Why I choose Chubby.

Good evening, friends.

This post will serve as a deviation from what you normally read--much like my last post, I just had to share about being swept away again by music I once loved--in that it's not morning, and it's not about Germany. I certainly could infuse this topic with some Deutschiness, but actually, I'd rather stick to the point that I originally conceived over wine and Jonathan Franzen.

In beginning to read Franzen's latest novel, "Freedom," it struck me how the good fiction I've read lately is utterly depressing. Or, conversely, plainly beautiful. Both, actually. After finishing "The Corrections," I was moved and saddened by the illusions the book's characters inhibited, finding them to be unerringly true to the paradoxes of feeling one may face in one's lifetime. Having known for a long time that my life felt like an unsolved paradox of feeling, I found the illustrated truths in Franzen's books to be quite freeing, which is how I've found myself here. Telling you little-known truths about myself. 

I have chosen to be chubby. Fat? Sure. Stocky? Why not. Thin? Definitely no. The picture of societal feminine acceptability I am not. I am lumpy, stretch-marked, and plump. And may I declare: I have never been happier with myself than I am now. I am imperfect. I am human. I am not beyond the realm of possibility--I am accessible. And I enjoy proving a point.

Having been beset with a healthy dose of confidence from a young age, there was never anything I felt I couldn't do--with ease. Then I learned the harsh reality of existence: that I could never be The Best at everything; I would surely fail; life is, on its own, futile. I fought these realities with my immature strategies, but the truths eventually prevailed. At some point, and please-don't-ask-me-to-pinpoint-it, I started to become more comfortable with life's futility, therefore deciding that if life didn't have a point, by God, I was going to live and love what I'd been given to the fullest. 

I cannot deny that I am a people person. People are fascinating creatures, with their opinions, their habits, their idiosyncrasies. People are wonderful, but they are also capable of the terrible. The paradox of loving people and hating them is that you must find a way to engage them, yet protect oneself from their unnecessary evils. 

This is precisely why I choose Chubby. Society (as its requirements are always changing) currently dictates that as a young woman, I should be physically accessible to you and everyone--we're not just talking about as subordinates to men (that's a history for another day), but as objects of desirability for all to enjoy and admire. My reaction to that requirement: No. A physical interest, or attraction, in my opinion, should not be solely what draws me to people or people to me. Attraction is only one attributable facet of reproduction in this day and age. To practice this belief, I enjoy myself. I eat what I like. I imbibe when it's fun. I let the evidence of my partaking show up in ways on my body that may not be desirable to you or to your father. I've found, time after time, that the people most worth knowing and engaging are the people who inquire further, who dig deeper, who realize the fleeting quality of beauty and say to hell with it. In this way, I've strategically surrounded myself with people who also love people for their opinions, their habits, their idiosyncrasies. This in turn makes life feel less futile--I am not alone. I may be insignificantly small, but I've found similar grains of sand on the beach.

If there is one thing I am grateful to my parents for, it is the confidence they instilled in me from Day One. Like most things in life, confidence has both been a grace and a burden, but now I've masterfully learned to use it to my advantage. With confidence, I can be Chubby/Fat/Obese/Thick/whatever box you'd like to put me in, because I decided, before you saw me, to be there.

...so this has nothing to do with Germany.

I was all set to write you a lovely post on the (less than) 48 hours I spent in Munich, Monday through Wednesday. That, unfortunately, is not going to happen right now. Why? Not like you have a whole lot else going on. Au contraire, meine Freuden! If you had forgotten, Jack and I are coming home in 2 1/2 weeks, which means I need to get this house in tip-top shape (dust and my cat-like shedding habits have taken over), throw things away, pack things up and send them back to the good ol' U S of A, lay my eyes on my favorite places in Berlin one last time, undsoweiter.

But sometimes the pile of stuff to go through or the tasks to check off your list can be tossed to the side for an afternoon of revisiting one of your favorite albums of all time. Mine? So sad to say I've forgotten about it for quite some time, but Jeff Buckley's only studio album, Grace, has stolen my productive afternoon. Honestly, my eyelids are heavy and my heart is hazy, trying to concurrently write and listen to the album at the same time. His voice is so hauntingly beautiful, it's almost painful to listen to too often. But I've been recaptured and the rest of the day will most likely result in a romantic sway in my step, a sadness in my soul for the lost treasure that is/was Jeff Buckley. Only the good die young, don't they?

So the Munich post will have to wait. Sometimes you've just gotta let yourself get swept away. 

 

5 to go.

