40 Days of Birthday: Day Eleven

Nicholas went with Lennon to Kita today so I could stay home and get some research done. As it happens, I’m in the process of re-writing my dissertation proposal, having discovered through my first term of research that what I’m after needs refining. It feels like I’m starting at the beginning. On the other hand, writing—articulating—something, in this case a proposal, is easier than the rabbit holes I tend to wander down when doing academic research.

I missed my guys this morning but was actually very productive. After Lennon’s nap, I was ready to party. Naturally, we headed to the Berlin Zoo. The zoo grounds are beautiful: the landscaping and architecture seem to retain much of their original 19th century charm. We took note of all of the well-dressed families and their high-end strollers as we approached, then questioned it no further when it cost us €23 to enter.

The big-ticket elephants and rhinoceros are right up front, as you enter. Their size alone held Lennon’s attention. Some of the smaller animals were harder for him to distinguish from the small children crowding around to see them. He still is far more fascinated with people, it seems. He was rapt in the Monkey House—they were nearly his exact size and were performing many of the same things he likes to do. We noted the similarities in the throwing of food when finished with a meal.

Like so many people, I have mixed feelings about zoos: I question their ethics yet feel highly nostalgic toward them. While I let nostalgia take over today, there were some dark zoo moments, particularly in the Cat House.

Checking in, I’ll admit that the farther I move from my actual birthday the harder it becomes to wake with a sense of ‘special’ everyday. This confession does not signify defeat, however. Just past a quarter of the way through my Birth-Days, I need a little pick-me-up. I have no idea how this will happen, but I’ve made my request to the cosmos.

40 Days of Birthday: Day Ten

Lennon went back to Kita today after his false start a week ago, just before the bronchitis incident. Kita is more akin to American preschool than day care, but the children can start well before preschool age. In order to orient the children when they first begin Kita, one of the parents must be present with the child everyday they are there, for the time they are there, lasting four to six weeks. Of course this depends on the child, but for parents who thought their child going to Kita would give them a few hours to themselves—well, it might eventually, but until then—take a seat. Nicholas, being home on school break, went with Lennon and I to Kita this morning. He was the in-room parent today while I waited in the hall, trying not to be seen by my little attached boy.

My husband and I were both dragging ourselves around today, exhausted. It was challenging to get myself out of the house to celebrate. Around 3pm, I made my way down to Alexanderplatz to finally conquer TV Tower. There was about a twenty-minute wait in the ticket queue after which I was told there would be an additional hour and a half wait to go to the top of the Tower! After a quick conference with my husband via iPhone, I decided to just make it happen. Luckily, I had a gift certificate for the tower entrance given to me by one of Nicholas’s teacher colleagues who moved out of town before he was able to use it himself. He received it as a gift from his classroom parents. I’d like to thank everyone involved for making this Birth-Day event free of charge.

Elevator Tour Guide at TV Tower with the most marvelous hair

I was distinctly told by the ticket clerk who processed my gift certificate that I am not meant to spend my hour and a half wait in the lobby of the TV Tower. I took advantage of their paging service that would text me when I was 30 minutes out from my Tower “appt” and dragged my exhausted self across Alexanderplatz to the Galleria Kaufhof department store. Completely unmotivated for purchasing, I aimlessly browsed every floor. In the stationary section, I found a gold foil embossed “40” meant for cake or gift decoration, but I had to leave it behind when I got my text. I had initially skipped the floor with the men’s department but then realized it also housed ladies’ shoes. I vowed to go back but even that had to be forsaken for the call of the Tower.

Of course, once at the Tower, worried I’d miss my time, I sat and waited some more, but this time welcomed. I indulged in a small, expensive bottle of seltzer water and tried to figure out what languages everyone was speaking. I shared a small piece of Karma with a couple as we all began to line up at the lift. They had the very worst spatial awareness and stood far too close to me and made me anxious that they were somehow squeezing me out of line. In addition, the male portion of the duo had an unfortunate nasal issue that resulted in extremely unpleasant sounds. We rode the elevator together. Once at the top, I scurried away and found an opening by the window. A minute later, the same man and his female companion brushed against me, also choosing to stand at that exact spot, seemingly oblivious to our constant connection. This happened one more time, at a different location by the window, convincing me that somehow, we were destined for one another.

