Step dancing

My gym rotates athletic classes each month. One month it will be BOSU. Then kick boxing. Then Pilate's.

My favorite is the step dance class that a woman named Amy teaches, and December was its month. I like it for three reasons: 1. It is never the same. 2. She kicks our butts. 3. It is sort of like dancing.

Sort of. Actually, it's really more like jumping up and down while spastically waving your arms around. That happens to be really good exercise.

I was thinking about it the other day in class, as we all did the "V-step" and "grapevine" and "over the top!": I would never want anyone besides the 21 women doing this crazy stuff along with me to see me doing it. (Yes, women, because, while it is open to men, a man wouldn't be caught dead doing this unless he had no idea what he was getting into. There have been a few to accidentally wander in. It only happens once.) In our class, the higher you kick your leg off to the side while on top of this narrow bench and the more you wave your arms in different directions while doing it, the better.

It is really fun.

Amy starts out with basic parts and puts them together until you end up doing a "routine." I put that in quotes, because it reminds me more of what my sister and I did as children when we had had too much sugar.

And yet, I'm sad it's over.

Lessons learned: Maybe we still need to jump around and flail our arms as adults too.

The illusive $2.34 modern novelty

It seems like such a small thing, but I think washing lettuce is sort of annoying. Either you end up with watered down dressing or you dry it with a paper towel, which doesn't seem healthy to me. The solution is really simple. There are these magic little devices called salad spinners that do all the work.

They are actually really cheap.

I have put a salad spinner on my Christmas and Birthday lists for the past couple of years, to no avail. It was never anything so important for me to make the trip to buy myself. And those times I was at the store already, it was never so pressing that I remembered to get one.

Until last week. I finally found one. It was a whole $2.34. Proud of myself for remembering, put it in my cart with a bunch of other stuff like toothpaste and contact solution and chocolate covered cherries for my dad (it's one of those things we get him every Christmas).

It wasn't until a couple days ago I realized that I must have left the salad spinner at the checkstand. It is no where to be found. And I am back to waving my lettuce around after washing it like a bird in a puddle.

Lessons learned: Maybe I'm not meant to own a salad spinner.

Merry Christmas

Christmas came really fast this year. For the first time since I've lived in California, I stayed home. My mom came down to visit, and we hung out and did normal Christmas stuff. It was the close of a string of work pot lucks and Christmas parties that have been fun but make me want to never see fudge and chocolates again.

I was rooting for a white Christmas, which I partially got. It snowed in the high country at least, and poured in town so hard I was envisioning people boating down our main street as I woke up on Christmas morning. Mom gave me a new pair of snowshoes, which I am itching to go try out.

It was perfect weather for rum and egg nog.

Lessons learned: I'm ready for a salad and a gym session.

Quick trip

The danger of instant messenger is that you can make impulsive agreements without really thinking them through. But that can also be the beauty of it.

I was online when I saw one of best friends from high school, Anna, was there as well from her home in Portland. I had a three day weekend coming up, and so did she. By the end of the conversation, I was looking up plane tickets.

So I flew up to Portland a couple of days later, just in time for a snow storm to roll in and blanket the city in a sheet of ice. That didn't stop us. Actually it egged us on. We visited outdoor markets, ate like we were starving, tasted local beers, went snowshoeing and browsed through book stores.



As usual Anna and I picked up right where we left off. I also got a chance to meet her fiance, who is all the right combination of good traits she deserves. I wish we could have weekends like that more often. If nothing else, it's a good chance to brush up our old inside jokes.

Lesson learned: I am missing my bathtub picture of RC, Kort, Anna and I following one of the cake fights we had during Anna's birthday parties in high school.

Groggy

It's been awhile, my friends. I'm not even sure what happened to December. I feel like I slept through it, and I'm just waking up a little groggy. I barely remembered my password to log into Blogger.

I won't lie, it's been a hard month and I haven't felt like writing. But it's almost over, and the New Year is coming, so I will have a chance to make new resolutions and devise new plans. I'm hoping 2009 will be a healthier, more-financially stable, less dramatic year for me than 2008, but we will see. One can wish. And pray.


Lessons learned: There is a threshold at which defeat stops being artistically inspiring.

New couch

There is sour cream and cranberry juice in my fridge with expiration dates before Halloween in my fridge.

There are two laundry baskets full of clean clothes on my floor.

There is sheet music all over my piano.

But I just want to lay on my new couch and watch Scrubs reruns.

Lessons learned: I need to get off this couch before a monster grows out of my fridge and eats me.

Thanksgiving number 1

My sister, Amanda, and I are in Truckee now visiting my mom. We're lounging while she bakes, occasionally looking up from our books to try to convince her to sit down. It smells like banana bread and squash right now.

We're having a Thanksgiving meal tonight with some of her friends, since Amanda has to work on the real holiday and we're all together. We are about to undo last weekend's constant exercise, which is okay by me.

Lessons learned: I will never starve here.

The end

After two years, I have finally finished the book "Snow Falling on Cedars."

I read the majority, save for about the last five pages one summer a couple years ago. Then I mysteriously lost the book. I meant to steal into a bookstore and read the end at some point, but I never got to it and sort of gave up.

I just so happens, my sister is reading it now. I stole it while she was studying for her nursing exam. It was a little tricky to remember all the little details that have slipped from my memory, but I got the gist.

Lessons learned: I finally know the fate of Mr. Miyamoto.

Vacation tri-athalon

I'm not good at the relaxing vacations.

My sister and I have been going since she stepped off the plane last Friday afternoon. I'm paying for it now.

We went to a party with some of my work friends Friday night, and met a couple of them for breakfast the next morning. Then we went hiking in the wilderness area nearby where I live. Sunday after church we did a 30-mile bike ride, the last hour of which was in the dark.

Monday we went for a run and took a little time by the pool before packing up to go camping Monday night and climbing Tuesday.

Amanda joked that she felt like she was in fat camp. Yeah, because she really has gotten chubby for a skeleton.

Still, it felt a little like our hardcore old days, just with more neck pain and sore muscles.

Lessons learned: She may have a different last name now, but she's still hardcore.

Crossing my fingers

My sister, Amanda, is coming to see me tomorrow!

Maybe I shouldn't write this, or I might jinx it. Usually I'm not so superstitious, but my sister has a travel curse, and I am definitely tempting fate. Especially considering she only has a half-hour layover. Normal uncursed people would probably arrive on time and slip onto their seat on the next plane with their luggage right behind them.

I am predicting a tsunami will overrun Great Falls, Montana, where she lives, and wipe out the entire five planes that make up the airport's fleet. They will put her on a bus to Missoula to catch a second plane, but the bus will be hijacked by members of a Mexican Drug Trafficking Organization. My sister is pretty savvy, so she will escape and hitchhike the rest of the way to catch her flight.

By then of course, she will have missed her connection and have to stay over night in Salt Lake City. But, there will be a cold snap that selectively freezes all the fluid lines in every plane flying to Sacramento. (I don't even know if there are such things as fluid lines in planes, but if there are, they will freeze.)

In the meantime, she will discover a new rule passed overnight requiring passports to travel to California, and realize that her passport is in storage back in Montana. After having it overnighted to her, she will arrive only to find out her luggage was sent to Guam.

So I'm being over-dramatic, but I've learned to expect the unexpected when my sister gets in a car or airplane.

Lesson learned: I am not as creative as her real-life curse.

Mined

I was sifting through my Google alerts that come to my work e-mail the other day when I came across a link to story about prescription drug abuse and its increases in the past few years. I wrote a story about teen deaths a few months ago, so I've sort of been interested in the topic ever since.

As I was reading the story, I came to a quote that looked really familiar from a law enforcement officer in our county. My first thought, being that I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, is that the officer just repeated his words to this reporter. When I read on, I found about five or six more quotes that were in my story, along with paragraphs of information that he had pulled from my story and rearranged ever so slightly.

My editor wrote the Web site where it was published, and the guy replied that our charge was ridiculous, that we didn't understand the Internet or plagiarism. Hmmm, last time I checked, taking someone else's ideas and putting your name on it is plagiarism. That hasn't changed with the advent of the Internet. Well, glad I could make someone's day a little easier. The irony is, the company that publishes the Web site is called "Truth Publishing."

Lesson learned: Truth has changed.

Last minute concert

I proved that I still do have a bit of spontaneous youth left in me this weekend.

