Welcome Back

So today I got back to Germany. After about seven weeks of eating tacos, saying excuse me after running into people accidentally and nearly accepting the convention of wearing sweatpants in public, I hit German soil again at around noon. Frankfurt Airport.

Now this ALWAYS happens to me at Heathrow, and I was surprised to have it occur in überefficient Deutschland: somehow somewhere around immigration control, I ended up exiting the airport and needing to go through all of the passport checks and security again in order to get to my connecting flight back home to Berlin.

Ugh. Well, it happens. I marched my extremely heavy duffel bag (affectionately referred to as “blue baby”) over to arrivals A (which is surprisingly far away from departures A, it must be said), all the while trying to quickly drain the entire contents of the full 1.5 liter bottle of Fuji water I’d hoped to chug back during the next flight.

The security line was absurdly long, but luckily, soon after I took my place at the very end of said line, an elderly German man in a festive red vest (and a predictably un-festive mien) and a sign that said Gates A1-42 led the unhappy back wing of the security line, like a surly, muttering pied piper, to a smaller security area (2 belts) a short distance away.

Oh, if I’d only remembered the sad fate of Hamelin’s children…

German security tends (or has tended) to be less annoying that that of the U.S. No naked machines. No enhanced pat-downs. In fact, you don’t even have to take your shoes off. In this instance, I did as one normally does…pocket junk, big floppy outerwear and liquids in one basket, the laptop in the next, followed by the carryon itself.

I passed through the metal detector without incident and waited for my stuff to come through. The two baskets came back, but blue baby did not. The unhappy-looking dyke of a security guard had it in her thick arms. “Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

“Open it, please.”

And so I did. She re-ran the superdrive for my new Mac Air (I won’t take this precise occasion to swoon), along with my external hard drive. Also, with these items removed, she ran blue baby through the machine again.

And so I waited. And the increasingly exasperated folks in line waited—gnawing at their cuticles and checking the time on their cell phones. And we waited. And waited.

I couldn’t help but notice a marked increase of traffic around the x-ray monitor. There was pointing, shrugging, giggling, scrolling back to an earlier picture of blue baby, looking around, waving somebody else over, and then the process would repeat. The excitement seemed to center around my iPod dock. Seeing this, I offered to turn it on and lay down some def beats (paraphrase) up in that particular hizz-aus. The burly biological female who’d first singled out the bag only gave me a dirty look.

After a while, they began diverting the agitated members of my particular security line to the other line/machine in the area. I became the single, unlucky customer, watching as more and more doughy, undereducated, chuckling security agents (for a firm called “Brinks”, said their badges) pushed past their acne-prone colleagues to slowly shake their heads and emit low whistles whilst looking at the geometric blowup of that oddly single-celled-organism-looking image…that happened to be my shitty InMotion iPod dock.



Earlier, I’d noticed the “hot one” of the security staff—also a thick-cut-steak, but in this case proudly ornamented with long, crunchy curls and what appeared to be a valiant attempt at smoky eyes—talking to a tall older gentleman. From the clumsy batting of her spiders-legs eyelashes and his cockily lascivious countenance, I quickly ascertained that he served as supervisor to this band of illiterates.

After he’d spent a few moment’s nodding gravely at the X-Ray image of my iPod dock, he approached me and asked for my passport. “That’s a very strange looking laptop you have there,” he intoned coolly…

“…yes well, you see, that’s because it’s not a laptop. It’s an iPod dock. My laptop went through just fine…it’s a Mac Air 11”. Want to see it? It is just SO light and just as cute as anything you’ve ever seen and…”

He frowned, interrupting “We’ll need to keep this.” My passport disappeared into his pocket and growled into his walkie-talkie “The suspect is calling it an iPod dock. We’re gonna need backup.”

“Seriously, I can play some tunes for you guys…” I began.

The supervisor-man grunted something, turned around, and began to grimly “evacuate” all other passengers in the security line. One woman, who had waited ages and was about to put her belongings on the belt became quite hysterical, wailing about missing her flight. After her and her similarly panicked compatriots were all shuttled off, supervisor man urged his team of moon-faced imbeciles to pack up their belongings as well.

The iPod dock remained in the X-ray machine, like a coffin in a funereal carriage. My passport was still with supervisor-man. My flight would now clearly also be missed, and by gum, that rapidly emptied 1.5 liter bottle of Fuji water was definitely not adding any sort of helpful color to the entire spectacle.

