Fashion Reich

My guide to vintage shopping in Berlin, as featured in the lovely, shiny, press your face to the pages glossy magazine Black Book.

An unexpected continuation of The Saga of The Black Leather Mini Skirt

The trouble with fashion is that certain pieces don’t always translate. The smooth long vowels of one language become jarred and awkward in another setting, and soon enough all that was great about a certain thing gets lost in what comes from being a slightly different you, in a very different place. As someone who moves around a fair amount, I am very aware of this. The yards of brown string and wooden beads, while perfectly fitting on a Kenyan beach, will lose any appeal under a grey London sky. London shoes are not Berlin shoes. A Parisian outfit in Cape Town will suddenly look overdone. And I know this. I really do. Which is why The Skirt has taken to a shelf since my return to London. In Berlin, The Skirt was in its element. It was a perfect piece. It solved all of my skirt dilemmas. I was absolutely content in my skirt wearing. Oh, how I loved that skirt. However, when I got back to London, something about The Skirt wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something certainly was amiss. Some days I would put the skirt on, um and ah, and invariably, just before leaving the house, throw on an alternate leg covering instead. Needless to say, The Skirt hasn’t exactly been on centre stage since its Berlin heyday.

But last night, that all changed. I decided I was going to embrace the long lost love of said skirt. I wore it to work. Obviously, as it a SMALL skirt, made of LEATHER, one walks a fine line with it. Things that are not recommended as a pairing, unless Eastern Bloc Prostitute is the look one is trying to achieve: Stilettos, very low cut tops, extremely tight tops, any other form of leather clothing (not shoes, read: bustier, jacket, waistcoat, etc.) In light of this, I wore my skirt with a pair of light beige ankle boots, an oversized sailor striped t-shirt and my customary top knot. It’s a casual look. IT WAS CASUAL. Anyhow, happy enough that my skirt was back in the game, I picked up my record case, donned my fur coat and headed out the door. Now, in retrospect maybe the fur wasn’t the best idea, sartorially speaking. Maybe, when the casual sailor shirt was hidden under the hip length fur, the look was decidedly less..... dare I say casual again? But it was cold and it’s my warmest coat, so I wore it.

On my way to the bus stop, an SUV that was driving by slowed down and pulled up next to me. In the style of every bad film noir movie ever made, the driver’s window slid ominously down. In the car, two huge Russians leered at me. In Russian, they had a brief exchange. The driver leaned out of the window, his one arm reaching toward me. His lip curled. And then he asked the question that no girl ever, ever ever ever wants to be asked.
‘How Much?’
I literally stopped walking I was so shocked. Appalled even. Insulted. And a bit hurt. I could do nothing but gape. I didn’t even have a caustic remark, not even an acrid sound to defend myself. A few days ago, when I was having a particularly trying day, a drunk man on the tube made a snotty comment about my top knot, likening it to a pineapple on my head, and I actually hissed at him. What I would’ve given just then to find within myself the sharp, snake like sound that would be an all encompassing portrayal of my reaction to the question, the hiss that would not only say, ‘No, I am not a prostitute’ but would also convey the sentiments of ‘Fuck You Very Much.’ But no. There was no sound in me. Instead, I shut my mouth that had previously fallen agape, gave the driver a withering look and shook my head in bewilderment, mostly to myself. And on I continued to work, every so often looking down at The Skirt and berating its existence. ‘I thought we were in this together.’ I told it. ‘How can you betray me like that?’ And ‘It’s all your fault you know. If I had just left you at home and worn one of your more sensible wardrobe buddies that never would’ve happened.’ The Skirt said nothing. It didn’t even try and defend itself. So as far as it all goes, I don’t know if London is ready for The Skirt. Maybe it’s a Berlin thing after all.

Later that night, when I told Laura the story, in all the horror of being so easily mistaken for a prostitute, she linked her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. “On the bright side,” she said, “you look so hot that they wanted to pay to have sex with you.”

Paris vs Berlin

It’s a question I’ve had over and over in the last few months, “So, which did you prefer? Paris or Berlin?"

It’s on odd thing, the way those two seem to be, to most, the ultimate in atmospheric city competition and simply cannot co-exist in the intrepid wanderer’s heart. I find it particularly curious as when I returned from Shanghai, no one declared, “Shanghai or Hong Kong? You must choose!” Similarly, there has never been any need for me state a preference between Christchurch and Sydney or Champagne and Franschoek, Barcelona or Brooklyn. But having lived in both Paris and Berlin, it appears that I am meant to find myself drawn more toward one than the other.

One thing I have heard numerous times, without any prompting, “Berlin is so you! More so than Paris!” As if I had preceded this statement with some confession of how I was never really all that comfortable buying baguettes twice a day and eating figs for breakfast every morning. For the record, no such thing is true. The honest truth is that I love Paris. I loved it then, I love it now. I miss it. I often read apartment listings longingly, wiishing the pound to gain in strength against the now almighty euro and bid my return to My Beautiful Paris. But the statement, the casual brush off of “Berlin is so you, Paris isn’t” is such a sideswipe it has often left me reeling. How am I not Paris? Are my shoes not designer enough? A quick glance at my shelves proves otherwise, spotted: Gucci, Versace, McQueen, Louboutin, Gina, Giles Deacon, Pucci, etc. No, i think I own sufficient snobbish footwear to qualify to Paris. What is it then? Am I not elegant streets and window boxes and city beaches in July? Am I not sidewalk cafes and wine in the afternoon and hot, buttery garlicky escargots and silk scarves and Laduree and coral lipstick in the cracks of the mouths of the old women in their moth eaten furs on the threadbare carpets of the beautifully dilapidated tea salons, eating nicoise salads, feeding the hard boiled eggs to their dogs? How am I not Paris, as much as I am a bit of everywhere that that I have ever been?

I don’t feel that I’ve gone anywhere and not taken something from it. It’s true I may not be Paris through and through, because I am also a little bit cold Methode Cap Classique in Robertson’s thundering rain, Shark Kites in Shanghai’s night sky, Milk Dumplings in Ningbo’s private dining halls, the thrill of cyclone in Coney Island and eating pizza at 5am in New York’s Lower East Side and Tuscany’s tiny passage ways and kid sized cars. I’m at least a fraction watermelon cocktails and blown out tyres under brutal Spanish sun and a tiny bit of those little pewter coloured pottery bowls bought on the side of the road in Swaziland, and just a hint of the Mozambique sunrise and a whiff of the dhows and dawas in Mombassa. A little bit British, a good handful of African red earth and the smell of gum trees and petrol and spice and hair cream and Zam-Buk.

How am I not one place as much as anywhere I have been?

And how am I so Berlin? How am I Berlin more so than anywhere else?

Berlin is a confused city. It bears its scars. It is, in my opinion, the only major western city that would do something like leave the bombed out spire of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church as is and make no attempt to mask it, rather to preserve it as a testament to loss. Berlin makes no qualms of its scars, its past. They are plain enough to see. As if finding shame in its past would equate a dismissal of its self, its bones. Berlin has long lived under a fragmented rule. It has been pulled apart by separate governing states. It has been burned. It has been bombed. It has been literally divided in thought and process and physicality. And even now, its identity is being forged. Even now, all these years after the war and the wall. Berlin is still learning how to be. It’s no wonder it is such a haven for the worlds poets, punks and general lost souls. At least in Berlin, you are always almost in sync with a city struggling to find its way, stumbling over its own feet, just as you are.

So maybe, in this way, I am Berlin. Fragmented. Stateless. Divided.

