Thursday, June 30, 2011

BERLIN: October, 2000 (Part 6)

The next morning I wandered into KaDeWe, Berlin's largest department store — comparable, I'm told, to Harrods in London. William and I had our two-year anniversary coming up and I wanted to get him something special. The store, opened in 1907, now employs over two thousand people to sell its high-end wares on nine floors.

In men's accessories, I found a black leather wallet for William. The salesman, efficient and exceedingly professional, boxed, wrapped and handed me the gift. For a moment I pretended to be a rich European, as if this shopping expedition were an everyday occurrence.

Danke, I whispered. He didn't leak any opinion of me and I smoothly moved away, elegant KaDeWe bag in hand, and rode escalators to the apex of the building. As if cresting the peak of an oceanic wave, I arrived at the top floor and paused at the culinary vista spread before me.

Chefs in tall poplin hats and white twill jackets expertly flashed knives and sliced through roasted meats or filleted, pan-fried fish at myriad eating stations. A vast array of cheese, meat, fish, bread and pastries in sparkling glass cases overwhelmed my eyes and revved up serious salivating. The delicacies department in the KaDeWe is a glittering salute to all things gourmet.

For a late-evening picnic with William, I chose a tangy Roquefort and a chunk of Swiss. A thick slice of chicken pâté, a loaf of rustic farmer's bread, and a bottle of Riesling would provide a Willkommen for William. The next morning I would fly away for six days.

But now, perched high on a leather stool at a stainless-steel counter, I ordered a glass of white wine and feasted on a baked potato stuffed with browned mushrooms and sautéed spinach. On the side, a spicy red cabbage salad.

I ate and watched the hoi polloi of Berlin shop for...what? A special cocktail party, a business lunch, or just a family dinner. What a hell of a way to eat. I could live on the top floor of the KaDeWe.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

BERLIN: October, 2000 (Part 5)

Here's what I knew about us after two years together:

OPPOSITES ATTRACT









he likesshe likes
late nightsearly mornings
new thingsold things
sweetsalty
actiondrama
fantasyreal
sleepingbike rides
crosswordsyoga
pizza inItalian out
staying hometraveling
blinds closedblinds open

I learned what made William nervous about foreign travel. He didn't want to offend, get lost or stick out — all things bound to happen in the face of another language, currency, culture and landscape. I too could be apprehensive, but tended to jump in anyway, whereas he was content to remain on the sidelines.

We walked under and through the Brandenburg Gate into a crowd that bopped to live rock music, quaffed steins of beer and munched hot sausages. We bought our own sausage sandwiches and settled at a picnic table to people-watch.

This is the furthest I've been away from the Madison since I got here, William mused.

Directly behind the hotel was a high-rise mall with shops, movie theatres and a supermarket. On his one day off a week, William slept in, did laundry, bought groceries and maybe went to an English-language movie. Walking a total of perhaps three hundred feet from the Madison. If I hadn't come to Berlin, I'm not sure William would have seen much more than that. This is his nature, while mine is to coax and lure him into the world. The die was cast and we would be ever thus. The prodder and the prod.

William's work days began early and ended after ten at night. This left me alone to explore Berlin. I bought a seven-day bus and train pass. Berlin's subway trains are fast, quiet and clean; the buses smooth and efficient. I was struck, again, by a skyline etched in the silhouettes of cranes. The hammering of construction created the city's soundtrack.

Berlin is home to a large Turkish population. After a long morning walk, I stopped at a street vendor for a doner kebab, which is a Turkish wrap sandwich. Hot tender lamb and grilled vegetables crammed into fluffy pita bread. To work that off, I wandered over to the shell of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church.

Bombed in the war and nearly destroyed, Berliners have kept the remains of this church as a testament to what happened in their city. Its charred walls droop in a kind of artsy slouch. Newly built architecture has been added to the carcass, creating a modern sanctuary able to house 1,200 worshippers. Because so much of the former West Berlin had been replaced, it was evocative to see evidence of another time.

I bought a ticket and attached myself to a walking tour led by a young American fellow. We would venture a total of seven miles, beginning with Tiergarten Park and the Brandenburg Gate. We looked high up at the Reichstag, home of the German parliament. Reopened in 1999 after years of architectural renovation, including its signature glass dome, it was once again the hub of German politics.