A couple friends and I had planned to go see Ingrid Michaelson this weekend in Sacramento since I got back from Berlin. But a week and a half ago, Jess told me she couldn't go. I made a last ditch effort with a text on Thursday, thinking it was fruitless. On Friday, she pulled through, saying she had a baby sitter for her daughter and was ready to go.

So we braved the downpour in my Cavalier Saturday night and snagged some fast food on the way. We got there in time to stake out a spot right next to the stage like a bunch of groupies in the small venue she was playing at.

As usual, Ingrid was amazing. She has a few new songs I had yet to hear. The lyrics are always witty and interesting, and she has a knack for a catchy melody. I got to meet her afterwards and get my picture taken with her, grinning like a 14-year-old girl at a Justin Timberlake concert.

We figured the show would go to about midnight, and we would get home by 2 a.m. But 2 a.m. was closer to when it finished. We pulled in at about 4:45 a.m., a little foggy, but happy we had gone.

Lesson learned: The four hour drive was worth it.

Ramping up

A local ski resort puts on a video premiere every year before the season starts to wet our appetites for snow. I went for the first time Friday night. Watching snowboarders weave down rippled crests and launch over cornices did serve a little bit like a snowboarding aphrodisiac. Before it was even over, I began to plot ways to save money for ski tickets and dream up possible trips for this winter. Now I just need to fuel up my helicopter.

Hopefully, the weather cooperates with my plans. If the forecast has any merit, I may be sticking to strapping up and hopping around in my living room in my snow garb.

Lesson learned: Pro snowboarders may not make great prospective boyfriends, but they are pretty to look at.

Voting count down

Election night is usually an exciting time in the newsroom. We order pizza. We watch the national results on TV. We goof off as we wait for the results.

Well, thats what all my coworkers are doing. I'm sitting at home watching it all play out all by myself because I got chosen as day reporter. I really shouldn't complain that I'm not working right now. Most of my coworkers thought I was lucky to be leaving at 5 p.m. Still, there is something about covering an election.

Lessons learned: Politics aren't as fun to analyze alone.

Rocking out

This year for Halloween, I decided to get back to my true self: a punk rocker. I highlighted my hair pink, wore black boots and draped on the chains.

I had four parties to go to in two days, so there was no wasting any time. The first was on Friday night, which was an appetizers and game night. Then I went out with my work friends up to see a band at a local brewery.

Saturday night we headed up to another coworker's house for a Halloween party. We had to duck out a bit early for a second party in a nearby town, which is usually the place to be on Halloween. They had a great DJ and I spent four hours dancing in six-inch heels. I could barely walk when I was done, and I looked like I stepped out of a rain storm before I even stepped into one after it was all over.

Lessons learned: I can't wear six-inch heels two nights in a row.

Matthes Crest

This is not climbing. This is tight-rope walking at 10,000 feet.

No, that doesn't even do it justice, because at least with tight-rope walking, the rope straight — not a series of spires and shelves that involve gymnastic maneuvering to traverse.

Matthes Crest is a mile-long horizontal climb along a crest-line in Yosemite's Tuolumne Meadows. Two of my coworkers, Amy and Bill, who are avid climbers, invited me and another coworker, Walt, on this trip Saturday. We, in our naivety, thought it sounded like fun. Fun is maybe not the right word for what the trip ended up being, but it was incredible.

We drove drove to Yosemite late Friday night and camped just over Tioga Pass. It was not so much camping in the traditional camp fire and marshmallows way as it was just to make our morning drive shorter. We got up at 4:30 a.m., and rolled into the car, serving up bagels and cream cheese by headlamp light. That might have not been so bad, had Amy's dog Ruby not rolled in something dead before getting in the car with us.

We started the hike in the dark. The first hour is on a trail, but we eventually branched off and slogged through slot canyons with streams frozen in mid-leap and over steep granite mountains. We watched the sun's first rays bounce of jagged peaks lines and light up Cathedral Peak like a spotlight. Three hours and several thousand feet later, we arrived at the base of the climb.

There are two pitches (to oversimplify, rope lengths) to get to the top of the crest. Coming over the first spire onto the ridge line was the strangest combination of vertigo, fear and exhilaration.

There are a few things you have to sacrifice when you take a trip like this:

Personal space: Which is worse, to have to sit with your face in someone else's butt? Or be the one whose butt is getting close inspection? These are the questions you ask yourself when huddled on a square-foot ledge with three people.

Cleanliness: My hands were caked in dirt after scrambling up a mountainside to the beginning of a climb. They then turned black after feeding the rope through my hands while belaying Bill as he climbed. I still have dirt under my fingernails. Yet, this didn't stop me when I dipped into my trail mix.

Beauty: I wore my hat for a total of 24 hours. In that time, sweat matted my hair to my head. Sun screen was my make up. By the end of it, I had holes in my pants and dirt painted down my sleeves.

Your dignity: I crawled on my hands and knees across stone slivers. I laid on my stomach with my arms and legs wrapped around a beam of rock while my coworker tried to free a piece of equipment caught awfully near a compromising place. I sang as I inched along the edge of a drop-off to my left and clung to holds on a wall to my right. This is a good climb for those lacking humility.

The technique we used to climb this is called simul-climbing. Basically, I was tied to one end of the rope, with Bill on the other. Amy and Walt pared up. We all climbed at the same time, moving the crest with the leaders 100 feet ahead of us. They lodged equipment called nuts and cams into cracks about every 30 to 60 feet, which would ideally catch us and shorten our fall should we lose our footing. To be honest, I wonder if the ropes are really only there for our mental consolation.

Often, because we were both climbing at different speeds, I would end up with about 30 feet of slack on my end. Other times, Bill would climb faster than me, and the rope would go taunt, pulling me along at a clip that was not exactly comfortable. (Although comfortable was relative up there)

Communication was basically useless, since the acoustics on the top of a wind-swept ridge are not so great.

We ended up having to bail off early because we were running out of day. That involved repelling one-by-one 200 feet to a tree sticking out of the rock. After the four of us got down, we waited with baited breath as Bill attempted to pull the rope from the tree above that it was looped around. It was stuck.

He had to climb back up and rig a new system to rescue it. After one-more rappel, we still had 200 more feet of loose shale, rock and granite to navigate before reaching the real ground. Then we raced the sun up over a mountain to a lake where Amy knew the way from best.

The last two hours were hiking in the dark. In total, it was a 14-hour day. The pizza and burgers we lusted after on the two-and-a-half-hour drive back ended up being a pipe dream for me, since I only managed a shower before falling into bed.

This may be the hardest, but most rewarding, thing I've ever done athletically. Not many people see a 360 view of spires, mountain ranges and lakes like that from the top of a narrow crest. I probably won't do it again, unless I forget how painful it is, but I'm glad I did it once.

Lesson learned: Sunglasses and camera are essentials, both of which I forgot.

Homecoming

So this is about a week late, but I made it home. Just testing to see if you all would notice my absence on this blog. Coming home always makes you appreciate the things you take for granted.

The top ten things I missed while gone (excluding the obvious such as friends and family, cuz you all know you are number 1):

10. Peanut butter and mac and cheese (not necessarily at the same time)
9. Having a microwave
8. My pianos (both of them)
7. Understanding everything people say. Well most things.
6. Knowing what I am doing at work. Well most of the time.
5. Driving
4. My shower
3. Ice water (ohne Gas)
2. Sunshine
1. My bed

Lesson learned: My apartment is like a grown up's playground when you haven't been there awhile.

Aufwiedersehen Berlin

I have officially retired my Berlin map.

It will now be relegated to a photo album that I will likely put together in about 2.46 years. (Still haven't done one for the Japan trip).

It's good timing, considering the map is only held together at the folds intermittently by worn away pieces of paper. The map was part of my Berlin tool kit, including also a raincoat, umbrella, camera and my cell phone. I strapped it in a bag on the back of my bike and took it everywhere.

So I'm leaving tomorrow, and 30 hours, three airports and a drive later - bam - I'll be home. At least, if all goes well. So pray for good weather, sound planes and gentle baggage handlers for me.

Lesson learned: I'm ready.

Bye Ike

The selling of a bike is always the final signal that your time in a foreign country is coming to an end.

I sold mine today. Bye Ike.

Luckily, he went to a really sweet Canadian girl, who saved me from having to go to the cash machine again by buying him and my German hair straightener.

I have done a lot of walking ever since.

Lessons learned: The 15 responses I got to my online ads tell me bikes are in high demand in Berlin.

