Bionic Poodle Kafka Spam or, On Why I’m Up at 4:30am

This picture is here for no reason except I like it.

Jetlag. It’s a better reason than normal for why I would be up at 4:30am. Once upon a time, 4:30am was an hour for going to sleep, not waking up. But since we got the kids the only reasons I am ever up at 4:30am all involve vomit.

So I’m happy for the jetlag. It got me hours of uninterrupted sleep, broken only by CC waking me at midnight with a dozen red roses. Then more sleep only interrupted by the dogs waking up because they went to bed with me at 7pm and they really had to go out. I played the “I’m weary, I just traveled home” card to get CC to take them out. It was my only chance- I’m back on the clock tomorrow.

By the time they came back inside, I was awake. Plus I figure I’ve got at least an hour and a half before #5 wakes up to play Wii, so I’m takin’ it. Sorry for making you get up, CC.

Here’s how I was greeted when I came home:

I was fumbling loudly at the front door with my bags and also trying to get the mail, because for some reason nobody in my house but me gets the mail. I heard the dogs bark and the kids scream, having used their supernaturally fine-tuned senses to deduce that I was home.

When I opened the door, #4 and #2 were holding two very wiggly puggles that nearly jumped to their dooms because they almost wiggled out straight down the staircase, and #3 and #5 were in the living room crying because in their haste to make it to the door they smacked body parts, head to hip I think, hard. Then the Evil Brown One wiggled out of #4’s grip, bloodying her nose in the process, at which point the Fuggle also jumped out and both dogs stopped wiggling and proceeded to smell my suitcase intently, baffled by what they were processing. Apparently, they don’t sniff Germish.

goofball — Don't mock me. I'll eat your shoes.

I went past the pile of bags and puppies to see the Crying Ones. #3 had pulled it together and hugged me but #5 was still sobbing and holding his head. He also looked like he was foaming at the mouth.

“What in God’s name is on your mouth?” I asked.

“Powdered donut,” he answered clearly, then resumed sobbing.

“You look like you have rabies,” I said.

Within three minutes, they were all re-absorbed six inches from the television in an episode of Wizards of Waverly Place that I myself have seen nine times and I don’t even watch TV. They forgot to ask if I brought them souvenirs. So I withheld them. Heh. I’m drunk with power.

But as the afternoon went on and I sat with G-Middy (my mom, who was watching them while I was gone), every one of them individually climbed into my lap chattered. Even the dogs, but that was more about slobbery tennis balls and rockin’ underbites.

It’s nice to be back.

I have more posts to come about Berlin, but I’m still processing. So I leave you with these:

Here are some more naked babies. These ones are gold.

Interesting Things I Ate In Berlin:

Three kinds of cold fish at breakfast.

Lingonberries.

Baked apples wrapped in a homemade cinamon donut, times three.

A cheese plate with non-pasteurized cheese. Twice (it’s a completely different animal).

Apple compote with mustard. There may have been some figs involved as well.

The international version of pig in a blanket: wurst in a croissant. This was my favorite thing ever. I would be nine hundred pounds if I lived in Germany.

The best bratwurst, potatoes, and sourkraut I’ve ever had in my life. Twice.

Steak Tartar. The German version makes the French version surrender, but I hear that happens with a lot of things. It was about a pound and a quarter (I’m sure there’s some easy metric equivalent) of raw German organic ground beef, topped with a raw German organic egg yolk, and it dared you to eat it.

Wiener Schnitzel, which is a pounded flat veal cutlet breaded with some heavenly popover-tasting batter. It looks like chikkenfriedsteak without the gravy.

Veal Dumplings. This is the point where I should tell you that at home, I don’t eat meat.

Currywurst, which they slice up and put a spicy ketchup on and then give you a tiny fork so you can walk around while you eat it.

Ritter Sport candybars, which I’ve always liked and can get at the deli around the corner from my theater but they’re fresher here. Also, by my hotel they had a store where you could make your own– kinda like the candy bar version of a Cold Stone.

The chocolates they leave at turndown service, which rock. I accidentally found the amazing chocolatier who makes them two blocks from my hotel. So I bought more. Did I mention I would weigh nine hundred pounds if I lived in Germany?

As for the rest of the title of this post, I leave you with this picture of an ad at a bus stop. Please tell me if you have any idea what it means.

We think that might be Tom Jones.

Pay Toilets and Snake-Wrestling Babies

This must be discussed: What is the deal with the public restrooms here? Today I stopped in at the restroom at the subway station and the same scary attendants were there, just like at the Berliner Dom. Same uniform, only this time no sign was posted about how much it was to pee. They just had the little dish out (for money, you pee in the toilets, just to clarify). At least I had Euros this time. Is it a union? Is it an outsourced service? A government job? I keep thinking about it. Probably, somewhere past page twenty-three in my guide book, it explains all of that. And if I’d bothered to learn Germish, I would know.

I woke late to the phone ringing, my traveling companions graciously allowing me some extra time because I overslept. Three of us went to Potsdam and toured the Palace Sanssouci (means Without Worries).

It was the summer place of Frederick the Great.

