Auf Wiesersehen, Berlin

It seemed fitting, somehow, that on my last day in Berlin I would be required to move. Again. My make-believe apartment dossier would therefore be revised to include one final entry. At the end of the list describing the myriad other apartments we have inhabited across Kreuzberg and Neukölln, it now reads in hastily scrawled block letters: WESERSTRASSE.

As my flight is on November 2, and our lease on Grossbeerenstrasse expires on October 31, we had to find temporary lodgings in Berlin: for me, for one night; for Joe, for two more weeks as he finishes up his work in the studio. We therefore spent my last day in town doing a little cleaning and a lot of walking. When we finally met the new tenants and turned over the keys, the dark and hazy eventide had crept upon us. We picked up sandwiches from Mustafa's, and walked toward the nearby line of cabs. Something about the whole affair - eating from a Döner stand, carrying an Ikea bag full of pillows and blankets in one hand and an old push broom in the other - didn't make it feel like it was really the last day.

But then, at the cab stand, I noticed something different. The cab at the front of the line didn't resemble the other beige sedans lined up behind it. It was, in fact, a 1962 Mercedes Benz 190 Heckflosse, piloted by a man wearing what appeared to be a tai chi outfit and sporting a skunk-dyed faux-hawk. When we got into the cab, to my delight, Herr Werner, himself a fourth generation taxi driver, told us that it was in fact the oldest cab in operation in Berlin. It had a plush red interior, and there was a red rose peeping out of the vent in dashboard. A string quartet piped in through the speakers.


It was schön. Sehr schön. And it finally felt right.

The Little Things

Since returning from Istanbul, I've been doing lots of little things, to get ready for the big thing: Leaving Berlin. I've been researching Delta's insipid and exacting baggage standards, and then weighing my Samsonite luggage as carefully as I can; I've been trying, in vein, to give away an ugly straw hat, and a few other now non-essential accessories; I've been consolidating my shampoo bottles, and making a few more "one last" trips to Joe's studio to see the work he's been preparing for his solo show at Western Exhibitions in November, and the group show he will be a part of in Beijing in January.

I had tea with Susan in Prenzlauer Berg, in quite possibly the quaintest tea shop in all of Berlin. As evidence for the foregoing supposition, note the whimsical tea service, Princess Diana tea tray and Ampelmännchen shortbread cookies.*

* Photographs courtesy of Susan and her handy iPhone, as I came to our meeting unprepared for such visual - and toothsome - fineries.

I had drinks with James, Ali and a few other friends at this lovely bar.


And I had dinner with Bianca, Mariel and Teresa at Cuno.


I had one last walk with Joe through Viktoria Park, watching the leaves fall off the trees.


My friends ask, "How does it feel to be leaving? Are you ready?" The truth is, I'm not ready, and I'm not not ready, because I haven't really thought of it. It's the little things that I am focused on these days, so much so that that the one big thing, the leaving part, it doesn't even come to mind.

Happy Birthday, Oesterreich

Each year in late October, Austria celebrates the Birth of the Republic (b. 1945). Here in the Haupstadt, the Austrian Embassy throws a big party to mark the day. Our friends Bianca and Robert, themselves accomplished artists and, as I like to call them, two of Austria's own National Treasures, always attend the event to schmooze with art collectors and diplomats alike. After inadvertently showing up in paint-splattered track jackets the first year, today Bianca and Robert turned it up a notch: dark suits, shiny shoes, sequins and an up-do were adorned.

Before leaving, we toasted Austria -- per the Bundeshymne der Republik Oesterreich, the "land of mountains, land of streams" -- with some fine homemade Austrian schnapps. When Bianca called for the cab to pick us up and whisk us away to the embassy, the dispatcher asked for her name. Appropriately, she simply said: "Oesterreicher."

When we arrived at the Embassy, even the cloakroom seemed Austrian. There was a military band in white jackets. There were speeches in honor of the twenty year anniversary of the falling of the iron curtain. The walls were embellished with childhood portraits of Maria Teresa.