Our tour continued into the former East Berlin, where grey monoliths of ugly Communist apartment housing still existed. We saw remnants of the Wall and took photos of the square guard box known as Checkpoint Charlie. We found the recently excavated site of Hitler's suicide bunker, where he and Eva Braun kicked off, and I was reminded it wasn't all that long ago his horrific reign existed. Knowing it as a historical event and then standing where it actually happened instantly transformed the concept into reality for me.

I thought of every movie I'd ever seen about WWII or the Cold War, with their black-and-white images of frightened people. It was chilling enough to step on the grave of a monster, but on that sunny, blue-skied afternoon, I didn't know it was a foreshadowing of further October adventures.

After the walking tour, I visited the "Topography of Terror," an outdoor museum strung along a preserved piece of the Berlin Wall. The site is where Nazi and SS headquarters stood before Allied bombing destroyed them. The exhibit tells the story of the Nazi rise to power and the hellish torture of the Gestapo. Black-and-white photos lay bare the rounding up of the Jewish, gypsy, intellectual and gay populations, along with details of the Nuremberg Trials. Excavations in 1987 unearthed Gestapo cellars where political prisoners were tortured and killed.

My long day ended with a meander home in a light rainfall. The sunny autumn weather disappeared and I wanted a glass of wine, a hot dinner and my boyfriend. He came home unusually early at seven-thirty. We supped on spaghetti and played Scrabble, and I told of what I'd seen in Berlin and how disturbing it was to be up close to that terrifying regime. We tucked into bed, and wrapped tight in his arms, I hoped the images of the day wouldn't seep into my dreams.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

BERLIN: October, 2000 (Part 4)

The Madison sat across from the gigantic Sony building. William had sent me digital pictures of the neighborhood and I could confirm I was in the right place. I flew up to his floor, stepped out of the elevator, found his door, and tapped.

There are few sounds as gleeful as the footsteps of true love running to greet its very own. His tip-tapping feet made me smile. Whoosh, the door opened and, from the look on his face, I guessed William was equally amazed I'd come so far.

The studio apartment, with its Japanese aesthetic of hardwood floors and tawny stained doors, looked fresh and welcoming. Off the bedroom area, double doors led into a green-glass and marble bathroom. An efficiency kitchen shimmered in stainless steel and dark granite.

William opened a bottle of red wine and we toasted our reunion. He fried up a couple of bratwurst links, placed them on wheat bread, and spread spicy mustard on top. For William, Germany was sausage heaven. At almost every street corner one could find a seller grilling away. The cool air of those October days was permeated with the scent of seasoned meats that could tempt even the most determined vegetarian.

After a hot bath in a luxurious tub, we crawled under silky white sheets and a fluffy white duvet. I slept the deepest of sleeps after, good God, seeing Paris and getting to Berlin all the way from Los Angeles — in one day.

William had the next day off and we slept until noon. I awoke rested and ready for a new world. After coffee, I pushed open a heavy apartment window, a sturdy example of Germanic construction. We were situated in a bustling, well-trafficked area of the city, but couldn't hear a thing with those windows closed. I looked far below to the street, where people called to each other and the sounds of honking wafted up on a breeze of barbecued sausage.

Since the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and the reunification of East and West Berlin in 1990, the city had become enormous. From our apartment window I studied a skyline marked with construction cranes perched high on the glass and steel marvels growing across the landscape. For architecture buffs, Berlin had quite a show going on.

And what a day to wake up in this city, the third of October in the year 2000. It was the tenth anniversary of the reunification and the city was poised to party. We started with a stroll through the Tiergarten, a lush, tree-filled park covering one square mile with fourteen linear miles of swirling paths running through it. An urban glen comparable to London's Hyde Park or New York City's Central Park.

In 1772, Frederick II (the Great), King of Prussia, decreed that any couple wishing to marry or any person wishing to become a citizen must plant a tree. There's a thought. He was an early green guy and the city flourished in flora until it didn't...during WWII.

The trees canopied over us were a mere fifty years old. During the Allied bombings, the park was destroyed and most trees were lost. In the years following the war, any remaining growth was used for fuel as Berliners faced harsh winters. The Allies placed guards around the Berlin Zoo after some citizens climbed the walls and slaughtered animals for food.

As we left the park, I looked down and noticed the embedded print of the former wall. This was it. We were walking on top of a curved and harmless pattern of The Wall. The source of broken families, restriction, espionage and death, reduced to a worn stencil.

