Shana Tova, Artist Visa, Playing To A Dead Crowd

HE: A Genderstranged Clown Duo

Shana Tova everyone!  It's Rosh Hashannah, the Jewish New Year, and tonight, for the first time in my life at age 35, I will celebrate!  The Israeli boys invited me to a dinner party thrown by an orthodox Jew.  I'm a little nervous, hope I can come up with something appropriate to wear.  But I'm also quite excited to finally get a chance to do this high holy days thing, and to do it in Deutschland.

In the park yesterday, Daniel and I talk about life and relationships.  The conversation comes around to Jewishness and our voices get a little hushed.  It feels so liberating and free to be here.  I feel I can flaunt the fact that I'm strange and queer, but I have to talk to someone I good long while before I'll reveal my heritage to them.  I have known Sharon and Daniel for almost 2 weeks, and it's not a long time, and yet we are all bonded.  I think our blood has a lot to do with it.  There is a part of all three of us that is ready.  Ready for it to happen again.  Ready to hide, fight or stand.  We know that if things turn, we are there for each other.  It is our Jewishness that makes it so.  I never thought that these issues were buried so deep inside me, but I guess they are there.  And Berlin pulls them to the surface.  Slowly.

I think about my homeland, the USA, and what we have done.  We have massacred a native people, stolen people from another continent and held them in bondage.  Just last week, an innocent man was framed and killed by our government because of the color of his skin (ref: Troy Davis.)  How are these hundreds of years of systematic oppression different than Hitler's brief reign?  I don't have any answers, and I know these questions are unpopular, but still they are there and keep me awake at night.

Last night I had a small gig at the Kookaburra Comedy Club on Schönhauser Allee.  The night was put together by an eccentric performer and MC from Stuttgart named Otto Kuhne.  Other performers where a cellist and singer of the comic variety named Matthias and an AMAZING beatboxer named Pete the Beat.  I have heard a lot of beatboxing in my life, but I have never heard anything like this.  Pete was in his late 40s and claims to have introduced beatboxing to Germany.  He was a very humble and friendly guy, and completely expert in his craft.  I would believe he was the first one to beatbox here. 
I only made 10 Euro, which is a bummer, but the night was really lovely and I have seldom met three nicer guys.  I didn't even feel weird sharing a dressing room with them.  They were all courteous, spoke English to me, made me feel like a competent and important artist.  Really, I was playing for them, because truth to tell there were about 7 people in the audience including Eve, and during my set, maybe one person laughed one time. 
It was so frustrating!  I feel like I did my job as a clown!  I listened to the audience,  I asked them what they wanted.  Too much?  Not enough?  They gave me NOTHING!  So I just had to go on and get my eight minutes over with.  And then I was done.  And the person who booked me was happy with my performance, and that's the part that mattered.

After, Eve and I go to a store, get a bier.  The cashier opens them for us and we walk out to the street to find a step to sit on outside a closed shop.  "Shana Tova," I clink Eve's bottle with mine. 
"Shana Tova!"  She says to loudly.  I wince.
"Eve, you've got to-"  I stop.  How do I explain this to her.
"What?" 
We talk about our separate ancestries and I learn about the French-Canadians. 
It starts to make sense to me why French and French-Canadians don't want to speak English.

We make a rehearsal plan, talk about busking.  I hop on the train to Alexanderplatz and then transfer to the U-8, getting home around midnight.

Even with all these heavy thoughts, I think I have decided to stay here for as long as I can.  I try to convince myself to come home to the bay area, but aside from friends and family (which I value most dearly) what is there for me  in California?  I've no place to live, no job until June, am a slave to the public transit system (which is quite mediocre) and everything is expensive.  Though the current exchange rate is 1.36 USD to every Euro, food and rent are quite cheap here and, if nothing else, I am respected for my craft.  Also, no one who is part of the circus world has told me I do not belong!  A major life-changing shift. 
So I am trying to find out what the possibilities are for changing/refunding my return flight on November 30th.  Tomorrow or Monday I will go and register for a month long German language program, collect my bank statements, photocopy my passport, buy German insurance and ask Bridge for a signed paper saying I reside at this address.  I believe I can get a visa extension of at least 3 months this way.  It's true, I'm only here until November 15th, but that's plenty of time to find a place.  If anyone knows of anyone in Berlin renting a room for 250 Euro a month or less, let me know. I'm currently seeking an under the table job, too.  Made one inquiry about an English-speaking nanny position I found on Craigslist and am going to find out about stagehand stuff.

Last night people in my dreams where speaking German.  I only understood a few words.  I don't know what they where talking about, but I now it was German.  I have never had a dream in a foriegn language before.  This place, it has seeped into my consciousness.  It wants me to stay.

It's all a little stressful and overwhelming, but I believe I can do this.  If anyone would like to make a contribution, financial or energetic, to the Harvey fund, now would be the time.
http://www.gofundme.com/8y660

Prop Shop, Shake! Circus @ Ostbanhof

The Surrealists (Eve and Sharon)

Daniel and I, Mauerpark

I love trash

Places we will never forget

A good thing to have by a public park!

