Currywurst and other earthy delights

I'm looking for some Paul Theroux kind of elegance to this journal, but frankly kids, the words aint coming. Perhaps I just can't write in the Winter. I don't know what stage of this journey I'm in right now, but it's waivering somehwere between "Wow. I just totally fucked up" and "Hang in there boss, it'll get better." I've never been this nomadic, so the loss of the familiar is perhaps tearing a bloodier, chunkier chunk out of my psyche than I anticipated. All angst aside, here's what I've been up to:

November 2nd, 2007:
Tonight Lina and Simone and I went to Shockoladen to see A Pony Named Olga, a cowpunky band featuring the bass player of one of Lina's bands, Hershe. The joint is small, very intimate, and a ton of fun. I definitely wouldn't mind playing there. They charge a .50 euro glass deposit - I guess Berliners run amuck with the glassware. As I said before it's a small place, and these German dudes are tall, so I had to ninja my way between goliath-sized patrons for a view, but overall it was nice introduction to the Berlin music scene.

November 3rd, 2007:
Woah. How do you say "my brain is bleeding" in German? Too many Becks the night before made me a wreck today. Otter and I were to go take the train to Cologne today to see my friends The Blowtops, for the last show of their European tour. A mixed bag of aprehension of using the transportation system by myself and a wavering balance on the seas of dehydration made the morning a weird one. I eventually got my act together at about 2pm, with an estimated Cologne arrival at 8 or so. I wanted to pack light, but I wasn't sure what to bring as far as Otter was concerned, so I broke down the Sherpa, packed some clothes and popped everything in the backpack. Of course, I brought too much shit. Eventually I'll learn all I need is a black tshirt and a pair of jeans. Maybe some underwear, but only if I'm feeling fancy.

Lina's place is a hop, skip und a goosestep from the train station, but there is no English on any of the signage, so I had absolutely no idea how to pay for a ticket. A trip to the ticket booth proved frustrating, as the matronly ticket agent fervently denied any knowledge of English, and I had no idea what to even ask for. To boot, I was out of euros, so I ended up using a visa card for a $2.10 fare for a ticket that I didn't even know how to use, or where it would take me. The mixture of angry German, hand signals, and glowering disapproval from Frau Happypantz gave the journey to Berlin Ostbahnhof (East Berlin Station) a spirited beginning. Even more satisfying is that no one even looked at my ticket, and that I had to go one stop before Ostbanhoff and on to the long distance train.

Turns out, dogs are not a big deal here (even for such things as picking up poop and using leashes) but I kept Otter in the Sherpa for the trip anyway. More than once already, and I'm sure fore many times to come, I've heard the phrase, "You brought your dog here? That's weird." Which is doing wonders for my subconcious, a nasty tick who continues to whisper this nagging refrain "You're doing it wrong. You're doing it wrong. You're doing it wrong." I've never thought about myself as a trailblazer of any sort, but certainly it can't be that weird to travel with your dog. People bring their kids on vacation all the time, and no one bats an eye when those scheize machines join the party...

Digressing. The train is really very nice. There are seatback video units, but they only show two channels, both of which seem to be promotional vehicles for Die Bahn (the German railway service). Of course I couldn't help but think of cold war propaganda, and perhaps the new Germany is sneaking back into it's own ways, but was too tired to care, and spent most of the five hour journey in and out of gently rollicking train sleep.

A quick taxi upon arrival to Cologne (Koln for the German speakers) brought me to the Sonic Ballroom, a ballroom in name only as the place was actually smaller than Shockoladen. However there is a big difference between European and American rock clubs (European tour warriors can skip this part), is that they provide accomodations for the band. And they cook for you. And they give what seems to be and endless supply of beer. I'd heard about it forever, but this is the first time I'd been able to see it first hand. Which means even if the show aint that great, at least you can go back upstairs and continue the party. It was great to see the Blowtops, since they were unable to play in Buffalo because of their impending tour. They put on a great set, especially since the tour Organ broke and Tracy had to resort to playing bass for the whole set. And hey Flipper and Mummies covers? Perfect. Their touring companions, The Sworn Liars were great and nice guys as well, full of energy and great songs. Somehow, their singer lost his pants during the set, but that's Cologne for you. Following the show we retired to the upstairs lounge, which was fun up until I time-traveled to the following morning, waking up in a bunk with Otter curled up beside me and Aaron Blowtop gently kicking me with the message: "Get up. We're going to Frankfurt."