Minutes later the mall (“airport”) cops began arriving. After that, the normal Frankfurt police arrived, and cordoned off the security area and the waiting and boarding areas of Gates A1-4. A little narrow white van drove through the irritated/curious crowd of passengers and the 2-man explosives team sprung out, ready to do battle with the forces of two-year-old mp3 speaker technology. I was so shocked to see the van and the bomb squad that I didn’t even notice the military police in riot gear appearing…complete with clear plastic masks, bullet-proof vests, machine guns and, in two cases, German shepherds. They must have shown up at around the same time.

I want to emphasize the fact that I am not exaggerating about ANY part of this story. It was like being in a dream. The strangest, was that I wasn’t cuffed, or taken away or anything similar (no body cavity search, which is a bit unfortunate, considering that I have a relatively fresh wax on). Nothing. There I was, at the end, leaning up against the abandoned service counter of Gate A1, to the left seeing a throng of travelers, at whom “Get back!” would be barked if any individual thereof wandered over to grab a newspaper in the A3 area. A line of afore-mentioned security clowns stood in a grim line, placing a pudgy border between the mass of passengers and the armored military police, whom apparently had their dimpled acne-covered backs covered.

To the right was the security area, now totally deserted but for the two members of the bomb squad—who valiantly struggled to ascertain the threat posed by my iPod dock. The white van was parked outside of the exit to the security area, behind which a bullet-proof-vested MP stood, apparently bored, but not nearly so bored as his German shepherd, which lounged dozily on the floor.

Lounged dozily, that is, until I made an attempt to approach the supervisor-man from my place there in no-man’s land. Suffice it to say that those dogs move very, very quickly.

It was all over in a mere 45 minutes. One of the bomb-squad guys (with an expression that said “this is bullshit and I’m really sorry”…which was well appreciated and was the closest thing to an apology-related gesture that I would receive) approached my position in the German-Shepherd-enforced no-man’s-land with the offending iPod dock in hand. He was rubbing it down with what looked like a small sheet of vellum.

“So it’s an iPod dock, you say…” he began.

“Seriously. Just let me stick my iPod on that thing and prove it to you.” I was desperate. My flight had taken off ten minutes before.

“How is the Bass performance?”

His strategy was perplexing. “It’s pretty useless.” I replied. “Sort of sounds like a tin can being scraped against asphalt, sometimes. I should get a better one. Maybe a Bose.”

He looked at me squarely. “You know, they might close down the entire airport for a Bose.”

I was speechless. He had me turn my docking station on and off once, then wandered back to his van, leaving the little machine on the counter in front of me. Looking up, I saw that the biological female, the “hot one” and the rest of the security monkeys had all disappeared. Supervisor-man had probably taken them all out to lunch at Frankfurt’s equivalent of Chuck-E-Cheese to congratulate them for a job well done. An airport cop tapped me on the shoulder and, after I turned toward him, handed me back my passport.

“Here miss, enjoy your time in Germany.”

Oh welcome back, Lyd. Welcome back.

The Tango Lesson

Today I worked. I typed lists. I wrote emails. I struggled through meetings. I fought with my stupid iPod, which seems of late to have developed a tendency to not recognize any of the music I try to load...

At around six, I remembered a flyer I saw hanging in a flower shop last week. A beginners course in Tango.

Sven, a lovely Swedish boy I've met through an American professor who's staying in the same hotel as I am, tried to show me a few steps at the premiere party for my Co-Don Giovanni last Thursday...and since then, I've been curious about the dance.

Sitting alone in my apartment, and trying for the thousandth time today to not think about the absolute hash I've made out of my private life, I weighed the pros and cons of attending the beginners class at seven.

After considering another few solitary hours of considering, I decided to put on some clean clothes and a smile, and headed out the 2.4 google-calculated kilometers to the dance studio.

The Bal-Kon space in Weimar is the ground floor of a villa facing the Stadtpark. It took 16 minutes to walk there, contradicting the google-prescribed 28. I walked around the building. I changed from flip-flops into sturdy-yet-flattering mary-janes. I smoked a cigarette. Maybe three.

At about ten 'til seven I rang the bell of what looked, somewhat suspiciously, like a private apartment. A polite middle-aged gentleman answered the door. Come in, he said. Hang up your coat. If you'd like something to drink, help yourself. There's water, juice, or wine.

Well. What would you choose?

I sat on the back terrace of the villa with this gentleman chatting for some fifteen minutes, until Beate, the host's experienced dance partner arrived, as well as Anton, a student who's been with the Tango school for some time.

After a while, another man--also there for the beginners course--arrived. Named Jens. Lives in Jena.