The shame of America

The Good, The Bad, The Emotional Baggage

On Saturday I have a workshop with a woman named BT.  Eve, my clown partner has arrived the night before and decides to come, too.  I am really excited!  Excited to see Eve, excited about the workshop, excited!  The place is a little hard to find, but we do.  At the beginning, I can tell something is going to go badly for me, but I do my best to ignore this.  BT notices that my left arm doesn't straighten.  I explain, quite succinctly, that I cannot bear weight on my left arm.  I'm used to this.  I work in a physical form.  My arm is part of my physical body.  A good clown teacher will see that I know how to deal with this and let it go, but I feel BT's attitude toward me shift.  She makes too much of a big deal out of it.  Besides Eve, there are two women in the workshop.  They are older, one in her 50s and one in her 70s.  They don't really know how to use their bodies.  But both their arms straighten.  I am immediately cast as the other.  Whatever.  I'm paying for this (45 Euro) and I am going to get something new out of it, goddammit!  If I just have a good attitude, BT will forget about my arm. Right?
We walk around the space.  She doesn't like the way I walk.  Thinks I am "clowning."
"No," I say.  "That's how I walk."  I have always been told that I have a distinctive walk.  I used to feel self-conscious about it, but I don't anymore.  I LIKE the way I walk!  People recognize me by it.  It is mine and mine alone, a hard gait to forget.  People have asked me if my walk is a result of my brain injury.  I don't know.  My accident happened when I was 2.  There was no me before it.  I am a result of my brain injury, every part of me: my walk, my arm, my mind, my sense of self, my ability to fight, my independence, me.  And I don't have to medically validate myself to anyone.  I am just me, and that is it.  And that is good enough.  I have lots to offer, lots to learn, lots to teach.  But Bartushka can't see any of this.  All she can see is that I am unique.
And she does not like it.
We do some exercises, nothing new really.  I maintain my positive attitude.  Then it comes time to show work.  I set up the cake. She has a different vision for the piece.  Fine, that's what workshops are about. You try other people's ideas.  If you like them, you keep them.  If you don't, you throw them out.  I am trying all the things she suggests.  She says, "Now stick your hand out the top."  I stick my right hand out the top.  She says, "Stick your other hand out first.  It is too much for the audience to see that hand first."  She is referring to my truncated thumb.
"No!" I say, maybe a bit too firmly.
There is a pause.  "Then show it off." She says after a beat.  And I do, I waggle my half-thumb around, I stroke it with my fingers, I make it the sexiest amputation in the world.

When the workshop is over, she encourages me to come to her open stage at Scheinbar, where she has booked me to perform a mini-slot of 3 minutes on Oktober 2nd.  She booked me after seeing my video.  But I guess when she say my video, she didn't realize that I am really "other," I don't just play it onstage.  She wants me to come to Open Stage to workshop the cake.  But you know, I don't feel like giving here anymore euros, anymore cake, or anymore me.  I would cancel the gig if I didn't need the 15 Euro she was payng me so badly.  She likes the song I sang in the workshop.  I'll do that.  BTdoesn't get anymore sweat from me.

Eve and I hang out a bit, and then she has a dinner party to go to with the guy who is hosting her.  Daniel has invited me to a circus show that evening at the Shake! tent (the circus near the Ostbanhof.)  I am not sure if I will go.  I feel weird and I realize it is because I am angry!  I haven't been angry in a while, but BT really hit a nerve.  If I wanted to be treated like that, I would have stayed in San Francisco.  Since I have gotten here, I have felt safe, unjudged.  I have felt at home at the CIRCUS, for crying out loud!  I have felt accepted, like I had something valuable to offer.  Now, I am just MAD!  But I decide to go see the circus and the Israeli boys. They always make me feel good.  I can be myself.  Daniel just accepts me and Sharon asks a lot of questions.  We are painfully honest with each other.  The things he has done in the Israeli army and the things that have happened to me, they make us both sort of aliens, and we connect through this and humor.  Also, the boys and I are all Jews.  I think the three of us feel a little bit revolutionary. At the Shake compound, I go to Daniel's trailer.  He is on Skype with his mom, introduces me as "Harvey. She is Jewish girl."
I find Sharon.  "What is wrong with you?" He asks me.  How does he know?  How are we so connected after such a short time.  I try to brush it off.  "You must let go of anger.  It doesn't help."  He squeezes me.
"Ja."  I say, but I'm still mad and he knows it.
"Stop being angry or tell me why?"  He says.  He doesn't mention the third option, which is me leaving, so I guess it's not an option.  I am not ready to talk about it, though.
"Sharon," I say, "I think that we have both experienced things that we don't think the other would understand."
He nods slowly, chewing on my words.  "I understand."  He steers me to the kitchen.  "I have to clean."  He sits me down at a table.
I want to help, need a task.  I tell him so.  He nods but then sits.  We start talking.  I tell him the bare minimum.  I had a difficult time in this workshop.  His eyes light up.  "That's good.  It means you learned something new."  Then, out of the blue, "You need to learn Hebrew."
"I'm working on German right now."  I dismiss his thought, though I think it's adorable that he wants me to learn his native language.  "I didn't learn anything new.  Let's clean."  I do the dishes angrily and he wipes the stove.  Daniel comes in, starts drying.
We go watch the show for a bit.  Or, they watch the show.  I try, but am too mad.  As I'm leaving, Sharon grabs my hand, but I leave anyway.  It is a bunch of young kids from a circus school.  They are all wickedly talented.  I sit outside, write in my journal.  The boys come out.  "You miss the whole show!"
"Sorry," I say. We go back to the kitchen.
"You need to eat." Sharon tells me, handing me a plate.  I pile it with pasta and sauce made out of yams.  I eat, then go back to the dishes.  "You are still angry," he gets me to follow him outside so he can smoke a cigarette.  "I hate watching all these young people do things that I will never be able to do.  At least you have an excuse."
"That offends me, I say.  And then I tell him.  I tell him about the workshop, about how the instructor could only see my thumb, my arm, my otherness.  I tell him about wishing I were like other people until one day I woke up and I was glad I was me and I just want the rest of the world to get over my differences, because I have.  I tell him about being a kid and being in special PE.  I tell him about trying to hide my scars and then cutting off me bangs.  I tell him everything I can.  He deserves it.  After all, he told me about killing a girl point blank, sitting in a tank for five days, waiting for any Palestinian to pass, about being brainwashed, about how he has flashbacks and his mind won't leave him alone.  How sometimes his reflex of violence terrifies him.  So I tell him.
And he puts his arm around me.  "The world,"  he stops.  "When I asked you about your thumb, it was scary.  People are not ready.  You are unique.  You are different.  You are a real clown!  Some people..." He trails off.
"I'm ready!  Fuck people!"  I say. "Let's finish the kitchen."  We play music from my kitty backpack.  I sing and dance around.
After half an hour, Sharon asks, "Are you still angry?"
"No!"  I smile, and then Daniel comes in.
"Good," Daniel says, "Then let's go to Nuekölln for a beer!"
Sharon won't come, wants to wake early and study German before a meeting he has with a possible juggling partner. We hug goodbye. I tossle his hair, he plays with my pigtail.
Daniel and I go off on our adventure and Daniel tells me all about this girl he is dating who is "not his girlfriend." (Yeah, right.) I introduce him to the American phrase TMI.  He likes it.

That was all Saturday and there's more to report, like actual Berlin stuff, not just Harvey stuff, but this seems like a good place to close right now.

TMI?

Circus, Disability, Cops in the Head

First, a cheers to small successes:

My sim-card was running low.  I slip on my sandals (it's sunny today) descend the five flights of stairs and walk down the street to the cell phone shop.