We stopped briefly (briefly as in, less that 10 minutes) at Cologne's fabled cathedral, aka the Dome. Yeah, it's a big, big church. And I've seen a lot of big, big churches so I know. It was Sunday and they were having service, but you could still go partially inside. I brought all Otter in among the throng to witness the majesty, but was quickly ushered out by the staff. Apparently God is a cat person.

We arrived in Frankfurt some 2 hours later, where I was allowed to sneak in to the hotel with them and stake out a little floor space for an extended nap. Frankfurt is a lovely city, but we were all a little worse for wear, so the night was mostly uneventful. The interesting thing about Germany is that the further you get fom Berlin the less English people speak, so some misunderstandings about the menu in the asian resturaunt we ate at resulted in a comically obscene amount of food, which further aided our sloth. We spent the night in the hotel room crowded around the tiny television, drinking Becks and watching Quest For Fire - the perfect film for the language challenged.

November 5th, 2007
The Blowtops had to fly back to the states and I had to get to work, so I bid a farewell and hopped a train back to the Hauptbahnhoff (main station), and slept my way back to cold, cold Berlin. The weather was quite a change, seeming almost arctic compared to Frankfurt, even though the change was a matter of a few degrees. Perhaps it is the weight of the past that makes the air colder, but whatever the case I needsoe gloves. After pixel pushing for a while Lina came back to the flat and we headed out to see A Pony Named Olga again, at a joint called White Trash Fast Food. The looks of the place couldn't be more different than its name, as I expected to find some kind of crummy '50s style diner and instead entered something of a Victorian mansion, suggesting a family more Addams than Cleaver. I guess the place is owned by some US expats, and employs a number of American escapees. There are two stages, one in the resturaunt and one downstairs for larger shows -I'm sure I'll be spending a fair amount of time here in the future.

November 6th, 2007
One thing I've been reading about in my guidebooks is the local streetfood called Currywurst, a sliced sausage with spiced ketchup poured on top. Lina took me to Kreuzberg to Curry 36, arguably the best of the wurst (sorry). Here's my verdict, I ate it, because I will eat anything remotely bad for you. I can't really say it was good, but I know I'll be drunk at some point in the future and the only thing that will satisfy the boozebeast will be that damn sausage. I've told Lina that she is under no circumstances to allow me to have it, but if my Berlin protector isn't there to defend me, well...I fear the wurst. (I...can't...stop...)

Jets to Berlin

Welcome to Post The First, the first post in a series of posts to be posted forthwith. There are many places where I could have started this blog, but I figured my Berlin arrival as the most prudent. Which is not to say that the weeks prior to my arrival here havent had their share of dramatic peaks and valleys. And while the details of such events would provide some interesting existential blog-fodder, but those of you who know me well know all that crap already. In summation, after twelve rainy years in Seattle I had something of a pre-mid-life-crisis, and so, with the help of many incredible friends, I sold my house, put all my stuff in storage, and moved myself and my dog, Otter, to Austin, Texas.

That was the easy part.

Part two of my plan involves a three month working tour of Europe with Otter, which is where we find ourselves today.