Raining on my parade

So, today is my last day at the Tagesspiegel.

The worst part was, I didn't get to ride my bike on my last day because it is pouring rain, sadly. You don't know what a pain it is to take the train, especially when it's raining.

However, the rest of the day has been really pleasant and in traditional departure style (In other words, with lots of food). I finished my last story, went to lunch with co-workers, and had cake and coffee with my two mentors, Mortiz and Sebastian, in the opinion section (because that's what we do). Those guys were a big help in my adjustment to this country, and they make me laugh. I'll miss afternoon coffee and games like "Can you guess the price of this house."

Now I'm thinking about ducking out, but it's raining again.

Lesson learned: The weather can't ruin it.

CSI Germany

Like we have CSI or Law and Order, Germany has its own crime series. It's called Tatsort (Crime scene). On Sunday night, a few friends from work and I went to a cafe to watch it, as is a tradition of theirs. We lounged on white leather couches with tea and juice watching it on a big screen TV. There is a 20 Euro per month tax on everyone who owns a TV here, so many choose not to have one. Instead, many cafes open their doors weekly for popular series.

This show had a lot of what our crime series have: dramatic music, suspense, romantic tension between two of the detectives, and of course, an unrealistic falling of the pieces of the puzzle into place just in time for the show to conclude.

The show is film length, and 45 minutes into it, we all had to guess who we thought the murderer was. Whoever guesses right has their name put in drawing for a free cocktail coupon at the cafe. Not to anyone's surprise, I guessed wrong. But the waiter screwed up and drew my name from the hat of people who guessed right. I tried to give the coupon to the rightful winner, a co-worker of mine who apparently guesses right every week, but he wouldn't have it. So now I have an excuse to go back.

Lesson learned: Maybe I made a better crime reporter than detective. At least with fake TV crime investigations.

Weekend marathon

As thousands coursed through Berlin this weekend for the Berlin marathon, I did my own marathon of sorts. On my bike of course.

Saturday I met up with Elizabeth, who is also in my program, at our favorite market in Kilowitz Platz for lunch. Then I headed to Mitte to meet another, Ira, where we did a ride along the river to another market. Where ever I went, I seemed to run into parts of the inline skating race or the foot race for youth that both preceded the marathon on Saturday. Ira and I sort of got trapped in the town's center by skaters whizzing by us in spandex. It was a fun scene though with people cheering and music playing, and the weather was nice, so we just hung out and watched the mayhem. It took about a half hour once before we could grab our bikes and run for our lives across the road, hoping not to become road kill.

On Sunday, I caught a glimpse of the real marathon on my own run. Then I spent the afternoon at Rathaus Schoenberg, where JFK gave his famous speech. There is also a market there on Saturdays and Sundays. After I wandered through tents and piles of second hand clothing, I entered the Rathaus, looking for the Liberty Bell. No one else was there, so I almost felt like I was intruding. I followed signs that said "Turm," which I thought I remembered means "tower." There were about three separate steep metal steps I climbed, in warehouse like corridors. I finally made it up the final spiral staircase, where the bell is. From the top, you can see the whole city in every direction. There is a strange sort of quiet up there in the tower with the bell, with the wind whipping through the cage it's kept in, and suddenly it felt good to be alone.

I spent the afternoon in a cafe with a glass of wine and my journal, as the sun set through the spires of a church nearby the cafe.

Lessons learned: I think I've done it all here and I can go home.

One last look

Nothing like wrapping up my last weekend in Berlin with a trip to the parliament building. It is definitely not as boring as it sounds. The Berlin Reichstag has a huge clear dome where people can climb to the top using a spiral path. I went with a couple others from my program on Friday night. The view is pretty amazing, especially at night. It was a fitting way for us to say goodbye to this city. The others I was with were actually departing within days, leaving me here for another week.

Lesson learned: If you squint at the top, you can almost see home.

Joining in the fun

The video below proves that German's can in fact be silly, despite what people have told me since I've been here. This is a clip from Stefan Raab, who, if I understand correctly is a comedian and talk show host here in Germany. He's making fun of a fitness show that apparently, and much to my delight, is a real show here for to help prevent osteoporosis. A coworker of mine showed me this video after I had dinner at her house last night. I was rolling on the floor by the end. Hopefully it will be as funny even to those who don't know the language. Make sure you watch it to the end, when he joins in. Check it out.

Dreaming auf Deutsch

Now that I've gotten that last post out of my system, I can talk about a little trivial, but still fun bit of news. In the past few days, I have had a couple dreams in German. The first one was pretty mixed with both languages, but I'm pretty sure that this morning, the dream I awoke to was all German. Sometimes it's hard to tell because you just remember the meaning of a conversation and not the words themselves. This time, I have distinct memories conversations in this morning's dream in which I was doing a story about a group Germans who looked a bit like Power Rangers flying around in cartoon-like jets. My editor here was telling me what he wanted from the story, and even in my dream, I had to pay close attention to understand him. Funny how that works.

Lesson learned: My brain knows better German than my mouth.

The bad and ugly part

Every once and awhile, I have moments where I want to run home and never come back here. It usually comes after a series of misunderstandings or negative experiences on otherwise hard days. So is life in a foreign country sometimes, and this post is to be taken with a grain of salt. I really don’t hate the Germans or think they are all like the few I am about to describe in not so flattering terms. Promise.

So anyway, on Wednesday evening I was riding my bike home as usual when I crossed the street with maybe a little less attention than I should have. I looked up to see a Hummer lumbering toward me. A Hummer. Such a vehicle looks like a dinosaur on the streets of Berlin, where Smart Cars and Minis are like ants at a picnic. Had I not paused with my chin literally on my chest, I probably would have made it across without disrupting its progress and therefore ruining the occupants’ day. Because I did, the driver unfortunately may have had to touch his brake. Fear of getting flattened roused me out of my shock, and I scooted out of the way. It wasn’t fast enough, I guess, because out of the window, one of the male passengers yelled something that had the root word “schlampe.” It didn’t matter that I didn’t catch the prefix. I understood what that meant. What I don’t understand is why impeding their progress for two seconds makes me a “whore.”

Then yesterday afternoon, I was on my way to meet a friend at a market, again on my bike. I paused at a red light in front of construction blocking the way I thought I was supposed to go. Maybe I didn’t jump on my seat fast enough when the light turned green. Maybe I exuded “I am a stupid American.” Maybe the guy was having a bad day. I don’t know. But for some reason, the man behind me on his bike began to yell at me, and continued to follow me yelling for three blocks. I’m not kidding. I finally turned around and flashed him a peace sign – the only nice thing I could think of that he would understand. “Ja, ja,” he said, and finally turned down another street.

I arrived to find my friend had her own set of similar experiences in the same time frame.

Seriously, I don’t understand why people here express such anger here for such minor infractions. If you cross the street right after the light turns red, they will blaze on their horn. If you take too long to bag your groceries, they will loudly complain. If you bring your water bottle back to the wrong place for recycling, they will bring it to you and explain in four different ways for about ten minutes in a high-pitched dramatic voice that you have done it wrong. Good grief. Ausruhen Sie sich bitte!

Okay, now I’m venting and unfairly generalizing. I’ll stop.

Like I wrote when I was in Japan, I get one tantrum. So this was it.

Lessons learned: Act quickly and correctly, otherwise be chastised.

Culture seekers

My American friends and I here in Germany have tried our best to hit the cultural highlights in Germany. We have carried liter bottles of beer in the subway. We have tested the lukewarm carbonated mineral water that waiters bring by default when we are trying to re-hydrate. We have woven between crazed drivers on our bikes. We have even learned to separate our recyclables with precision.

One thing was missing: We have not seen an Opera.

Of course, this didn’t dawn on us until last weekend. My friend, Crystal, is leaving on Friday, so we only had four days to enrich our cultural experience.

This sort of procrastination is actually par for the course for us in Germany. We seem to always wait till the last minute to do something (i.e. buy train tickets), which then sends us into a panic of attempting to read matrixes of schedules and price lists on German Web sites.

The bottom line was – after I resorted to calculus in my attempt to find an option – there was nothing within our time frame in any of Berlin’s eight or so opera houses.

Instead, we decided to go to a Baroque-style concert (with the performers dressed in the style) in the Charlottenburg Castle. Yes, I know, it’s always a bummer to settle for anything that takes place in a castle. Last night, Irene, Crystal and I met for dinner, then headed over to the castle in a food-induced stupor (which also seems par for the course).

