You are here: Berlinale

The flight may have been delayed, but now it's arrived...and I will definitely fly with this airline again. Tickets provided by Tegus

who chose brilliantly. Kauwboy and Kid-Thing, strange consonances, not only with the K's: both about blond kids androgynous in the way pre-pubescents are, both with eerie birthday party scenes, both with absent mothers/insufficient fathers....but at the same time completely different in texture. I wasn't surprised to see Richard Linklater's name associated with Kid-Thing, because the film's rhythms and silences reminded me of Slacker.

For more on Kauwboy:

http://www.berlinale.de/en/programm/berlinale_programm/datenblatt.php?film_id=20122113#id=20122113

For more on Kid-Thing:

http://www.berlinale.de/en/programm/berlinale_programm/datenblatt.php?film_id=20124644

Tegus will no doubt be in charge of ticketing next year, too. Now that I think about it, she was also responsible for our surprise evening of noses-in-basil-trees cocktails, ceviche, hip mullet-sporting German waiter-cum-crackers and cowgirl dancing. Yee-ha. At

You just need to ring the bell beside the unmarked door under the Friedrichstrasse station bridge and you're transported. Something like drinking from the bottle that says "drink me". We certainly did.

You are here: Beatpol

Yes, it's in Dresden but doesn't feel like it, and not only because it's hiding in a corner you'd normally never stumble upon. I don't know what it used to be, maybe a dance hall? It's like a vintage dress. There's a balcony/walkway around the main space and decorative molding on the ceiling, but some of the sequins are missing and one strap's unraveling. Precisely why you adore it. That, and when you wear it you expect and often experience, an adventure. Twice it worked for me: Kayo Dot and then a German band I can't remember the name of with a weird sister playing weird instruments. (That second evening continues to reverberate lusciously in spin-offs, but that's another tale). Unfortunately on Friday the strap broke and I had to stand around holding my dress up. Like the band that night, I was crippled. Sorry, Tennessee, if you ever read this, I lied: I didn't like it. That's why I was distracted and attracted by the smell of coffee brewing behind me and took a picture of it. Then I played a words with friends with follower number 1 (hey there, thanks for following! I need a geographical alias for you so I can mention you by name here. And since you're the first to join, you get to choose!) and texted follower number 2 (hey, there, thanks for following! I need a geographical alias for you so I can mention you by name here. And since you're the second to join, you get to choose!) and looked around in horror at the wild facial bush sprouting on the mostly male audience members. I'm still glad I wore the dress again, tho, and I'm sure I can repair the strap. Here's what it looks like:
http://www.beatpol.de/
And feels like sometimes:
http://www.kayodot.net
I'd love to remember the weird-sister band's name if anyone can help me. I think they were from Stuttgart?




 

You are here: London

I fell in love with London walking from my slip of a hotel room to a reception in Bloomsbury square on an early March evening that could have been May. Exuberance is the word for what I felt. I tend to be suspicious of love at first sight (why, actually?) so I hasten to say this was not my first encounter. I've spent many a page there with the likes of Mr. Dickens and Ms. Austen as well as one memorable winter weekend with my friend whom I'll call London here in honor of her much longer love affair with the city. This time, though, I fell hard. My literary memory merged with my reality--in this case a fine thing--and it was like the rush of the first paragraph of Mrs. Dalloway, except evening, not morning. Everything else I saw that weekend only intensified my crush. Little things like this sign:

And these trees:

Plus, I'm sure you've heard the tired saying that X city or country is great except for the Xers? Emphatically not the case in London. London and Londoners, a synergistic jackpot. I took Mr. Poe with me on a pub crawl (knew he would enjoy himself) and was charmed when he was mistaken for Mr. Whitman by some friendly folks at the Pineapple:

By the way, you can take your very own Poe out for a stroll:
 http://outofprintclothing.com/