After another quarter-hour...it became clear that, with only one beginners couple, it would be illogical to do the class. The five of us sat there, on the terrace, for nearly two hours. There would be an intermediate class at nine. We were welcome to watch for a while, if we'd like.

I didn't like. I wanted to dance. I wanted to forget. I wanted to paint myself another color and walk around that way. I didn't want to sit and talk or watch and smile politely...

Still, there was free wine and three-quarters of a pack of cigarettes, and only an empty, silent apartment and a belligerent iPod waiting for me elsewhere, so I stayed.

At shortly before nine, the intermediate couples began to arrive. The first thereof consisted of two high school kids. A round-ish girl who'd obviously put some effort into looking the pretty, frilly tango part, and a skinny, shaggy boy--who elected to leave his pumas on, and his headphones dangling around his neck.

I went for more wine. I checked for text messages that will not come. I went to the terrace for another cigarette. When I came back, there were three couples in all.

Jens from Jena and I were cordially invited to sit on a sofa in the corner to watch. Not, however, before being asked to flex our wallet skills and commit to a private course this Friday at 9 am.

Anton, the tango faithful, was joined by five other dancers, none of whom could possibly have been older than 22. At quarter-past nine, after a quick warm-up, they began to dance.

Jens and I chatted a bit, him telling me about his two sons and his desire to see something bigger in life. There were also compliments about my German and "hey, I'm looking forward to our private lesson on Friday" sorts of sentiments. By nine-thirty he'd stood up and left.

And so I sat there alone, listening to great tango music and watching three extremely young couples stumbling over their own feet, as well as those of their partners.

Tango is such a strange and beautiful dance. It's slow and deliberate, yet somehow through this, it betrays a vast and painful longing.

It's about a wordless, perfect, slow and erotically loaded communication between a man and a woman. The man leads with low, subtle impulses...and the woman, as the host's partner displayed fetchingly by dancing with her eyes closed, follows his suggestions with a series of measured yet seemingly volatile counter-reactions.

The mechanism is perfect. Devastating, even.

Yet sitting there--half-drunk and experiencing ever wider vistas of lonliness--while watching three sets of kids trying and gloriously failing to listen and react with their bodies...

...well...it made me both miss and hate my most faithful lover. The work. The work the work the work.

Listen and react.

Wordless, perfect, slow...

Solitary.

Good.

Enough.

VKSP #17: Guten Rutsch 2006/01/01

"Have a great New Year" is expressed in German (roughly) as "Guten Rutsch" which literally means good slide or skid. This is an accurate description of many New Year's celebratory activities for the typical 20-something Berliner.

Mine was no exception. I woke up in bed today to the roar of Hangoversaurus Rex, mourning the mysterious disappearance of my favorite sweater...as well as the apparent and equally mysterious disappearance of about three hours of the previous night. (Abe filled me in on the details. Apparently I sang. A lot.)

The one thing I do remember, however, is one tiny two word phrase...the only phrase I know in Norwegian...and my epic several-hour struggle not to shout that very phrase at the top of my lungs in polite company.

Den Drittsek. It means "you sack of shit".

We were at a New Year's dinner at the home of a Norwegian, attended by no less than seven more Norwegians. Friendly. Engaged. Charming. Alarmingly adept at foreign languages, including English.

I wish I'd learned the Norwegian translation of "lovely day, today" or "my stars this is some tasty paella" or even "my balls are often itchy". Why "you sack of shit"? It was the only thing...everything I could think to want to say.

"Lydia, how are things at the opera?" Don't say Den Drittsek.

"Hey, do you and Abe want to check out this Bruce LaBruce party later on?" Don't say it.

"Can you pass me some rolls"....Oh lord, please don't say it...

As the night wore on and on and I remember less and less, who knows just how far my lack of tact actually took me.

Only Abe knows for sure, and he's not telling.

Happy 2006.

VKSP #16: It’s white, it’s wet, and it’s all over me. 2005/12/30

I first saw it in London about four days ago. In total...about thirty flakes of snow over about 8 minutes, resulting in the near collapse of all public transportation, traffic gridlock and monstrous delays at the airport.

Abe and I made it back to Berlin. Really late.

It has snowed in this city for the last three days straight. Now, Berlin is known for it's wicked winter temperatures...and identifiable by the sensation of flash-frozen boogers lacerating your nostrils until blood is drawn...but not for snow, per se. That's more of an Eastern Poland through to Siberia type of phenomenon. For this reason, Berliners seem more than a bit bewildered by this blizzard.

I saw a man staring at his feet (buried only up to his mid-shins as he was) for about 15 minutes at a tram stop last night. Open mouth. Gormless expression. Well, it is Berlin and he could have been high.

