The next day, I go with Lori to pay a visit to the Lenbach Straße crew.
Everyone is at Noam's flat - the Germans I mostly remember from last time, a seemingly mute new roommate, and the Israeli technival contingent, consisting of Ehud, his broter Nir, Eitan the Invisible Officer, Tom and Lola.
I am trying to figure out how to get to Kreuzberg to Frederic's studio to pick up a set of keys to the flat. I am motivated to set forth on my own, but by the time I leave Noam's flat I am so disoriented thanks to local weed, that I am a tad afraid of finding myself passed out on a bench in the Turkish quarter.
Thanks to some heavy explaining, complete with drawings and internet maps, I safely make it through a couple of trams and find myself in front of Hard Wax studios. Frederic gives me a tour of the place and explains how records are mastered and cut. I stay for a joint and then head back to Noam's place, where I am congratulated on having survived the journey and treated to bonghits, a-la-Tel Aviv. I am so baked I spend the night on the floor, curled up like a dead kitten.
The next day, I manage to make initial contact with The Mute, who is of the female variety and goes by the name of Christina. Having heard of my extensive sewing skills, she excitedly shows me her sewing machine, and then points to a patch she designed on some footer material, and then motions towards a tank-top she would like to adhere it to.
With all this movement, it is a bit like communicating with a mime, or an airline stewardess going over the safety instructions.
She then solemnly directs her gaze towards the sewing machine.
"You want to learn how to thread it, then?" I ask.
She nods her head excitedly.
I can't even wrestle a Ja out of this girl.
"Okay," I say, "I'll be back in a few hours and we will master the machine."
Noam is content, hoping that perhaps this creative bonding will aid The Mute in emerging out of her shell. However, all hope to help the socially challenged goes out the window as soon as I go to the park with one of the other roommates, as our casual walk in the park eventually lands us on the other side of town, over the bridge in Kreuzberg.
We are at Claudi's house, drinking tea and betting on when the rain will start pounding down on us. There was talk of going to the Botanischer Gardens, but the prospect of rain took the punch out of the idea. So instead, we sit around smoking joint after joint, while my eyes wander off to survey Claudi's bookshelves.
I like her very much, and have since the first time I met her, when she visited Israel. There is something very brave about her, as quiet as she appears to be. We are joined by Ben of Jagermeister fame, and by Joni, Claudi's adorable boytoy from France.
I soon find myself tired from doing nothing but smoking.
Part of me is afraid of returning to the flat and facing the disappointed doe eyes of The Mute.
Ahhh, good old Berlin.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Minimal Music, Maximum Drugging
I am still very much in shell shock just from being away from the Levant and its unbearable heat and lack of manners. Nearly 24 hours have passed, and not one hungry stare of an ape-like man tossed my way, not a single hiss or paralyzing catcall. The people here seem to fear initiating direct eye contact of the flirtaatious variety, and I am having a lot of fun with this. I have enough sexual aggression thrown at me back home. Here, I am the mistress of my own gender role playground. Leaving the spoils of our consumer outing at Lori's place, we head for Warschauer Straße to meet Frederic in order to go to the party at the Panoramabar. He's informed me that he is also bringing along a "ladyfriend", and through our brief but intense acquaintence, I can only imagine what kind of naughty ideas he's entertaining.
Killing time until Frederic's estimated time of arrival, Lori leads me to a pizza place near the station, where sometimes reggae parties are held unerground, past some sort of cartoonish passage. No reggae party here tonight, but we do make a brief dash to an EBM night across the street, where I spot many a fashion faux pas I find quite upsetting. To make matters worse, it starts raining, and I am wearing flip flops, since everyone had informed me that this was the most hellish summer Europe has seen in over 50 years.
Thank you, global warming. Fuck you, global warming.
Not much seems warm about tonight as I am freezing like a puppy soaked to the bone, wading through Berlin's puddles in frail summer footwear. We seek refuge in a Lebanese pizzaria, where the employees are nervously watching a live news broadcast on the escalating situation on the Israeli-Lebanese border. I try to appear disinterested, but I am carefully absorbing evry word and thinking of my brother. My grandmother must be heartbroken. She has to live through yet another war, her eldest grandson drafted for reserve duty in quicksand territory we'd supposedly abandoned long ago, and her granddaughter fleeing to the one country she'd vowed she'd never set foot in again. Until my grandfather passed away, not even Kinder chocolates were allowed in their home.