The end is almost near. No, not you, Rapture, we all know you're a load of hooey. No, I mean, the end of Our Berlin is nigh. 

I can't say I have any super duper awesome stories to share with you right now, but I felt like waxing a little nostalgic/poetic/philsophic, as 5 weeks from this very day, Jack and I head back to Reality, AKA the United States. Huh.

I remember when we got here--it was cold, rainy, and sheets of ice covered the ground, making our apartment search nearly impossible--well, it sucked. We found our awesome apartment, settled in, and it felt like home. Except I didn't have work, the sun wouldn't shine, and I felt like Berlin was a big hole that was slowly swallowing me alive. I wanted to come home. I didn't know why I was here. Did I come to Berlin on someone else's dream? Of course. I had come here to accompany my partner-in-crime, so that he could take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I could share it with him. But I didn't know how to share it--I felt like I was grasping at straws trying to justify my presence here while he was doing, learning, experiencing.

By the end of February (and a lot of crappy weather later), the sun began to poke out from behind the clouds. It was still cold, and the city felt colder, but for whatever reason, I felt inclined to come out of hibernation. Perhaps it was the realization that I needed to make the best of what would amount to a 6-month European vacation...or drive both Jack and myself insane. I planned a trip to Italy to see my good friend, had an AMAZING time, and then had the opportunity to go home for nearly a week. Honestly, going back to Chicago was a turning point, because I realized that I didn't actually live there. Chicago is not my home. I belong in Berlin--with my love and our life there. I looked forward to coming back here, starting German classes, and therefore my continued integration into this wonderful culture that is Berlin.


In hindsight, it's easy to see that in some ways, I was ungrateful. Although I'd been here before, I was unable to foresee what lessons the city would teach me. This is a common thread in my life: I want to know what I'm going to receive/experience/how I'm going to feel about X, Y, Z, just so I can be prepared. Often times, the emotional preparation dissuades me from having a natural reaction to whatever it is I'm receiving/experiencing/in actuality, feeling. 

Berlin caught me off guard. Berlin forced me to improvise. Berlin made me realize that I needed to make it my own, or face the inevitable consequence of being swallowed up. And now that I've been reminded of this wonderful freedom, I don't want to let it go. Perhaps that's why I've been a little bit weary in my outlook about coming back to Chicago; Berlin has provided the proof that I can be adaptable, teachable, open to lots of changes in a short period of time, and as a result, I feel like I could conquer the world. I don't want to go back to what I know--I want to move onto what I don't, and see what wonderful treasures there are to be found elsewhere.

But, Reality is going to kick back in. In 5 weeks from today, we're outta here. This space in time will have vanished into history, and once again I'll be confronted with What Is Happening Next. I suppose though, if I've learned anything at all, that I'll be fine, Jack and I will be fine, because we know how to improvise--we've learning how to make what we've got into what we want, and I can only imagine that we'll get better and better at it.

The Berliner Standard.

The longer I've been here, the more I've learned about The Berliner Standard (would you like that sentence in German? I can write it if you like! Hooray, I'm actually learning). Now, mind you, this isn't an established term, but perhaps for those of you who have the desire to visit Berlin in the future and feel like whoopin' it up or gettin' local, doing as the Berliners do, then you will need to know The Berliner Standard. Of course, this could apply to many things, but I will use it to describe one particular feature of Berlin life that really does feel unique--or perhaps, only unique to an American who has never had the opportunity to experience something like this before. 

Saturday night started out fairly low-key. We had spent the day playing ping-pong in the park, and then came home to some beers and leftover homemade pasta Bolognese for dinner (oh, and if I've never cooked this for you, demand it when I am in town). Our friend Moose (yes, his legal name is actually Moose) came over and hung out along with my Dutch friend Annemarie, and we decided to head out to a bar nearby. We spent an hour or so in this bar/club, which by the way was Soviet-themed and therefore VERY red, and as I was wondering where the time was going and how long I'd have to stay before I could go home and collapse. Suddenly, Moose announces to us that he's going to head out. Wait, what? You're just going to leave? Where are you going? Well, he wanted to meet some German friends of his at A CLUB. Really? A club? A place where you're going to knock up against meaty dudes wearing tight t-shirts, girls wearing too much makeup and dresses that don't cover their bums, while bouncing up and down to ooms-ooms music? Having American club experience in mind, I was ready to decline almost immediately, considering my partner-in-crime is, shall we say, dance averse (and I was wearing stretchy pants and my favorite Tom Petty baseball tee, mind you)...but for whatever unknown reason (and thinking my PIC is going to negate our dancing chances) I said to Moose, "Ask Jack. He's the one who hates clubs. If he wants to go, I'll go." Well by gollygosh, what do you think Jack said? "Let's go." Huh.