I know nothing about German history but learned a little today about the very interesting Frederick the Great (aka Frederick II). Namely that his dad was a dick and abused him horribly-including forcing him to watch his best friend executed (decapitation-style) when they tried to run away together; that he never wanted to marry his wife and they never had children; that he hung out with Volatire and wrote a shitload of flute music; and that he was a Badass Military Dude, the real man behind German independence. Consensus from the three of us? Gay. Though that part wasn’t mentioned in the tour.

I’m not a tour person, but this was pretty cool. You got a little audio device and though you stayed with the group, you didn’t actually have to interact with anyone or suffer thorough any stupid questions from people who didn’t read their guide books or bother to learn the language.

What The Palace Did Best: Floors and Ceilings. Who knew?

This is the Library. It was awesome. You could only peek in through the window “for reasons of conservation”. I took sort of a long turn at peeking through the window because not only did I love the floor, but I wanted to move in there. So quiet! All those books!

This is the ceiling in the. . . Some Other room. It’s my favorite. That’s a gold spider web in the upper right hand corner. Here’s a closer view:

Frederick the Great also had a fondness and a talent for cultivating fruits and flowers. If I ever get the chance, I will come back to Berlin in the summer, because the grounds are vast and I can only imagine how beautiful they must be in bloom. Meanwhile, there was this room:

Please remember that the queen did not reside in Sanssouci. He gave her a whole other palace in a whole other part of Berlin and only saw her once a year.

This squirrel looks very surprised.

And no palace tour would be complete without a creepy naked baby wrestling with a snake:

You’re welcome.

Naked Baby Angel Butts All Look The Same To Me

The getting to Berlin was easier than anticipated. I didn’t get nearly the amount of sleep on the plane I had hoped. I’ve now been up for many more hours in a row than could possibly be considered a good idea, listening to Rasputina in my hotel room because I just learned about Amanda Palmer but Itunes won’t let me buy her music because it doesn’t like that I’m in Germany and Rasputina is the closest thing I have. So I’m giving myself permission to make even less sense than usual. You’re welcome.

Also, everyone at my home could use a spare good vibe if you have one to give. This is a massive understatement. I wasn’t going to post, but me being dark will help even less than me being in Berlin. Besides, I don’t censor myself when I’m sleep deprived, so that should be fun.

Clearly, this airport is vegan:

First we went to Checkpoint Charlie, now brought to you by McDonald’s.

I have a total, morbid fascination with all things Soviet. I’m enthralled by them in the truest sense of the word- being in thrall– and I’ve stopped asking why; I just embrace it now. I’ve read an embarrassing amount of Russian History and I have been known to become somewhat evangelical about the evils of Communism. I was beside myself to get out to this site today. Checkpoint Charlie has both an indoor museum which was closed today, and an open air museum that displays the history of the Wall. Up the street a ways is the Brandenburg Gate, where everything happened.

God, I remember being absolutely riveted to the TV when Reagan said “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” and I remember those people climbing up, pulling the pieces down. And I couldn’t look away because I was moved to tears, I never thought it would happen in my lifetime, we all thought we were going to blow each other into nuclear winter first. I still get teary when I watch those clips.

The guy that drove us in from the airport today was telling about his experiences being a West Berliner, and how the city just flooded with people when the wall came down.

I decided this is Charlie:

I liked the reflection of the taxi in this one:

Something written in Russian in tile that I can’t read, plus Corey’s film noir shadow:

Regarding the naked baby angel butts, we also went to Berliner Dom today. Shortly before this is when my camera battery died. It was my own fault. It was remarkably short-sighted of me, but it’s a new camera and I wanted to see how long the battery would last between charges, how much warning I would get before it died, all of that. It strikes me now that this knowledge could have waited. All the rest of this would be far more interesting with pictures, but you’re gonna have to work with me.

The Berliner Dom is pretty freakin’ cool. It’s a big ass church. We walked in on the middle of a tour in Germish and of course didn’t understand a word, but got to check out the amazing details and art and of course, the Huge Organ. There were some enormous cranes and Corey said he was pretty sure the tour guide was saying they were recent additions. There was a guy in one of them vacuuming the ceilings. He could totally do my house and wouldn’t need a crane nearly that tall.

I was so tired by this point that I leaned back in a pew and let my head hang all the way down to look up at the dome, and the giant stained glass dove in the center of the dome looked like it was a mutant- and, yeah, I’ll say it, Nazi- dove from some B-horror movie that was coming down to pluck my eyeballs out now. So I alerted everyone in my party.

Then we climbed approximately 696,729 steps, in circles, to go to the top and walk around the little walkway that encircles the dome. Halfway up we passed the statue hospital, where they take headless saints and wingless angels for repair. Around the dome walkway you can see all of Berlin. I was struck by how it seems like all the highest points of the city are church spires. I don’t know if that’s true, but that’s what it looked like. You can see the naked baby angel butts from the back when you’re on the dome walkway. I started to lose my sense of where I was because they all look the same from that angle.

Then we went back down. Further down below there’s a crypt. Like my thralldom to all things Soviet, I have a fascination with all things death. I loved this crypt. It was pretty much all royalty and the coffins were like four hundred years old. There were far too many baby coffins, much like home. It ripped me up, in a beautiful way.

You had to pay for the bathroom. I didn’t have any Euros and the attendants wouldn’t let me in. They reminded me of the ushers at my theater. I was trapped in a German production of Urinetown. One of the guys had to talk them into taking an American dollar, and front it to me so I could pee.