My American accent and New England mannerisms come to my rescue every time. I guess it isn't really a lie when the Lebanese clerk asks me where I'm from and I carelessly reply "D.C.". I'm not really from anywhere. I don't entertain those fantasies anymore.
"You American girls are so beautiful," he tells me.
I make a mental note to pass on the compliment to all the Alisons, Jessicas and Ashleys of the New World. Meanwhile, I indulge in Hawaiin pizza, trying to ignore the familiar names spewed out from the television set. They are bitig their nails to the quick, staring at the newscastor with anxiety. We are mixing MDMA into our bottled water in preparation for tonight.
Talk about escapism.
We down it on the train, trying to put on a brave front while battling the horrid metallic aftertaste. Thank goodness some of the Cinnaburst gum Roy sent me had made it with me to Berlin, otherwise my face would have been permanently screwed into that awful expression I take on after gulping a shot of cheap tequila.
We wait for Frederic at the station, and he punctually arrives with his friend, Katja. She looks barely 15 and a bit too fragile for anything remotely resembling Frederic's lifestyle of choice, but is nice and friendly enough. We hitch a taxi to the Panorama, a mega techno palace.
At the entrance, we are thoroughlyseached and patted down by some massive Brunhilda-esque amazona, before we are granted permission to proceed. The Panorama is usually home to massive gay parties on most nights, and a general Soddom & Gomorra vibe is quite apparent. I feel good about this, though. This means most of the sleaze tonight will not be directed at us ladies but rather at the bare-chested male populace who makes up roughly 80% of the club.
The place is huge, decorated in a stren and precise manner, and is packed with hot, toned male bodies writhing against each other. Normally I would feel a little out of place in such a merry orgy scene not geared towards my uterus and other anatomical favorites, but I'm just smiling like an idiot and looking on. The MDMA is starting to kick in, and I feel those floaty tingles normally associated with the ultimate love potion. Frederic finds us again and invites us upstairs to take some E, which he passes to me with a kiss, then proceeds to do the same for Lorca. I hope she isn't too taken aback by him, because it is quite obvious to me that by the end of the night he will probably invite her to take part in a threesome with us. Right now I am too focused on the fuzzy vibrations to stop and ponder if this is cheeky behavior on his part.
The music is very minimal techno. I can't dance to this shit, but I can certainly lean back and enjoy the chemical reactions battling like a pillow fight in my brain. I spill the beans to Lori about my wild night with my new friend, and she declares me a slag. Clearly, one of the signs of the coming apocalypse, along with Paris Hilton vowing to go celibate for an entire year. The MD seems to be doing the trick, as I find myself almost uncontainably happy and stroking the ledge of the sofa. Lori rises and throws up in the most elegant way I have ever seen, but says she feels much better now.
My body temperature is going schizo on me, and every few minutes there is a decision to either disrobe or pack on the layers once more. We are briefly pestered by a loud British fellow, clearly hopped up on something, and painfully unaware of the dominant sexual orientation in this particular club. We escape and take an enchanted tour of the premises, complete with cells for sex.
Fuck-cages.
No wonder cameras are not allowed in here, not that it mattered to yours truly. The place looks like what a Village People video might haved looked, had they been immensely popular in the early 90's and heavily into BDSM.
As the sun rises, Frederic and Katja meet us in the downstairs lobby, and we split a cab home. Surely enough, Frederic had indeed pitched the threesome idea to Lori, who politely declined the invitation but congratulated him on having the balls to ask.
He and I go home, where he draws a hot bath for us. Aside from the obvious hygenics routine, there is also the fucking, very far from standard "vanilla sex". For his age, the fellow certainly has stamina.
We later stage a "Six Feet Under" marathon. I find it amusing just how annoyed Frederic gets with Brenda's promiscuous behavior on the show.
"So what is it that peeves you so much about Brenda," I ask as she fucks yet another stranger behind Nate's back. "The sex or the dishonesty?"
Frederic explains to me that he himself has a steady girlfriend, but he told her about my being a special guest in his home. "The bitch's dishonesty, of course," he smiles.
Of course.
