Welcome to Berlin

It still amazes me that you can get on a plane in Barcelona and within two hours—the time it takes to fly from New York to Chicago—land in an entirely different place.  How is it that language, food, body type, architecture, personal space—you name it—change so much over such a relatively short distance?

We landed in Berlin a bit after noon yesterday, collected our luggage, and took a taxi to our home away from our home away from home, in the Kreuzberg section of Berlin.  Kreuzberg is large, and not exactly in the center; it feels sort of like Williamsburg, in Brooklyn. 

We are doing a home exchange with a woman and her three children—they live in a large, light apartment that is very comfortable and well-located.  The husband/father was here to give us the keys; it seems that they split a few years ago.  One of the interesting things about doing these home exchanges is that you don’t just feel as though you inhabit someone’s home; you also inhabit their life.  You know what kind of toothpaste they use, what music they listen to, where they keep the extra toilet paper.  You see the photos they hang on their walls, the kind of books they read. 

It’s hard not to fill in the blanks between the information you have on hand and construct a story about these people whose beds you are sleeping in.  The woman who lives here?  She is clearly going through something.  Something big.  There are several canvases propped about—my guess is that she made them—painted in a bright color (think fuschia and peacock blue) with sayings painted on them in glittery paint:  “I am free;” “Women can’t hear what men don’t say;” “And there are so many silences to be broken.”  You get the idea.  Her bedroom, which is done in pinks and reds, is full of hearts and has a large painting of the female symbol encrusted with plastic jewels hanging over it.  Her personal spaces have the energy of someone who is working… something… out.  I hope she gets through it.

Meanwhile, we were all hungry and exhausted by the time we got in and settled.  I actually felt like I had jet lag, even though we had not changed time zones. We wandered out just long enough to check out the main commercial strip nearby and get some mediocre Mexican food—we let the kids decide—before putting a movie on for the kids.  Alec and I both fell asleep on the couches, and scraped ourselves up to get them to bed and, not long after, get ourselves to bed.

We took our time getting ready and out this morning—the kids lobbied hard for a day in their pajamas, but it seemed too early in the trip for that.  We promised them that we would definitely do it one day this week.  As in most cities, many of Berlin’s museums are closed on Monday, so we opted for a boat tour.  The weather is gorgeous—apparently strangely so—and we took advantage of it by sitting up on top of the boat, where we nearly had to duck our heads as we passed under bridges.  Milo had fun full speed into a sign just before boarding and had given his noggin a real collision, so he spent much of the cruise with his head on Alec’s lap, holding an ice pop to it.  The lump, which was impressively large, has gone down considerably.

Alec also got to thinking that he felt like going to a seder, being that it was Passover after all.  We had done no research, we know no one in Berlin, and we don’t speak German, so it seemed like a stretch to me.  But I love Passover, so I went along with the idea.  Once again, Google saves the day.  Within minutes, Alec was on the phone with a woman who owns a restaurant and who was leading a seder that night.  She told Alec it was full but then, in a hushed voice, asked

“I gather that you are Jewish.” 

“Yes,” Alec answered.  Never mind his shiksa wife. 

“Well,” she said, “I can make space for you.” 

Alec confirmed with her that the address for the restaurant he had found online was where we should go. 

“No, no,” she said.  “My bistro is much too small.  And besides, it’s not a good idea to put the address on the internet. . .  you never know who might turn up.”

Sounded ominous, and I got equally quizzical looks when I tried to buy kosher wine to bring with us at a couple of local wine shops.

We took the Ubahn to the Sbahn and then walked a bit to arrive at a large school where the seder was being held.  Long tables covered in paper tablecloths, folding chairs, paper plates, and a cheery mob of elders, tired parents, traveling students and children.  We found seats at a table across from an older Israeli couple, and next to a group of traveling American students.  A history professor on a Fulbright from the University of Delaware rounded out our crew.

The chef—the woman with whom Alec spoke on the phone—was a young woman with her head mostly shaved except for what looked like peyes, the sidelocks often worn by Orthodox jewish men.  Two other women ran the seder, which was chaotic and warm.  And vegetarian, so no lamb bone.  C.C. and Milo gave no quarter when it came to searching for the afikomen; I don’t think the other children had ever encountered New Yorkers who had been trained by Naomi.  The prize was theirs.  They are accustomed to negotiating with their grandmother for big bucks, so I had to talk to them to make sure they would be happy with the jumprope and puzzle they received; they were.

We made our way home, under an enormous orange moon, with the history professor, who happened to live a few blocks from us.