The advantage of a classical and baroque music concert is that it needs no translation. I let myself get carried away between the counterpoint of the violins and cellos and caught up in candle light. Occasionally, a woman singer appeared in a turquoise marshmallow of a dress to peal out melodies in a voice that sounded like diamonds look. There was also a man singer, though he wasn’t quite as impressive. At least we got a taste of opera.

Afterwards, I wrapped up in my scarf and pulled my hood over my head to make the trip to the subway station through crisp air that stubbornly seems to want to stay for the winter. As I stepped out of the towering wooden castle doors, I couldn’t help but think how I am going to miss it here.

Lessons learned: Bach knew what he was doing.

Portrait: Ruthild

My landlord, Ruthild, always leaves vases of flowers the dining room table. The kitchen often wafts with a bouquet of scents from the variety of confections she bakes. In the mornings, opera or classical music floats from a small stereo on a bench in the dinning room.

Then, Ruthild sits with her coffee, cheese, bread and homemade jam spread out on the dinning room table and reads the newspaper. My breakfast often coincides with hers, so we sit and chat, often about trivialities like the weather, politics or our weekends.

This morning, the paper lays folded neatly to her side when I pull up my chair with my granola and tea. She sits with her chin in her hands, gazing out the window at the grey that masks Berlin from the sun.

We start with our usual conversation: It’s supposed to warm up later in the week, she says. I had a great time in Potsdam on Saturday, I offer. She rode bikes with her boyfriend along the river in the small town of Walldorf, where she often spends the weekends, she mentions.

Ruthild is a retired 50-year-old who grew up in eastern Germany. In place of work, she is part of a project to educate people about various religions.

When I first arrived, she was on vacation and had left a list of rules likely puzzled together with a dictionary. Those who grew up in the eastlearned Russian instead of English like those in the west. Maybe as a result, they appear very strict: Take off your shoes when in the flat; quiet after 10 p.m., close the window and lock to door when leaving the flat. The quiet, gentle manner about her when we finally met didn’t match. She pronounces her words clearly and slowly, as if paced by a metronome, and always almost sings my name before she begins a conversation with me.

This morning, I venture beyond previous boarders of our regular morning conversation. “Besitzt du in Hause in Walgart?” I ask. Yes, she has a house in this small town on the coast, she says, her eyes brightening, but more like a hut, with one room with only a bed, toilet and kitchen. It is enough.

“Ich zeige dir,” she says, pushing back her chair and padding up the stairs like a child on Christmas morning. She returns with a small photo album, filled with pictures of the home. They show a small rectangle house, trimmed with grass and a view of the sea.

Ruthild’s pride is a garden that grows wildly like unbrushed hair. Daisies and irises are its centerpiece, near a small brush labyrinth. Other photos show apple and plum trees heavy with fruit. A small table and two chairs sit in the backyard waiting for tea.

Ruthild and her boyfriend, Bernd, bought the house about five or six years ago, she tells me. She was looking for a getaway and saw an ad in a paper after a fruitless search through other means. The pruned gardens stacked next to each other like playing cards on the street leading to the house almost turned her away when she went to see it. Then she arrived at the one for sale, on the end, with a beautiful view and an untamed garden without the rigid rows of the others.

Yes, the “rules of the house” sitting on my desk don’t belong in this apartment.

Mini-trip

This weekend, determined to see all the noteworthy sights around Berlin before I go, I rallied a couple American friends to go to Potsdam with me. Potsdam is a formerly eastern suburb of Berlin, which is actually where “The Big Three” signed the documents dividing up Germany and Berlin. It is home to three impressive castles that lie on palace grounds. We had a great lunch in a really cool café before heading out. Walking through the downtown, which is titled with cobblestones and full of musicians, reminded me a bit of Salzburg. On Saturday, a market was in full swing. We only made it to one of the castles, but it was really impressive, with sprawling grounds, fountains and statues in compromising positions. The sun came out just in time to light up the background for good pictures.


Lesson learned: Potsdam is worth the trip.

Portrait: Cashier in the grocery store

I dragged my suitcase through the little grocery store, feeling a bit like a bear in a China shop. I had just returned from London and didn’t want to bother hauling my suitcase up the six flights of stairs to my apartment then turning around to go pick up some bananas and bread.

Perhaps it is no affront here, because no one said anything as I steered its wheels around the shelves of goods painted in German words. After filling my arms with my purchases, I headed to the cash register to pay – the one to the right that is normally open.

“Over here young lady,” I heard a women call through the racks of chocolate eggs and chewing gum. A heavy set cashier sat on her stool without a line.

“Oh I didn’t see you,” I said, careful to use the formal form of the word “you” in German.

“I don’t want to sit here while my co-worker does all the work,” she said with a smile that matched her honey blond hair. I was a little caught off guard by her chattiness. In Germany, cordial customer service is rationed out like water during a drought. I usually have to brace myself before I head to a register to pay.

I basked in her friendliness.

She chatted on, determined to explore all avenues of her previous topic. “The people don’t usually see me over here and usually always head to her,” she said, waving my purchases over her scanner. With a flourish, she pushed the total button. “Also, sieben comma sechzig,” she said the total.

I paid, almost sadly.

Next time I was in the store, I looked again for my friendly cashier, but in her place was a sour-looking woman. I again switched back to holding my wallet and plastic bag ready like a cowboy playing Russian Roulette as I waited for my total.

Tea and cake and a foreign language

I had just dragged my laundry up the stairs and into my room, when my landlord met me at the door last night to ask me if I wanted a piece of plum cake. It sounds strange, I know, but it was amazing. She had made a crust, layered it with some sort of cream cheese mixture, stood pieces of plums over the top and baked it. Her daughter, Miriam, and daughter's cousin were visiting and sat in the dimly lit kitchen with tea and cake.

I joined them, and we talked about global warming, music composition and Miriam’s cousin's job search. She is in Berlin after living in Sweden for the past 12 years, and wanted to come back to Germany to improve her German, particularly writing. If a German has to come back to their homeland to improve their own mother tongue, that shows you how hard this language is.

Anyway, I was in one of those phases where my German was coming easier, so it was fun to actually be part of the discussion. Sometimes in group settings, as soon as I've decided how best to say something, the converstation is on to something else.

Lessons learned: Like a glass of wine, cake does wonders for my German.

Turning seasons

I left Berlin for the weekend in the throes of an Indian summer and came back on Monday to winter. It was sunny yesterday, but it might as well have been snowing. Suddenly all the little outside activities I've been enjoying are not so pleasant. Biking for example. I wrap myself up in layers, only to have the cold air sneak into any opening possible as I'm whisking through the streets. My fingers turn to icicles. I think about my little red Chevy and how great the heat works.

This morning when I woke up at 7 a.m. for my run, there was still a touch of darkness to the sky. I had to drag myself out of my warm blankets and dress like I was going sledding. Even the swans weren't on the channel.

I am praying this is a fluke and the warm weather will return.

Lesson learned: I need to buy a pair of gloves.

Backstaged

Yesterday afternoon I bought one of the two last tickets for a Conor Oberst concert that my friend Crystal had a ticket for Monday night. Oberts is the lead singer of Bright Eyes, which is an indie band I like but not one that I have a lot of music from. He was singing with his new band, the Mystic Valley Band Monday. I bought the ticket with hesitation, wondering if I should spend money on a band I’d never heard before.

My friend Crystal and I went, and immediately I developed one of those fleeting, from-a-distance crushes. Oberst and his band were fantastic. Everything from his unusually low voice to his stage presence to the interesting and artistic lyrics in his music really impressed me.

After the show, Crystal and I attempted to go backstage but were stopped by a hulk of a German security guard. Even the Scottish guy with green hair shaped into spikes who worked as a stage crew couldn’t convince him. We gave up and tried a different tactic, exiting out the side door of the guarder robe. There the band was, sitting outside the door drinking a beer. We ended up talking with them for a bit, though Oberst wasn’t there. Later he walked past us several times, and I felt too much like a groupie to ask one of the band members to introduce us. I’m not easily star struck. I have a hard time elevating singers to a deity-like level. There was a part of me, however, that wanted to meet him just for the sake of saying I had, so I kind of wished later I would have just surrendered a little dignity and asked for the introduction. Crystal wasn’t so reserved and got to shake his hand as he was about to get in a cab.