We both cheer on Claire as she stumbles to find her own identity, and eventually drift off to sleep.
Killing time until Frederic's estimated time of arrival, Lori leads me to a pizza place near the station, where sometimes reggae parties are held unerground, past some sort of cartoonish passage. No reggae party here tonight, but we do make a brief dash to an EBM night across the street, where I spot many a fashion faux pas I find quite upsetting. To make matters worse, it starts raining, and I am wearing flip flops, since everyone had informed me that this was the most hellish summer Europe has seen in over 50 years.
Thank you, global warming. Fuck you, global warming.
Not much seems warm about tonight as I am freezing like a puppy soaked to the bone, wading through Berlin's puddles in frail summer footwear. We seek refuge in a Lebanese pizzaria, where the employees are nervously watching a live news broadcast on the escalating situation on the Israeli-Lebanese border. I try to appear disinterested, but I am carefully absorbing evry word and thinking of my brother. My grandmother must be heartbroken. She has to live through yet another war, her eldest grandson drafted for reserve duty in quicksand territory we'd supposedly abandoned long ago, and her granddaughter fleeing to the one country she'd vowed she'd never set foot in again. Until my grandfather passed away, not even Kinder chocolates were allowed in their home.
My American accent and New England mannerisms come to my rescue every time. I guess it isn't really a lie when the Lebanese clerk asks me where I'm from and I carelessly reply "D.C.". I'm not really from anywhere. I don't entertain those fantasies anymore.
"You American girls are so beautiful," he tells me.
I make a mental note to pass on the compliment to all the Alisons, Jessicas and Ashleys of the New World. Meanwhile, I indulge in Hawaiin pizza, trying to ignore the familiar names spewed out from the television set. They are bitig their nails to the quick, staring at the newscastor with anxiety. We are mixing MDMA into our bottled water in preparation for tonight.
Talk about escapism.
We down it on the train, trying to put on a brave front while battling the horrid metallic aftertaste. Thank goodness some of the Cinnaburst gum Roy sent me had made it with me to Berlin, otherwise my face would have been permanently screwed into that awful expression I take on after gulping a shot of cheap tequila.
We wait for Frederic at the station, and he punctually arrives with his friend, Katja. She looks barely 15 and a bit too fragile for anything remotely resembling Frederic's lifestyle of choice, but is nice and friendly enough. We hitch a taxi to the Panorama, a mega techno palace.
At the entrance, we are thoroughlyseached and patted down by some massive Brunhilda-esque amazona, before we are granted permission to proceed. The Panorama is usually home to massive gay parties on most nights, and a general Soddom & Gomorra vibe is quite apparent. I feel good about this, though. This means most of the sleaze tonight will not be directed at us ladies but rather at the bare-chested male populace who makes up roughly 80% of the club.
The place is huge, decorated in a stren and precise manner, and is packed with hot, toned male bodies writhing against each other. Normally I would feel a little out of place in such a merry orgy scene not geared towards my uterus and other anatomical favorites, but I'm just smiling like an idiot and looking on. The MDMA is starting to kick in, and I feel those floaty tingles normally associated with the ultimate love potion. Frederic finds us again and invites us upstairs to take some E, which he passes to me with a kiss, then proceeds to do the same for Lorca. I hope she isn't too taken aback by him, because it is quite obvious to me that by the end of the night he will probably invite her to take part in a threesome with us. Right now I am too focused on the fuzzy vibrations to stop and ponder if this is cheeky behavior on his part.
The music is very minimal techno. I can't dance to this shit, but I can certainly lean back and enjoy the chemical reactions battling like a pillow fight in my brain. I spill the beans to Lori about my wild night with my new friend, and she declares me a slag. Clearly, one of the signs of the coming apocalypse, along with Paris Hilton vowing to go celibate for an entire year. The MD seems to be doing the trick, as I find myself almost uncontainably happy and stroking the ledge of the sofa. Lori rises and throws up in the most elegant way I have ever seen, but says she feels much better now.
My body temperature is going schizo on me, and every few minutes there is a decision to either disrobe or pack on the layers once more. We are briefly pestered by a loud British fellow, clearly hopped up on something, and painfully unaware of the dominant sexual orientation in this particular club. We escape and take an enchanted tour of the premises, complete with cells for sex.
Fuck-cages.