Bye Bye Berlin

Thanks for the drinks. For the broken boots, the skirt, the crumple effect outside Zozoville after too much jagermeister. Thanks for the smell of firewood in the morning and the way the air bites my fingers and cheeks and nose, the long wide roads, the masses of greenery I didn’t expect you to have. Thanks for the cupcakes, the spaetzle, the brunches, the late night burgers, the art, the races, the beer, Habarmayer, soup bundles, massive scarves, the beautiful people, the tram, the apartment big enough to do cartwheels in. And the bookshops. Did I mention the bookshops? And for the dogs I don’t even like, the tiny children peddling furiously on the tiny bicycles, the rigorous recycling routine, the clinking, The Big Pink, the visitors, the heavenly food halls, the fall of the wall. Not to forget the toasters and old army boots and soft toys hanging from the windows of the squats and all the green hair in Friedrichshain. The punks and vegan shoe criminals, the beasts, DDR era style, woven polo shirts, the love graffiti. 2am beer runs, Turkish shops, tiny glasses of hot black tea while waiting for falafel, the free wine bar, the Bronx accent, the big boots on the u-bahn, the wet mist. And for the smell of the air as you near Winter.

Thanks Berlin. You’ve been kind to me. I’ll come see you again soon.

Berlin's illustrious October showing

You can have a little look see at October in Berlin over here.

This part is the same as it's ever been...

I am dreading my departure from Berlin. Nothing emotional here, I swear, I am simply dreading the actual act of having to move my things into a two canvas receptacles and carry them, bag lady style, onto several modes of transport. My current estimation, barring any unforeseen S-Bahn nightmares, stands at 5: U-Bahn, S-Bahn, Plane, Bus and then Taxi. The last two should read Easyjet shuttle bus and then big red TFL Bus but I know that by the time I arrive at Victoria I will be flirting with losing my will to live and will in all probability cave and get a taxi.

I am sad to be leaving but in all honesty I make it my business to leave places. I never want to go, but I always do. I try not to dwell on it too much, I just up and leave. It’s quite possibly both the best and worst thing about me. So even if I am not all that keen on departing my current location, I always enjoy where I am going next. And so I continue doing it, this ridiculous cycle that appears to have no end in sight. Anymore, it’s the bit in-between I don’t love. It’s not the flying, which I am fine with. It’s not even the airports, the waiting, the queues, the ridiculously overpriced and always horrific coffee. No. It’s the carrying stuff. I hate carrying stuff. It’s awkward and heavy and it makes my shoulders hurt and then my jacket twists around and gets caught in my bag strap and I start to overheat and berate myself for not working out, for not being more physically capable of the stupid act, and then my hands will hurts and there is always a point, somewhere along the line, where I just want to drop my bags, drop myself onto them, put my head in my hands and have a small but distinct weep. Nothing too dramatic. No ugly cry face and heaving sobs, my hat falling forwards off my head and my knees giving out under me and the ensuing human crumple effect. No, something dignified. A single glistening tear, a shuddering breath. You know. That sort of thing.

Anyway, like most horrendous tasks, it’s always best to keep an idea of your end goal in mind. A bit of motivation, the carrot on a string, if you will. So, with my return to London and the hell it will take to get there, my carrot on a string (read: cupcake) list goes something like this:
(please note I am excluding people as if I start naming names, or not naming them, as the case might be, I am asking for trouble.)

Good Glassware
My apartment in Berlin, while huge and fantastic, is where ugly shit has come to die. It’s oddly laid out, strangely furnished (did I fail to mention previously this apartment has no dining table but an inexplicable 16 chairs? SIXTEEN!) and the cutlery, crockery and general kitchen items leave much to be desired. I am a bit of a glass snob and like my wine glasses big as bell jars and so thin that the tap of a fingernail at the wrong angle results in rogue cracks and broken stems. In Berlin I have been drinking my wine out of small tumblers that look akin to tea light holders. Which is fine when you’re in Italy and there are old men drinking grappa and playing cards all around you and the wine comes in unmarked bottles and is sloshed more than poured. But I’m not in Italy. I’m in Berlin. And I have missed good wine glasses.

Martinis
I have not had a Martini since I left London. I love Martinis. Super dry, extra dirty, with at least two olives. Berlin is a lot of things; it's punks and dogs and anarchists and hardcore fetish techno clubs. It’s also a desolate tract as far as the shaken mixed drink is concerned. Magpie and I went to a so called cocktail bar with the express intent of finding martinis, but left after 17 or so tense seconds as it was so awfully fromagey it made us have a dual mini sick. I also usually keep martini fixings at home; however one cannot drink a martini from a small tea light tumbler.

Albert Bridge
Albert Bridge is London’s most beautiful bridge. Tower Bridge can keep it’s bascules, it’s Disney castle towers. Richmond can keep it’s smooth stone arches and storybook background. For me, it is all about the pale pink and green span of Albert bridge stretching across the Thames, connecting Battersea to Chelsea. I love the view from the bridge, the little octagonal toll booths on either end, the signs that say ‘All troops must break step when marching over this bridge.’ I love the way, at night, it glows; 4000 little round light bulbs shining as if their tiny tungsten half lives depend on it.

The Sunday Papers
Lots of coffee, spreading all the sections of all the papers out, flitting between them all before dedicating myself to any one, admiring the clothes in the style sections, hating the models, hating the writers, hating the news, HATING the columnists, pretending to be more highbrow than I actually am and finally chucking it in and devouring the smut paper I’ve secretly bought and deriving masses of guilty pleasure from it.

High Heels
My feet have been languishing in flats. Berlin is too cobbled and frankly, a bit casual, to traipse around in heels all day. I’ve worn heels here in the evenings, as under the cover of darkness the cool Berliners cannot see nor sneer at my inappropriate foot wear. I’ve missed wearing high heels in the daylight. How I love a skyscraper shoe and full light in which to appreciate the full glory of it.

Meals in Chiswick that defy classification
The ones that start as brunch and turn into afternoon tea and then cocktail hour and then dinner and next thing you know, I’m sleeping in Shelley and Paul’s spare room because the trains have stopped running and there was wine involved.

So.Back to London. London again. I can’t even count anymore how many times I have left that place. Or more fittingly, I suppose, how many times I have gone back.

Tales from a perfectly typical/typically perfect weekend

Everybody has a friend like Magpie. Everyone has THAT friend, the one with the soft leather gloves, the real Coach bag, the wardrobe bursting with knitwear of which every piece is cashmere. The one with the perfectly suited boyfriend; the best dressed couple you know, the JFK and Jackie of your phone book. (albeit, hopefully without the tragic and blood stained pink Chanel end.) While it would be easy to hate this friend we all have, the fact is, we don’t. I know I don’t. I want to. She’s too clever and well put together to not want to hate, but alas, the fact is, she is brilliant. Ere go, we are friends. Berlin and I were lucky enough to play host to her this weekend. I had been very much looking forward to her trip because she understands, mirrors and sometimes surpasses my obsessions with vintage clothes stores and food.

On Friday night we went for dinner at Henne. Henne is a chicken restaurant in Kreuzberg that serves, you guessed it, chicken. Chicken, cabbage salad, potato salad and bread. That is it. For the record, along with beer and remarkable looking men, I am adding chicken to the list of things that Germans KNOW. The meal, served in half chicken portions, is milk fried. Imagine if you will, southern fried chicken, but add the delicious flavour of a roast, some german zeal and you are probably still not able to imagine even 20% of the deliciousness it possesses. We (over)ate our chicken with side orders of kraut and kartoffel salat (best potato salad ever. hands down.) and drank delicious creamy beer from white, girly sized ceramic steins. The restaurant itself looks like the inside of a log cabin, complete with red gingham table clothes, antlers and deer heads mounted on the walls and hundreds of beer bottles lined up on the picture rails.

