It was a long Saturday.
After failing to make a phone call at the box (and after the last blog entry) I went out to the curb to try using Gizmo to make a phone call via the internet. I could connect fine, but with the wind and traffic and such, Clark could not hear me well at all. He had not heard from the luggage people, and he took their number and would call and harangue for me. The connection was so bad and I was anxious enough about the luggage that I just headed back from Mehringdam to Kollwitzstrasse.
When I got to Clark's there was bad news: Alexia and Peter had been violently ill all night and day, and it was starting on Clark. Keeping me at bay lest I catch it next, he told me that he spoke to the baggage office (who remembered me-- apparently I made an impression) and they reported that knew my luggage existed, but it was still in London and wouldn't be to Berlin until that evening, and not delivered until the next moring between 7 and 9. I wanted to keep pressuring the luggage people, and to call home to let Fran and John know I had arrived safely, so Clark lent me his handy phone (mobile) to use over the weekend. Which would also enable us to keep in touch while they recuperated.
Walking back to the guest flat, I discovered I didn't know the right prefixes to make local or long distance calls on his mobile. When Alexia and Clark had first welcomed me to the guest flat on Wortherstrass, they pointed out a little shop across the way: The London Juice Company. "If you ever need help in English, you can go over there." This qualified.
I love these guys. Having been linguistically isolated all day (and for me that's something), it was nice to be able to have a conversation and get some advice. I gave them the brief rundown (just arrived, family sick, luggage lost, how do I dial out) and then we moved on to dinner and night life suggestions. We got into a discussion about the luggage as one of the owners, Keith, also works for British Airways and I recognized him from my flight (at 6'6" with a shaved head and pale features, he was quite noticeable). Couldn't have been nicer. I carefully segued from general dinner/nightlife suggestions to gay suggestions—sort of feeling my way here (were they all old Germany skinheads or new Germany skinheads?). Turns out they were all a bunch of 'mo's and promtly set to creating my itinerary for dinner and debauchery. The blokes I met were Keith and Robert, apparent owners, and Steven (with hound viggie) apparent regular.
While most of Berlin is very comfortably gay/straight mixed, there are three or four neighborhoods with more gay social attractions than others. For sheer culinary pleasure and density of venue options, they recommended Nollendorfplatz.
Everything here starts late, so after failing to nap I just I chilled with
Harry Potter for a while, had a shower and a cocktail and hiked the ten minutes to the U-bahn station. The Nollendorf station is in the middle of a star pattern and which avenue was which was not readily apparent. Getting directions from a skinhead with leather chaps (clearly, I was in a gay neighborhood—well, the whole city is rather leather-philic), I found Cafe Berio. Dinner was excellent, the wait staff gorgeous, and my waiter spent a year in Texas and spoke English fluently with a slightly southern but extremely American accent. He brought me one of the free tabloids, which while being entirely in German featured neighborhood maps with restaurant/bar/club guides which were easy to understand and proved invaluable.
After dinner, the English Juice Guys recommended starting at Tom's then making my way next door to Hafen. Tom's (a common gay bar name in the city. Of Finland and all of that.) looked dead and Hafen looked more friendly (a la Moby's in SF) so there I went. It was quite small and pleasantly crowed. A Jack and Ginger set me back six euros and I found a stool and wondered how to start a conversation without speaking the language. Eventually I chatted up a guy who had been standing behind me (but whom I had been watching in the mirror opposite). Vitcor is from New York and is here for five weeks learning German. Victor is handsome, charming, and a good conversationalist, but also embodies the Manhattan Guy archetype. You know, never been off Manhattan, hates to, why would you, New York has everything and everything else sucks, yadda. Also, we should all leave the US because Bush has made it so bad, everything is horrible everywhere but NYC, LA, and SF, gays are the new jews (political scapegoats), etc. A little more serious bar conversation than I needed. Most of this came out in conversation after we befriended Steven(?), wearing a New Hamshire hoody, who came to visit Berlin 10 years ago and dropped out of college to stay behind and only recently became a legal expat. If he personified an American archetype, it would be the guy who, as long as his has his bike, his pot, and his hackey sack, he's cool.
The bartender would change the CD fairly often depending on his mood or that of the crowd, and I loved almost all of his selections. I was particularly impressed when he put in Joe Henry's
Scar CD. I didn't think anyone else but me had heard of it. Very jazzy/bluesy with really interesting rhythms, almost african or cajun in influence. I bought it after a review on NPR years ago, and one of the tracks "Stop" was remade into Madonna's club dance track "Tell Me." My estimation of the bar went up several notches.