"Hallo, Ich will nach ober meine sime-karte."

The guy behind the counter asks, "Zwanzig?"

"Fünfzehn."  I reply.

He presses some buttons, hands me back my phone.  "Danke.  Tchuss."  And I walk out the of store.  No English!  First time.  It is a microscopic thing, this interaction, but something
something
is starting to happen.

I begin to relax.  No longer do I sit forward, alert, stressed on the U-Bahn, furtively listening for the announcement of my stop in what used to sound like a peanut butter-mouthed language.  I start to hear word separation, consider sentence structure.  Mind you, I still have no idea what anyone is talking about.
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I feel blessed to have fallen into the crowd of people that are surrounding me.  Last night I went to a circus-varieté/cabaret at Zirkus Zack.  I wasn't sure if anyone I knew would be there except Jana, who was the stage manager/director.  I was a bit nervous about finding the place, but it was very near the Ostkruez S-Bahn stop.  I walk into a compound that feels like burning man.  The ground is packed dirt.  There is a permanent bathroom but everything else seems fairly mobile.  Some trailers, one of which is a concessions stand.  At this point, I am quite used to not understanding most of what is being said around me.  I don't feel self-conscious about being alone.  In fact, I feel strangely safe.  But I do get a little bored sometimes.  I see a child about age 4, take out my balloons.  "Hallo!  Hund oder Katze?"  The child looks at her mother.  I say to her mom, "Ich speche kein Deutsch."
Mom smiles, says to kid, "Hund oder Katze?"
"Hund."  The child says, so I make her a balloon dog.
There is another child, "Hund, katze oder blumen?"
"Blumen." She gets a flower.
An area in the dirt is cleared and fire arts start, poi, staff, some crazy looking apparatus I don't know the name of that resembles a staff but has big flaming rings on the end.  I feel like I'm in Black Rock City except this is real life.  An announcement is made.  I don't understand what is said, but everyone lines up by the tent opening to go inside, so I follow. The old adage, "If everyone else jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?" comes to mind.   There is a certain amount of trust I must put into those around me these days, I suppose..
"Harvey," a familiar voice says my name, though it is not one of the Israelis.  I turn.  Tobias, with his wavy salt and pepper hair and prominent nose saunters over to me.  "Hallo!   Come, Vie are closer in zie line."  Tobias has this amazing accent, soft, gentle, precise.  He is from Southern Germany.  I wonder if they all sound like this down there.  I join him, his girlfriend Jule and their friend Robert.  They all speak English.  Tobias and I start to talk about heady stuff, performance theory and psychology, but he doesn't have the English for the more complicated terms, and I definitely don't have the German.
Inside, we sit together.  The Israelis show up and Sharon comes and sits next to me.  The show begins.  The premise, a hotel. Clowns, aerialists and acrobats tell a story line that is possibly a bit thin, but then again, I cannot understand what is being said onstage.  The talent is amazing.  There is breathtaking sole tissu act, some very talented jugglers, and a few incredible clowns.
There seems to be a different set of taboo here in Berlin than in California.  Even is San Francisco, I feel that references to sexuality and gender in the media  are somewhat marginalized and most definitely only for 18+.  On the other hand, violence is not only accepted but expected.  We Americans are addicted to guns, to war, to blood.  Here, it is rather opposite.  While this wasn't necessarily a family show, there were definitely people with kids there, and there was a lot of sexuality happening in the clown work on stage.
There was a cross-dressing man who played both male and female roles in a tryst under the sheets, complete with the sounds of creaking bedsprings and then acted as the woman who had to get out of bed to pee and wanted to get back into bed for another romp.  A female clown did something with cigarettes, stole cigarettes from someone in the audience, and then sort of freaked out and told the audience that we should all love each other RIGHT NOW!  There was a sort of slow build to all of this.  I believe the act was about desire.  Or something.  Whatever it was, it made my sides ache.
My favorite part, though, was two naked men in a bathtub.  I am told that this is a copy of a sketch by a famous German comedian who just died, (http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/aug/24/germany-comedy-loriot) I am not sure what they were talking about, however I believe some of it had to do with penis size and that the water was cold, and that the rubber duckie was an intruder and not allowed in the tub.  They both took turns standing up (multiple times) and revealing that they were indeed naked and one was possibly Jewish (if you don't get it, ask someone else), manhoods, wobbling around unashamedly.
This would never happen in America.  Not in a million years.  Berlin, Ich liebe dich.

But there was something that happened to me inside.  See, I have always had this rocky relationship with my body, not how it looks but the way it moves, the things it is capable of.  I'm a brain injury survivor, grew up with words like "special" and "disabled" pasted onto me.  These labels were meant to help me by helping others understand me. (At least, that's how I feel about it now.)  But because of these labels, I was allowed to think movement was a scary space, and also a space that I was excused from inhabiting.  In graduate school, I had to learn to dance.  It was terrifying.  I didn't want to do it.  I almost dropped out.  I almost got kicked out.  I would run out of the studio crying and lock myself in the bathroom like a child at the simplest request to cross the floor in a group improvisation.  I had nightmares and insomnia at the same time.  Cold sweats, dry mouth, the whole thing.  Phobia.  It. Was Not. Fun.
But then this thing happened, where I looked across the circle we were sitting in and realized that we were all fallible. Specifically, it was that someone else in the class (a person I thought was a very graceful mover) couldn't touch his toes, either. And I started to have fun.  And I started to love to move.  And I started to dance.  My second year of graduate school, I went to circus school, and it was a place I definitely did not belong.  It was the polar opposite of the loving support from that first year of my studies.  There was only one right way to do things, and I was not doing it.  I tried and tried and tried at juggling, acrobatics, rolla bolla.  And then my dad had a stroke and all my strength, effort and will power went elsewhere.  The circus became a door that was closed to me.  There was no love for me there, no ensemble, only judgement and alienation.  So I've had a pretty bad attitude toward the circus for about 5 years.
But I come here, to Germany, to Berlin, where all of a sudden, the type of person I am is no longer oppressed.  Jewish, queer, an artist, I may not be rolling in the dough, but I feel so safe here.  Safer than I feel in San Francisco, anyway.  The first place I perform here is a circus tent.   The first person I meet (beside Tobias) is an aerialist.  I don't say anything about my head injury. No one asks me about my scars, the way I move.  I am a clown.  I make the audience laugh.  That is good enough for them.
Watching this show last night, though, all these things bubble up inside me.  Things I thought I left in Amerika but things I can't leave in Amerika because they are inside me. They will come with me wherever I go.  I am not going to do even the simplest acrobatics.  I am not going to juggle.  My left arm will never straighten.  I will never in all my days be able to bear weight on it or effectively straighten it without having minor surgery and physical therapy (and I just don't have the insurance for that, thanks USA.)  But none of these people know that, none of them are asking and none of them care.  I don't need to validate any part of myself to anyone.  I am a clown who has come from Amerika.  That is all and that is enough.
In this city, I will never need a driver's license because the transit is so amazing and the streets are safe.  I can be an artist and no one questions my contribution to society.  I am not angry here.  I feel like I have a place.
The learning curve for this language is slow, but I can handle it.  I wonder if it is time to put my old baggage to rest, to dump it somewhere, to emerge, to transform.  I am beginning to have real, true conversations with people and this seems like a difficult thing to translate from die Englisch sprache.  Though it is true, no matter how far we run, our pasts will be with us, no matter how long we wait, until the oceans run dry, this stuff will be there.

