And so it begins again.
I am excited about all beginnings, but this one will be remembered as particularly thrilling. 5 days ago, I had no plans to travel, to Berlin or anywhere else. Jon and I had discussed spending July there after falling in love with the city in April, but tickets proved to be prohibitively expensive and we had to abandon the idea. But just when I had resigned myself to summer in New York - and was even beginning to look forward to the idea - the winds of whim whipped through my little Manhattan studio. Jon checked ticket prices, and there it was: Newark to Berlin, for $270.
No self-respecting nomad could pass up an opportunity (and a fare) like that, so within minutes our flights were booked, I had a last minute hair appointment, and my apartment was listed on Craigslist. We decided to keep our sudden change of plans to ourselves, and announce that we were going to Berlin...well...after we were in Berlin.
For a trip that was conceived of, planned, and embarked upon in five days, things have been surprisingly smooth. I found a subletter immediately, and since I had just returned from another trip my life was practically already packed. Anything that needed to be in storage was already there, so preparing to leave was as simple as cleaning the apartment and throwing my clothes in a bag. Before you could say "Wham bam thank you ma'am," I was packed and ready to go. Our journey to Newark went off without a hitch, as did our flights from there to Keflavik, Iceland, and from Iceland to Berlin. Iceland Express leaves something to be desired (free beverages, most notably), but the fare was so spectacular that I suppose I shouldn't complain.
What can I say about Berlin? I have fallen in love with the city, though I often fear that I've fallen for Berlin-that-was rather than Berlin-that-is. Still, that's consistent with my personality, as I have always been an anachronism, and I don't believe that anyone or anything can ever fully escape their history, so I'm sure I will find my beloved Berlin of antiquity hiding somewhere within the modern city. I want the Berlin of Isherwood and Sally Bowles. I want the decadence of the Weimar Republic. I want to be inspired by the underground burlesque of Berlin-then and the underground techno of Berlin-now.
That's really all I want: to be inspired. To be swept up. To be engulfed. To feel that I have been a part of something that others will not and can not, and to become a better writer and a more interesting person because of it.
I have faith that Berlin, lovely city that she is, city of the beautiful and damned, can get me there.
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