Saturday was food markets, lunch made almost entirely of cheese, looking at beautiful shiny things in beautiful shiny shops, happening across an American Apparel rummage sale (where all the broken, returned, stained items from AA shops across Europe go and are sold for a few Euros) and joy of joys, a I found a new pair of leggings and a deliciously soft long sleeved (super, super long sleeved – hence its initial return) white vest. We bought apfel strudel, saw some buildings, sat down to eat our strudel near said buildings, coined a phrase (strudel perch: any public spot where one sits to eat something.) At home we had a dinner made almost entirely of cheese (it was a cheese day really) and incredible spelt bread we’d bought at Winterfeld Markt. Then there were bars, tequila, sand on the floor tiki huts and the long and lengthy discussions of Magpie’s upcoming dissertation proposal for her Masters Degree at the loveliest and fanciest university in England, quite possibly the world. (I told you she was clever!)

I won’t lie to you and say that anything happened on Sunday morning. Sunday morning was spent sleeping off the aforementioned tequila. I was woken early in the afternoon by a phone call from my big brother and his awesome wife. (more often referred to simply as 'my sister' but I can't talk about my married brother and sister without veering off into undeserved redneck territory.) If there is anything better than the hilarity of a drunken couple calling you from the eleventh wine farm they’ve hit that day, I haven’t heard it. It was brilliant. I also love that that they get drunk and call me. It’s like I’m their married drunk dial. It fills me with a tremendous sense of self importance. Anymore, after the phone call, we proceeded to get on with the most typical of Sundays: a lazy brunch, meandering around the neighborhood and wandering around the Boxhanger Platz Fleamarket. (Spotted: Art beast selling his wares. Be still my beating heart.)

Then it was time for Magpie to leave. Sunday night transport mayhem ensued and the painless 25 minutes journey to the airport that should have been morphed into a treacherous, heinous monster of a trip that entailed six trains (SIX!!!!), biting nails, feeling a bit sick, making several flimsy contingency plans, obsessive clock watching, sprinting through the airport, begging the staff to let her check in past the allotted check in time, rushing through security, and by all accounts, making the plane.

So. That’s it for the visitors. Berlin and I are almost about to part ways. I leave on Friday. Boo and hiss.

Confessions of a so-called "music fan"

The fall of the Berlin Wall is nearing its 20^th anniversary. The city is awash with celebrations. Having said that, most of the celebrations seem to be more for the international press than the city's inhabitants. As far as I can tell most Berliners seem more concerned with drinking on the U-Bahn than partaking in public displays of post wall affection. This afternoon, I read online that one such celebration was a free concert at Branderburger Tor. Apparently, the city of Berlin in conjunction with MTV (Oh the sweet, glorious irony!) had arranged for U2 to play a short open air set before their appearance at the MTV Europe music awards. The MTV awards are this evening. While I am by no means all that keen on U2, my interest was piqued. A free show? This evening? At the lit up Brandenburg Gate by one of the biggest bands in the world 20 years after the most closely guarded border in the world was opened?! What a spectacle that would be. Apparently the band had released 10 000 tickets on their website a few days ago and were snatched up in 3 hours. Being ticketless, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get right into the thick of things, but I thought I might pop by anyway in hopes that I might be able to spy something worthwhile on a giant TV screen from a distance. For some reason I think that everywhere is Wimbledon polite and will screen events for those too cheap/lazy to get tickets. In any case, I thought that even from a few blocks away I would be able to hear something.

So off I went. No one seemed to know exactly what time it was all starting. I waited. I waited. I stood around and waited some more. I could see the Brandenburg Gate but not the stage. (Second taste of delicious irony: To celebrate the fall of the Berlin wall, U2 play free gig at Brandenburger Tor. Free gig is blocked off by 12ft high metal fencing covered in white tarp.) I was however most certainly close enough that when music was made, I would hear it. It got later and colder and still, there was no sign of them. Was this worth it? For four songs of a band I don’t even really like? It was 5 degrees when I left the house and the temperature was plummeting. After about an hour of being jostled about by throngs of manically rude Italian tourists, a misty rain began to fall. My commitment to the whole excursion, which I had been wrestling with in typical to and fro indecisive fashion, suddenly set itself. Without much ceremony, I turned and walked against the flow of people streaming onto Unter den Linden and left.

I walked along where the wall once stood and as I grew more and more resolute in my desicion to leave, it seems so did the rain in its resolve to stay. The fine mist grew thick and fat and soon droplets of water were splattering down and bouncing up from the sidewalk. As I reached Mohrenstrasse Station, where I was to catch the (quite fittingly) U2 line toward home, I heard the distant din of a screaming crowd and the thud of a stadium rock band. I don’t know if it was real or if I imagined it, it wasn’t close enough to tell, but still, I only paused a moment before descending down the stairs to the train.

There are bands that I will stand in the rain and the cold for, but U2 simply isn’t one of them.

In other news, on the way there, my ipod froze, crashed, then died. That’s another for the list of ‘shit I own that no longer works.'

Have you ever met a man with a vagina tattooed onto his chest? Because I have.

First off, mom, dad, various aunts and uncles, you might want to skip this post. This might not make you all that happy. I am not kidding.

Okay, let me start from the beginning. James was in town in this weekend. Aside from watching the Big Pink at Lido, jacket shopping in Friedrichshain & Turkish Food, I was excited that James would be in town this last weekend for another reason: It was the last race of the season. James might not be as ridiculously obsessed as I am, but he knows his cars and is a good F1 buddy. He understands what I am talking about when I stare at the screen and mumble things like “the one stop could work out for him, but that means a long stint on the softs, which aren’t option and unless the track cool sufficiently he’s fucked. crazy brilliant tiny jap.” So on Sunday afternoon James and I go to the only place in Berlin I’ve managed to find that shows the race. It is an awful sports bar. There are Australian flags strung up. Backpackers are everywhere. No one speaks german. There is a hostel upstairs. It is the sort of place you would find in Wimbledon, the type of bar where a double shot of liquor inexplicably costs less than a single. It’s hellish. But it shows the race. So it serves my purpose. We watch the race and all is well.

The race finishes at about 4 and we have a few drinks inside of us. It’s getting dark and we decide to head out of that hell hole and go get a drink somewhere a little less depressing. We head back into Friedrishshain to a fantastic cosy little bookish bar and have a glass of wine. At about 6ish, I realise that the small bowl of chips that I ate at the sports bar is starting to wear a little thin and I am STARVING. We go have pizza (possibly the best pizza in Berlin??). We are seated at the same table as two dudes and it all goes a bit wrong. We eat their bread sticks. (We thought they were ours. They however, knew otherwise) We drank their beer. We didn’t realise we drank their beer until our beer arrived. When their pizzas arrived they made a snarky comment about how we might enjoy their pizza too. It was awkward as hell. After we eat, we go to meet James’ friend L. L works at a mammoth club in Berlin that is often said to be the best club in the world. It’s an old power station that now is hardcore techno heaven. They have a VERY STRICT no camera policy. If someone sees you with one, your ass will be on the street in a heartbeat. So, there are no pictures. Don’t ask for any. Also, this club shall remain nameless. If you know it, then you know it. If you don’t, then I’m not going to be the person to tell you. It’s better this way. I don’t want to get into trouble for disclosing the details of what might be the most literal interpretation of hedonism I've ever encountered. Anyway, L went to work at 6am on Sunday morning. She finsished her shift at 7pm on Sunday night and we went to have a drink with her at the club. This place opens on Friday night and closes at midnight on Sunday. When we went in at 8 o’clock on Sunday night, it was HEAVING. People had been there for 36 hours plus. Seriously. Time does not exist inside. There are no mirrors anywhere. There are no clocks. No windows. People are going off. Throngs of writhing bodies move as one organic mass. We walk through the club. There are mezzanines where people are making out, nodding off, talking shit, drinking and dry humping. There are dark rooms where you can nip into for a quick fuck. It’s not strictly a gay club, but I wouldn’t recommend it for anyone who is even slightly homophobic. For two reasons. Firstly, homophobia is a dickhead mentality and you shouldn’t be let out of the house. Two, you are almost guaranteed to see two guys fucking. Or at least getting head. Broken bottles are everywhere. Trails of piss and cum lead the way, Hansel and Gretel style to and from the bathroom. There are separate toilets for men and woman, but that is only a formality. People of both sexes walk into both. The bathroom is a party in itself. You wouldn’t believe that so many people could fit into such a small space. L’s boyfriend, R, having done a line of speed and an electronic music fan, dances with jazz hands. He is in general, a bit of a delight. He introduces us to a friend of his, a true Aryan boy, rail thin and beautiful, with white blond eyelashes and a lip ring, snowy blond hair that is shaved on the one side and falls over his face on the other. He is impeccably dressed, in black harem pants that sit low on his skinny hips, a just tight enough white t-shirt with a monochromatic image on the front (possibly naked 40s film star, can’t remember exactly) and the sleeves cut off, white lace up leather ankle boots. Naturally, I assume this beautiful young thing to be a rampant homosexual. He is too pretty, too well dressed, too, well, GAY, to be straight. That is the assumption I go with for a while, until L beckons me close to him, lifts his shirt with one hand and I see, on his breast bone, the most unbelievable intricate tattoo..... of a vagina. R laughs when he sees my shocked face. And then he mimics going down on it. I look again. There is something biblical about it. Literally. The clit is the Virgin Mary’s head. I will say that again. The clit. Is the Virgin Mary’s Head. My thought process went something like this:
WhyWhaHowWHoWha???WHAT????
Tattoo artists wield great power. I think that there should be some sort of psych test that a tattoo artist has to undergo before picking up an ink gun. I also think that ther should be some sort of psych test that people undergo before getting a tattoo. (Quick side note, there is a tattoo parlour in F-hain, that might qualify as the greatest tattoo parlour in the world. On the front door there is a sign. It has two red circles on it. In one circle is a Chinese symbol. In the other is a star. Both have big red lines drawn through them. Basically, if you want ‘spirit’ in Chinese tattooed on your shoulder or stars on your wrist, you can fuck off. It is BRILLIANT.) Anyway. It generally doesn’t take all that much to get somebody to mark you PERMANENTLY. Just a bit of cash. That’s all it takes. Seriously. If you have some money, then it’s not that much of a stretch to get someone to forever change the pigment of your skin so that for the rest of your days, there will be a giant, shockingly life like, gaping vagina on your chest.

