Berlin Day Two

Day one was my taxi ride from the airport with a driver whose only English amounted to “Canadia” and “ice player,” and whose Spanish amounted to “Sangria!” and “Cuba libré!” and whose French was a Spanish word he tried to pass off as French. And yet we still managed to make each other laugh and to find Abi’s flat. If you want to have a conversation, there’s always a way . . .

Then, I’m in the downstairs of Abi’s building wondering how I’m going to get my 48 pound suitcase upstairs when a man my age appears on the stairs, sees my predicament, and automatically grabs my bag and starts climbing. Turns out we live on the same floor. His name is André. His English, of course, is great!

Then I’m in Abi’s flat, and for the next 20 minutes I’m giggling my ass off as I wander through its two-large, beautifully furnished rooms flooded-with-light; then out to the perfect little balcony that faces a row of gorgeous buildings with more perfect, beautiful balconies, each one overflowing with flower boxes and chairs people actually spend time sitting on to stare back at my building and smoke and drink wine (ok, not sure if that’s what they do, but it’s what I imagine they do). Then back to the kitchen where I find a small red fridge stuffed with assorted delicious cheeses, proper European cold cuts, fresh mixed greens, three kinds of yogurts (we don’t even begin to know what yogurt is in Canada) and a kitchen table profering three different kinds of chocolate and a bottle of red wine . . . I am going to be very happy here for the next month. Abi has spoiled me rotten. I LOVE that woman!

I want to move here, IMMEDIATELY, only I want to move in here, with Abi’s stuff. My mind is already calculating how to get her to buy things for my future flat here, the one I will certainly buy within the year, the perfect Liz-Berlin flat in which I will write my novel, make many bodies of paintings, and live out my days speaking German, drinking wine on my balcony, and becoming the Berliner my grandparents never got the chance to finish (although theirs would have been a much more opulent life, but I think I have at least tapped into the ethos of it, if not the wealth).

Last night I spent time at one of my favourite cafés from my last visit and e-mailed and chatted while I ate potato and sausage soup. Let the suffering end!

Then I came home and ate mounds of passion fruit yogurt and granola and watched a DVD of The Mighty Boosh (You Tube it. It’s inexplicable and deeply, deeply funny).

This morning, a wonderful run by the canal (which Abi's flat is 3 blocks from) and around and through Gorlizter park and back down Abi’s old street (where she was renting when I was last here) and then through the Turkish market, which is open every Tuesday and Friday. Bought some tomatoes, cucumber and feta there on my way back to the apartment after the run.

Then, lunch with Eric. This is what lunch should be: spinach pasta filled with ricotta, maché and some other green I did not recognize that Abi left for me, topped with market tomatoes and a dressing Eric made (olive oil, dijon, lemon, salt), a plate with cold cuts, olives, three kinds of cheese and slices of fresh, sweet peach. Bowl of mixed nuts, too. Eric was my seat mate on my last transatlantic flight to Berlin last April. He’s a New Yorker who now lives in Berlin. Got his passport last year because his father was a German Jew. Eric is a journalist. Eric Marx: how great a name is that? Might meet Eric in Mitte tonight (cool arty area where many galleries are located) for the English language movie night at a bookstore, but it means taking the U-bahn (metro) and I’m still slightly afraid of that. The ticket machines baffle me. And the rule-bound Germans scare me even more. So, depends how brave I feel. And how tired.

Will post my pics so far to Flickr. Check my link on the right-hand tool bar. And a deeply felt thanks to Wade for loaning me his amazing camera for this trip. It is making ALL the difference.