No wonder cameras are not allowed in here, not that it mattered to yours truly. The place looks like what a Village People video might haved looked, had they been immensely popular in the early 90's and heavily into BDSM.
As the sun rises, Frederic and Katja meet us in the downstairs lobby, and we split a cab home. Surely enough, Frederic had indeed pitched the threesome idea to Lori, who politely declined the invitation but congratulated him on having the balls to ask.
He and I go home, where he draws a hot bath for us. Aside from the obvious hygenics routine, there is also the fucking, very far from standard "vanilla sex". For his age, the fellow certainly has stamina.
We later stage a "Six Feet Under" marathon. I find it amusing just how annoyed Frederic gets with Brenda's promiscuous behavior on the show.
"So what is it that peeves you so much about Brenda," I ask as she fucks yet another stranger behind Nate's back. "The sex or the dishonesty?"
Frederic explains to me that he himself has a steady girlfriend, but he told her about my being a special guest in his home. "The bitch's dishonesty, of course," he smiles.
Of course.
We both cheer on Claire as she stumbles to find her own identity, and eventually drift off to sleep.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Of Flatmates and Things
At home, Frederic takes care of the cooking while I take care of personal hygeine and indulge in a revitalizing shower, surrounded by R2D2 and friends. Contrary to the bitter European experiences of my past, there is a generous flow of hot water. This also sits well with the general urban decadence of the flat and the beautiful complex it is nestled in.
We eat in the living room, staging an indoor picnic on the wooden floor. Through the two huge windows I can see the sun setting. The wine turns out to be an excellent choice, and I am reasonably buzzed by the time we crack open the second bottle. Frederic tells me about the times he has visited Tel-Aviv in order to play parties there, since he is quite an esteemed DJ. I actually recall a party he played at HaTzofeh(RIP), which was indeed a hell of a time.
We relax on the sofa, and I eventually succumb to a little nap, to be awakened by a very generous act being performed on me, the kind some would say "separates the boys from the men". The kind of act where I reckon it is hard to not wake up catching your breath as a result, so long as it is done right.
We end up having extremely kinky sex on the living room floor. What the fellow lacks in girth, he more than compensates fro with creativity. I suppose it is a good thing he landed a liberated houseguest such as myself, considering he is very much into dirty talk.
I actually had plans to attenda party at Ben's, who I favorably remember as the bringer of Jagermeister from the Various Aquarious party last winter, but I am literally too fucked to even consider going.
Frederic and I go for another round and then retire to sleep. I can't help but wonder what my Homeland Subby would think about all this, but I am quick to remind myself that we never discussed exclusivity(I certainly don't crave it at this point in time) and besides, fuck it, I'm on vacation.
I have come to Berlin with the intent of drinking their beer, eating their baked goods, and fucking some meshuggeneh goyim. It's simply that simple, so I try to live by it.
Frederic is like the very negative of any scenario I had under my belt at home, anyhow. Suddenly I am on the receiving end of orders and requests. Come morning, I am treated to a hearty German breakfast consisting of toast, eggs, ham, butter and a tray of cheeses. I'm more of a fruit and granola gal when it comes to the first meal of the day, but being a practical person on a limited budget, I dig in, hoping that this will aid me in avoiding a food-related financial splurge later in the day. Protein is protein, after all.
After the most important meal of the day has been consumed and done away with, I soon find myself in a spread-eagle position usually reserved for Dr. Rosenberg's exam table, balancing myself on a wooden beam in Frederic's kitchen. Nothing like a healthy serving of morning sex, or as Gabi's dad once colorfully illustrated, it's like a nooner, only sooner.
After a post-coital nicotine break, Frederic accompanies me to the tram station, and escorts me to Ostkreuz to meet Lori. Lori has been renting a gallery bed in the kitchen of two German students on Lenbachstrasse, Noam's street. Aside from finding herself in a conveniant spot, she also found Ehud Eighties living in a van beneath her newly adopted apartment building. Ehud has by now fully embraced the technival culture, following his life-altering experiences at Czech-Tek.