So it stands to reason that the beautiful Aryan was in fact straight. After all, what gay man would EVER tattoo a vagina on their chest? A vagina with the Virgin Mary as a clit, no less. That might be gay hell. If he was gay, that would be a sure fire way to NEVER get laid. What gay men wants to be faced with a dogmatic vagina? He would have to spend the rest of his days having sex with his shirt on. So the beautiful Aryan is straight. Beautiful, blond, with the weirdest taste in tattoos ever. He also has a weird triangle thing around his belly button. I didn’t look that closely. There were other things that were taking up my attention. Clearly.
Unfortunately, I am not 100% certain what the etiquette is when faced with a such a sight. I reigned in the millions questions that were racing through my mind. Not once did I say, “WHAT THE FUCK?” I did however ask to see it again. Just once. And then I kind of nodded in an unimpressed way with sort of New Jersey Mafia lip curl and smirk, as if to say, “Yeah, cool, whatever. It aint a thang.” (Imagine the accent please.) And then we were done with it. But in my head, we were so not done with it. Every few minutes the image of it flashed in my head. And I chewed on the straw from my Whiskey and soda so that my lips did not ask the question that frankly, needed to be asked. "Why?"
Anyway, we leave the club after a few hours. It might be the best club in the world. I've heard it said. And even though I am not what you'd call a techno fan, it might be true. It's everything you want in a club.

Before we go home, James and I stop off at a Tiki bar. There is real beach sand on the floor. I love Berlin.

Mother of the Blueness

I’ve been eating speck and barley soup and drinking wine. I am bringing wine back. My body feels like the wasteland where complex carbohydrates have come to die. It’s all I can think to do. It’s winter and I want wine and soup. You can buy beautiful soup green bundles here. At Winterfeldt Markt in West Berlin they sell them all bundled up for a single Euro; two carrots, a leek, a few baby parsnips and a chunk of celeriac wrapped in twine. (Shelley would love them) A bit of speck (when in doubt, add smoked pork product to everything) and a handful of barley and you’ve got yourself a postcard worthy winter in a cup. Something about the soup makes me think of Glamorgan Road and for a few moments I am sitting at the table next to Craig eating soup out of those blue bowls with bread slathered in thick, cold butter, Matthew and Robin mercilessly making fun of us. I love winter food. Its richness, the comfort of it. How it tastes like nourishment.

Though it is technically fall, the ankle deep autumnal mulch underfoot a testament to the fact, I am already in winter mode. It’s a season for hats and scarves and popping the collar of your jacket up to shield you from the biting wind. It’s weather that makes me long for the rabbit fur snood Magpie and I are currently co-coveting. I love the smell of winter. Every time I leave my apartment I am assailed with the warm scent of firewood flooding the courtyard. It smells like trout fishing weekends and fireplaces so big you can sit inside them and nod off against the warm stone walls and card games and copper tables and glasses big as bell jars. I love the way the winter mist makes a haze of the wide streets and fogs up the headlights of the cars and make ladders of their beams. And tucking your hands into the sleeves of your jersey and sitting outside cafes with blankets over your knees, drinking hot black coffee, your breath blowing silver from your mouth.

Still, winter girl though I am, I can’t help but succumb to the mother of the blueness some days. (This by no means is something true for only winter. But I digress....) Today I went walking to try and shake it off and clear the cobwebs in my sleepy, sullen head. But I only ended up being followed half way around Prenzlauerberg by a creepy man in some sort of industrial waste cleaning uniform, who kept trying to get me go into large, wooded areas with him. After fifteen or so tense minutes, I tucked the blond bit of my hair into my bowler hat, pulled the old Rope a Dope and faked right when I in fact went left and ducked into the courtyard of a pretty church. Satisfied I’d lost the creep and happy to see there was a small organic market set up on the other side of the church, I spent some time wandering through the carts, admiring the stalls selling 12 types of apples, 54 kinds of meat. Though starving, I didn’t buy anything. I couldn’t face it to treat myself, thinking of my poor book left unloved most of last week. Terrible writer. I smack myself on both wrists and stare sullenly at the cold, unimpressed smirk of my blank notebook. It is not buying my “But I had visitors” excuse, and like a scorned lover, turns away from me and edges to the other side of the bed.
Later, I rode the U-bahn with no real destination in mind, listening to The National until my i-pod battery ran out, the unmistakable rough tongue of miserablism licking my neck. By the time I got home it was dark and cold. And I walked into my apartment and found it warm and smelling of European indoor heating. (a ridiculous sounding, but completely true phenomena. No other central heating smells quite like ours.)

I can’t help but notice that my time here is dwindling to weeks and soon those weeks will become days and then I will gone from the wide roads and the late night Turkish beer stores and the taste of winter on my tongue and soup greens wrapped in bundles and red paved cycle paths and smell of firewood in the morning...

Disclaimer: This is a reenactment

MzTanya goes hobo outside the Gay Vampire Bar. Shockingly, this is not from Friday night. No, this was on the (comparitively) sober Saturday night, when we thought it would be a scream to capture what could have been/almost was. Taking this photo without the bar staff seeing us was challenging. I am behind the lens. Hiding behind a car.

Friday was a MESS.