We were young, we were beautiful, we were hip. We were the life of the party.



And....We were eating schnitzel.



It's not every day that you can say that.

Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

Earlier in the year, I've written a bit about my adopted Turkish neighborhood here in Berlin; I've also written about wandering through the Turkish market, held each Tuesday and Friday along the canal by my old apartment; I've put up photographs documenting my visits to marvel at the Pergammon Altar and various other ancient artifacts housed here in Berlin after their removal from Turkey over a century ago.

According to recent surveys, one whole quarter of Germany's foreign population is part of the great Turkish diaspora. This came as sort of a surprise to me when we moved to Berlin; when I arrived, I didn't know that I would be just as likely to have a döner kepab as a currywurst for a late night snack in the Straßen. And so, it seemed fitting that for our last Berlin-based trip, we would head east, as far east as our travels have taken us this year.

I was expecting it to feel far-off and far-flung, but in some respects Turkey seems far more western than some of its more traditionally European neighbors. Perhaps this is because my neighborhood is sometimes called Little Istanbul; more likely, however, it is because Istanbul is, at bottom, a westernized, European and cosmopolitan city, with a history that may be a bit more exotic than most.

On our first day in Istanbul, we went to the Galata Tower that seems to loom over Istanbul's steep hillside. We took the elevator up to see the views of the Asian side of the city, the Sea of Marmara, and to watch the Chinese cargo ships surge through this narrow passageway.


We tried to guess what was inside: tennis shoes? shiny toys? hair brushes? We gave up, and carefully took a few self-portraits like the other tourists tiptoeing around the narrow catwalk.


For our first leg of the trip, we stayed in Sultanahmet, the decidedly more touristy side of the city. As I told my parents, the only nice thing to be said about our guesthouse in Sultanahmet is its proximity to the Four Seasons. After cold showers in the morning, we walked to the Aya Sofya, the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace, with its mysterious harem rooms and stunning tile work, and the Istanbul Archaeological Museum to see the Alexander Sarcophagus.






When push comes to shove, though -- and in Istanbul it sometimes does -- our favorite parts of our time in that great city that was once Constantinople was in wandering through the markets, drinking fresh pomegranate juice on the little cadessi and sokuk, and mingling with the locals in the eccentric Begolyu district.






We spent a little time near the water, on both sides of the Golden Horn. On the tip of a friend, we sought out the line of boats rocking in the busy current, filled with costumed men grilling fish for customers on the shore.



After spending a few days in Istanbul, we headed south, to Selçuk, and visited the Greek and Roman ruins at Ephesus.





We learned that John the Baptist and Mary lived near Ephesus towards the end of their lives, and were then buried in the area. We joined the pilgrims visiting the Basilica of St. John and a cathedral built to honor Mary. Then, we went old-school, and made an offering at the Temple of Artemis: a hope, a wish, a prayer, like all visitors to the temple in the last two thousand years, for fertility -- in our case, delayed and with luck insured fertility.

From Selçuk, we headed even further east into central Anatolia, and joined the throngs of tourists at Pamukkale, the "cotton castle." There, we rolled up our cuffs and walked barefoot through the hot springs, across the milky white travertines.



Back in Istanbul, we soaked up the nightlife, enjoying round after round of mezzes, roasted peppers and eggplant, purslane yogurt sauces, stuffed tomatoes, succulent meatballs, whole grilled fish, lentil çiorba, bean stews, and perhaps a glass or two of raki.




Our friend Sarah joined us for this trip and by the time our ten days was up, she had acquired many Turkish keepsakes along the way: handmade jewelry, Persian miniature paintings, pashminas, ceramics and even an antique Turkish carpet. I bought next to nothing. Back in Berlin, though, I'm still humming along to Istanbul (Not Constantinople), and in the fine words of Jimmy Kennedy and Nat Simon, I have my own memories of enjoying the Turkish Delight on a moonlit night, like all the gals in Constantinople.

