The best mistake

The other day, I made the best mistake.

Without really consulting the weather, I decided to sample the "New Berlin" walking tour. Sandemans "New Europe" tours are all the rage in European cities: at present, they serve Amsterdam, Berlin, Edinburgh, Hamburg, London, Jerusalem, Madrid, Munich, Paris, and Tel Aviv, marketing themselves as the FREE city tour. Their logic? Everyone should be entitled to a city tour, and no one should have to pay for it without knowing what it's going to be like. Obviously, they encourage tips, which most patrons are happy to provide.

The "New Berlin" tours also took me out to Sachsenhausen, the concentration camp on the outskirts of the city, and I'm happy to sing their praises. The guides are intelligent, well-spoken, and posses very deep knowledge of the city. They are also its greatest advocates, excitedly pointing out what a "new" city Berlin truly is (18 years, to be exact, since reunification), and how the Berliners have made a commitment to understanding and remembering the past, viewing themselves and the city itself as agents of memory to ensure that history doesn't repeat itself (nations of Latin America, take note).

But I've veered away from the story I want to relate. The best mistake. And no, I'm not referring to the walking tour, which was, unfortunately rained on throughout the entire three and a half hours ("New" tours operate in any and all weather). Our guide, Em, a Scot from Glasgow who had majored in German history (bonus for us tour-goers), made the much appreciated choice of stopping for warm drinks and food two hours in.

I stood in disbelief at the cafe to which she led us. Aroma espresso bar, clearly a chain, with a trademark red, black, and white color scheme, Ikea furniture, and sleek menus. I'm not sure if my disappointment showed (Why a chain?? Why-eeeeee!), but Em made a point of recommending the food with the same enthusiasm she'd devoted minutes before to the Checkpoint Charlie museum.

"Try the hot chocolate - it's really really something else," she intoned, rolling her "rr"s à la Scottish speak. Now, it's not that difficult to persuade me that I need to order a hot chocolate. In fact, it's what I had planned to order regardless. That, and a croissant to stave off my hunger until lunchtime. The croissants were beckoning to me even before I set foot in the cafe. They looked all too perfect, magazine croissants, cook book croissants, a toasted brown color and precisely crisped look to them.

So where did I err? And why did it prove miraculous?

I stepped up to the cashier to order in stilted German.
Me: Ein heiße schokolade und ein croissant, bitte.
Cashier lady: GermangarblegarblegarblegarblegarbleSCHOKOLADEgarblegarble?
Me: Uh... Ja. Schokolade. Bitte

Thinking I had reaffirmed that I wanted a hot chocolate, I mistakenly ordered a chocolate croissant. Along with my hot chocolate.

That's a lot of chocolate. Even for me. Especially considering that I'm not big on chocolate croissants. Never have been, to the mystification of several family members and friends. I'll happily scarf down pretty much any food product that incorporates chocolate, but not the chocolate croissant, and I've never really understood why.

Until now.

I collected my hot chocolate and chocolate croissant (still, gasp, warm from the oven!) and took a seat.

The hot chocolate: a generous mug of steamed milk. Good and steamy. Inside, a bar of milk chocolate, melted upon contact with the milk. A quick stir brought up a spoonful of velvety chocolate that I dunked back in for further melting.

The croissant: never, and I do mean never, have I sampled such a thing. The croissant itself was as perfect as it looked. It flaked where a croissant is supposed to flake. It crisped where a croissant is supposed to crisp. It held where a croissant is supposed to hold. And inside, the chocolate, warm, melted, and milky. That's it. Milk chocolate. The magic ingredient. The element missing from all previous chocolate croissants, which are typically laden with a more bitter chocolate. Not so at Aroma. It was like eating a Milka croissant sandwich.

It had been a while since something chocolate-based had surprised my taste buds. So much for the language barrier proving a handicap in Germany.

A Night at the Philharmonie

God, I love the orchestra.

There was a time, I remember, when this was the only future I could envision for myself. The smell of rosin, horsehair, and sweat. An A droning relentlessly while brass, woodwinds, and finally strings tune their instruments. The restrained energy when the conductor lifts his baton, bows hovering over strings, fingers tensed, trembling in anticipation, waiting, waiting for that down beat. And then, the outpouring of sound as bow meets string, breath meets reed and mouthpiece.

I think a higher power really wanted me to see the Berlin Philarmoniker during my stay here. Concert tickets are typically sold out months in advance. And yet, I managed to get my eager hands on a 20 euro ticket for a spot in the nosebleed section at the Philharmonie. Saturday October 25, 2008. Section G (left), seat 24.