So we said goodbye to Annemarie (who had participated in The Berliner Standard the night before) and followed Moose to Maria am Ostbahnhof. Luckily, instead of having to wait 2 HOURS to get in (seriously, people?) we joined Moose's friends at the beginning of the line, who were waiting for us. Remaining skeptical of this warehouse-like structure on the river, we were further annoyed by the 15 Euro cover charge to what seemed like, at first glance, a complete and total dump. We walked through a rubber curtain to what seemed like the bar and dance area, which was thick, smoky, dirty, and neon-lit, with that inevitable ooms-ooms rhythm. It wasn't looking good. 

But then I started to observe my surroundings. Almost no one was dressed up all hoochy-like, there weren't tons of frat boys swigging Coors, people weren't shooting each other dirty looks for bustin' a move--everyone was just dancing. Huh! Jack's and my collective skepticism began to melt away, seeing the opportunity we had in front of us. One ladyfriend of Moose's, Marlene, immediately sensed that I wanted to dance, and thus swiftly thrust us into the crowd to begin our maze-like search for the best scene. Maria am Ostbahnhof didn't just have one bar and one huge dance floor--it had four, each of which had hundreds upon hundreds of Berliners moving to the hypnotic beats with smiles on their faces.

So we joined in. We found a spot on one of the dance floors, which quickly enveloped us. We put aside any pretenses about the music, which turned out to be refreshingly unpredictable yet rhythmic, and lost ourselves in it. We truly moved like no one was watching. And no one was watching--there was no capacity for judgment, because everyone there expressed themselves differently and individually. All of a sudden, it didn't matter that I was wearing my Tom Petty shirt and purple Adidas sneakers. It didn't matter how wildly I swung my arms, swayed my hips, or how much I bounced up and down. It was beautifully freeing. Being at Maria truly epitomized what I truly love about Berlin: there is so much room for individuality, yet individuality isn't what makes people different; it is what unites them. I've never danced in a larger crowd, but I've never felt more a part of one than I did Saturday night. 

Night quickly and unassumingly turned into day. At one point, our group had gone outside to get a breath of fresh river air while it was still dark. But the next time we went to do the same, the sun had come up. It was now morning, and the scores of people who were dancing inside hadn't left--they were still going, until who knows when. Truly amateurs, we decided to hit the road and walk back to the U-Bahn station to take the train home. Marlene, the unaffected Berlinerin, grabbed a cup of coffee like she was ready to go to work. We rode sleepily back to Alexanderplatz, where Jack and I wandered around in search of anything resembling American breakfast. We then arrived back at our apartment around 7am, sticky from sweat, still hungry, and totally exhausted, ready to fall asleep in broad daylight. We were happily and completely spent.

And that, my friends, is what I will call The Berliner Standard. To know it is to love it. No drugs necessary.        

Adventures with bicycles.

Hey ya'll. How's everyone? Happy Friday!

So it's not that early in the morn there in the states, but I figured a new edition of thejellydonutnews was in order. We're heading into a really nice weekend here in Berlin--it's in the high 60's today and should warm up to the low 70's this weekend. Perfect for outdoor adventures!

Speaking of which, I had a fantastic time last Saturday. At the urging of our friends Monica and Steve, I (hesitatingly, at first) rented a bike and set out to enjoy the weather--and Berlin--from a perspective I'd not yet experienced. Perhaps I should give a little background to my bike-related anxiety: not only did I seriously fear for my life the last time I road a bike on the street in Chicago, I've also hit a biker. With my car. Ugh. Talk about traumatic. If you don't know the story, here's a little recap--I was driving eastbound on Wilson on the western edge of Uptown, making my way towards Lake Shore Drive. I pulled up to a four-way stop sign, stopped, and looked in order to proceed. At the same time I decided I was in the clear, a large white van going westbound on Wilson drove through the intersection, and just as we passed each other, a girl on a bike, headed southbound, decided that she could just cut through the intersection, right behind this white truck. I had absolutely no time to stop, and it was seconds before she, in slow motion of course, rolled up onto my windshield. Luckily for the both of us, I couldn't have been going more than 10-15 mph, so I didn't injure her. She immediately admitted (and I've often wondered whether she was stoned or something due to her lackadaisical response) that it was her fault; she saw the stop sign but didn't think she should stop. Ironically, I was on my way to see my therapist when this happen. Hah!