To Be Jewish in Berlin

circus studio

At 6 o'clock I have rehearsal with the cake puppet.  I meet Daniel at the Circus at Ostbanhof.  (There are two red and yellow striped circus tents, at least one rehearsal studio, a large kitchen with seating for 50, bathrooms, and a costume shop that also has rooms where people sleep.  Also several caravans.  Unfortunately, there is no heat in the caravans.  I guess they not for winter residency.)
I put the dowels in the puppet, make it stand, stretch a bit and Daniel comes in with his friend Ola, who is from Poland.  We run it a few times.  He has some good suggestions.  Then Sharon, the Israeli clown from Sunday night comes in.  Now we get down to the nitty-gritty!  He's got all sorts of things to say.  I learn from his comments and direction that he really knows his shit.  He begs me to study buffoon. (He is not the first one.)  We work for a total of two hours, after which my body as tired, but not as tired as I would expect. It seems I am getting stronger!  I lost 5 pounds of my body weight somewhere and have know idea where it went.  But one thing is certain, and that is that I am in shape! Daniel and Ola go to the kitchen.  I run the piece for Sharon a few more times.  It is interesting to hear his suggestions and impressions.  He does not understand things like the play on gender and the feminist aspects of my piece, but he does understand comedy and puppetry.  I take in what he has to say.  A lot of it, I will use, some I will not.  I am glad for the fresh perspective.
As I disassemble my puppet, he asks me if I want to eat.  Of course, he asks me in Hebrew, so I have to say, "What?"  He acts surprised that I don't speak Hebrew, but I think he is playing with me.
"But you are Jewish!"  I explain that my family is non-practicing, but we have the blood and the past of pogroms, anti-semitism, etc.  So he asks in English, "You want to eat?"
"Ja!" 
We go to the kitchen, were Daniel and Ola are talking.  Sharon takes stock of what is in the refrigerator.  I ask who would like bier.  Ola says yes, Daniel says no.  We all start talking again.  Sharon takes me gently by the shoulders and steers me out of the room.  "To the store!  Now or we will never get there."  We stop by his room first and Zigi, his little dog (part pug, chihuahua, and pit?) growls at me, tries to attack.  I am a stranger in Zigi's space.  Sharon kneels down.  "Zigi  Zigi!"  He stands, puts his arm around me, shows Ziggy we are friends.  Ziggy runs away, comes back, sniffs me, barks but does not bare his teeth.  Slow progress.  Sharon and walk to the Ostbanhof, a major train station and bus stop.  Also in the Ostbanhof are two supermarkets, an Apotheke (like a pharmacy,) a Schlecker (like Walgreens but without medicine) and a host of restaurants. We go to one of the groceries and Sharon buys eggs, onions, tomato and garlic.  I buy five large bottles of bier. The bier comes to around 6 euro.  I must be careful with money, it is true, but I also feel that if I am a little generous now, karmically it will come back to me.  This proves to be true again and again.  So I will keep on believing it.
On our walk back to the circus, Sharon and I start talking about our lives.  He is 29, has been in the Israeli army and in combat.  We talk about how the dark sides of ourselves relate to clown.  I ask him about the Isreali-Palestinian conflict, how he feels about it now.  "I was so stupid."  He says.  "I let myself be brainwashed and did horrible things.  I have taken life.  Now, I meet Palestinians, they are my friends.  How could I have believed the lie?"

Die Juden

Back in the kitchen, Ola asks about being Jewish in Germany.  Sharon says, "Berlin is not really Germany.  It is Berlin."  I talk about how, in 2007 when I first came to Berlin, I was afraid.
"You are Jewish?" Daniel is surprised and delighted.  His eyes twinkle at me.
Sharon has just gotten his German passport.  His great-grandfather was a German citizen and died in a concentration camp.  His grandfather to Israel after the war.  Evidently, his Grandpa was able to pull some beaureaucratic strings and make Sharon a German citizen. We get into this conversation about what it means to be Jewish, if it is a religion or a culture. 
"I like parts of the Torah,"  Sharon says.  "Jews are intellectual.  We ask too many questions.  That is why we got kicked out of heaven."
Is this actually part of the Torah?  I was never religious.  I don't know.

Daniel and Ola are talking about practical things, aerial dance, where to busk.  Sharon is cooking dinner and he and I are talking about the holocaust, Isreal, what the hell we are doing here, being an artist in this world, where does clown come from, but with a certain levity.  "One egg or two,"  he asks me. 
"One," I answer.
"But they are small, and you have been working hard.  Two?"
"Ok, two."  I pause.  "This is what makes us Jewish.  The way we share food.  Come on, have some more!"  I chide him. 
"You may be right!"  He says.  "Would you ever lie about being a Jew?"
"No."  I don't even have to think about it.
"Someone wants to kill you."
"Then I will die." I am surprised at how fast the answer comes out of me, how I don't have to think about it.
We open a bier, I take out my camera ask Ola if she will photograph the three Jews.  We stand clumped together.  "Everyone say holocaust!" Daniel says.  The flash goes off.