The city's public works seem particularly befuddled. Sand? Salt? Shovels? You should see my knees after yesterday.

Still, ask any Brit, American, even Dutch person you see around, and they're all over the moon with joy, appreciative of this white patina covering Berlin's ugly post Xmasness.

Today, I saw a young PoMo mother explain yellow snow to her toddler son for the first time.

Retroactively, it must be said.

VKSP #15: The Holiday Jiggly 2005/12/23

It's come to my attention recently, that I'm suffering from a bit of the Holday Jiggly. You know the feeling, the circulation to your legs gets cut off by suddenly tiny waistbands, puffy pink flesh bows out from every unclothed gap, and general squooshiness replaces all of those beloved bones: cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones, etc.

My main H'mo du jour was also feeling the jiggly...made all the more anxious for the fact that, as Masetto in Don Giovanni, he'll need to strip down to undies and a bra and get rammed from behind by Leporello. "Do my tits jiggle when he thrusts?" he asked. What could I say.

We considered our options, and then decided we needed fitness...in the form of a really upscale club. We decided to do a trial training at Holmes Place, an incredibly chi-chi club tucked away into the same shopping complex as Givenchy, Louis Vuitton, Dior, etc. Apparently they offer discounts to people from the opera.

If there's one thing I've learned from every gym I've ever joined (except for the NYSC on Court and Remsen in Brooklyn Heights), it's that fitness, or at least what heterosexual women know as fitness is only the tip of the iceberg. Gay visual politicking overtakes any other function of any given training center, after a point.

We packed our bags and went to Holmes Place. It was slick, bright, and full of beautiful men strutting in pre-ordained patterns, sending each other cryptic glances. A very tall, very orange man named Stefan (whose tattoos climbed out from under his three-piece suit and up his neck) walked us through. The place seemed totally pleasant, even nice...if not totally overpriced.

I zoned out, staring at the womens' only area, doors to the steam and heat rooms...thinking about the entire box of cookies I'd eaten earlier that afternoon, in celebration of my finally getting my shit together to work out a bit. We strolled. Stefan talked. My man listened.

After what seemed like an abnormally short while, their conversation seemed to be wrapping up, in a "thanks, we'll think about it and let you know" kind of way. What? I had come to confront the Holiday Jiggly, not to wander around with a creature that looked more like living, breathing beef jerky than an ordinary human for twenty minutes.

"Could we do a trial training?" I saw my partner in crime go white. "Sometime?" I added.

We received "redeem for a trial workout" cards and headed toward the door. I was confused, annoyed at having carted my gym shit across Berlin, and curious as to why my man was shaking.

"Didn't you hear", he asked, obviously relieved to be out of there. "I have a muscle shirt".

"Oh." I said. We kept walking for a while.

"That orange guy said that muscle shirts are an absolute no go".

We did the only thing we could think to do, considering the situation. We walked (briskly, give me some credit) to the nearest Xmas market and drank 3 mugs of mulled wine in rapid succession.

Then we went back to his place, ate Pringles and Lasagna, and watched Hustler White.

VKSP #14: The most wonderful time of the year… 2005/12/19

When the night sky becomes shot through with red and gold lights, and the air I breathe bears the scent of cinnamon and clove nearly as strongly as that of stale cigarettes, it can only mean one thing.

Xmastime. And that can only mean one thing...

Regretting the coat purchase I made six weeks ago as my broke ass shivers on a windy street corner.

Let me also add a quick story about a trip Abe and I made to the Outlet Mall near his parents' house in Garrison NY last summer. It is relevant, I swear. Wait for it...

As per usual, Abe and I were bickering bitterly throughout the entire adventure, as is generally the case with us when either career or personal/textile/garment-related aesthetics come into discussion.

I believe we were shopping for pants. His, specifically.

At one point, we went into the Barney's Outlet store.

He began thumbing listlessly through a rack of brown, khaki, fatigue, sand, and tan cargo corduroys, occaisionally throwing me one of those adorable, yet cerebellum-melting glances that, on one hand say "sweetie, I need a hand--please come over here and lend me your expert opinion", while also saying, with equal emphasis "you controlling bitch, if you even try to come over here spraying your overblown, castrating judgements like usual, I will make the rest of this shopping expedition a living hell".

While contemplating this age-old conundrum of going or staying, my eyes fell upon a rack supporting two perpendicularly hung rows of pure magic.