I always have grand expectations of high places, and I’ve been to a few: The Empire State Building, The Eiffel Tower, l’Arc De Triomphe, The Seattle Space Needle—but never are my expectations met. Somehow I want to feel like I’m floating over the city, or on top of it, or queen of it—but most of these tourist sites are built too safe and enclosed to generate that type of exhilaration. I’m a jumble of contradictions, however—the MOMA in San Francisco has a floating, glass bridge that runs over the lobby. Little kids love it because to be on it feels like walking on air. I won’t walk on it for fear of death. In any case, the TV Tower observation room is like a fish tank that’s been upholstered half way up and down the wall, leaving a stripe of a window in which to see Berlin. You absolutely can see all of the city, and while it wasn’t transcendent, I’ve never had a more clear visual of the topography Berlin. Also, I was there to watch the sunset. I watched the sun set from the top of the TV Tower.

40 Days of Birthday: Day Nine

Oktoberfest!

The last time my husband and I went to an official Oktoberfest was on my 38^th Birthday, pre-Lennon. We dressed in Dirndl and Lederhosen and took the train far out of town. The festival took place in a tent set up as an enormous beer hall with a stage at one end. The beers were enormous. I had three. I think. We decided—and hoped—that the next time we attend an Oktoberfest, it would be with our child at a family friendly event.

Today we took the train not so far from our home to Reinickendorf, near Tegel Airport in Berlin for the 62nd Berliner Oktoberfest, billed as a family oriented type festival with child friendly activities and fun. In my mind’s eye, I pictured a rustic, farm like atmosphere with autumnal charm. We all dressed for this scene. In reality, the 62nd Berliner Oktoberfest was more akin to a travelling county fair, with all its tacky, carnival glory. We loved it.

The fair rides and booths were positioned in a circle with the Oktoberfest tent at the back. The tent was where you went for the music and the serious eating and drinking. Knowing Lennon would be too small for any of the rides or activities, we headed to the tent, scoped out a table, and waited for some pork. The Oktoberfest waiters were using iPod Touches for their ordering and they hadn’t been programmed properly, delaying service. An hour past before we got our Schweinehaxe and Lennon got his Brezel (pretzel)—Nicholas took it upon himself to get our beverages early on from the bar. Baby boy had a bit of a carbohydrate overload today. Nothing a little fruit and veggies for dinner won’t cure.

On the way out we grabbed a sweet treat of some roasted candied almonds. Delish.

I’m claiming a bit of exhaustion here, just for the record. Luckily, my husband has the next two weeks off from work. Not only will he be able to enjoy my Birth-Days with me, he can help out when I’m interested in performing my 30 minutes of silence. I also have several research related tasks next week that need to happen in addition to celebrating my birthday, so his timing is well placed. 

40 Days of Birthday: Day Eight

I’ve been trying to fight the sniffles for a couple of days now, but woke this morning to an undeniable cold. The Berlin Marathon is Sunday and they had a warm-up run today, open to everyone, beginning at the Lady Castle. It’s only 6k and while I’m woefully out of shape, I reckoned this would help me dust the cobwebs off. There was a time when even a cold wouldn’t keep me from running but these are not those days. Instead, at 9:30, when the runners lined up at the Schloß ready to make their way to Olympia Stadion, my family and I bundled up and headed to the farmer’s market.

The Karl August Platz Market is the first market I’d been to in our neighborhood and I’m again convinced about having made the move here. There were two bio (organic) produce stalls, tons of flowers, bio meat carts, pasta carts—everything most of the bigger markets sell, just walking distance from our house. Though my favorite cotton-off-the-bolt guy doesn’t sell there (he’s at Winterfeldtplatz Market on the weekend) there is a woman selling notions, trim, and tons of buttons. Scooped up some brick red, medium sized rick-rack from her for my collection. A bundle of sunflowers, a butternut squash, a kilo of onions, and some fresh rosemary also came home with us.