And while I'm making endorsements, in London I also debuted the pink clutch (which crossed the Atlantic twice before landing in my sweaty palms--but that's another tale). Fabulous. The zipper pockets can be on the outside (for access) or inside (sleeker) and it hangs divinely from the wrist. Light as a feather.
http://www.etsy.com/shop/HomemadeBags

You are here: Gerhard Richter's Panorama

I remember a Wayne Thiebaud exhibition in Boston. It was all cakes. I loved it. Love cake. Could live on cake alone for days.  But this! It's the whole menu and more, and I wanted to eat it all and lick my fingers. I did, in fact, and was still hungry, so I brought some home in a doggy bag. Not the same as sitting at the table, but I'm willing to share my leftovers:

Not satisfied with the reheated version? Run don't walk:

www.gerhardrichterinberlin.org/

You are here: running in Verona

Not that you get the wrong idea. Running did occur, though the light was not as fantastic on race day. See proof of running below:

 I finished in 2 hours 4 minutes 37 seconds, chip time (the one that's important to me). I attribute my success to my excellent cheerleader, Ohio, who was liable to pop out from behind any corner, any time. She even took video! If I had it, I'd post it so you could appreciate her cheering talents--she might even be amenable to doing cheerleading gigs, I dunno. 
Another thing to clear up: I swallowed the gel, no prob, chased the second one down with warm tea (!) being handed out at a "water" table. I did not wear a wig (wasn't prepped on the dress code), but I did wear the sponge they gave me with my number (see below)--so glad my more experienced sister cleared up the mystery behind that one. Of course, to prevent chafing!

 

 yellow thing is a totally normal, square kitchen sponge

So, anyone want to meet me in Vienna to do the marathon there on April 15?? I mean as a relay team, I have no intention of doubling the Verona distance. Todd, the other American in the Verona race highly recommended it....I'll let you wear my sponge....?

You are here: Verona

Iconic.

 the light. the coffee.

Speaking of light: "But soft..." Oops, not a balcony.

You are here: sauna-temple

The problem is, I should be doing this every day.

Since Verona (and I haven't even blogged about that experience yet!) I've been in a few other places on the map, both literal and figurative/virtual. London, for example. And Upper Lusatia. That's where I experienced the following....and not for the first time...

Aufguss 
or Getting Naked and Very Hot with Strangers

As I was saying, I spent some time in Upper Lusatia recently (the English makes it sound sooo exotic) and enjoyed the pleasures of an extensive spa area or "wellness temple" as it was called in our hotel. In fact the central area was constructed to look like the Parthenon with a glassed-in central window. That was as far as the temple similarities went--unless you count the fireplace which maybe recalls eternal flames burning for some god or goddess or other. I may be wrong, but I don't think the temples of the ancient world were equipped with so many and varied upholstered surfaces for lolling about and recovering between rounds in the sauna. 

Avid sauneurs, we requested (or prayed to the gods for) an Aufguss. Our prayer was answered, and at the sound of a gong (really) we were summoned to the altar (Finnish sauna). So were some other people, the strangers I mentioned above. The "priest" (I don't know the word for the one who performs the "ceremony," but in my experience it has always been a man) was very young, a sort of Ganymede, his loins draped with a madras cloth. We, the worshipers, lounged on benches, loincloth-less. And then the fun began: Ganymede dips his ladle in citrus-scented water and sprinkles the sauna stones which sizzle and steam. He then whips out his....damp towel and wields it lasso-style above his head. I don't know what else he does with it because I've closed my eyes as steamy vapor descends on me in hot waves. I do know he then flaps the open towel multiple times in front of each of us--more hot-wave action--sending you into a full, pouring sweat. A bucket of crushed ice is passed around, rubbed on skin, held to the backs of necks and the whole procedure is repeated. After the second round we go out on the patio briefly for fresh air, then reenter the sauna for the third and last round. Followed up with a cool glass of citrus water. And a shower, of course. Cleansing. Delightful.