All in all a fun evening and we enjoyed each other's company and plenty of Becks for several hours. Steven wanted to hit a deep house/tance sort of disco with lots of "young guys" and a mixed crowd in the northeast area (we were in the south). According to the bar maps, it was the only thing around there, and we would have to take a 20 euro cab to get there. The more he described the club, its crowd, its pharmaceuticals, and its music, the more excited he got and the more certain I knew I would not have a good time, even though I was going with 'new friends.' They also made it clear their goal was to get laid (and not with me) and I decided I'd rather stay in the neighborhood where I knew how to get home and had enough attractions that if I wasn't having fun in one place I could always move on to another.
By the way, I had forgotten the whole 'beer is crazy strong here compared to the states' thing. I was well, well on my way to being surprisingly hammered.
I want to head out into the day so I am going to make the rest of this short. Or shorter. Hit Tom's which was kind of lame. Nice enough crowd, but not chatty or openly friendly. The music was good. All of these places have free coat check, which was nice. But also air thick with smoke, which is not. The downstairs "dark room" was packed and yet lame. After a beer there I walked into Schene, which was a hardcore leather/uniform bar. The most leather I had on was cowboy boots. But at least I was wearing a black shirt, designer though it may be. But everyone was really friendly so I stayed and had a good time. (Kevin, you would be proud.) One small guy kept coming on to me and said, "Ah, no German? English? That is fine." When spent some time together but when he left me alone on his quest for poppers I realized that I was really drunk and took that as a sign it was time to go home.
I am used to bars closing and going home at a situationally reasonable hour. Apparently, the bars here close at "whenever we damn please o'clock." It was about 5:00 a.m. Not only was the subway still running at that time, but it was almost crowded. Lots of folks, young and old (well, not old but way past young) on their way home from a Saturday night. By the time I reached the U-bhf station nearest my neighborhood, it was light. I poured myself into bed by six.
Having had too much strong beer and not much sleep, and throw in the jet lag, I was not an early riser on Sunday. The plan was to call clark 11-ish to noon-ish to check how they were feeling, if the luggage appeared, and make a possible plan for lunch. They were still ill and he suggested I come by after I find a brunch place in the neighborhood, serving until 4:00. I finally made it up and out by 3:00. I knew I needed something to eat but looking at every plate I passed made me queasy. Wanting nothing more than a banana and an OJ, I went back to the Juice Guys. They were quite interested in my night's experience and made me the most spectacular hangover helper, appropriately called "The Detox."
Unfortunately, sometime at Schene I lost all of my cash and some of my traveler's checks. I don't know if they were nicked or what. I know I had more cash, and may it just fell out of my wallet while paying for something, or maybe with the cash I forgot to pick up my change or what. There are lots of pickpocket warnings in clubs, but the rest of my wallet and credit cards are intact. Even though no one takes credit cards or traveler's checks, at least the TCs are replaceable.
Clark, Alexia, and Peter, all looking only slightly worse for wear, appeared at the Juice bar and took me, and my recently arrived luggage (!) for a driving tour of east and west Berlin. Very very cool. I now have a much better idea of the lay of the land, where I am, what else I want to see, and a much better general context. Their car also has a live GPS map which helped immensely. Alexia was still feeling a little peaked and stayed in for the evening with Peter, while Clark and I enjoyed a fabulous dinner (duck with blueberry glaze) at a neighborhood Alsatian restaurant (made all the more popular after Clinton ate here with Helmut).
I hit about 6 or 7 bars in this district and a little northward, none of which had more than four people. As crazy wild as this town is on a Saturday night, it is quite the opposite on a Sunday night. I still managed to make conversation and have a lovely time, and again was quite surprised to find myself arriving home five-ish. LOTS of late night walking as I took two trams and the U during the night, but a U ride home was unavailable as it was not running southbound due to construction. So that took a half-hour or so. So many of these bars play porn on the videos as a matter of course. At Flaxx, where I started, the bartender urged me to come back on Monday for their happy hour, which is always popular. We shall see. I now renewed my great affection for German beer (real German beer that is). I had forgotten from my last tour ten plus years ago.
Again, I had planned an early rise but didn't leave the flat until 10:30. I've had an amazing brunch at a corner restaurant, sitting in the sun in front of the park and writing this out. Now I am off to the Amex Office, with a plan to hit Museum Island and maybe take a boat tour.
Later.
Eight years ago, in Terminal B, Remote Bar B, in Newark, New Jersey, someone had a draft beer while reading this book, likely waiting for a flight or flights which would ultimately bring him, or her, to this place. Berlin. This person paid with a five. And s/he was served by Greg.