Late afternoon we headed to Prenzlauer Berg for a sold out performance installation I was lucky to have gotten a ticket for early. It took place in the eerie, beautiful, catacombs of the Kleiner Wasserspeicher, ancient water tower, now haunting art gallery and performance space. The piece, part of the Berliner Festspiele Foreign Affairs festival, is by South African artist Brett Bailey who, in this work titled Exhibit B, recreated the unthinkable “human zoos” of the 18^th and 19^th century with intent of shining a light on the ruin of colonialism across Africa. The brick bunker of the Kleiner Wasserspeicher, built beneath a hill, has petal shaped rooms that curve into one another. The space is cold and dark, but breathtakingly lit for this production. The rooms are fashioned as museum installations and spectators meander from exhibit to exhibit, which ranged from an 18^th century Herero woman chained to the bed of a colonial officer to a contemporary Namibian man, recently immigrated to Berlin, standing on a shipping pallet. To witness, the piece was brutal, extremely uncomfortable, gorgeous, devastating, inspiring, humbling, and game changing, both artistically and ethically. 

Exhibit B creator Brett Bailey in interview

In the round center room of the brick walled bunker hung three historical photos of the severed heads of African men and women. These remains had been part of gruesome racial experiments, which eventually gave the National Socialist Party of Germany the ‘ideological and scientific’ justification to carry out the Holocaust. Beneath the photos, four heads of a Namibian choir ‘floated’ atop four columns. Colonial style chairs were set in front of them, allowing you to stay a while and listen as they sang the most heartbreaking four part arias. 

40 Days of Birthday: Day Seven

The biggest castle in Berlin is just around the corner and down the street from our home. It is a Lady Castle. It’s yellow and pretty and is named for the woman who built it, Sophie Charlotte, wife of Friedrich III, Elector of Brandenburg. My family and I have walked the gardens of the 18th century castle, referred to as Schloß Charlottenburg—Schloß being the word for castle in German—but had never taken the inside tour. This week has been a little hectic, what with Lennon being sick and our fail at the TV tower: visiting something just around the corner was what was needed.

We left for the Schloß later in the day, after Lennon had his nap and I had gotten some research in, making our leaving for this activity easy and guilt free. My expectations weren’t grand for this tour. What I hoped to see in this Lady Castle were beautiful gilded, pink ballrooms in the style of Marie Antoinette’s Versailles, but I tempered that with what little I know of German design. I thought I might be bored.

I brought Lennon in his stroller but upon my husband’s recommendation, I also brought the baby carrier just in case I had to leave our stroller behind. As we crossed the grand courtyard to the front entrance, Lennon laughed as his stroller bumped and hopped over the round cobblestones. I thought this was a good omen.

Husband was right and we had to leave our stroller at the coat check. No matter—mama came prepared today. I splurged an extra 3 euro to get the photography pass. With the general admission to both the Old and New wings of the castle, an audio tour was available. To listen to the tour, you hold a small unit in your hand or string it around your neck and wear the headphones attached. With Lennon on my chest, I held the unit in one hand, along with my birthday crown for the obligatory photo op, and our large Canon camera in the other. Lennon and I were both sweating before we stepped one foot into the tour.

It immediately became clear that the audio tour would keep us at a pace not agreeable to my son. We moved through the first few dark, haunting rooms fairly quickly but not without gasping at the incredible mirrors. I am mad for old mirrors. Of course, these were unlike any this commoner has encountered.

Lennon shortly became fussy in the carrier and we headed to coat check to return the cumbersome audio device and get me boy a snack from his diaper bag. We finished the Old wing of the castle without much fan fare and I debated whether it was worth it to make the trek through the gift shop and across the courtyard to the New wing: But I’d paid to see the new wing. It cost extra.

In the New wing, all of my Lady Castle dreams came true. Rooms with pink gilded confections dripping down the walls, gorgeous overly matched flower patterned walls and settees and curtains, wedding cake rooms of white and silver: all dangling romantically patined crystal chandeliers from their centers. My personal expression to the outside world usually involves clean lines and rustic charm, but deep in my heart is crystal and blue marble and flowers of the shiniest gold.