Lessons learned: Germans are different concert-goers than Americans. There is no heckling or arm waving.

Portraits: Anja

She looks like a real-life Barbie or a porcelain doll. I say that not in the catty jealous woman sort of way, but more in admiration. Every day, she sweeps into the office, as if she stepped out of a catalogue. Yesterday she wore what no American would ever dare, especially after Labor Day: white pants and a white sweater. Somehow she made it look classy, with a brown belt looped around her thin frame and large wooden beads slung around her neck. Her hair is an unnaturally natural blond, and it’s always pulled back away from her dimpled smile, which make her blue eyes look that much larger. There would be no keeping my American guy friends away from her if she were ever to visit.

One recent afternoon, a group of us stood indecisively at the corner, caught between her desires for lunch and the rest of the group. “I’d like something healthy,” she had said with a pout, after someone suggested Chinese. Suddenly they turned to me. “What would you like?” Philip asked. He suggested that if I didn’t want Chinese, I could go with Anja to get a salad the small “bio” store to our right. She looked at me expectantly, batting mascara fringed eyelashes. The ticking of the cross walk vocalized the pressure of their stares.

It was a combination of the chill in the air and the fact that I had a salad the night before is what I would like to say won me over to Chinese. “I’d actually like something warm,” I said just as the light switched green. If I’m honest, however, a part of it was that I wimped out. It was the dread of having to make polite conversation with Anja alone in German. Why women are so intimidated by other women is something I will never understand.

Befriending other girls in a foreign country is difficult but something I’m ever trying to do. A female relationship is so simple. There are no undertones of unwelcome expectation. No blurry lines. And among women, there is always at least one unexhaustive fallback conversation topic that does wonders for bonding in any culture: men.

So I found myself sitting among them eating sweet and sour chicken, trying to follow the group's conversation like a spectator follows a tennis match, and constantly losing the ball in the sun.

I should have gone to lunch with Anja that day.

Off to the isle

I flew to England over the weekend to visit my friend Felicity, who I met when I studied abroad in Salzburg, Austria. She lives in a village near London and has already taken the trip to see me twice. I figured it was my turn. We had a great time. I spent Friday afternoon touring around London since she had to work. I was really impressed with the architecture. There are these ornate spires that stab the sky around every corner. And of course I got my picture with one of those guards in the red coats.

I met up with Felicity and a group of her friends for dinner and drinks. We spent Saturday at some of the smaller towns in her area, which look like something out of a movie.


Before I left, I had gotten an e-mail from Felicity telling me there was to be a "fancy dress" party Saturday, and she said, "Don't worry, you can borrow something to wear from Emma or me." I assumed this was a cocktail party and she was thinking I hadn't brought anything nice to Berlin. Actually, they are costume parties that might as well be Halloween. We managed to pull together a sixties dress and some knee high boots for me. The occasion was one of Felicity's friends was having a Birthday. There were fireworks and everything. Not too shabby.


Though we were tired, we wandered out Sunday to meet up with another of our Salzburg alumni for lunch in Winchester, where the queen has a castle. Unfortunately, the queen wasn't home.

Now I'm back in Berlin and still thinking in British phrases. They have so much fun slang. I'm jealous.

Lesson learned: I am going back.

P.S.

Pay no attention to the time stamps. Don't worry mom and dad, I'm not writing these at 3 a.m. after a wild night at the bars. Blogger is still on California time.

Biking in high heels

I love the small traffic lights set at eye level and dedicated solely to bicyclists. I wonder sometimes if they are really necessary, since bikers can just follow either the pedestrian or automobile lights. Still, it is a statement that bikes have a place on the road.

There are also bike paths painted into the sidewalks or alongside the roads in many places.

I've written about this before, but think it's great to see business women in skirts, old men who can barely walk and teenagers with ipods all riding together on the streets. At home I might be a little hesitant to ride in high heels, but here I do it all the time. In fact, it is more comfortable than walking in them.

Sometimes it is mayhem, because bikers, including me, seem to feel exempt from the rules that drivers or pedestrians here strictly follow. I often play chicken with others in the paths as I or they ride on the wrong side of the street.

Ike (my bicycle) seems to be complaining louder lately, and sometimes I worry he will fall apart. I inwardly plead for him to last just one more month. I'm not sure what I would do without him.

Lesson learned: Biking works well for narcisists.

Kurz nach Leipzig

I spent last weekend in Leipzig, where all the Americans from my program met for a sort of progress report. It was fun to see everyone, though there were a few missing. As usual, the program went all out on our hotel stay and food. Seriously, we are really spoiled. It's going to be difficult to go back to peanut butter sandwiches and quesadillas when I get home.

We visited a couple museums upon arriving on Saturday, one that covered the history of Germany after World War II and another that was about the Stazzi (the East German secret service at the time). The latter was in the former Stazzi headquarters, which got stormed eventually by protestors. All of this was really fascinating. As Americans, we learn all about the war, but not too much about what happened afterwards in Germany. It was sort of unbelievable the crazy human rights violations that occurred and the atmosphere that people lived in. We got to talk with a couple people who lived through it. It wasn't all that long ago.


We went out to an old restaurant that night and met up with a few alumni of the program. The next day, a woman took us on a tour through the city streets. Leipzig has more of the traditional European city center than Berlin, with the old cathedrals and spires. Some of it, however, was rebuilt into cookie cutter shapes after the war.

Lesson learned: Buy train tickets in advance.

Portraits: Joe

"You're not going to print my name, are you?"

I paused, my pen poised over my notebook, thinking, "That's exactly what I was planning to do." It wasn't a reaction I was expecting from an American, but then again, Joe may not really truly be an American.

He sat on a sideways crate, the only seat left by the time he arrived to the Thursday night gathering of ex-patriots at this week's bar of choice. A velvet curtain as a back drop, a red chandelier and red walls made the back room of the pub on Dresdener Strasse glow in a rouge hue.

We went through the normal negotiations when someone is hesitant to commit to an interview and eventually settled into questioning. Joe moved to Germany from New York City when he was 13 with his parents, he told me. He grew up in Cologne. He now works in the IT industry in Berlin.

His words didn't have the typical American accent, buttressed by blurry r's. But they didn't carry the strong consonants and the telling emphasis on the first syllable of words either. His pompous was more of the European kind. The way his hand motions guided his words, like a conductor of an orchestra, is a U.S. trademark.

Joe retains his American citizenship and uses the word "they" when he talks of Germans, as one speaks of foreigners. Yet he has lived in Germany for about 30 years. I paused, trying to figure him out. Who is he? One of his feet seems grounded on American soil, with the other stretching to reach the German border. Yet the span across the Atlantic is too great, leaving him caught in in the updrafts and waves crests of what is in between.

How much of his eccentricity is part of his character and how much is the result of a mixed cultural identity? I wondered.

"Do you feel more German or more American?" I asked him.

"Neither," he said, taking a sip of wine while everyone else drank beer.

He likes Berlin, where he moved to two years ago, he said. It feels safe. He likes the freedom. "It reminds me of New York City, but without all the problems."

Joe, if that really is his name, probably won't be part of the article I'm writing for the German newspaper about American ex-pats. He doesn't fit the rubric. He just doesn't fit.

Journalism auf Deutsch

This morning, I received an e-mail in my inbox from my friend Crystal with a subject that said, "Translation!" It was pretty clear what would follow, which made me mildly nervous. My German is far from perfect and far from the level of a true translator. At the same time, it's sort of fun to have a useful purpose for my second language.

Crystal is working on a story about the Kaiser Wilhelm church, which still stands in a shopping district of Berlin like a broken tooth after it was bombed during World War II. There is an effort underfoot to restore it since some say it is becoming dangerous. Crystal was assigned to ask a few Germans what they think should happen to the church -- whether it should stay or go and what their feelings are about it.

So I came along with her to interview a few people. It wasn't as hard as I thought it might be. We actually managed to get a few salvageable quotes from some Germans. Now if I could only get motivated today to write my own stories.

Lessons learned: Interviewing someone in German in person is a lot easier than over the phone.

Portraits: Florian

The breakfast table was decked with salami, cheeses, fruit and bread, like a bouquet of snacks in a picnic basket. My landlord sat on one end with me on the other. At our sides were her visitors: Heidi and one of her two grandsons, Florian.

Florian, who can’t be older than six, stared at me with large brown eyes, fidgeting in his chair. He’s the kind of cute that makes you want to take him to a playground, push him on the swing and buy him a lollipop.

