin despite the experience I had with it in London where it was overrun with bankers’ wives with a penchant for lunchtime activities that I could never attend because, shock, I actually worked during the day. I also did this despite the fact that the one night time invitation I netted out of the London club resulted in husband and I spending an evening on red leather couches in an apartment in Pimlico surrounded by Republicans in the George Bush second term-era.

Happily, our first outing with the Berlin branch of the International Womens Club went better. It started well enough when we were seated at the fondue restaurant between an American consultant and his antique-dealing wife and a Japanese couple who turned out not to be a couple.  Then in swooped Jocelyne of Brittany, a middle-aged, larger-than-life paean to fabulousness.  Her career as a diplomatic translator made her interesting enough, then we learned she had previously lived in the Cotswolds (in the town where we had first visited, Mickleton, no less) and her sister lived in Santa Monica.  Small world.

Step 3:
Find your local English Language Bookshop and sign up for the mailing list. Yes, I know the poetry reading starts at 9PM on a weeknight which is the time you are normally watching Mad Men in your pajamas, but go anyway. How else would you hear the line “Dave, the radiologist” used to great effect in a poem read to you by a poet over Skype from Brooklyn while you drink white wine from a tumbler? For this pleasure you will have to endure a bearded twenty-something reading you a “sound poem” in which he repeats the same word continuously for two minutes. (I don’t remember the word, but I do remember he thought it was important to tell the audience he had studied with an acoustics professor.) You will also have to bear the silent wrath of the poet from Baltimore who glares at you before she mounts a step ladder six-inches from where you are sitting—how were you supposed to know that was her podium?—forcing you to stare into the middle distance while she too repeats words, this time different ones in alphabetical order. Her poems are mildly annoying, but maybe we can be friends?

Berlin

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs for Expats: Pizza, Wine, Movies

A month has passed since we relocated to Berlin, and, upon reflection, I’ve come to the conclusion that the key to settling into a foreign country is establishing suppliers of three basic needs: pizza, wine and movies.  These three things form the cornerstone of our weekly routine, and I suppose it is the creation of a routine that starts to make you feel at home.

Pizza was easy.  In fact, we ate at our local pizza joint, La Focacceria, on our first night in Berlin.  I could write a whole blog about this place so much do I love it, but let me summarize by saying enough super-savory pizza to satisfy the prodigious appetites of both husband and me sets you back a mere €7. Wine was also easy, and I have in fact already written a whole blog about our corner wine bar.  Finding a cinema that shows English language movies was a little more challenging.

Lonely Planet had tipped me off about the existence of a nearby English language cinema, Central Kino.  What they had failed to mention was how hard it was to find once you arrived at the designated street address.  Luckily I noticed a small, photocopied sign reading Central Kino with an arrow pointing through an archway.  At this point we were only several days into our Berlin adventure, and let’s just say we were both feeling a bit overwhelmed.  We had been plucked from our bucolic village and thrust into the big bad city in the depth of winter.  And as we passed through that archway into a graffiti-covered alley (pictured), things felt distinctly menacing.

Ten meters later I noticed another photocopied sign for Central Kino hanging loose from the wall. I took a guess and led us up a stairwell straight ahead.  It was so covered with graffiti it had texture.  And smell.  Halfway up the first flight of stairs even I, the more adventurous of us, was repelled back into the courtyard by wafts of urine.  There we encountered a twenty-foot high metal monster statue staring down at us.  Determined to find someone who could direct us to the kino, I marched husband into a bar that somehow managed to be pitch black inside even though it was still daylight outside.  “Do you speak English?” I demanded of the barmaid while stealing furtive glances at the clientele, half expecting to see syringes hanging out of their arms.  Perhaps concerned for our safety, the barmaid personally led us out of the bar, across the courtyard, behind the monster, and into the lobby of the Central Kino where we continued the theme of psycho drama with a viewing of Black Swan.  Like pizza and wine, movie night at Central Kino has since become a regular part of the Berlin routine.

APRIL 2011 UPDATE:
I can’t believe I forgot to mention a good hair colorist in my list of every ex-pat gal’s needs.  And I have found mine in Berlin: Andreas (speaks perfect English and is a charmer) at his beautiful Aveda salon, schönBERLIN.
An der Spandauer Brücke 11
10178 Berlin
030 2848 4780
http://www.schoenberlin.com