My breath stopped short when I entered this room:

Lennon fell asleep in the New wing, leaving me time to gaze and take detailed photos of all of the wall treatments. On the way out, we were a big hit with the folks at coat check: me for my effort-ful German and Lennon for his delectability. Lennon was especially charming after his nap. I was so happy I had spent the afternoon at the Lady Castle.

As we walked home, I started to put together some ideas for a performance piece I’ve had in development. Lady Castle did not inspire these two ideas but it helped me find them. It occurred to me today that stepping away from my work and immersing myself in something wholeheartedly unrelated, allowed ideas to grow, unwatched and undisturbed. Probably more people know this, but I discovered it on Day Seven.

40 Days of Birthday: Day Six

Some ideas translate better in America than they do in Germany. The only thing I had on my agenda today, aside from taking my son to a follow-up appointment with his doctor and a lovely little nap, was a pedicure. I had a bad pedicure experience right after Lennon was born, which incidentally was the first pedicure I allowed Berlin to give me. The woman jabbed at my cuticles with her stainless steel instrument, all the while holding my delicate toes between her sharp, pointy nails. She didn’t use a base coat. I had to request and second layer of polish. I went back to performing my own pedicures, thank you very much. It’s so time consuming to do, however, and now in a new neighborhood, I thought I’d give Berlin a second chance with my feet and myself a decadent gift for the 40 Days of Birthday.

The perfect spot would be just around the corner from our apartment at a salon called “American Nails.” How could I lose at this place? Granted, my first, bad experience was at a place called “L.A. Nails,” but the name “American Nails” is so much more encompassing of the broader landscape, not tied to a particular region, letting their customers know that without doubt, what flag their nail care is under. Nine times out of ten, the pedicures I’ve received in the U.S. are quality. I was excited about “American Nails.”

Just like at “L.A. Nails”—with their big sign that says “Hello and Thank You!”—the staff at “American Nails” does not speak English. No bother, my German would accommodate this transaction. Once the details of my request were processed, I came to find out that another customer was coming at 5:00pm, and with it being 4:45pm, a pedicure would not be possible. This was decidedly un-American. I have never been turned away from a nail salon in the U.S. for lack of time—those ladies squeeze you in, even if others have to wait. Never mind. I knew of a hair salon just down the block that had a sandwich board advertisement out front boasting of beautiful nails. My hope was that the sign correlated with their services. The woman inside spoke English and I was able to make my wishes clear much quicker than at the last joint, but to no avail, as their cosmetologist was out sick.

I almost gave up and headed home but remembered that the local mall had a nail salon: Paradise Nails! This place had to be doing something right. They had three ladies working and I was seated immediately in a new looking, brightly colored massage chair, my feet soaking in sudsy water. I already felt better. This was the pedicure of my homeland. As my pedicurist worked on my toes, I realized how disorienting it was to have to decipher between two foreign languages: German, which I’m on thin ice with, and another, completely unknown-to-me tongue. It took a great deal of concentration to determine when she had stopped talking to her colleagues and had begun talking to me. Luckily, she rarely engaged my in conversation. I felt self-conscious when, amongst the foreign sounds of her conversation to which I'd been eavesdopping, the word “iPhone” rang clear. I’d been secretly taking photos with mine.

 I was disappointed that the calf massage would cost extra and therefore have to be forsaken. Her polish job was okay, but I’ve had better. In the end, without all the perks, it was still more expensive than pedicures in America. On the up side, the "Jet Dryer" toenail dryer was fast and had a well-designed logo, something the salon itself could have taken a lesson from, if I’m to be boldly honest. Paradise was not experienced at its namesake nail salon. Not the worst pedicure ever, but my take-away from the day is, when in Berlin, do your own toes.  

Post Script--Just as my nails finished drying, an older employee entered the salon, went to the reception desk, and put on Michael Jackson's "Beat It" so that it played loudly through the speakers, apropos of nothing. I might be back.