Okay, so you get it: bikes freak me out. But, observing how many people ride in this city, and how easy it is to navigate via bike paths and ACTUAL BIKE TRAFFIC SIGNALS (!) I figured, what the hay? Monica and Steve had been riding--they said it was great--so I'd give it a whirl. Jack and I rented bikes from Fat Tire Bicycles at Alexanderplatz, Monica and Steve met us there under the Fernsehturm, and we headed to Kreuzberg...and beyond!


Ohhhh, the freedom. The sights! The sounds! The feeling of pedals beneath you! Oww, my legs! Geez, this is hard work! But oh, the action! The wind in your hair! I can't tell you how refreshing it was to be on a bike and FEEL SAFE, like the cars and the people and the city respected my choice to get myself around. We road through Kreuzberg and down to Treptower Park, as Jack and I hadn't seen it yet. Then we rode to the other side of the park which extends along a river and found a biergarten to take a break in. Lemme tell you, this biergarten was HOPPIN'. And not with the clientele you'd expect: it was seriously geriatric in there. I mean, I'm not sure I've seen this many people over the age of 75 in one place, let alone all drinking beer. And dancing! They had a DJ on a stage, and when he started spinning the tunes, many couples came to the cement dance floor and started bustin' a move. Wow. All I can say is that I hope I'm drinking beer and dancing with their kind of energy when I'm that old!


From there, we found a place in the park to set up our new hobby (which I'll tell you about in the next post), and hung out for a couple of hours, practicing this new skill (seriously! I will tell you what it is once I receive the photographic evidence from our friends). Then, taking a new route home, we rode through Treptow and into Neuköln, and back up to Mitte, where Alexanderplatz is located. Ditching our bikes (and welcoming new butt bruises, haha) we ate dinner at a little place across the street from my language school, and rewarded all our hard work with pizza and beer. A seriously awesome day.

So! Although I don't own a bike and it really wouldn't be worth it to buy one now (idontwannatalkaboutit) renting a bike here was easy, fairly cheap, and I know I'll be doing it again. And I won't be fearing for my life. Although, I might get those damn internal butt bruises again! Seriously, I was waddling later that night. 

Who has a good bicycle story? Let's hear 'em!!!  

Springzeit! (Springtime!)

Spring has sprung here in Berlin, and I have to admit that I can't seem to rid my brain of the notoriously melodic "Producers" number, "Spriiingtime for Hitler aaaand Germany..." Hahaha oh boy. But honestly, it's gorgeous here in the spring, and the city seems to come out of its gray slumber and its people hit the streets and parks. Our neighborhood, in Prenzlauer Berg, is especially batty am Wochenenden (on the weekends) since we're in a pretty hip hood and we're in close proximity to Mauerpark, a huge public green area that the Berliner Mauer (Berlin Wall) used to cut through. I suppose it's not dissimilar to Chicagoans coming out of their winter hibernation and getting back on bikes, into their running shoes, and dining al fresco. But honestly, the amount of people out in Berlin during nice weather is like Chicago on steroids. Sometimes it's difficult to walk down the street unscathed.

At the urging of my GLS friends (more on that in a minute), I've come to know the experience of Karaoke im Mauerpark during the last two Sundays. Did I tell you about this? Mmm, don't think so. In Mauerpark, there is a huge stone amphitheater where TONS of people gather, waiting anxiously for these two guys to haul their karaoke contraptions into the middle of the stone stage. Calling themselves "Bearpit Karaoke," (the bear is the official mascot of Berlin), these two English-speaking guys have been running a public karaoke show in the park for the last two years. I can only imagine that this phenomenon has spread via word of mouth, but the crowd boasts nearly 1,000 people each and every Sunday. Seriously, it's the best show in town. If a person wants to sing, they can approach the stage and ask the sound guy to have their name put down, and the announcer guy will call their name and talk with them, introduce them, banter, etc. Perhaps what makes this public gathering so special is the collective attitude of the audience. For those of you with no prior karaoke experience, it is not uncommon for a karaoke singer in a bar or club to be booed if the audience deems their performance unsatisfactory. But at Karaoke im Mauerpark, no singer is hassled, no matter the quality of their performance. The audience remains enthusiastic and encouraging despite a horrific singer who might not know the words well enough or can't sing a single line of the song in tune. Those singers, if enthusiastic themselves, might be the most well-received. I mean, really, it's awesome and not scary and I have committed myself to sing next week. Ohhh dear...=)