“Have you ever heard English?” Heidi asked him. He shook his head furiously, without taking his eyes off me, fiddling with the small polished rock on a string around his neck. Heidi asked me to speak it for him.

“What are you guys doing today?” I asked him in English. “Wa,” he said, his eyes growing larger and a smile creeping over his face. “What did you say?” he asked. I translated for him, awaiting an answer to my question, but shyness won Florian over.

“We’re going to see the bats,” Heidi answered for him in English, then explaining in German that there is an exhibit in Berlin where people can see bats in caves. I wanted to go with them, and hang out with the two kids, who speak the kind of German I understand best.

But instead I set off to work. “Have fun with the … ,” I paused and turned to Heidi. “What are they called in German?”

“Fledermäuser.”

“Viel Spaß mit den Fledermäuser,” I repeated, then left Florian and his brother, Fabian, to wrestle near the stairs.

Girls night

I have met my German counterpart here in Berlin. Tanya is the police reporter for the German newspaper I am working for. It's been interesting to compare and contrast.

Last night, she invited me over for dinner. It was really pleasant to sit and have girl talk while she whipped up a salmon cream sauce for our pasta. After dinner, we watched "Sex and the City" in German with English subtitles. She has the CD set and often does this to improve her English. It became a language lesson for us both. She would ask me about phrases that popped up on the screen, and I would consult her about ones Samantha or Carrie were saying in their dubbed German voices.

I left with the language floating in my head, and happy that I have a German friend.

Lesson learned: Girl talk is just the same in German as it is in English.

Portrait:Reinhard

I stood straddling my bike, peering at my map under the streetlight when I heard him.

“Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” he asked.

I looked up to see a man of about 60 years old approaching, wearing a tailored suit and a friendly smile. Though Germans often have the reputation of being unfriendly, I’ve found many on the street are quick to assist if you are lost.

“Ich suche die Boden Museum,“ I answered, hoping he could point in the right direction to the museum where there is free outdoor concerts every Sunday night.

“Ja, kein Problem,” he said, beckoning me to walk with him.

I noticed the strong Eastern accident lacing his German immediately. It is something like the Irish accent is to English, with softer words that sort of slide together. He confirmed that he was from the east when he told me he speaks only Russian, not English, as a foreign language.

He prattled on, telling me about his job, giving me the meaning of his name and asking what I was doing in Berlin. I felt as if I had stepped back three weeks in my understanding of the language. I was able to sift enough words out strings of sentences to say “Ja” or “nein” at the right times and answer the occasional question.

At a corner, he paused, uncertain that he knew where he was going. I pointed to a sign with an arrow, and let him know I could probably find it from here.

“Ach ich fahre mit,” he said staying by my side. “Ich möchte auch wissen.”

With that, I became the tour guide for someone who was just curious to find my destination as I was. And gradually the situation transformed into something uncomfortable, rather than a pleasant encounter with a friendly stranger.

The telltale scent of tobacco wafted from his suit, growing stronger each time he bumped into my shoulder. He continued to talk, telling me how he was made a “Lord” in England and fishing his card out of his breast pocket. I began to plot my escape.

The museum was rising on the horizon. “Ist es nicht geschlossen?” he asked, and I shook my head. No it is not closed, I’m meeting friends there, I told him, hoping that would dissuade him from following me into the concert.

“Ich möchte sie auch kennenlernen,” he said to my dismay, as I began imagining how awkward it would be to introduce him to my friends as he was requesting.

At the edge of the bridge, I paused. “Also…” I said, hoping that was enough to signal this was goodbye. But he kept talking, and suddenly “Hilton” surfaced from the soup of his words, along with a suggestion. The mild flashes of lights in my head suddenly turned to sirens. With one last unrealistic grasp at the chance he wasn’t the creep I was beginning to think he was, I asked, “Sind Sie Besitzer?”

The words sounded ridiculous even to me, playing naïve. There was no way this man was the owner of a Hilton. "Nein, nein, ich habe gar nichts,” he said, confirming my fears.

"Ok ... Es hat mir gefreut... Schönen Abend noch,” I said, bothering with parting formalities that he didn’t deserve.

"Schade," he said as a pushed my bike toward the comfort of the crowd.

Yep. That’s right buddy. Too bad.

Night song

Every Sunday, there are free concerts at the Boden Museum in Mitte, the central district of Berlin. I missed the last time my friends went, choosing laziness over culture. So tonight I was determined to go. I was supposed to meet a couple people there, but they were wavering, so I went anyway. Fittingly, it was a pianist and a cello player, who serenaded us on in between the pillars of the museum. It was still warm at 9 p.m., so I sat in the back on a stone bench and listened, a little sad when they were finished.

Lesson learned: I miss my piano.

Portraits: Momo

I'm not sure what about this small Spanish restaurant on Bergmannstrasse caught my eye, but it was enough to make me stop my bike and turn around. Maybe it was the red walls, maybe the way the front of the restaurant was completely open, maybe the beach-like lounge chairs in the front looked inviting.

I was too full from dinner. I didn't even really want a drink, but I ordered a glass of wine anyway and settled in the chair to people watch. The wine wasn't really that good and I was starting to get a headache, so I told the waiter I wanted to pay as soon as took my last sip. He noticed the map I had under my hand and asked where I was from.

"Ich bin Kalifornian," I responded, bracing for the usual scoff.

Instead, his eyes lit up. His demeanor transformed from the formality of a server to the friendliness of an acquaintance. "Really? California? I love Californians. I love Americans."

I was a little taken aback. It's no secret we aren't really so popular over here. The Germans are a little shy of war after participating in two that ended up with the word "World" in them. I don't blame them. The Marshall Plan is a distant memory, replaced with a strong distaste for Bush.

But Momo isn't German. I assumed he was Spanish, both because of his dark hair and an accent that flavored his German words Plus, he mentioned he owned the restaurant with his cousin. No, he told me, he's from Iran. Suddenly I wondered if he was being sarcastic about loving Americans.

But there was nothing sarcastic about Momo. He dropped my coins in his cash pouch without counting them. "Just because you are from California, I will bring you a free drink." His smile was so big, it was almost out of a cartoon, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I just wanted to go home.

First the drink. Then came the olives, then Spanish cheese. My protests seemed to spur him on. He alternated moments of feverish attention to his other customers with questions about what I was doing in Berlin and how I spelled my name.

His disappointment when I told him I needed to go home was like that of a child whose mom just told him it was bedtime. I promised him I would come back to eat. And I will, with other Americans.

Portraits

I think some of the most interesting parts of being in a foreign country are often brief encounters with the people. I've decided to write some short descriptions of some of those experiences in-between the regular accounts of my experiences. Some of them are good, some surreal, some bad. Part of it is for me, just so I remember them. Part of it is to share beyond the broad overviews I usually give. I'll name those entries, "Portraits." Some of them I'll translate, some of them I won't, depending of how important the language was to my impressions of the person.

Market to market

There's a point when you live abroad when you stop being annoyed at the cultural differences and start loving them. I'm wondering if that's finally happening here in Berlin. Or if it's just the weather.

This weekend was beautiful. I think I logged about 30 miles on Ike both Saturday and Sunday. I started out meeting some friends who live more in the north east side of the city. Every Saturday there is a cute little market in the cute family district of town. My friend Elizabeth is doing a piece about the differences in how our countries look at parenthood, so she was in search of some shots of pregnant moms and babies. This was the place to be.

We wondered around, buying homemade pasta and drooling over cheese cake layered in blue berries. Then came brunch at a quaint cafe on one of the cobble stone corners. Our waitress was every bit of the German stereotype. Tall, blond, direct and curt. She knew we were not Germans, yet she spoke German at lightening speed, as if to test me. The other girls took to asking me to ask her questions, since they were afraid to speak to her in English.

Sunday, I visited another market on another fringe of the city. It was as bohemian as the first one was upper middle class. There were tables with heaps of used purses, chests of tools, cases of old records, jewelry, and art. Some of it made you wonder what the sellers are thinking (half-used bottles of nail polish and foundation) while others were worth a five minute pause (hand-made glass jewelry).

Lessons learned: Visiting markets isn't shopping, it's getting to know a district.

Life as an intern's assistant

I am feeling a bit like an intern, although our program coordinators instist that's not what we are. In fact, they made us say that at our orientation. I'm realizing, however, that four years experience is little currency when compared to the advantage that speaking the language has. There are about five interns here, and they are putting me to shame.