So take me back to Istanbul!

Deep in the Vaterland

This past weekend, we hopped aboard a Deutsche Bahn intercity express train and headed south. Specifically, our purpose was to call upon Sigmaringen, a little village deep in the Vaterland that Joe visited for a few weeks when he was 16 years old. It had been over fifteen years, but Joe's reunion with his exchange student Pamela and her family was still a little teary-eyed.


As we walked through the village with Pamela, Joe tried to remember where everything was: his favorite pizzeria was just over there! The best view of the castle is right here!


We bounced around the old streets from one recollection to the next. I was half-expecting Ralph Edwards to pop out of the shrubbery with his infamous red book, and for a booming voice to intone from the heavens: "Joe Hardesty. This Is Your Life."

Pamela had a baby about three months before our visit. Much of our time in Sigmaringen was spent with little Johanna: showing her off in the village, hiking down country roads while she slept in her Kinderwagen, and relaxing with her on the Stumpp family's patio.




After we had soaked up enough of the village life and had sopped up the last bit of Frau Stumpp's excellent Spaetzel and three different kinds of her fabulous homemade Kuchen, we traveled with Pamela and her husband Wenzel back to their home in Zurich.


We saw the Chagall windows, enjoyed the view of the Alps, and imagined splashing around in Lake Zurich. Most of all, though, we marveled at the giant sheets of chocolate available at many shops around town.


In the evening, Pamela and Wenzel treated us to a traditional Swiss dinner: Raclette. Upon first impression, Raclette seems to be just like Korean barbeque, but with the cheese stealing the show. Raclette is melted on a special tabletop oven, while vegetables and slices of meat are grilled above. The whole concoction is then served over potatoes. Joe helped Pamela get ready for the meal by slicing up two enormous bricks of special Raclette cheese. I sliced the red onions and bell peppers and decanted pickles, olives and other jarred accouterments, getting increasingly nervous as all of the accompanying foods were systematically lined up along the edge of the table.



As you can see below, Pamela and Wenzel are true Raclette professionals. Indeed, Wenzel even helped me to ascertain the few meat/vegetable/cheese configurations which are, in his words, "Swiss approved."


It was a leisurely night of eating and drinking. It was so leisurely, in fact, that I almost did not make it to the finish line, and had to take several little rests -- see below -- along the way.


It is relieving, in retrospect, that at the time I was not aware of an old wives' tale about Raclette, which I subsequently learned: drinking water along with Raclette may interfere with the digestion of the cheese, in rare occasions causing death by cheese balls forming in the stomach. Death by cheese balls! Mein Gott!

Access All Areas

Last weekend was a big one. We had been waiting for it for a long time. So, when it came, we tried to respond appropriately. Joe dusted off his Sunday Best, and my three-inch heels made a rare appearance. Beneath the absurd European color-balanced lights that all of the galleries favor these days -- lights that were not, I'll have you know, kind to my complimentary-cocktailed rosy cheeks -- Joe's work was exhibited in a group show at Galerie Max Hetzler.


The show is called Access All Areas, and was curated by Arturo Herrera and Tanja Wagner. Joe's work looked fantastic.


His four text pieces are shown above, and in the corner there, beneath those beautiful red scribbles shown below, is his greybow table.


Joe's pieces shared the gallery with a lot of other amazing work. Here is one of my favorites: a man, constructed out of dead flies, real ones, strung together on thin wire.



And here is a large graphite-covered wall, tattooed by hand over many long days and weeks.


Later in the weekend, we took the S-bahn to the west side of town and attended the annual international art fair, Art Forum Berlin.



Art Forum Berlin was supposed to be the fillet of the weekend, but afterward our friends Marc and Antonia described it as "grouchy," and "grim," respectively. Perhaps this is why the only photographs we took that day were of this beautiful U-bahn advertisement/palimpsest.


It's quite nice, I think. For more information about Joe's show, go here! You can also see more images of his work on his website.