So as I was saying, my GLS friends--they are my school friends (German Language School). I began my German classes the last week of March, and so far I've been doing alright. I started out in a level that I perceived to be too easy, and now I'm in one that I'm hoping to move out of in a couple weeks. Unfortunately, although improved since being here, my vocabulary is still lacking, and my second block teacher (the morning is divided into 1.5 hour blocks) is nearly incomprehensible. To me, that is. Other students seem to follow her explanations better than I do...which is sort of strange considering I understand nearly everything my first block teacher says. But that also might have something to do with the fact that I am outright convinced he is Willem Dafoe's doppelgänger. Haha. Duly noted. Anyway, it's kind of a struggle, but I'll be in class until the end of June, so I have time to improve. It's nice having something to do besides stare out the window into the surrounding gray...but hey! Springzeit, errinert ihr euch? (It's springtime, remember?)

As for Jack, he's moving right along. I can tell you that there are still some aspects of the program he is not pleased with, i.e., the lack of hands-on experience, but what one of his professors said was this: that when you find yourself in a brewery performing a specific function, a light bulb will go off in your head about a theory previously discussed. Jack certainly has that to look forward to. 

Well, my dears, I'll update soon. How's everyone doing? Is it looking like Springzeit yet in Chicago? Much love to you all. 

...aaaaaaand we're back!

Whoa, nelly! Time flies when you're having fun (and doing a ton of stuff).

First of all, loyal readers, apologies for having kept you in the dark. Many things have been happening the last couple weeks, and now that I am back into the swing of things, I'm excited to share them with you. 

First of all, I will tell you that I returned to Berlin a couple days ago after being in Chicago for close to a week. ::GASP:: I know, I know. How could I not say anything? Well, it wasn't a planned trip--I bought a ticket after hearing about a loved one's death--so I didn't really have much time to devote to other things besides being with my friend and her family, nor did my time seem as useful to anything except this event of loss. BUT dear friends and readers, be comforted that Jack and I are nearly halfway through our life here in Berlin (I can't believe how quickly time flies!) and we will certainly be available come July. Aaaaaaand since our residence permits expire 30.6.11, you better believe we'll be home come in July...or else we'll be running from the law! Hmm. Tough choice: legal citizens or fugitives? I mean, I do enjoy a good adventure once in a while...har har har.


Anyhoo, in my recent travels (more on Italy in a future post), I did find myself between a rock and a hard place. First and foremost, let it be known that me+8.5 hour flights=crabtasticness. I never get any sleep on international flights, even if they take place during the time I would normally be snoozing the night away. Sucks. I see Ambien in my future. Anyway, the flight from Chicago to Madrid got me to Spain at about 2am Chicago time (7am in Madrid) and then I only had about 45 minutes to get to the next gate (Madrid to Berlin) before boarding began. Thinking this would be no problem, I deplaned (ahahaha LOVE this word) with confidence, only for it to be promptly shut down. As I began to follow the signs for the next terminal, I came to the panic-inducing realization that I was not only a train ride away from the next terminal, I had to be processed through customs before I could continue. Um, CRAP. My empty stomach started to churned wildly as I got to the customs area and scanned the crowd of non-EU passport-holders, desperately calculating to myself how long it would take to get up to the little glass window and get my stamp. Shit, shit, shit. There were airport personnel standing near the entrance to each of these lines (EU and non-EU) so I decided to see if they could help me through to the front of the line--or if there was just anything, ANYTHING they could do to expedite the process. HELL NO, I was NOT going to miss my flight. I was too tired, too crabby to even consider what I'd have to do if I missed it. 

"Um, excuse me, my flight boards in 40 minutes from now. Is there anything I can do to move through this line?"

"Oh no," said the woman, glancing at my passport. "Where is your passport from?"

"The United States," I answered gloomily. "But I do have a visa to live in Germany."

"A visa, errrmm," she said, frowning. "Let me see."

So I handed her my passport and showed her the German residence permit, which she stared at ambivalently, until I declared,

"It's a residence permit! I live in Berlin until the end of June!"  

With my declaration, she nodded and pointed me in the direction of the EU line, which of course had almost no one waiting in it. I nearly danced up to the little glass box, grinning my tired grin. The customs agent readily recognized my document, and off I went, in a timely and ecstatic manner, towards my gate. Aaaaaand a BIG SIGH of RELIEF. 

So I suppose, for that trying moment, I was undoubtedly lucky to have a document proving I was a current EU resident. Perhaps my previous talk of bribing the German government to allow me to stay here has come back to (nicely) bite me in the butt. Because you know if I hadn't made it through customs, and missed my connecting flight, it would TOTALLY have been the government's fault...right? RIGHT? Of course. =)