The Philharmonie is renowned for its perfect acoustics. Before coming to Berlin, I'd heard that no matter where you sit inside, you can hear perfectly. If I were to go hear Shostakovitch's 11th, for example, the English horn in the last movement would sound just as ethereal in Section A (right) as it would in Section K (left).

I was excited, to put it mildly.

The concert hall itself is fully round. Audience members are seated in front, to the sides, and behind the orchestra. They literally surround the orchestra on benches and seats that are as comfortable as movie theater seats. Why shouldn't this be the case, I've often wondered? Tucking into a great piece of classical music should, like leaning back for the latest thriller or action flick, be a comfortable experience. Sinking into a rusted gold seat cushion and up against the polished wood panel seat back, I took in the view.


Not pictured is the Philharmonie's organ, off to the right, which I was ecstatic to have so close. Organs are one of my favorite architectural and musical phenomena, and I seldom enter a church without scrutinizing its organ. This one was massive and built straight into the hall. Its shiny silver pipes resembled a metallurgic cactus garden from the future.

Before the concert, orchestra patrons promenaded outside of the concert hall in the waiting area. Distinguished men and women, dressed in tailored suits and minimalist dresses, stood around high tables sipping champagne and wine out of tapered glasses. The older members of the audience smelled of rich perfume.


When I bought the ticket, I hadn't even bothered to see what they were performing. I could have cared less at that point. But leafing through the program at the concert, I was glad to see that they were performing Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, a piece that gives each section of the orchestra a chance to shine. And surprised and wowed to see that Gil Shaham was joining them to play the Elgar violin concerto. Gil Shaham, for non-classically inclined readers, is something of a celebrity in the classical violin world, a wunderkind turned acclaimed adult performer. I wasn't familiar with the Elgar, but seeing both the Berlin Phil and Shaham play was a pretty amazing coincidence.

So, how to describe the concert? The orchestra exceeded my expectations. Shaham, not so much.

Gil Shaham's sound felt thin the whole way through the Elgar, and he got excrutiatingly sharp as the piece progressed. I tend to be extremely critical of soloists (chalk it up to the influence of an ex-boyfriend who fancied himself a music critic and a painfully exigent violin teacher), so maybe I was too hard on him.

But the orchestra! Elgar writes so beautifully for strings, and the Phil's string section reveled in the lush and supple texture of the music. I know it's mixing metaphors, but hearing the strings felt like eating bar of really top-quality chocolate. The chocolate spreads everywhere, it sticks to the roof of your mouth, fills every nook and cranny with an almost unbearably rich taste. My entire body was coated by the sound, radiating everywhere from my toes to my ears to the inside of my eyes.

The Bartok was really just breathtaking. I've played it twice, once as a violinist and the second time as a violist. Both times, it was a shitshow. That piece is written to reveal where the weaknesses lie in your orchestra. If one section, or even one player falters, the entire thing will come crashing down on you. The Phil blew me away, and everyone shone (of particular note, the woodwinds in the second movement: perfect rhythm, perfect intonation, perfect unity in one of the most tortuous movements ever written).

And, upon leaving the Philharmonie, I was greeted by the cold night air and a duo of street musicians playing folk songs on the bouzouki and accordion.

I Heart Berlin

I arrived in Berlin Friday morning, courtesy of an Easy Jet flight that deposited me at Schönefeld Airport. Schönefeld, as I discovered once I stepped off the tarmac, is about an hour away from Alexanderplatz, the commercial center of East Berlin and the closest train station to my sister's apartment. Line was a trooper and managed to drag herself out of bed by 10 in order to get to Schönefeld by 11 and pick my ass up, only to turn around and repeat the one-hour journey in reverse.

First thoughts after I dropped my pack off at Line's apartment: I love German. And damn, the Germans (in Berlin at least) love their bikes.

First, the bikes. They're everywhere. As ubiquitous as cars in Miami. What's more, the city is designed for them. I've heard of such cities in Northern Europe (Copenhagen comes to mind), but this was my first time in a true biker's city. Bikers rule, and boy don't they know it. Line schooled me pretty well in Berlin's pedestrian rules of navigation ("Don't ever, EVER step into a bike lane without checking for bikers.") But given the fact that I pretty much live my life in a perpetual state of blissful unawareness, I'll confess that each time I set food outside, I was haunted by visions of me catapulting some poor biker off the bike lane. Accidentally, of course.