It started innocently enough. Tanya and I got up earlyish and went Second Hand Store crazy. First, we went to the five story monster Humana near Frankfurter Tor (spiritual home of the brightly coloured 80s leather jacket) and then the smaller, somewhat cheaper and less hilarious store near Alexander Platz. After we tore through Humana at lightning speed (purchases: Tanya: amazing tiny, fitted denim jacket with stretch cuffs and a double zip, black scarf, rock rock forever t-shirt, child sized zebra costume for Halloween. Eloise: double strand of buttery cream coloured pearls, ornate jewelled clasp. ridiculously underpriced.) we needed to stop by the bank so that Tanya might exchange some cash. As we walked into the bank, we spied an odd sight. The front counter, which would usually serve as an information point, was decked out for a party. There were bowls of sweets, leaflets, goodie bags of some sort etc etc. I looked closer. There were glasses. There were ROWS AND ROWS OF GLASSES. THERE ARE BOTTLES. The smiling woman behind the counter was handing out red canvas bags with the bank’s name on them. As I took a bag, I studied the scene more closely and it dawned on me that we have stumbled into what I can only describe as the Holy Grail of the finance calendar: Free Champagne Day at the Bank. It is about 2pm. Between queuing up to exchange money (wechseln, bitte!), loitering a tiny bit and pocketing the leaflets, sweets and balloons that had yet to be blown up, we managed to polish off three glasses of champagne. Each. We were in there for 20 minutes at the most. The glasses were not tiny. We had not eaten. Do you see where I am going with this?

We proceed to The Ramones Museum in Mitte where we were due to meet Nat and Sarah. The museum has a cute little cafe at the front of it and since neither Tanya or I are desperate to see the actual inside of the museum we decide it best to continue what we started. We order Irish coffees (It was COLD out) and sit back and wait for the girls to arrive. We are starving. But the whiskey lashed coffee is hitting the spot. The girls are nowhere to be seen. An hour and a half passes before they arrive. By this point, Tanya and I have settled happily into our drinking boots and the warmth of the interior of the cafe coupled with the comfort of the couches has resulted in afternoon inebriation. Everything is hilarious. We are starving.

After Nat gets her Ramones fill (the only of the four of us with sufficient love and dedication to the iconic punk band to willingly part with her money to enter the little museum) we head home, stopping at a supermarket on the way home to pick up some bits and pieces for dinner and some wine. Becuase this is what we need. Wine. We hang out and talk shit and drink and finally get some food into ourselves. As the night draws on, Tanya, Sarah and I decide to go to a bar. Because that is what we need. To drink more. (Nat is a clever girl and stays home to have a little sleep. This was to be the beginning of a vicious 48hr bug that flattened her for two days, but more about that another time.) We go to Habarmeyer on Garntnerstrasse (home of the DJ BEAST who had been playing there the Friday before.) Alas. DJ Beast is not there and neither is the incredible selection of music he plays. Still, we stay. A less beastly DJ arrives and plays and the music is good and beer is cheap and the people are nice to look at and you can smoke inside, so we stay. We stay a while. Eventually Sarah, having just landed that morning, calls it a day and heads home to bed. Tanya and I do no such thing. We continue. We tell hilarious stories until we cry. We tell sad stories until we almost cry. We drink some more. We realise that I do a pitch perfect Bronx accent and I spend the rest of the evening talking as though as I care/know anything about the Yankees and live somewhere above East 132nd Street. Eventually, we leave. On the way home, we stop for drunken falafel. This naturally comes with a side order of beer. As we are finishing said falafel, Tanya says, “I could really do with a whiskey.”
When you are drunk and really don’t need anything more to drink, a night cap before going back to your apartment seems like the best idea on god's green earth. So we stumble up the road. We are plastered. We are doing that thing that girls do when they are hammered, holding hands and walking in something of a zigzag, all the way keeping our forward motion. Something is hilarious. I have no idea what. But something certainly is. I am still talking like I come from the Bronx. “I don’ wyatch it, but if yoo wanna wyatch the gyame, I’ll fuckeng wyatch it!” My stomach hurts from laughing.

There is a bar literally opposite my apartment block that I have been wondering about for a while. It looks like an unassuming old man’s pub and some boys I met from Sweden a few weeks ago told me that they had ended up in there almost every night before returning to where they were staying, a block away. It stays open until 5 or 6 or some ungodly hour and those boys were Mark Twain Cool, so I assumed it would be safe enough. It was quite easily decided that this bar would be the spot for our last drink of the evening.

We open the door. We walk in. Somewhere in the distance, a fruit machine plays a tinny tune. The air is musty, the faint smell of stale beer. A tumble weed blows past. We’ve opened the door. The bartender has seen us. There is no turning back. Our steps are impossibly loud on the floor. This is no cool after hours drinking dive. No. This is Not. Where. We. Are. Supposed. To. Be. There is no music. The room is tiny, a small wooden bar along the one side its main feature. Propping themselves up on the bar are an old homeless man with a plastic bag full of possibly shoplifted items he tries to sell us and the bartender at random intervals (contents include 54% Rum and a tray of Belgian chocolates) and on the other end of the bar is a very boring and simultaneously massively creepy looking 50ish man. The bartender looks at us with indignation. We should not be here. We know it. He knows it. We just don’t know how to leave without making the situation even worse. Let me state that I was at first convinced the bartender was a masculine woman. Tanya was convinced it was a feminine man. I eventually conceded that he was in fact male. He was rocking some fierce guyliner. Not drag queen make up, rather, getting up and fixing your face for the day makeup. You know, basic foundation, liquid eyeliner lids and a lick of mascara. His shirt was red satin with a black fringe, pearl snap buttons and patterned, silver collar tips. We were very possibly in the scariest gay bar in the world. The bartender was hating us. The other guy was hating us. We were by then hating ourselves. Only the homeless man found our presence entertaining and would every so often, point at us and say something in German and laugh hysterically. We were all thinking it. He was only one crazed enough to vocalise it. It was the single most awkward drink I’ve ever had in my life.

When we were done with our drinks we paid and walked as casually as possible toward the door. As soon as we were out of it, we sprinted across the street and into the safety of my apartment building. In hysterics, we climbed the stairs, trundled into the apartment and collapsed. As it stands, ‘Funfundreissig’ or ‘The Gay Vampire Bar’ (as it is now known) is not on my list of bars to frequent.

Needless to say, we slept in on Saturday.