Sharon and I eat this marvelous concoction he has made of tomato, onion, bell pepper, garlic, and egg, mop up the sauce with bread.  I play music from my ipod on the speakers in my kitty backpack (best purchase EVER!)  Daniel and Ola have a Michael Jackson dance party.  Eventually it is midnight.  Daniel and Ola go off to his caravan, leaving Sharon and I.  We finish the beer, he gets Zigi, who is so glad to finally be outside that he forgets I might be a threat, jumps on the bench where I sit and licks my face.  We sit outside in the surprisingly warm night air, talk for an hour.  I am not sure if the trains are still running, but I need to get home.  Ziggy and Sharon walk me to my platform and wait with me until my train comes.  I think we are both surprised at our connection to each other, which seems purely yet deeply intellectual.  We both wonder why we must muck around the dark spaces in ourselves, why we cannot just leave our pasts somewhere else.  Our journeys our separate, but perhaps similar.  The train comes,  We hug.  "Tchuss!"
I ride one stop to Jannowitzebrücke station and attempt to transfer.  It is 1:15 am on a weekday and the platform is closed.  Fuck!  What the hell do I do?  I go out into the night.  There is a bicyclist.  "Spreichen zie Englicsh?"
"Ja."
I ask him if he knows how to get to Boddinstrasse, my stop in Nuekollon.  He does not know of a bus.  "It is not so far.  a 30 minute walk." 
"Danke," I sigh.  He pedals off.  I would like to walk, but I am unsure of the route and don't want to attempt it for the first time at 2 am with the cake puppet under my arm.  I check my wallet and hail a cab.  It will be 10 Euro but I don't see another option.  My cab driver is Turkish, speaks English, takes me where I need to go. 
I have a gig tonight at the KingKongKlub and will get part of the money from the door.  I hope a lot of people come.  I think I will start to learn walking routes.  I feel much less self-conscious about walking here at night than I do in the States.  There are no guns and there is a different relationship to alcohol in Berlin.  No one is going to mess with me.  If I had known about the U-Bahn closing, I would have researched the all night busses, but without a smart phone and not speaking the language, I did not see a way to figure out a route.  If I had asked Sharon to walk me all the way home, he likely would have said yes.  Oh, well, Maybe next time.

Dance!

Berlin, I love you! Will you marry me?

Where to start?  On Wednesday when I landed in Berlin I knew two people.  One I had only corresponded with over email.  The other I had not seen in four years.  It is now the 19th of September.  I have been here five days and belong to an international community of artists.  I am in love with EVERYONE!  My head swims with possibility.  My heart opens with gratitude.

Kruezberg across the Spree River

But I guess I should start at the beginning, Saturday, when I stopped fretting in my giant room on Hermannstrasse and got on the underground to go to my first gig, ZirCouplet at the Shake! tent at Ostbanhof.  My tech was at 4:20, I was supposed to be there at 4.  It looked like it would take about half an hour to get to the station and then 5 minutes of walking.  I left the apartment at 3 pm, just to be on the safe side.  A transfer point at Jannowitzebrücke station to the S-bahn (there are two inner-city rail systems in Berlin, the S-Bahn and the U-Bahn) caught me up.  For some reason, my train wasn't coming, had been cancelled.  Of course, I could find no information in English.  At 3:40, I started to panic.  My first gig in Berlin and I was going to be late?  Not going to happen.  I ran downstairs to try to find the 248 Bus stop, but could not figure out which direction I had to take it.  I hailed a cab.  The driver spoke no English but understood Ostbanhof, which is a major train station.  Giving the driver 6 Euro, I hit the ground running toward the only red and yellow-striped tent in sight, which, to my relief, was the Shake! tent.  I got there at 3:55.  A tall, thin man with glasses, a green t-shirt that said Zirkus Zack, and wavy salt-and-pepper hair stood outside.  He waved at me.
"Tobias?"
"Ja, Harvey.  I recognize you from zie photo."  His smile is warm.  I feel immediately at ease.  Every stereotype I have ever heard or felt about Germans is, at this point, bogus.  Berliners are a diverse and relaxed bunch. 
"The S-Bahn wasn't running.  I hope I'm not late."
"Oh, relax.  You are fine." he says, showing me inside the tent.  An aerialist, whose name I will learn is Daniel (pronounced Daniél) is doing his tech on the stage.  We will become instant friends.  But more about him in a moment.
The seating is 3/4 round bleachers, the floor wooden.  Tobias, (pronounced Tobías) escorts me to one of the dressing rooms.  "You can put your things here and we vill be ready for you in about 20 minutes, is okay." 
"Ja," I smile and nod, already high off the energy of the place.  "I just need to put my puppet together.  I am sorry for not speaking German."
"We are very international cast.  You are not the only one.  English is no problem."
He leaves me to put my cake puppet together and soon it is my turn to tech.  There are two stage hands to help me but I have nothing for them to do!  Clowns, we do it all ourselves!  At least, that's how I think of it. 
After my tech, I learn that there will be a dvd made of the nights performance.  Wow!
I go to change, do makeup, and stretch.  Daniel introduces himself.  He is from Israel, flamboyant and flirtatious.  We clique immediately.  Others begin to arrive.  A german dance/gymnastics troupe, a sideshow freak named Roc It, an eccentric performer who sings and plays the musical saw from Spain. This is varieté!  I feel like Sally Bowles but more DIY.  There is German being spoken all around me and I am impressed with myself that I can pick up one word every third or fourth sentence.  This is a new phenomenon.  I am getting over my cultureshock and beginning to relate.
At 7:30, we all meet in a circle onstage.  Jana (pronounced Yanna) translates to English for the 3 of us (Daniel, Mara and myself) who don't speak German.  Tobias gives directions, explains how the evening will go, thanks us all for being here, and than has us do a group warm up.  Some things are the same no matter where you are from.  We all make noise, wiggle around and then run to the middle of the circle, put our hands in and go, "Wooooo!" in an ascending scale.  Performance is a universal language.  I am home.