No such misfortune, thankfully. Although I drove Line a bit nuts walking around Berlin.
Me: Watch out! That's a bike lane!
Line: No, Katie.
Me: Wait, but then are we on the bike lane now? Shit, move, there's a biker behind you!
Line: No, no! Just relax!

And few minutes later, crossing a street...
Me: No one's coming, let's go!
Line: Katie, no! It's the bikers' turn now!
Me: They get their own turn?

Yeah, I was confused most of the time. But at least I wasn't the target of an irate German biker's German curses and insults.

Second, and briefly, the German. I love it. I know many people will disagree with me and argue that it is an ugly-sounding language, filled with harsh "rr"s and "sch"s. To you naysayers, I blow a raspberry and beg you to rent a German film like "Das leben der anderen" ("The Lives of Others") or "Lola rennt" ("Run, Lola, Run") to remind yourselves of what German actually sounds like (it is NOT, as most imagine, best represented by old film reels of Hitler and his Nazi brethren orating and spewing hatred; instead, think Goethe, think the poetry of Schiller, the music of Beethoven).

So yes, I want to study German again. And not just for the sake of the language. I sort of fell for Berlin the first day I arrived, and what sort of love affair can I hope to have without speaking the language of the object of my affection?

That first night, I was invited out by a friend who is currently on leave from Harvard and living in Berlin. It was all the product of happenstance. I happened to be in Berlin, and I happened to post my location on Facebook. My friend, Clara, happened to also be in Berlin, happened to be on Facebook at the same moment as me, and happened to chat me before I signed off (an aside: I will no longer moan and groan about new Facebook features: Facebook chat IS, in fact, a useful tool). And my sister happened to have other plans, so I was free to go.

I left my sister's place on Prenzlauer Allee (say it!) with some beer already in my system. I hadn't realized, yet, that there was no need to limit my pre-gaming to her apartment. When I wobbled into the train station, it hit me: everyone, and I mean everyone, was drinking beer. Out of bottles, not brown paper bags. Pilsners, weiss biers, even Smirnoff Ices.

Berlin really is this tolerant.

The train ride to Kortbusser Tor is kinda hazy at this point; the only memorable moment occurred when I got off at my stop and encountered the biggest, hairiest dog-creature I've ever seen. More bear than canine, just chilling at the station with its owner. Not seeing a muzzle (which I think may be mandatory in France, since all dogs hanging out in public sport them), I pumped my legs hard and fast to get by. I swear the animal had dreadlocks.

And then, something else I'd never seen. A group of animated young people, all probably early to mid-twenties. It took me a few seconds to figure out why they had caught my eye. They were talking like they had parrots for hands. It hit me: they were deaf. They stood around in a varied formation, signing away with excitement, patting each other on the back, smiling, reveling in the promise of a Friday night. I watched them for a minute or two before continuing on to the party.

In retrospect, I have mixed feelings about my reaction. It's not like I would usually stop and stare at a group of friends hanging out in a train station. But what can I say, I found this unusual and therefore interesting. I think most societies tend to keep its members with disabilities out of sight and out of mind. I was glad and grateful for another reminder of how diverse we are as a species, and how very much alike.

I arrived at the party location, a club in a predominantly gay area of the city, and headed straight to the bar to refuel. I wasn't sure what to expect at a celebration for the Berlin Porn Film Festival, and I am easily intimidated by men in leather with nipple rings, topless waitresses, outfitted in S&M garb, selling lube and condoms in old fashioned cigarette and candy trays, and the effortlessly cool ambiguous artist crowd.

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention this was a party for the Berlin Porn Film Festival?

Headlining the party's musical entertainment was Azukita, an Argentine duo with pretty craptacular music but one of the kitschiest, campiest, most bizarre performances I've ever seen. I'm still deciding if I liked it.

In what I can only describe as porn karaoke, the two members of Azukita (a boy and a girl) performed the soundtrack of porn vignettes they had filmed of themselves together, as the short films were projected onto a screen in the dance hall. The films were linked by the presence of an evil, bloodthirsty masked man. This villain, in classic, scary movie style, would creep up and (literally) cut short the couple's fornication by slash, slash, slashing at their flesh and splattering blood everywhere. The live soundtrack provided a level of mediation tantamount to the dubbing in camp classics like Godzilla. In short, it was sexual, sickening, and hilarious all at once.

Azukita drew Argentines out of the Berlin woodwork: the party was teeming with them. I asked Clara, why so many argentinos, to which she replied:
"Katie, if you do theater, if you're an artist, if you are creative and you want to study and party with the best, you come here. To Berlin."

Sign me up!