Saturday, October 16, 2010

Wu-Tang and White Coffee


Well the first week in Berlin is now over and what a week it’s been.  Moving in to our new temporary home and very own Buddhist temple and shrine to Wu-Tang, experiments with sleeping arrangements, knotty fur, sunshine and bicycles, rain and buses, fare evasion, coffee tasting, ‘pan-asian’ dinners and hand-squeezed orange juice every morning for just 1 euro. 

Schweet.

I can now say:

Caffe schvatz – black coffee
Caffe mit milsch – coffee with milk
Caffe veiss – white coffee (to be alternated with the above to demonstrate fluency)
Bitter – please (not to be said when thanking the ice-cream man)
Dankerschen – thank you
Ein, svy, dry, fear, foomf, sex – one, two, three, four, five, sex
Mein kopf – my head
Sheisser – shit
Sheisser schnitzel – shit schnitzel
Weiner – vienna
Nein, NEIN! – no, NO!
Ja? - Yeah?
Schliemanstrasse – our street
Svunsig svunsig svunsig– twenty twenty twenty (current favourite)

So we’re pretty much set.

It’s a rather wonderful time here, going off to work each day on a fascinating theatre piece, living in a street with cobblestones and trees, living in a place that values the art of hand-squeezed orange juice, living in a place that values art, living in a street with the smell of schnitzels, living in a street with the sound of kids who are having real fun.  Apparently the tiny area we’re living in is the most fertile part of Europe.  It’s pram central.  Kids everywhere, knuckle-bitingly cute in winter snugglies.  Bars and cafés dedicated purely to kids and their parents with cool play equipment and ice-cream bars.  Madness.  Oh there’s another word I know:

Kindergarten – kindergarten

The Wu-Tang pad is pretty cool, though I haven’t made friends with the kitchen or the bathroom yet.  That takes time when you’re Anal.  The kitchen especially makes my toes scrunch.  It’s making our trip rather expensive.  The Love is digging just fine on the toaster, and I’ve discovered I can eat the toast from it if he brings it to me, as long as I don’t think about it too much.  If I don’t look I can pretend it came from our one back home.  Then it tastes fine.

I’ve been getting funny dreams in the Wu-Tang pad, or the Dojo, as The Love calls it.  Last night I had a three-year old Chinese daughter I’d never met, she was being looked after by mum and all my aunties and I finally went and met her and she didn’t look at all like me but I had to have her but The Love was doubtful we’d be able to take her with us on our travels.  We were carnies and about to head off on a world tour. 

I was torn.  I woke in sweat.

And then there was another one last night where The Love was hidden behind one of the doors in the huge Récollets building in Paris, and I couldn’t find which one he was in.  The rest of the place was partying.  I was desperate to find him and escape. 

The dreams are those wild ones you have when you’re drifting in and out of sleep all night, never really resting.  You’re conflicted, running, desperate.  I haven’t slept a full night since we arrived here.  It’s The Lady.  She’s pushing on my bones like an Orc in Mordor, making space for herself, she’s squashed in there.  The frame of me is not wide enough for her strong limbs so she’s starfishing them, forcing me out, like I used to do in the chambre de bonne when I’d get claustrophobic from the crampy walls which I could touch with all four extremities. 

I can totally understand where she’s coming from, but it hurts quite a bit and is making me walk like a penguin. 

It’s strange to be a construction site.  Fatigueschum. 

So tomorrow is rest day, sleepinschtag, and The Love and I will go to the markets if it stops raining.  Otherwise we’ll just lie around the Dojo and punch on the punching bag and get zen wit it, yo.


 

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