After finishing up the last of my "Fest Fest" (GonerFest, Pain In The Big Neck, BudgetRock) I left San Francisco for Berlin, a city I've never been to. My biggest worry for the trip was how Otter would take it, as I had previously thought that she would have to ride in the cargo hold, assailed by airplane rats, cold, and bitter boredom. Instead, I found an underseat carrier (The Sherpa!) which insured our ten-plus hour flight would be spent together. Half a doggie sleeping pill later and she was out for the duration, with not so much as a bark to indicate her presence to my seatmates. Prior to jetting out, I had all sorts of documentaion prepared, stamped, and double-stamped by vets and government authorities to insure that Otter was rabies free and would not bring the European Union to a festering, diseased rubble with her eleven pounds of black terror. No one looked at any of it, which has completely blown my stereotypical notion of Germanys famous preoccupation with identification. Having to show no papers, her journey was completely uneventful and accident free.

Our United flight was on an aged 747, the kind with a pull-down screen for movies shown via digital projector. My last trip to Europe three years ago was a British Airways funfest, complete with seat-back entertainment and a variety of movies and tv shows to pass the time. Here, we had a programmed quadfecta of crap, featuring Evan Almighty, License To Wed, The Transformers and No Reservations. I popped a couple sleeping pills as soon as I buckled in, so my flight consisted of sleep punctuated by periodic moments of druggy awakeness filled with glimpses of Steve Carrell in a beard, robots fighting, Robin Williams doing Robin Willimas crap, and Katherine Zeta Jones in a resturaunt. These scenes combined might make for a pretty awesome flick, but I pity the poor souls who watched these turkeys individually. Congratulations United -you have the worst taste in the industry!

But lets get to Berlin, which admittedly at this point I have not seen much of. It is approaching winter here with darkend skies and a misty air, so I couldn't help but be reminded of Seattle, and subconciously searched for the Space Needle in the skyline. A slow taxi ride from Berlin-Tegel international revealed a juxtaposition of cold war decay and brilliant modernism, traditional germanic architecture coupled with faceless facades of apartment complexes from opposing decades. We drove past the graffiti strewn Wall, but it took me about a quarter-mile to realize what I was looking at. I'll need to add Checkpoint Charlie to the tourist list, when I eventually get around to compiling it.

Which brings about another interesting change from my last European trip, which was all whirlwind backpacking and train hopping, spending but a few nigts in a budget rat trap before speeding off to the next museum. This time, I'm being put up by a friend of a friend, the extremely gracious Lina Van de Mars, who is a TV celebrity here, and being more than accomodating to Otter and I in her amazing two room flat. So the pace is radically slower, and knowing a local makes it all feel less foreign. And since I already visited and wrote about Europe before, I can skip the headings entitled "What Strange Toilets You Have" and "What, No Elevator?" Suffice it to say that Lina's pad is on the fifth floor, there are no elevators, and it took me five minutes to figure out how to flush the toilet.

As soon as I arrived she took Otter and I on a walking tour of Friedrichshain, her neighborhood. Filled with bars, restaurants, a tattoo shop downstairs, the hood is a graffiti covered hip borough where one might never need to leave. My first meal here was Thai, and there are, incredibly, a number of Thai places here to choose from. Suspiciously, I found no Pad Thai on the menu, so I wonder if that is a strictly American invention. I met the guys in the tattoo shop, and one of them owns a tourist flat that they rent out - I might be able to rent it from him at a reduced rate for my extended stay. The almighty internet in the only issue, since I am still working and need that to keep me in bratwurst.

After a brief jet lag nap, Lina and her friend Simone came back from an errand and we drank gin made by a friend in small batches, potent stuff we mixed with a ginger liquor. Next was a trip to a pizza shop owned by a friend, which serves delicious, traditional Italian pies in the ultra thin crust style, dank Prosecco mixed with Compari (I already forgot the German name for this), and met a bunch of their friends including the bass player from Lina's band The Payback Five and an awesome tattoer/piercer from Zurich named Rock. And while my lack of German has certainly kept me out of a few conversations, I never felt left out although I do feel stupid for making people repeat their stories to me in English. I do love the sound of spoken German, and I hopefully I will have a rudimentary grasp of it before I leave. And so after many prosecco-comparis and a few tallll beers we made our way home to my lovely red couch where I slept the sleep that only jetlag and gin can provide.

Next: Pictures! (I promise)