We followed the wall's path to the formidable Brandenburg Gate, an edifice commissioned by Frederick II to act as a symbol of peace. Minus the twenty-eight long years of anguished separation between East and West, the gate can now do its job. On October 3, 2000, this was the focal point for Berliners celebrating their anniversary.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

BERLIN: October, 2000 (Part 3)

Berlin's Tegel Airport is situated five miles outside the city. The metropolis has grown to eight times the size of Paris, at 340 square miles, since the reunification of East and West Berlin.

William's hotel, the Madison, was located in the neighborhood of Potsdamer Platz. Because William didn't know how tight his work schedule would be, I assured him I could find my way to the Madison. I did some research and, what did you know, the airport shuttle stopped right in front of the hotel. I changed U.S. dollars to Deutschmarks, found the bus and hopped on. On the ride I whipped up doubts about my research and teetered up the aisle to query the driver.

Potsdamer Platz? I asked in a small voice. My Parisian confidence had disappeared.

He nodded, but I wasn't certain that he understood me.

Madison hotel? He nodded again, more firmly this time, and I entirely missed his hint to get back to my seat and leave him alone. Instead, I stayed next to him and hung on to the metal post. We both stared out the front windshield as if I had suddenly appropriated the position of co-captain.

Fortunately, for everyone's safety, the driver ignored me and kept his eyes glued to the road. It couldn't be this simple, could it? This bus stopping exactly where I needed to be? But I had nothing else to say. I only knew hello, good-bye, please and thank you in German.

Danke, I squeaked, finally careening back to my seat to sightsee nighttime Berlin. We sped past pizza parlors, little brick apartment buildings and wide boulevards full of trees. I pressed my face against the glass and wished I was with those people drinking wine, laughing and eating spaghetti.

The bus passed the few older buildings left standing in Berlin after World War II. Destroyed in the war by some fifty thousand tons of bombs, Berlin today was a city in transition. During the war, a thousand bombs a day were dropped on the city. Ten percent of them never exploded and continue to be a hazard when construction crews dig up the metal cigar-shaped tubes. Crews at Tegel airport alone have excavated more than five hundred bombs.

As we left the older buildings behind and transitioned to an ultramodern world of skyscrapers, I popped my head forward, hoping to catch the driver's attention. Perhaps he'd forgotten my stop. Potsdamer Platz. I whispered it over and over. Potsdamer Platz, Potsdamer Platz....It felt good in my mouth, like a hard candy. Other passengers disembarked along the way and soon I was the only one left on the bus, in the dark, in a foreign city with a burly driver....Potsdamer Platz. Potsdamer Platz....

Scheiße.

I took a deep breath, held it, and decided to believe that the driver and I were in agreement on the goal: The Madison hotel in...yes...Potsdamer Platz. Saying it calmed my nerves.

And then, there it was. Gleaming and new: The Madison. My new home. Through its glass doors was a sharp, contemporary lobby. I was relieved and wanted to hug the driver, but he didn’t seem up for that. After a few too many dankes, I stepped onto the street, bag in hand, and waved "so long" to the driver. He displayed no reaction.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

PARIS: October, 2000 (Part 2)

The train sped past countryside and into the suburbs of Paris. Graffiti splashed across cement buildings and I thought, Some things are not so different.

I chose the fourth arrondissement as my destination. This is the location of Notre Dame. Climbing up from the Metro tunnel, I saw cathedral spires, a crystal-blue sky and then the Seine. Everything bathed in a wash of sienna October light. I leaned giddily over a stone wall and studied the river. Lovers picnicked on the cement bank, painters and booksellers sold their works from booths along the cobblestone walkway. Damn, this really was a movie.

I wandered curving alleys. I bought a paper cone stuffed with grilled meat and greasy French Fries. I joined the picnickers and dangled my feet over the riverbank edge toward the water. Don't tell me I'm not French.

After lunch, I discovered St. Julien-le-Pauvre, the oldest church in Paris. Empty, dusty, dark and medieval. As I opened the heavy doors, dust particles spun in bits of light leaking through stained glass. The wooden pews creaked and I sat all alone, wrapped in history. The ancient chancel had me wondering: How did this building survive fires, revolutions and World Wars?

I left that church for a look at the cathedral of Notre Dame. Unlike St. Julien-le-Pauvre, Notre Dame crawled with tourists. I much preferred my singular experience at the former sanctuary.

It was time to head back to the airport for a flight to Berlin to find William. I would return to Paris later in the month, and exited la cité that day with romance humming in my heart.