The cakedance, my first act, is new, not as polished as the second.  It doesn't suck, but, well, it's still a baby.  It goes okay.  The second piece I have been working on for 9 months.  I could do it in my sleep.  It is a piece of gold.  The audience eats it up.  They will not stop laughing!  Unfortunately, my light cue at the end comes too quickly, before I finish.  I think I had a language barrier with Markus, the lighting technician.  No big deal.  We will fix it tomorrow.
At the end of the show is a finale.  We are called out to the stage individually and then take a group bow.  Upon exiting, the audience is still going crazy.  Something is said in German and lots of people run back on stage.  Daniel, Mara and I don't know what is happening.  Jana yells, "Now, now!  Everyone onstage!"  Daniel goes, Mara looks confused.  I grab her hand.  "Ahora, ahora!"  We run back onstage.
As I am changing back into my street clothes, Tobias knocks.  "Ja!  Come in!"
"People to see you!" He is all smiles.  I believe I have impressed!  In walk Julika and Neo.  I can't believe they have come.  I am elated.  I take off my makeup, use my drink ticket, have a Beck's.  We stand and talk outside.  Julika and Jana are old friends.  I get the feeling it is a small and close world of artists here.
Around 11:30 pm, we all part ways.  "Tomorrow!  Tchuss!" I wave and I literally skip to the train station.
--------------------------

Something is going on.  Polizei (police) are swarming the station.  I push terror down inside of me.  Berlin seems such a tolerant place, but programming is hard to overcome.  I see police or large groups of German people singing in the street or at the station and well- I don't even want to say where my mind goes.  I am a Jew.  Let's leave it at that.  I am not proud to have these thoughts.  They are something that I must overcome.  But the thoughts are there and I might as well be honest about them. 
It is illegal in Germany to have anything to do with Hitler, to say his name silences a room.  I have heard that in other parts of Germany, Stüttgart, Kastle, folks will flat out apologize and buy you a meal if you tell them you are Jewish, such is the shame of their past here.
I get to my platform and it is empty.  I am on the wrong side, but on the platform across from me, lots of cops are surrounding a group of men. The men are singing, shaking their fists in the air.  A knot of distress ties itself in my stomach.  What to do?  I get myself on the correct platform as far away form the men's song and the polizei as possible.  What is going on?  My train comes quickly and I transfer to the underground at the next station.  There is no trouble here.  Relief washes over me and the high of the show comes back.  On the underground platform, I spot my first butch-femme lesbian couple.  They are young, cute.  I approach them.  "Spriechen zie Englisch?"
"Ja," the femme, who looks of Persian descent, nods.
"I perform at the KingKongKlub in Mitte on Wednesday.  I am clown and do queer and gender performance."  I give them my card.  They smile.
"Cool!" The femme says.  "We have not been there yet.  We will try to come!"
My train comes. "Tchuss!" I wave goodbye.
Upon my arrival home, I see that someone from the ZirCouplet staff has not only friended me but also suggested that I contact a person name Viehölala for future gigs.  I message Viehölala right away.

On Sunday I wake too early.  It is raining in Berlin.  I bum around the apartment, take a long shower, try to go to the grocery store and I discover that everything in my neighborhood except the Vietnamese restaurant is closed on Sunday.  I have chicken curry and rice for 3,50 Euro, do the dishes in the kitchen, drink more kaffee, and decide to hop the train to Ostbanhof at 4 pm.  Call isn't until 7.  I am meeting Jana at 6 so she can help me fix my light cue by translating for me.  I want to check out the area around the Ostbanhof station.  Rain or not, part of the wall and what looks like a beautiful park is there. 
Leaving the station, I cross the street and head into the park, which is actually a small river bank along the Spree.  I discover a place called Yaam.  Entering the gate, I am in agiant green field with fruit trees and a little shelter, outside of which sits a man with skin the color of pitch.  Am I supposed to be here?  He motions for me to come.  I do. 
"Hallo!"  I say, smiling.
"How are you?" he says.  By his accent, I know he is from somewhere in Africa.
"English!"  I exclaim.  "I am good!  What is this place?"
"This is Yaam!  We are international.  It is a place people meet, hang out, through there," he points to another gate, "there are stands.  You can buy food and drink."
He tells me that he is from Gambia and I say I am from California.  I invite him to ZirCouplet and promise to come back another time, but now I must wander by the river.

I walk along the Spree, see Kruezberg on the other side.  It is hard to know if I am in East or West Berlin, the wall is such a wiggly line.  For me it does not matter, but for some people every time you pass from one side to the other without conflict, you exhale with relief.  Soon it is 5:15.  I am ansty, want to get to the tent.  I go and it is open.  Daniel, who is staying for the moment in a small trailer on the circus grounds, greets me warmly.  He is with his friend Sharon (Sharón) who is also Israeli, a juggler and clown and will be the last act of the night.  Sharon saw my act last night and says, "I don't know what I am doing yet.  Will you watch?"  Of course!
We go into a small studio space.  Stilts and other circus apparatus hang on the wall.  The place smells like a gym.  Again, I have the feeling of home.  Sharon shows me some stuff he is working on.
"Your technique is good."  I tell him, "But I can see you thinking.  You are not really looking at me.  I need to know that you see me.  That you are vulnerable.  You need to breathe onstage."  We try again.  It is better, but there is something missing.  I approach him.  "Everything you do and feel, I need to see happen here."  I touch his spine.  And again, but there is still too much thought and I have 15 minutes before I meet Jana in the tent. 
"Okay, we need to play a short game."  He protests.  I can tell he is nervous, too in his head.  "It won't take long."  We chase each other, make eye contact, shock each other with imaginary lightning bolts that shoot across the room from our fingertips.  After 5 minutes, we are both out of breath.  "Again!"
And he nails his piece, makes me laugh. 

At 6:30, Tobias comes to the dressing room.  "You need anything?" 
"Nope.  Everything is great."  I am beaming.
The Cakedance went better last night.  I got a little feedback form Sharon and tried it.  The second piece was okay.  The audience was more aghast, less open, but they definitely laughed.  After the show I am changing and taking my makeup off.  Tobias comes in.  "Someone to see you!"  He says.  "They are in the tent."
"Really?" I am surprised.  I button my pants and go out to see who could be there.  A tall man with dark hair and glasses introduces himself as Viehölala.  I cannot believe it.  His facebook picture is a fabulous dragqueen.  We talk extensively.  He want to find me work, offers two gigs but they are for nights Eve and I are already booked.  He says he has some more information and will email me.  We talk about the Cakedance.  He has some wonderful ideas.  He asks about the puppet and I bring him back to the dressing room to show him the construction.  We hang out a bit, then he is off and then I get PAID!  40 Euro! 
The Israelis and I hang out.  Sharon has to go and Daniel invites me to his caravan (synonomous with trailer.)  We hang out and talk.  Apparently, if I sign up for German language school, I can get a Visa for up to one year.  That information is a little overwhelming, but is definitely something to think about.  Funny, the immediate reason I think I shouldn't do it is I miss my mom.  Daniel says he has rehearsal space during the day and will workshop the cakedance with me on Tuesday.  Great! 