The Michael Kors coat. Winter 04/05. Wool, black or red, warm. Perfectly formed with a high neck, very long arms, over-knee fall length, and one sturdy, yet elegant zipper breaking the unmarred perfection of the outer shell (the pockets were inseam, coyly hidden). There it was...in my size.

$200.

$200.

$200.

I left it. My financial situation, as usual, looked about as good as the prospects for gay marraige in Texas. Anyway. The day was for Abie. Abie's pants. Sure, he probably wouldn't ever speak to me again, but at least his sweet cheeks would end up perfectly situated in reasonably-priced denim.

Since that day, I have regretted leaving the coat. A miserable, aching, and certainly cold regret.

Two months after I came back to Berlin, I bought a coat at H & M. Vaguely 1950's in shape and Oscar the Grouch colored, it turns out to be the perfect coat for a dry, brisk, late autumn day.

Not the wet, dark, biting Taiga that is a Berlin winter.

I am grateful for the fact that, since buying the coat, I have lost a few pounds, allowing for extensive layering. Still, as I feel the unrelenting mini-turds of wet snow sink through coat, sweater, sweater, turtleneck, shirt, tank-top, finally hitting unappreciative skin, my mind returns to that which I was too dumb, cheap and proud to buy.

Now I know that Christmas ghosts aren't necessarily menacing, faceless appartitions or sprightly fairies...they can be fabulously cut woolen shells filled with down and lines with nylon. They can haunt you while you shop for groceries and toiletries you could've done without...and appear on Berlin's slender glamor girls, who probably payed EU 1000 for the honor.

On long dark nights, the Michael Kors coat is there. At least one generally wakes up from a nightmare come sunrise. Not me. By tomorrow morning (at which time hopefully the green H & M coat will have dried out sufficiently...reclaiming its charming "crusty asshole of a dog carcass lying on Arizona asphalt for a week" odor once again), there will be no release from its perfect, clean, classic red or black wool grip.

Only 5 more shopping days.

VKSP #13: Pomo Sapiens 2005/12/14

I’ve just gotten back from a place called the Hotel Bar (generic title, yes, but also concise, irreverent, sceney and thereby securely pomo). I went to hear my good friend Tommy’s brilliant sister, Alex, sing.

She sang. She was fantastic. As the final chord of her last song died, I turned around and immediately realized that Dorothy was no longer in Kansas.

It was one of those scenes. Hard to describe, but I’ll try. In a room full of people that are so obviously, unquestionably, practically exhibitionalistically “creative types”, I always find myself isolated.

Stranded.

Girls with artfully spiky (or spikily arty, whichever you’d prefer) hair, wearing painstakingly effortless scarves—a vast ocean of short men with wild, greasy hair and varying degrees of painstakingly effortless facial hair. All milling around ballad night at the Hotel Bar with vacantly pleasant expressions that tacitly say “don’t talk to me unless you run a gallery or a gig bar…or if you’ve got some green.”

The infuriating part of the evening, is that I knew a good few of the people there. I’d been introduced before by Tommy or others (at which time they’d all produced a heroically tolerant courtesy…which on this lot can look like anything from a “this speculum might be a bit cold” expression to…well, Terry Schiavo).

As I spoke to Alex (God bless the woman for her company at that moment) after her set, two prime examples approached [Alex] to congratulate her. As they were waved on toward the email list (without so much as a glance in my direction), I said (loudly, yet cheerfully) “It’s nice to see you again”.

No response.

I caught the female of the species by the arm as she passed again, and repeated my phrase, louder. She turned, with a pitying look that said “Sorry if you’d think I know you. I surely don’t know you. Look at you.” The look had an accent. It was weird.

Me (the gist): Yeah. Hi. We’ve met. At your place. We watched THX-1138 together. And all of the special features. We ate Xmas cookies, I played with your dog, wore your guest house slippers…

(Dear reader…I was one of only two guests on that occasion.)

She sputtered artily for a second without ever looking remorseful for her oversight. I grabbed my coat.

Sometimes Berlin can look like a freakishly inverted incarnation of high school. The tragically misunderstood THEREFORE (unassailably) artistically potent have transmogrified into a thin, pale, spiky, blank-eyed overclass…sort of like the jocks and sluts of yore, I guess. The rest of us…the ones who sell out to the man (read: have institutional jobs), smile when introduced to someone, and wear color…

Well, I don’t know what you’d call us—but I’ve definitely been here before.

On a positive (and definitely unpomo) note, I discovered online banking today. Yup. To celebrate, I bought myself a big bag of Xmas potpourri and put some in every room of my apartment.

I’m really looking forward to waking up to something other than the smell of my own halitosis tomorrow morning.

Night night.