Our apartment is in the former East German Mitte neighborhood. Our closest U-Bahn (subway) stop, Rosenthaler Platz, was a “ghost station” during the Cold War. This means that the trains from West Germany would pass through it, but could not stop, so for 30 years it was filled with barbed wire and barricades. It is mostly a “hipster” area, filled with fusion restaurants and juice bars. The enormous Circus Hostel and Hotel next door makes it a very international and youth oriented neighborhood.
Elliott and I stopped by Alter St.-Matthäus-Kirchhof to see the graves of the Grimm Brothers. This is about 30 minutes away by train, a completely random and out of the way corner of Berlin near the Steglitz borough. As we are walking through the cemetery taking photos, I see someone slowly coming towards us in the distance that triggers a familiar response in me. We continue to walk up the path, stopping to photograph or read the headstones, and the person on the path does the same. After about 20 minutes of this, we get lose enough that I see who it is. Out of 3 million people in Berlin, our friend from Bellingham, Ben Kohn, is standing in front of me. Seriously, I can’t tell you how astronomical the odds of that are, that we happened to be at the same cemetery, at the same time, let alone that we happened to be walking up the same path he was coming down. We decide such implausible synchronicity deserved a beer.
Sometimes, being the responsible one who meticulously plans everything so that it goes smoothly for everyone really sucks, especially when those plans continually fall apart in epic ways. Sometimes always having to be the one who reminds people to remember their purse, or drink enough water when they have a headache, or to stay out of the damn bike lane is exhausting. Sometimes, being the one who worries that everyone has everything they need to be happy, and comfortable, and content turns out to be a thankless task when it becomes apparent no one can or will reciprocate. Sometimes, when you are really having a hard time and the people around you are clearly not going to help you bail the boat…. you wake up, pack your bags and leave town. ZERO. FUCKS. GIVEN. If my best laid plans are going to continue to relentlessly backfire in my face, I will try being reckless and irresponsible. Because at this point, I have abandoned all hope and I have nothing to lose. I will let you know where I am once I figure out where this train goes.
Double deuce, Berlin. This is what happens when middle-aged women have had enough bullshit.
Vlog: Hamburg – Day 11 & Snack Food Trials: French Bistro Chips & Haribo Berries
You know you are an American when you hear gunshots and don’t bat an eye…. until you realize they are fireworks.
I kid you not, the (hopefully) drunk people next door keep making what sounds like elephant noises and scratching on the walls.
So, I’m in Bremen, looking for food, which is impossible because it’s Sunday. There is a restaurant in the hotel, and I was trying to figure out the menu ahead on Google Translate…. I know the kids back home go crazy for “granular Werder bread and Butter potty for self lubricating” and “Tatar of Bremer Ox”.
Vlog: Bremen – Day 12: Rallies and Bremer Knipp
Vlog: There’s a Rally Goin’ On
You know, I always thought the whole “Germans love techno” thing was a cliche. It isn’t. Every single breakfast buffet, the grocery stores, the train station, even the little pharmacies they have everywhere all sound like Kraftwerk does their soundtrack. There is even a genre of schmaltzy “easy listening techno” that must be heard to be believed.
German vending machine dinner. Blisters are so bad I can’t stand walking any further than the lobby.
Gallery: Alter Garnisonsfriedhof, Berlin (Old Garrison Cemetery)
Back in Berlin. Starting to feel like a home of sorts, I recognize things and feel more oriented. Had a moment where the crap GPS on my phone made me think I had gotten on the wrong train to Heidelberg. I am whupped and my feet look like a science experiment. Elliott is making me listen to German rap… which is surprisingly effective, but still not my kind of music.
Gallery: Der Märchenbrunnen im Volkspark Friedrichshain
Note to travelers: public toilets are not a thing in Berlin, so don’t drink a bunch of water at lunch and then realize you are miles from home and have to pee. #fml
Gallery: Museumsdorf Düppel Fairy Tale Festival
They finally delivered the washing machine today. The guy installing it doesn’t speak any English, and starts babbling at me in German using words I’ve never heard before. I stare at him like an idiot, and he finally holds up the plug, points at the wall socket and says slowly “ZU KURZ” (too short). My heart sinks because he indicates that he can’t leave until he tests the washer and I don’t even know the word for extension cord, let alone where to buy one at a moments notice. I text the landlord in a dither and he tells me there is one in the living room. Sure enough, Elliott finds one behind the couch. After spending a considerable amount of time translating the buttons and knows I now have clean clothes hanging on the drying rack and all is well. We are now officially settled in Berlin.
Ok, file this under impossible. Elliott and I stopped at the cemetery where Jacob Grimm is buried. This is about 30 minutes by train away, a completely random and out of the way corner of Berlin. As we are walking through the cemetery taking photos, I see someone on the path ahead of us… And out of 3 million people in Berlin, Ben Kohn is standing in front of me. Seriously, I can’t tell you how astronomical the odds of that are.
Gallery: Alter St.-Matthäus-Kirchhof
I Can’t German, Part 57: Can I recycle this? Well, according to this symbol, I must sacrifice all my ghosts to the ghost cage for Canada. Soooo, yes?
I am trying to research German hiking songs, but so far on the list of composers the first 3 are 1. A Nazi 2. A pedophile 3. A victim of suicide. Apparently “Hiking Song Composer” in early 20th century Germany was a very dangerous vocation.
You know, I just wanted to say that seeing this tiny, quiet memorial today really scared me. We can pretend like these things happen somewhere else. We can demonize an entire nation for their actions or their perceived apathy. We can act like this can never happen in our homeland. I’m here to tell you, for the last 2 weeks I have been walking past houses where happy families once lived that were later extinguished in unimaginable filth and horror. Seriously, look at these pictures and realize that many of the windows you can see housed men, women, and children who were literally yanked from their homes and exterminated like vermin. This can, and if we are not careful it will, happen in our own nation. Every German I have a conversation with asks me about Trump in disbelief. When people like Trump and Cruz spout their contemptible garbage about killing the wives and children of terrorism suspects, or rounding Muslims up into “neighborhoods” (BTW, back in the day they called them “‘ghettos”, and it was kind of how the whole Holocaust kicked off) the thing I fear most is not the jackass that is braying his hateful garbage, it’s the people who are buying into it. The people who are assaulting protesters at rallies. The people who are “saluting” Trump. The people who are swallowing this manure by the spoonful. They are the ones I fear. Because THEY are the ones that give monsters power. They are the batteries that genocide runs on. Trump may or may not be a joke, but the human detritus that believes men like him are the solution are not. Because this is how that story ends.
Elliott alerted me to a sign he saw advertising a fairy tale festival at a museum that is a recreation of a medieval German village. We decided to attend, and while it was very lovely and fun, it was raining quite hard and the actually storytelling was forced into tiny tents. Rather than elbow children out of the way for my own selfish interests, I opted to wander the grounds and try to talk to the staff. Language proved to be a challenge, because contrary to popular belief not everyone in Germany speaks English, especially older people who grew up in the East before the reunification. However, I did manage to learn a bit about “Schlüsselblumen”, or “key flowers”, which is the flower we call Cowslips. She explained that it was part of the folklore of fairies, elves, and woodland spirits, although I am not certain how. It is also known as the more Christianized “Himmelsschlüsselblumen”, or “Keys of Heaven Flowers”. It was a lovely, if not rainy, afternoon.