Art Beast.... and miles to go before I sleep

On Thursday afternoon the girls and I were walking down MainzerStrasse on our way to an alcohol induced something or other. Passing by the Milkabilly Rock n Roll Milk/Soda/Waffle Bar and a tattoo parlour, we spy a small art gallery. Zozoville Gallery. A Mecca of galleries. No snotty assistants, no severe haircuts, no stark white walls, no abstract anything. Instead, it’s a small room that looks warm and inviting, a bench outside to cater to passing smokers in need of a sit down. The gallery appears to be run by/feature the work of two artists: Johan Potma and Mateo Dineen. We go and have a look around and we are all enthralled. The work is beautiful and a little comical and sometimes sad and whimsical and often, the tiniest bit heartbreaking. The girls love Johan Potma's stuff, who seems to specialise in fanciful furry creatures and somewhat endearing monsters while I fall utterly in love with Mateo’s work. It’s acrylic (I am almost certain, thought not enough of a connoisseur to be of a definite stand point) on various surfaces. Some are on standard canvases, but they also have paintings done on the back of geometry set tins (remember your first day of high school and your shiny new maths set?) the tops of old wooden chests, armoire doors and the rogue covers of DDR era fridges.
On the wall, on the back of a box top, is a small painting of a small man under a night sky in a forest, his chin in his hands, looking into a campfire and birds nesting in his white bear hunting style hat. (I pause to notice how I own a similar hat., sans birds.... sometimes....) I love the picture. I LOVE IT. and then, as I am swimming in its delight, I notice how at the bottom, a phrase is inscribed:
“...and miles to go before I sleep...”
This piece of work that I am so instantly and utterly drawn to is not only one of the most beautiful pieces of art I have seen, it is also INSPIRED BY A FUCKING FROST POEM?!I am undone.
I must have it.
I need it.
it makes me want to have a permanent address so that I might have somewhere to hang it. This Mateo, he of the beautiful beautiful art, knows Frost?
Tanya sees a piece that she loves and inquires of the price. It is 2500EUR. Holy God. That’s half a years rent in Berlin. I am afraid to even ask the price of my painting. I know I will not be able to afford it and I know that the disappointment of the concrete fact will crush me. So instead I go over the boxes of prints and sift carefully through. Woe is me, the print is not there. The girls find other prints they love and purchase them. They pay their money to a tall blond man who is, typically for the city, far too good looking for his own good.. Sullenly, art printless, I start to leave the shop and then ask, in a fit of optimism to the blond, “You don’t happen to have a print of the Frost painting some where?”
He says, “Actually, I made some of those today. I haven’t put them out yet. Do you want one?”
Firstly: Holy hell, YES.
Secondly: Is this hot blond Mateo? He of the penchant for whimsical heartbreak and Frost?
As he goes into the studio or back room or whatever magical Alladins cave it is that holds these treasures, I lean over the girls and whisper, “Art. Beast.”
He returns with my print. I attempt to pay him and find myself quite suddenly with too many thumbs and an alarming lack of dexterity. Put me in fumbling distance of a talented beast and chances are I will indeed fumble. I berate my hands. I momentarily loathe myself. As we leave, he says, “We are having a gallery party here on Saturday night. There will be music and food and a silent auction. You girls should come.” I make some noises that seem to be a garbled vocal agreement to the flippant invitation and stumble out into the freezing Berlin night, my Frost print close to my chest. Mateo, the boy genius with the love for frost is a 6ft tall Californian Art Beast? If I didn’t love Berlin before, I am pledging allegiance now.
Anyway, Saturday night rolls around and we head over the gallery to find it RAMMED. there was literally not even space to step inside. So Tanya, Sarah and I decide to go get a drink and a bite to eat and head back later and see if anything is still going on. I can’t even see my Frost Painting on the wall and I feel myself jonesing. I want to see it again. Just like the way Shell can’t go near the Tate Modern without spending some time with “her” Monet. We agree to return post sustenance. Dinner is fantastic and delicious and in a restaurant with a black and white checked floor so beautiful I want to press my face to it, but for the sake public decency, don’t. More about that another time. After we eat ourselves into an Italian coma, we trudge back up Mainzer Strasse (this time slightly heavier with wine and pasta) and find, joy of joys, the gallery still open and with somewhat more room to manoeuvre. We go in. The painting is there. I spend a ridiculous amount of time looking at it. A man who works there asks Tanya (who is armed with her camera) not to take close ups. I spy Art Beast. Inexplicably, I am smitten. Or, completely understandably. Depending on how you look at it. The Frost quote on the painting has been up on my (kill me now) book mood wall since I got here. I feel a cosmic alignment I want to hold onto with both hand followed swiftly by a brief wave of sobriety and I know that the cosmos has fuck all hand in this. Lots of people like Frost. Not as many as should, but a lot, none the less. He is wearing a polka dot shirt and being the artist of the hour. I want to go up to him and get aggressively in his face about the painting and ask if he has a Birches inspired painting in the works and if so, how much will it be, so I can start saving now. [side note: an old friend of mine from NYC, SS, is an INCREDIBLE artist. Unbelievable. I went through a good few months of being, quite plainly, obsessed with Birches and as a result of my obsession, she painted the most beautiful piece, over the prints of emails I had sent her quoting the poem. Even my typos were included. It was extraordinary. It’s been two years since I’ve spoken to SS (heartbreaking in itself, I am sure with good reason but sadly ones I know not of) and I cannot even hear Frost without thinking of her and what was to me, a simply awe inspiring work of hers. Anyway]
I don’t go up to Art beast. I salivate over the Frost Painting. I tentatively ask the dude who works there of the price. He tells me it is 2450EUR. FUCK ME. Worth every penny, I am certain, and if I had it, I would buy it. But I am dealing with discount supermarkets here. I really should not even be allowed in galleries at this point.

Tanya and I get a drink and check out more of the work and she buys a bunch more prints (from the other dude Johan Potma) and a t-shirt (been there, done that, yadda yadda) and we go and smoke a cigarette on the thoughtfully laid out afore mentioned benches. It takes us a good fifteen minutes to eventually drag our asses out of the vicinity of the gallery and head (the whole three and a half minutes) home. Every time we go to leave I need to see my painting (“my painting?!”) one more time. We look at the painting, we take six steps out the door, we turn, we look at the painting again, almost leave, go back to look at the painting, repeat ad nauseam.

We went home. Print safely in my possession. Art Beast and original art work still at large.

Things I LOVE/HATE about Berlin. Part 2

Things I Love
The Beasts of Berlin.
I know I have spoken of the aforementioned beasts previously, but since then I have had more time to further process and hone my, frankly bordering on vulgar, perversion. I have invented a new game whereby once a beast is spotted he is nicknamed and given a place in the pecking order, of most beastly to least beastly beasts seen that day. At the end of the day I award a small prize award to The Beast of The Day. The Beast of the Day award is for the large part a redundant exercise. There is no physical proof of it, no certificate. It proves absolutely no purpose except to entertain myself and whoever I am with.
Last Friday, for instance, Tamaryn and I partook in beast spotting all over this fine adoptive city of mine.

Potentials for Beast of the Day were:

Preemie Beast
Young enough to do without shaving. Not so young it was illegal.

Lord Beast
English Aristocratic god with Rod Stewart hair in navy McQueen coat who asked us for drinking establishment recommendations. Wore brogues.

Blond Beast
Possibly wearing foundation. Didn’t detract from his beastliness. That is saying something.

Waving Beast
Driving past us on Unter der Linden. Checking us out checking him out checking us out. He looked first. Awkward ‘deer in headlights’ moment as both parties realised we were busted mid scope. Beast smiled, waved. Charmed.

Beast on a bike
Possible cycle courier. possibly rocking a half shaved dread locked disaster on his head. Didn’t even care.

DJ Beast
Playing 60s Motown and swing beats in fantastic bar in Friedrichshain (aka my hood), black shirt buttoned all the way up, severe moustache. Most certainly in the Top Ten Most Beautiful People I Have Ever Seen In Real Life.

DJ BEAST WON! Hands down. It was not ever FAIR to the other beasts.

(side note. My dad reads this blog. Sorry dad. I swear I am also writing a book and being productive. Also, any distractions this city has made me succumb to I blame wholeheartedly on my genetic coding. I am a de Fine.)

Nat is here now and we spent the evening eating Thai food, walking around Friedrichshain, drinking rice beer (me) and lemon grass tea (her) and explaining the rules of Beast of the Day. She has proved to be an apt pupil. One day initiation done and dusted, tomorrow we hit Prenzlauerberg. Five bucks says she spots the winner. I am a wonderful teacher.

Things I Hate
The goddamn early flights that arrive in this city. This morning I went to the airport to pick up Nat. I only got three hours sleep before having to get up and go through to the flughafen. That’s right. That’s some elementary German right there. Now Nat is one of my best friends. We have been through some things together. More trips to New York than is healthy, delicious eggs, more hotel bars in more cities I can begin to count, road trips, whipsnade, bars, chemo (hers), shaving heads (hers again), recovery, bars, more bars, more treatments, less bars. She was the girl who helped me with my broken heart. I was the girl who made her wear skinny jeans. We are a team. And I am honestly so so happy to see her, but this morning, on the S-Bahn back from the airport all I could do was yawn and shiver and feel that awful prickly feeling I get when I am desperately in need of sleep. And for a few awful, awful hours, I was a terrible friend. I was not a hostess with the mostess. I could see Nat look at me in that way, arching her eyebrow as if to say, ‘Are you fucking kidding me? I come all the way to Berlin to see you and you can’t even get it together to PRETEND to be excited to see me?’ Shame washed over me. Hot prickling shame. Embarrassed and apologetic, I locked myself in my room for a one hour disco nap. When I awoke, it was as if it was a new day. I bounced out of bed, my hair awry, jumped on her bed, accidently sort of bit her arm in my excitement and hugged her. I am sometimes a bit shitty, but I make nice when I can. Needless to say, I’m ecstatic she’s here and cant wait for our friend Tanya to come and join us from NYC on Thursday. Bastard flies in at 7am and I have to go get her from the airport. Expect repeat scene. Balls.