This morning we were at a meeting and the editor was dishing out stories. The others got such blockbusters as a follow up on Madonna (who just had a concert here) and a story about Turkish unemployment. My assignment? To tag along with another reporter who was attending a press conference prior to an international electronics exhibit.

I'm not complaining. This is part of the experience, and I'm learning a lot about how newspapers work in Germany. It is a bit humbling though, which is probably a good thing too.

To be honest, I actually had a lot of fun on my adventure to the electronics exhibit. I got to get out of the office, eat free food, see a TV that is taller than me and get to know another reporter.

Lessons learned: I'm not an intern. I'm backup to an intern.

Yay for sunshine

Yesterday was the first day since I've been here that there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It actually stayed like that the whole day, which is a bit of a miracle. It was very pleasant to ride my bike to work, without that compulsive twitch I'm developing to grab for my rain jacket. It was hard to be in the office on a day like that, and I'm thinking next time (please let there be a next time), I will try to think up some story that requires me to get out and ride around. So far a lot of my stories are ones that require phone conversations, since my sources are often American. After I finished work, I rode around a bit and did some errands, trying to catch the last of the sun's rays while they lasted.

I sort of slipped into a mini-depression when I woke up to grey skies this morning, like a fifth-grader whose boyfriend just broke up with me. The sun is really a tease here.

Lesson learned: California has me spoiled.

Re-networked

In the past few years, I've sort of gotten addicted to my cell phone. I always felt so disconnected if I didn't have it. But for some reason, since I've been here, I haven't really cared that I didn't have access to constant telecommunication. I just sort of went merrily about my way, unaware of those trying to contact me.

It's actually bothered the few friends I have here more than me. So I finally broke down and got one. I have to say, it sort of saved me a couple times since in trying to meet someone or work something out.

Lesson learned: I don't need a cell phone, but they're nice.

Touring

I had a really nice weekend.

On Saturday, I road my bike for an hour each way to this church called Kaiser Wilhelm, which was bombed during World War II and still has the war wounds to show it. The weather actually cleared up in the afternoon, making for a really nice ride that doubled as sightseeing and exercise.

Ironically, the church I visited stands at the end of a large shopping district, so I got to curb my H&M cravings before riding back to meet friends, who were going out.

Sunday, I went to an open house at a large government building. I actually got to SEE German Chancellor Angela Merkel speak. Yes, I am not kidding you. Don't get jealous. I did a poor job of translating for Crystal, who was actually covering the event. The bad thing was, it was pouring rain and we were outside. So after it was over, I left Crystal to work and spent the afternoon in a cafe with a cup of hot chocolate.


Now I'm eating some of the dried fruit I bought at the entry of the church.

Lessons learned: All of the rest of Berlin wants to see Merkel too.

Ein Blick

Here's a collection of random observations I've had lately:

• I love the spreadable cheese they have all over in the grocery stores, in place of where the cheddar should be. I still don't understand why they don't have cheddar. (Who doesn't like that cheese? It's so versatile). But the spreadable stuff is like salty dessert.

• Who says there isn't wildlife in cites? I've seen three rats near the channel. I got stung by a wasp the other day. And I'm constantly bowling for pigeons on my bike.

• I've been running in the mornings. It's right when the sun is beginning to spread across the clouds. A sleepy Berlin is stretching, as the shop keepers start to pull open the metal guards on the doorways, tucking away at least some of the graffiti that is everywhere here. The swans gather on the glass of the channel, flirting and primping.

• My emotions have taken on a life of their own. They seem to rise and fall like mercury in a thermometer in this city, where the weather is constantly changing. It's like I'm an addict going through withdrawal, and that addiction was my life at home. I have a bad day and start counting the days till I can leave. I have a good day and the homesickness seems like a distant memory. But like a smoker, I still think about the cigarette.

Lessons learned: Rats are creepy. Wasps do sting for no reason. Time has a weird way of going fast and slow simultaneously.

Dark Knight

Ok, all those glowing reviews are right. The Dark Knight is fantastic. And no, it's not too long. Of anyone, I think I should be a good judge of that since I had to sit in the second row and crane my neck upwards for three hours. I don"t have to tell you all how great Heath Ledger was as the Joker. You know. What I couldn't tell from the movie was this was the same guy in A Knight's Tale.

The movie opened last night in Germany, and the theaters were packed. Fortunately, they have English theaters here, so I could see it in it's full glory.

Beforehand, I went out to dinner and dessert with a couple girls from my program. Afterwards, we went out for a drink with a couple Germans who work for Reuters. They both happened to be alumni of this program, so it was fun to hear their insight on their experiences.

Lessons learned: Jack Nicholson who? No offense.

Old indulgences

Tonight I met my friend Crystal, another American in the same program I'm in, at a restaurant on the river. She was in the area apartment searching, since the woman who's apartment she is living in suddenly decided to come back.

I had already eaten, so I decided to order an old favorite when I was in Salzburg: Apfelstrudel mit Vanillesauce. (Apple strudel with vanilla sauce, not that that really needs translation). It was amazing.

The bad news is, now that I've rediscovered how much I love it, there is no stopping me.

Lesson learned: I better pace myself.

Serenaded

Tonight, I was walking home when I hear from music coming from the bridge near by where I live. I walked down there to check it out, and it was three-man bad, one on violin, one guitar player and a drum player. They had sat up in the middle of the street and drew quite a crowd.

I found out later the three guys were from Santa Barbara, California. Small world.


I sat there with Turkish fast food that I had picked up on my way home and watched them, as well as the people who watched them. Moms had brought their kids in strollers, who wriggled out to pick at the beer caps embedded in the mortar between the cobble stones. Students were lounging with their cigarettes. And homeless people spread out their blankets. It was cool to sit and listen to music as the sun set. Did I mention there was a unicycle involved?

Till the police came and told them they had to leave.


Lesson learned: The neighbors don't like music.

In da club

I had my first German clubbing experience on Saturday night. First I met some a couple of the other Americans in the fellowship for dinner at this bar called "White Trash." I ate the best veggie-burger I've ever had in my life. (Please don't judge me for eating American food. It's the first I've had since I've been here. :) We did some dancing at the club next store, which was this sort of cave-like place that played alternative music. Interesting. The other thing I learned, is when you order a beer here, you have to pay a deposit. They give you a pin, which you are supposed to keep track of the whole night and then give back to get your deposit. I can't even keep track of my keys in my apartment. I don't know how they keep hold of a little pin all night while drinking beer at a dimly lit club.

On the way home, a German girl and guy started talking to me on the subway. I broke every kindergarten lesson about strangers by letting me them convince me to come to a club they were on their way to. They insisted that I couldn't come to Berlin without going to "Weekend," which is on the top of a high-rise building and has a great view from the roof of the entire city. So yeah...I went. I wouldn't had it been two guys, but both were my age and who says Germans aren't friendly? Plus it is the best I was speaking German all week, which was refreshing.

They were right. It is a pretty amazing view with a roof-top bar. The club itself is down a spiral staircase, where guess what they played? Uh huh. Techno.

Lesson learned: It's not always bad to talk to strangers.

View from the top

Here's the view from my apartment. One thing about the weather here is the clouds make for great sunsets.

A goes to the laundromat

Sounds simple right? Not here. Not for me. I woke up Saturday to sunny skies and had big plans of exploration and exercise. But I had one big problem: I really needed to do my laundry.

I started by brainstorming ways of trying to get all my clothes to a laundromat. I thought about bagging it all up and trying to ride with it on my bike. But I kept imagining slow-motion crashes and all my underwear floating out onto the street like Tibetan prayer flags. I thought about carrying it all, but that sounded miserable. In the end, I settled on putting it all into my big suitcase, which has wheels.

This would have been a brilliant idea had I not had to go up and down 12 flights of stairs, staring with the five flights that lead to my apartment. (I swear, that number is not an exaggeration.)

First, I went headed north on the subway, to a place I found on Google. I rolled up and down every street of the intersection where I got off the subway before I found it. Then there were two problems: 1. It was closed. 2. It was one of those places you bring your laundry into and they do it for you.

So I got back on the subway and headed south, to another area someone had told me there was a laundromat. Again, couldn't find it. I walked around for about 20 minutes. Just when I was about to give up, I saw the sign with the words "Schnell und Sauber" (Fast and Clean) on them, like a beacon of hope on the horizon.

