It came from a man who had been rowing in a gig boat near my quad on the Wannsee. I’d never talked to this person before in my life; he had no idea I’m an American who doesn’t understand much German. After our row I was standing on the dock, holding the quad with my foot in a rigger so it wouldn’t float away, waiting while the other women I’d just rowed with put away our oars. Continue reading
Last night M made a large batch of fried rice, enough to feed fifteen people. This morning I made a pan full of apple cake. Around noon we walked down our block to deliver this food to our Schülerladen, where E and a dozen other children and a few adults are now enjoying their school lunch, homemade by parents. As they do every day.
Schülerladen still boggles my mind. It is unique to Berlin, I’m told. A German friend visiting from Bavaria, a teacher in training, said she’d never heard of the model. And Berliners have told me it can only be found here. So I think it’s worth taking a few minutes to describe it. Continue reading
I’ve discovered an alternate route to the boathouse from my neighborhood. It starts out by heading due north on the bus instead of south, leading me away from the boathouse instead of towards it, yet it gets me there almost 10 minutes faster than the other way.
Does that make any sense? Of course not. But we’re talking about navigating Berlin, after all, so somehow it does.
The bus takes me to Zoo Station, where I pick up the S7 instead of my old familiar S1. There’s little difference really, considering they both drop me at the Nikolassee station.
The best feature of the S7 route is that it takes you through the wooded western edge of the city. The stretch between Grunewald and Nikolassee is the longest distance I’ve encountered between two stops in my trips in and around Berlin. Not that I mind stops, but it does give you the sensation that you’ve traveled a great distance when you are whisked through the woods without slowing down, as if you’re being transported to another place entirely.
Bloody hell, I feel like I’m Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Every day, the same routine. Every day, I try to get it right—shred the bottles, collect the deposit, bring the right groceries home, keep the cellphones stocked with credit, refill the wine bottle, and every bloody day I get half of it wrong. Maybe the day I get it right, bingo, we get to go home.
I can’t help but let it get to me, the way the cashier at Kaiser’s reacted when I asked him to change my 2 euro coin for two 1 euro coins, just to unlock one of those ridiculously small carts with correct change so I could buy groceries in his store. Was the eyeroll, the sigh, the sagging shoulders, and the look of contempt really necessary? Why don’t they just unlock those carts then, if they don’t feel like making change? Continue reading
“Look at him!” said M one morning, pointing out an odd bird hopping erratically up a tree. “Every day he does this”—meaning he carries sticks five times longer than himself, grasping one at a time in his beak, making his way through the dense bare branches and twigs of the linden tree in the middle of our inner courtyard, the one that towers over the trash and recycling containers below.
The next morning I looked for him myself and found him busy at his task. The squat blue bird neared the nest, attempting to settle an unwieldy stick into the existing network of twigs. Continue reading
I didn’t attend my own engagement party, nineteen years ago. For a long time I’ve thought that’s the interesting part—my absence. Now it strikes me that the odder part is that they threw the party anyway. Without me.
They held it to boost M’s spirits, I suppose, to show him there would be life after Jill. They called it the Jilted Party.
But M already knew I was coming back around. I said yes and then I said no and then I said yes. He took a chance and asked me to marry him too soon, and he knew it. I said yes because it made perfect sense and was the next logical step but it was too soon so at some point I had to say no. It was the thought of that damn engagement party, knowing I’d have to fly back to the east coast with him and face all his friends and family, people I barely knew, all those exuberant well-wishers. They were decent, every last one of them, bear huggers and storytellers and people too good to face half-hearted. I anticipated their toasts, their hugs, their demands for kisses while they all watched, and I couldn’t do it, not when in my heart I was retreating to a dark corner, shrinking from the bright light of their community and love. I couldn’t join them yet. Continue reading
The other evening I attended a book reading by a young author in a bookstore just off Savigny Platz. The store is located directly under an S-Bahn station, and every few minutes the whole room would rumble when a train passed overhead. The author, a Canadian named Sheila Heti, is on a book tour for her latest work, How Should a Person Be?, what she calls a “novel from life.”
My friend Melissa had alerted me to this reading that very day, so though I knew next to nothing about the author, and though Melissa couldn’t join me, a little time spent poking around Heti’s website made me decide to check it out. Continue reading