My final word on 'The Skirt'

Completely inappropriately, this bizarre little dance was captured at the very sombre and fascinating 'Holocaust Memorial.' I promise that the image captured is not at all reflective of my feelings about the memorial, the travesty it spoke of nor the shitty weather we were experiencing at that moment. Frankly, i don't know what is going on with it. However, it does show my skirt. Corlia, I have no more to say on the matter.

Poor but sexy

How to eat your way through three days

I am cutting teeth. One would hope at my age that such glories as pushing new bits of dentyne and nerves and enamel through sensitive gums would be a thing of the years past, but no. My wisdom teeth are making their presence known. It hurts. it feels like I am chewing on a mouthful of gravel sized glass. In what I can only assume is some sort of reaction to it, I have also taken to grinding my teeth/clenching my jaw in my sleep. When I wake in the morning, I have to literally pry apart my upper and lower jaw with the use of my hands. Needless to say, I am somewhat unhappy with the whole situation.

Anyway. Enough about that. This past weekend was graced with a visitor so therefore I spent more time concentrating on eating and drinking than I did on my teeth. Tamaryn was in town. She arrived on Friday morning and we spent the morning taking in a whirlwind tour of the city. It went something like this:
Checkpoint Charlie
Course of wall
Holocaust memorial
Brandenburg tor
check, check, check, check.
Can we start eating yet?

Our first food stop was to eat some currywurst. Berlin is famous for inventing the snack, credited to a Charlottenburg woman called Herta Heuwer sometime after WW2, using the ketchup and curry powder she acquired from British soldiers to dress the plain old pork sausage up in new, post war garb. I tried currywurst a few weeks ago from a place called ‘Konnopke’, arguably Berlins most famous currywurst stand and was UNDERWHELMED. nothing about it was good for me. it wasn’t inedible... but it wasn’t good either. The sausage was rubbery, the curry was nonexistent, the ketchup was an unnatural coloured, watered down mess usually found at Wimpy restaurants. Currywurst, I decided, was a tradition the germans could keep for themselves. However, I read about this place called Wittys. Wittys is an imbiss stand (a sort of snack hut) on the northwest corner of Wittenbergplatz. Its specialty is, of course, currywurst. I heard that the chips were the best in the city, the wurst delicious. But it was something else that piqued my interest. Everything was organic. So I thought, if I was going to foray back into the wurst thicket, I would do so with organic intent.
After our whirlwind sightseeing tour, we hit the imbiss stand. And on my days. OH MY DAYS. It was so delicious I almost wept. The chips were thick cut and golden, crispy on the outside and light and fluffy on the inside, the sausage was soft, flavorful and spicy, the tomato sauce was deep red – clearly made of real tomatoes. Having eaten Wittys currywurst, I do believe I understand why Germany sells 800 million servings of it a year.

After our delicious lunch (that I won’t lie to you, we flat hand shoveled into our mouths) we headed across the street to KaDeWe, up to its heavenly 6th floor food hall. KaDeWe (Europe’s biggest department store) is, if I am well behaved, where I am going to go when I die. Picture miles and miles of marble counters, champagne bars, sushi, pretzels, fresh pasta, oysters, bird of paradise coloured exotic fruit, whole counters dedicated solely to eggs, wraparound counters of cheese, cheese islands even, the smell of baking bread, chocolates, truffles and cured meat. One of my favourite things to do is to drink champagne in lavish food halls. I love everything about it. The man sitting next to you polishing off a 120eur bottle of rose champagne alone, the ladies what lunch with their white china tureens of steaming soup, their diamonds glinting in the store lights, the smell of Chanel as you walk past. I love the sound of cracking lobster claws a few counters along, the tempting call of the cheese counter from the next room, and knowledge that if you take two lefts and then a right you will end up at the canapé counter where the swan shaped profiteroles swim idly by on silver trays. Food halls are my heaven. KaDeWe might have surpassed Paris’ Galeries Lafayette as my favourite.

Other food highlights from the weekend include but are not limited to:
Afternoon tea and cake (or champagne and apple tart) at Opernpalais on Unter den Linden
Peanut butter and chocolate cupcakes from Cupcake
Long and lazy Sunday brunch that included hearty portions of stuffed deep fried artichoke hearts
Raclette from Winterfeldt Markt (the most delicious and extraordinary food market)
Sweet, crunchy pears the size of rugby balls
Cheese, figs and pretzels before going out
A drunken 3am hunt for falafel that ended in a drunken 3am molestation of burgers, chips and sugary soft drinks. Seriously. How can something so bad be SO GOOD?

So Tam has gone back to London and I am tired, kind of bloated and, to be honest, strangely hungry. I am doing my utmost to hold off for few more days until I venture back to Wittys. But I’m not sure just how long I can hold out.

Bands in bookshops

Last night I went to East of Eden bookshop on Schreinerstrasse. There, I saw a band called 'before you die...' (Yes, if you're wondering, bands playing in bookshops is a common enough occurence in Berlin)

before you die... might be my new favourite band. They're everything I want in a band. Their music is some some of swamp blues gypsy megaphone fuelled folk. They look like they've just walked out of a Mark Twain novel. A banjo is involved. It's fucking fantastic. They're a sort of a Swedish 'Dead Brothers' but quite possibly better.

You can hear them here.

Do it. You won't be sorry.

The Debacle of the Black Leather Mini Skirt

(A story in 2 parts. Part 2)

Okay, so, I decided that I needed to buy a black leather mini skirt. It couldn’t just be a regular old black skirt, as I already have one of those and I can’t afford to be doubling up on wardrobe pieces at this stage of my life. So, I decided that black leather it was to be. And not slutty biker black leather, nothing you’d see in Coyote Ugly or could imagine Paris Hilton wearing. Rather, something vintage, high waisted, the skirt equivalent of Michael Crowe’s literary sock, ‘a sock you can really read something in.’ It would go with EVERYTHING! I could just imagine it. Tucking my grey wife beater into it. Pairing it with my black riding boots and Chloe Paddington. The coupling of my future skirt and grey woolly tights would be the Bill and Hillary of my wardrobe, the power couple. My skirt and I were going to do great things, write great books, travel to great places, see great sights. I may have put unnecessary pressure on the poor skirt.

So, like any girl on a budget, I hit the second hand stores. I have seen the insides of some second hand stores in Berlin. From the top of Prenzlauer Berg to the bottom of Kreuzberg, I’ve looked. I looked for days. And days. Sure, there were skirts, but none of them were quite right. Too long, too small, too shiny, too expensive. Eventually, at a store a little closer to home, the Humana near Alexander Platz (not the mammoth five storey store I previously mentioned) I found two contenders. I traipsed into the dressing room and found that the first, while fantastic on the hanger, was not ideal when it was on. It was intended for someone with both a smaller waist and bigger ass than I. To say that the cut was odd is an understatement. It also had two very strange pockets that caused the front of the skirt to balloon somewhat when you moved. It was not hot. I put the skirt back on the hanger and tried the second one on. The second one... the second one was PERFECT! It was everything I wanted in a skirt. It veered just on the right side of rock n roll without collapsing over the line into joan jett and her power mullet territory. It begged to be paired with an oversized bun and a cardigan. It was my Michael Crowe literary sock. And it was only 9 euros! Result.