Actually doing laundry was it's own adventure. I think "schnell" is a bit of an exaggeration and I'm not so convinced of "sauber" either.

By the time I finished — three and a half hours after I left — it started to rain. So much for exploration.

Lessons learned: Maybe try the bags next time.

Published abroad

I had my first op ed published today. First off, in the U.S., reporters don't often have the luxury of writing our opinion (at least we shouldn't). So I'm not used to it. In fact, it's a little uncomfortable.

The second was a revelation less expected when I saw it in print. As writers, we always choose our words very carefully. Things are written using certain techniques to affect flow and pace. Having my piece translated into German was to totally lose control of that. It felt like I was reading something by someone else. At the same time, it was exciting to see my words in print in another language.

The topic of the piece was the drinking age in Germany and some suggestions on how to halt the drinking problems that exist among 12 through 15 year olds here. I argued they should raise the drinking age, along with some other measures that the U.S. could also benefit from, since we have the same problem despite our high drinking age. I'm not sure how convincing I was, but it was a start.

Ironically, in the picture they took that ran with the print version, I look like I'm 14.

Lesson learned: Cut or be cut. There's no writing long here.

Tripped up

Here are the top ten things that mess with my head here in Berlin:

10. You pay afterwards at a coffee shop or even often at a bar;
9. Everything tastes different - yogurt, milk, spaghetti sauce - blander and thinner somehow;
8. People on the streets are really nice, but sales clerks in the stores are famously, and unbelievably, rude (I had one who loudly complained I was taking to long when I was looking for some change once);
7. The language;
6. The language;
5. The language;
4. The doors swing in instead of out. Can't tell you how many times I've pushed when I should pull;
3. The traffic lights are set only right over the crosswalk where cars stop at an intersection instead of across the intersection as well. I almost died a couple times on my bike because of that;
2. The doors swing in instead of out. Can't tell you how many times I've pushed when I should pull;
1. The Ys and Zs are switched on computer keyboards and apostrophes are in a different place. I get used to it, and then I home and mix it up on my American keyboard.

Lessons learned: Obviously I haven't learned them yet of I wouldn't be having these confused momments.

Lost in translation

When I was in Japan, I wrote about a few of our language slip ups, including when one of the women on our trip realized she was using the word "vomit" for "husband." I think I finally have her beat.

In the afternoons, one of my co-workers so generously saves us from after-lunch sleepyness by making esspresso. The other day, I thought it would only be nice to return the favor by offering gum to the two men in the section where I work. (Those of you who speak a bit of German probably know where this is going). So I did, using the word "Gummi." I thought they gave strange looks, so I asked if I had used the wrong word.

Turns out, I had asked if they wanted "condoms."

Lessons learned: Always "kaugummi."

Self portraits

Thank goodness for the 10 second timer on digital cameras. Otherwise, I wouldn't have any proof that I'm really in Germany. Yesterday, I went to see Berlin as a tourist. I went to the Brandenburg Gate, the Tiergarten and a street called Unter dem Linden, where I had no one else to take photos of but myself.

One of the more fascinating things I saw is bluntly called "Memorial to the Murdered Jews." I didn't know what is was when I encountered it at first. It's basically a maze of evenly-spaced cement rectangles that people can walk through. The start out short and grow taller as you come into the center. As you walk, the stones they sit on weave between hills and valleys, and you catch only quick glimpses of others as they pass through.



It started to rain just as I stopped for lunch (a Turkish Doenner Kabap, which is shaved lamp between slices of bread with vegetables and an amazing sauce, that I developed a taste for in Austria). Fortunately, stopped raining just long enough for me to get home.

Lesson learned: Self portraits are somewhat boring.

Ike and I

I've named my newly bought bicycle "Ike." I know what you're thinking. No, it wasn't because it rhymes with bike. (In fact, I thought of changing it for that reason only, but the name has stuck). The reason he is Ike is because the name is short, simple and a bit old fashioned, kind of like him.

If you judge friendship by how much time you spend with someone, than Ike is my best friend in Berlin. We go pretty much everywhere together. It's a little too reminiscent of Cast Away — the movie with Tom Hanks where he gets shipwrecked and makes a friend out of a volleyball.

I'm sure it's a bit funny to watch me. There I am, on this rusted white bike with a seat that is too tall for me and handlebars that are too far away, clanging down the street.


Nothing on Ike works properly except the foot brakes (Thank God). There is one hand-brake that sort of sticks up comically to one side, kind of like our old goat Charlie's horns. The light was almost dangling by the second day I had it, so I ripped it off. I stole a screw from it and stuck in in the chain guard, which is the source of the all the noise, but it only partially works. There is this ricketty old shifter, which I haven't quite figured out, but it does shift, just never in the right direction that you need it. Poor Ike. He's seen better days. But he definitely makes life easier.

Lesson learned: Ike and I need each other.

Free learning

Though TV has a bad reputation when it comes to education, I think it actually it a good learning tool in another country. So last night, I felt lazy so I sat in and watched American Dreamz — this cheesy fictional spin off of American Idol, only with a terrorist attack and unrequited love. Don't ask.

First of all, it's a horrible movie. I'm glad I didn't waste any money on it. I'm also glad I didn't waste my time watching it in English. At least in German it was instructional.

I was happy to find that I understood most of it. It helps that you can see what is going on. I'm also happy that in Germany, they dub movies instead of use subtitles. The way in which they do it, however, always makes me laugh. Already, it's a bit funny to actors whose voices you know speak in voices you don't. But in dubbed German, the women always speak in this high-pitched cartoonish tones, and the men always sound like Buzz Lightyear. Maybe they realized how ridiculous it already sounds, and they decided to embrace it. Maybe it's a cultural thing. I don't know.

Anyway, for those of you at home, don't bother watching American Dreamz, unless it is in Spanish.

Lesson learned: A glass of wine makes them sound a little better.

Easing in

Every once and awhile, I have these total moments of total contentment and excitement that I'm here. This is an amazing city. It's very alive. Every night, people gather on a bridge that I live near, with their books or bottles of beer. The streets are full of bikes, either with people on them or chained up to a pole.

Tonight I celebrated my arrival by going out to dinner. While I sat at a table outside drinking a glass of wine, a saxophonist set up shop just outside the tables. People milled on the street in front of us. I had a chance to breath and read through my "tourist" book about the history of Berlin. It's sort of surprising, given its history, that this city is thriving. It doesn't seem so big when you are in your own neighborhood.

Lesson learned: I think I can live here.

Not so easy rider

One of my main goals since I've been here was to find a bike. I've decided it would be so much easier — and cheaper — than riding public transportation. Work is only about three miles from where I live, and most of the way is a bike path along the channel I life on.

I went to a couple of bike shops, but even the used ones are turning out to be pretty expensive, especially because I'm only here for two months. I was walking around tonight, however, and I found one chained to a post with a paper that said "for sale" and a number on it. I called and met the lady who was selling it five minutes later. She dropped the price 10 euros because the front tire was almost flat, though she promised it was new.

Later when riding it home, I came to the conclusion that I just bought a piece of junk. As I road away, a metal piece that guards the chain began clanging. I also realized the front light doesn't work. And the mud guards have shifted and sometimes rub on the tires as well. I keep consoling myself that saving the $20 Euros ($30) that I would otherwise have spent by buying it from a shop was worth it.

I guess we'll see after I fill the "new" tire with air.

Lesson learned: Give it more of a test drive next time.

Getting to work

I had my first day of work today. Getting to work was more difficult than actually being there. It took me an hour and half. First the subway I was to take was not running because of construction, so I had to take a bus. Then, when I finally got to the right destination, I had some trouble finding the office.

My saving grace in every challenge I come up against is that I speak the language, kind of. In tense situations, however, one of two things happens: I know how to ask the question, but don't understand the answer; or I understand the answer, and don't trust that I really have.

Anyway, I did make it to work. The first coworker I met was Sebastian, who, thankful, speaks very clear German and who, for some reason, I understand better than anyone else I've met here. Later I met my boss, Malhte, who I liked the minute he walked into the room.

I spent the day reading newspaper and researching ideas of things that I can write about. I am working in the opinion section, which means I need to start forming an opinion about what I think on some topics I haven't allowed myself to decide.

I haven't yet cleared jet lag, though, because I almost fell asleep at my desk this afternoon.

Lessons learned: Writing opinion is a whole different game. As is writing in German.