I leave at midnight and there is no trouble at the station.  I come home walking on air.  Today (Monday) I wake at 11 am, make kaffe and eggs, write this.  Now it's time to shower, dress and go to Kaiser's (Safeway-esque supermarket.)

TV Tower

My Life in the Circus has Begun!

It's midnight.  I got home half an hour ago from my first gig in Berlin, Zir Couplet Varieté at imShake! tent at Ostbanhof.  I just have to blurt it out: I SLAUGHTERED this audience!  They would not stop laughing!  It was hard to go on to the next part of the act because they just wouldn't stop!  It was my first time performing this work in a venue that wasn't "queer" or alternative in some way, and you know, it was better!  They where not expecting me to go there, so when I did, it was all the more outrageous!  And I learned so much about what I was doing from this audience.  My character, this poor, sweet, confused clown who just wants to be loved, she is a child!  She has no idea that what she is doing might be inappropriate.  There is nothing sexual or erotic going on for her, just what feels good and what does not.  There's nothing in my 8 minute solo piece (see www.harveyrabbit.net if you don't know what I'm talking about and want to)  that is inappropriate for children.  And I really feel that way after performing for a mainstream audience this evening.

I'm getting the DVD of this performance in the coming month and will post it for you to witness.

The cakedance, well, the puppet is a constant work in progress and in need of seemingly constant repair.  I've only been working with it for a couple of weeks, so there is still a lot of discovery that can happen with that.  It didn't bomb, but it was "interesting," as in the audience watching but not laughing so much.  The best part is that I get to do it again tomorrow!

I really want to write about all the amazing people I met and tell describe for you the incredibleness of the environment, but I am just dead beat, so here are a few half-assed pictures.  This tired-assed clown is going to bed.  (well, i'm finishing my delicious german bier first.)

Stranger in a Strange Land

Prenzlauerberg

A lot happens in two days when you're in a new place.  I still haven't taken pictures around Neukollon (my neighborhood) yet.  This place makes me a bit shy and nervous.  It's fairly working class and there is not a whole lot of English.  Everyone should give themselves this experience of not knowing the language where they live.  There is a certain sort of being vulnerable in the universe that I feel people who are American might not experience if they never leave.  English is a universal language.  Most people in the 1st and 2nd world have at least heard English before.  There are several people in my country who equate not speaking English with a lack of intelligence.  There is a fear and hatred of immigrants and refugees.  "Why can't they just learn English?"  I feel a great empathy for people who have the chutzpah to cross into the US, legally or illegally, without being fluent in English.
Yesterday was a horrible day.  I tried to buy a monatskarte (a monthly pass for public transit) from the Turkish guy at the newspaper stand and my pronunciation was so bad that I had to show him what I had written down in order for him to understand me.  It cost 74 Euro, which sounds like a lot, but it is much cheaper than paying the fare every time you want to go anywhere.  I left the store ashamed, holding back tears as I walked down Hermanstrasse to the electronics store so I could buy some blank cds.  Seems I forgot to pack a sound cue CD for my first gig (which is tomorrow night.)  On the way I passed a cemetery and I thought to myself, "I could go sit in the cemetery and cry.  No one would bother me because people are allowed and expected to cry in cemeteries.  I wouldn't have to tell anyone I don't speak German or that I only speak English.  I could stop feeling like a disgusting American or an imbecile."  I couldn't find the entrance, though, so I sucked it up and kept walking.  At Conrad, the electronic store, I approach an employee.  "Ich spreche kein Deutsch.  Sprechen zie Englisch?"
"Oh, ja," he says. "You can speak English here.  Is no problem."  And I want to kiss his feet. 
He tells me where the CD's are.  I check out without having to say anything except, "Danke," and then decide to wander.  There is a small outdoor market selling handbags, produce and kaffee on Karl-Marxstrasse.  I wander around but don't need anything so I start heading back up my street.  I look down a side street and see trees.  I decide to walk towards them.  A park!  Volkspark is huge and I will explore it again with a camera someday when I am feeling a bit more secure about being here.  There are Nigerian and Arab drug dealers around, but they leave you alone if you don't make eye contact.  I sit on a bench, plug my ipod into the speakers on my kitty backpack, and read my book while listening to David Bowie.  Some dude in a hoodie comes and sits down on the end of the bench.  I scoot over.  It doesn't matter.  He totally ignores me, rolls a spliff and walks away.  After a while it is too cold to stay out.  I didn't bring anything long-sleeved because my dino hoodie was still wet from the wash. 
Back in front of my building, I see there is a 1 Euro shop (like a dollar store) across the street.  I buy some crap and come home.  B-- s getting ready to leave for the weekend.  I am excited to be alone in the apartment, which is beautiful.  My room is enormous by San Francisco standards.  The toilet is separate from the bathing room and the walls are papered with envelopes.  The door is all stamps.  European toilets are weird.  There is a small platform with no standing water where you eliminate, and then a little hole with water below it that leads down into the plumbing.  After you go, you flush and all this water sprays across the little platform, forcing everything down the little hole.  You need to scrub the toilet every time you go number two.  TMI?  Just sharing my experience folks.  We're all human, right?
The bathroom is huge and tiled in shiny red.  The walls have a collage of different roses all over and the ceiling is silver.  There are a separate tub and shower.  I took a bath tonight. Yessss!