Happy that I had found my skirt, I put my jeans back on and stepped into my riding boots. I zipped up my left boot, smiling to myself. I zipped up my right boot and found that smile quickly dissipate into abject horror as the slider from the zipper of my right boot detached itself from the teeth. My knee length boot flopped open, a leather puddle at my ankle. I sat in near tears, trying desperately to fix the zip. But it would not fix. It was, quite truly, pretty fucked. These are my favourite boots. Right now, they are my only boots. I NEED THESE BOOTS. Winter in Berlin begs for boots like these. Eventually, I made peace with the fact that these boots could not be fixed without some pliers, some scissors and a needle and thread. I would have to go home and fix them there. However, I couldn’t walk with the boot flapping open as my foot kept slipping out. So I tried to tuck the boots into my jeans, a reverse from the usual jeans into boots look I usually go for. The thing is, I wear pretty tight jeans. Skinny jeans. As it is, there is little room to manoeuvre, never mind make space for a knee high leather boot. So it ended up that I could fit the top 5 inches or so into the jeans and the rest of the boot sort of scrunched up around my ankle. Think of a leather leg warmer, if you will. I unzipped my other boot and did the same thing with it. If I was going to look ridiculous, I at least wanted to look even whilst I did it. Unhappy, I grabbed my skirt, went to pay, and then walked the 25 minutes home in my stupid, broken boots.

At home I performed an hour long boot surgery to seeming success. The boots zip up again, but they are fragile and frankly, I don’t know how much longer they have left in them. Trying to focus on the positive, I think ‘Well, at least I have my skirt.’ With great ceremony, I take it from my bag to admire it. And horror of horrors, I took the wrong fucking skirt. Oh god. In my hands in the tiny waist, huge ass, bubble stomach pocket skirt. Oh no no no. This skirt is not a skirt I can really read something in! I have to exchange it. Another terrible realisation dawns. I have to exchange it and I’m going to have to do that IN GERMAN. I’m not happy. So the next day I go back to Humana and spend a good hour looking for the other skirt. That Humama boasts that it has over 20 000 articles of clothing and I’m pretty certain I looked through at least 7000 of those to locate the skirt I accidentally left behind the day before. Skirt in hand, I go up the counted and in my best German (which, honestly, still isn’t very good) ask if I can exchange. The skirts cost the same amount, however I see that the skirt I purchased was previously more and marked down. You can’t exchange sale items. Eventually, through verbal grovelling in broken German and an inadvertently comedic skit that involved me demonstrating just how bad that skirt looked on me, the kind woman behind the counter broke down and let me exchange. And then she gave me this look, as if to say, “You, get out. Before I change my mind.” I grabbed the skirt (the right one!) off the counter and skipped out of the store, running gleefully home.

I'm happy to report that I was right about my skirt. It goes with everything. It even makes a pair of broken boots look good.

Leg(ging)less in Berlin

(A story in 2 parts. Part 1)

Londoners know two things: Abstract anger and leggings. The former needs little further said. If you’ve ever ridden the tube at rush hour, you know what I mean. I don’t hate it. I kind of love it. It’s intrinsic to the workings of The Big Smoke and somewhat endearing; a blood vessel in the thigh of the city I love and call home. However... The leggings. We can talk about the leggings. You cannot brush past a hipster in topshop without being in a two foot radius of a legging clad beast. It’s been this way for some time now. I’m not judging it. I am part of it. I wear leggings. I understand the love of leggings, the damn near need. If only all leg wear gave one such comfort, such freedom, looked so good tucked into riding boots. However, love, freedom and comfort can lead one into a false sense of security and for a while there I believed that leggings were a universal (read: first world, vogue reading) fact. However, after arriving in Berlin and travelling no more than the distance than the airport to my apartment a horrific internal line of questioning made itself known:
“Holy God, have leggings not arrived in Berlin? or, have they arrived and left? Am I wearing work out gear in public right now? Is this more or less ridiculous than when Edie Sedgewick wore her ballet get ups to bars in NYC in the 60s?” after a mild panic attack on the S-bahn, I look down at my outfit and think, Fuck Edie. This is a good look.

In any case, the question has continued to plague me: Where are the leggings? What are girls wearing instead? There are a lot of leg covering variations but no consistent through and through replacement. I have been on the lookout as I need a new pair. My black leggings, trusted companions I bought in SA for R30 has a homeless sized hole in the left leg of them (amongst other smaller holey friends) and frankly, no amount of darning can repair them to the state of public showing. They are beyond help. So I’ve been looking for some new ones, to no avail. After a while (as in, from my arrival to now) I have given up the leggings charade, thinking I should move on. My plan to move on went like this.
1) I need some good thick tights for winter. Something more aggressive than the old opaque black staples. Something REALLY wintery. Something..... Woolly. Maybe a grey pair. I don’t know. Why not?
2) To go with my hot new/grannyesque tights, I need a black skirt.
After I arrived here I realised that my somewhat new but wholly beloved high waisted brass buttoned black mini skirt was accidently packed away in some godforsaken black hole of a cupboard somewhere in south London. Thus, to survive winter in Berlin I needed a new one. And the more I thought about it the more I thought that a regular black skirt simply wouldn’t cut the mustard. What I needed to go with my wardrobe was.... was... was... a Black. Leather. Mini. Skirt.
Okay, before I get into the debacle of buying said skirt, let me give you a quick rundown of how I stand, clothing wise. Three years ago I was one of the glorious 8% of females who owned and wore more than 108 pairs of shoes. I had more clothes than I can even pretend to be embarrassed about. I loved my wardrobe. I fucking loved it. I had pink silk shirts, gold lurex dresses, polka dot poodle skirts I bought in Italy and kept ‘just in case’ I ever found the occasion to wear them. Platforms from the nineties, vintage 50s pumps, grey mohair gloves that reached my elbows and filled me with pure, unadulterated joy.... I OWNED ALL OF THESE THINGS.
However, time and life has moved on. I no longer have the space or money to store such frivolous wonders. So, as time has gone on, I’ve shed more and more of my so called crap and am now the not quite so proud owner of less than 40 pairs of shoes. It pains me. I know that I am a shallow bitch and that people in Africa are starving, but still it pains me. The machete I’ve had to take to my shoe collection pains me more than I can ever fully tell you. I digress. When it comes time for me to move place to place (as I do) my wardrobe decisions are made somewhat easier by my condensed wardrobe. I have two good pairs of jeans. One, a dark blue pair tapered to the ankle, the other, a light blue stone wash ripped to shreds. I wear wife beaters. They are my go to top of choice. I own one black cardigan (a hand me down from Shelley that neither I nor her are ever sure that she in fact handed down, but still, two years and several notches down the colour black scale later, I continue to wear) and it goes with very wife beater I own. I have a few shirts I’m partial to.
My outfits, generally, go something like this:
jeans/leggings + wifebeater/ shirt + good shoes + beret/russian bear hunting hat/sack of eggs knitted hat + scarf.

Scarves are one of the reasons I love winter. It is my firm belief that any outfit can be made massively more appealing with the addition of a hat and scarf. A regular old combination of blue jeans and a white wife beater can be transformed with the addition of a scarf. Hermes was the god of travellers. Later, the fashion failsafe of the basically clothed everywhere. I rest my case.

In any case, I sometimes get a little bored of my repertoire. Especially considering that I count myself, if not groundbreaking (although I still hold that I was the girl who brought deck shoes back to Battersea) somewhat stylish. I arrived in Berlin with almost NO CLOTHES: some wife beaters, two pairs of jeans, a pair of leggings, white brogues, white plimsolls, black platform high heels, pink heels, black riding boots, my trusty leather jacket that belonged to a succession of Sharp aunts until arriving on my willing back in 1999. My meagre selection of clothes is supplemented with lots of fantastic hats and scarves. And that’s always been okay for me. Until I arrived in Berlin and my leggings are no longer acceptable to wear in public and it gold cold and wintery and I thought, “Goddamn, I need some woolly tights and a LEATHER MINI SKIRT”

As it turns out, woolly tights are easy enough to come across in Berlin. Unlike leggings. And the skirt.... Well, the debacle of the leather mini skirt will follow. For now, just know, if you’re coming to visit, buy your leggings in London. They are, as we say in the classics, “not so much in this town.”