Fredric, Lori and I sit down for coffee at a cafe on Sonntagstrasse, and eventually we girls bid him farewell, making plans to hit a techno party later that evening. Because of his DJ status in these parts, free entry is guaranteed, as well as - or at least, as that practical side of me hopes - free drugs. Lori invites me to see her gallery bed before we move on to do what women are gentically programmed to excell at - shopping. I am relieved to find that her roommates are not the cannibalizing fiends I'd pictured them to be, although to be fair, I only met one of the two.
We eat in the living room, staging an indoor picnic on the wooden floor. Through the two huge windows I can see the sun setting. The wine turns out to be an excellent choice, and I am reasonably buzzed by the time we crack open the second bottle. Frederic tells me about the times he has visited Tel-Aviv in order to play parties there, since he is quite an esteemed DJ. I actually recall a party he played at HaTzofeh(RIP), which was indeed a hell of a time.
We relax on the sofa, and I eventually succumb to a little nap, to be awakened by a very generous act being performed on me, the kind some would say "separates the boys from the men". The kind of act where I reckon it is hard to not wake up catching your breath as a result, so long as it is done right.
We end up having extremely kinky sex on the living room floor. What the fellow lacks in girth, he more than compensates fro with creativity. I suppose it is a good thing he landed a liberated houseguest such as myself, considering he is very much into dirty talk.
I actually had plans to attenda party at Ben's, who I favorably remember as the bringer of Jagermeister from the Various Aquarious party last winter, but I am literally too fucked to even consider going.
Frederic and I go for another round and then retire to sleep. I can't help but wonder what my Homeland Subby would think about all this, but I am quick to remind myself that we never discussed exclusivity(I certainly don't crave it at this point in time) and besides, fuck it, I'm on vacation.
I have come to Berlin with the intent of drinking their beer, eating their baked goods, and fucking some meshuggeneh goyim. It's simply that simple, so I try to live by it.
Frederic is like the very negative of any scenario I had under my belt at home, anyhow. Suddenly I am on the receiving end of orders and requests. Come morning, I am treated to a hearty German breakfast consisting of toast, eggs, ham, butter and a tray of cheeses. I'm more of a fruit and granola gal when it comes to the first meal of the day, but being a practical person on a limited budget, I dig in, hoping that this will aid me in avoiding a food-related financial splurge later in the day. Protein is protein, after all.
After the most important meal of the day has been consumed and done away with, I soon find myself in a spread-eagle position usually reserved for Dr. Rosenberg's exam table, balancing myself on a wooden beam in Frederic's kitchen. Nothing like a healthy serving of morning sex, or as Gabi's dad once colorfully illustrated, it's like a nooner, only sooner.
After a post-coital nicotine break, Frederic accompanies me to the tram station, and escorts me to Ostkreuz to meet Lori. Lori has been renting a gallery bed in the kitchen of two German students on Lenbachstrasse, Noam's street. Aside from finding herself in a conveniant spot, she also found Ehud Eighties living in a van beneath her newly adopted apartment building. Ehud has by now fully embraced the technival culture, following his life-altering experiences at Czech-Tek.
Fredric, Lori and I sit down for coffee at a cafe on Sonntagstrasse, and eventually we girls bid him farewell, making plans to hit a techno party later that evening. Because of his DJ status in these parts, free entry is guaranteed, as well as - or at least, as that practical side of me hopes - free drugs. Lori invites me to see her gallery bed before we move on to do what women are gentically programmed to excell at - shopping. I am relieved to find that her roommates are not the cannibalizing fiends I'd pictured them to be, although to be fair, I only met one of the two.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Start Anew
While I am still brushing myself off from my last tumble through the blogosphere, which - in addition to landing me drinks on other people's tabs and a loyal army of blogging minions - also got me sued, I am back.
It is rather unfortunate that relocating my blogging activities seems to be the closest thing to the Witness Protection Program one can get online, other than the obvious solution - to remove themselves from public blogging altogether.
However, I refuse to let legal threats made by individuals with badly cut hair and a few of their own skeletons in the closet to scare me off.
And so, here I am.
This time around, I'm armed with a lawyer.
It is rather unfortunate that relocating my blogging activities seems to be the closest thing to the Witness Protection Program one can get online, other than the obvious solution - to remove themselves from public blogging altogether.
However, I refuse to let legal threats made by individuals with badly cut hair and a few of their own skeletons in the closet to scare me off.
And so, here I am.
This time around, I'm armed with a lawyer.
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