So today I decided that having a good day was imperative.  I fight my shy streak and call Julika, a sculptor and jewelery maker I met at my artist residency in the Czech Republic four years ago.  I tell her I am in Berlin for two months and would like to see her.  She invites me to dinner at her flat in Pankow with her 11 year old son, Neo and her boyfriend Norbert.  That's at 7:30, but at 3 pm I want to wander, so I go to the one place in Berlin that I know: Prenzlaurberg.  Everyone complains that it is so gentrified and all this, but I love it.  This area always makes me feel great!  So after rehearsing alone in my room with the video camera for a few hours, eating soft-boiled eggs and toast for breakfast, getting a German simcard for my phone, I am off on the U-8, which is right outside my front door.  I get off the train at Alexanderplatz to transfer to the U-2.  A Berlin train station is not like a BART stop.  It is a metropolitan area underground.  There are hosiery shops and cafés, places to get your watch fixed and kiosks where you may buy beer, wine and liquor.  On the actual train platform, you can buy alcohol, magazines and newspaper.  And there is no brown paper bag of shame you must wrap around your elixir.  You can just open it and drink it on the train, in the street, anywhere.  No social stigma.  They also sell cans of Jim Beam whiskey that you can drink straight.  Like Budwieser. 
I disembark the train at Eberswalderstrasse and I know where I am!  I wander down Kastanianalee, a street with many shops, galleries, artspaces and old squats, buy a kaffee at the MorningGlory café and sit outside at in an orange plastic chair next to one of the retro-60s tables, then by a tourist map and some postcards.  (If y'all want a postcard, send me your address and I'll do my best to mail you one.)  I finally feel like a normal human being!  Also, I find the language school is still there.  I go in.  "Sprechen zie Englisch?"  (I can say this extremely well! And it's a language school.  Of course the man behind the front desk speaks English.)  I inquire about programs.  There is a one-week class for 4 hours in the morning (20 hours total) for 180 Euro ($248) which includes books and all administrative fees.  At this point, I don't know if I can afford it, but then again, we'll see how the next few weeks go.  My pronunciation is TERRIBLE, my vocabulary minscule, and I want to be able to talk to folks.  I am also considering finding a tutor, a student who needs some extra money, that I could work with, because really, I just need conversational.  Of course, I am a bit of a nerd and really like school, so we'll see what happens.  I think I just need to be a bit patient with myself.  After all, I've only been here 3 days.
I take the train to Pankow around 7:15.  It is only two stops on the U-2.  Amazingly, I don't get lost finding Julika's address, Hydenstrasse 7.  When I arrive, She and Neo are fixing a window downstairs.  There is art dust, pieces of sculpture and grout everywhere.  I immediately feel at home.  Neo is taking English at school, though his favorite subject is biology.  Norbert comes home with bier.  He speaks no English but is very nice.  We try to communicate with each other and can both see the humor in the situation.  What a relief! 
Upstairs, Julika's flat is an art storm, the exact opposite of where I am living.  Mildly cluttered, there are knick-knacks and pieces of metal and clay on every shelf.  The only plumbing in the place so far is in the raised clawfoot bathtub, next to the toilet in her studio, which is next to the kitchen.  The pad is downright funky!  I feel the intense pressure of trying to fit in lift from my body.  I am smiling helium.  Neo has two pet rats that are allowed the run of the house.  They are adorable, sweet.  I miss animals immensely, and it means a lot to me that he let's me hold the albino one for as long as I like.  We all contribute to the meal.  I have found a bottle of California wine.  I chose it partially because it was from my home, but also because it was only 2,50 Euro.  I make a salad of tomato, cucumber, apple, artichoke heart, onion and caper.  We have also potatoes, zucchini, and smoked flounder.  Julika sings with a choir and invites me to practice on Monday.  I will go!  It is nice to have a friend.  Also, for the first time since I began my travels, my stomach is sated to the point where I cannot eat another bite, though they all keep trying to feed me. 
At 10:30, I depart, wanting to get lots of rest before my first gig.  I am already shaking in my shows.  The 8-minute piece, I know in my bones, but the cake piece is so new and is hard to practice on my own with no one to press play.  That, and I'm having some structural issues with the puppet.  I think I got them worked out, though.  In a panic I sent Tobias, my contact at ZirCouplet, an email saying I wasn't sure about the 3 minute act (the cakedance) and he said we could just decide at tech, which is at 4 pm.  Though I started writing this email last night when I got home, I am now finishing it on Saturday, the 17th at 11:30 am.  It's time to put a tail shake in it, shower, and ready myself for this evening.  I am so nervous I can't tell whether I am frozen or flying.  I hope they laugh!  But one thing is for sure: I'm going to get paid.

Berlin! Sprechen zie Englisch?

Still at Luton.
At 3 am I discover that my carry-on is too large.  It doesn't matter that it separates into two pieces.  You're only allowed 1 piece of hand luggage, be it handbag, laptop, carry-on bag, whatever.  I spend the next hour sitting by the little "your bag must fit here" EasyJet carry-on display looking like a crazy woman unpacking and repacking my bags, trying to make it fit.  The problem is the goddamn cake puppet and my clown shoes.  They must by in my carry-on.  I have a gig on the 17th. What if something happens to my checked luggage?  I'd sooner lose all my clothing and toiletries than my clown show.  I can replace the other things or just be sad they are gone, but I need my working materials.  I finally take off the little day pack that attaches to my rolling luggage and shove it in my big army backpack which, when i originally packed it, was underweight, but now I'm worried. 
At 4 am i check in at the ticket counter, and my pack IS overweight by 2 Kilos, but the ticket counter guy is nice to me and says, just be careful on the way back or you'll get charged, and I think, "On the way BACK!  I am NEVER taking EasyJet again."  I probably will, though, 'cause I be po"!  I go through security and it is bizarre.  There's this conveyor belt that's shaped like a big, curvy snake.  They make me take off my belt but not my shoes, and I think, "Great, I just go wait at the gate now."  But nope, not yet.  One has to go sit in these hard, plastic chairs in the middle of what resembles a huge shopping mall.  My flight doesn't board for an hour, so I just sit there, totally zonked, not knowing whether I need coffee or sleep, and read the flashing signs.  "Relax and Shop!" they command.  I don't know about you, but I don't think those two words belong in the same sentence.  If I'm going to relax, I'm going to do it at the beach, the park, in the woods, maybe at a movie.  Definitely not while shopping.
I start talking to this old (and I do mean old) British lady.  She asks me if I'm on holiday and I tell her about my clown show.  "I've never met a clown before!"  Her eyes light up.  She and her husband are going to Ibiza for their 60th wedding anniversary.  I congratulate her.  Her husband returns to the empty seat next to her.  She turns to him excitedly and says, "She's a clown!" 
"Really?"  He leans forward and grins at me. 
We start talking about England and America, but then I look at the kiosk and my flight says, "Final boarding call."  What?  It's only 5:40!  They didn't even tell us what gate it was going to board at until 5 minutes ago.  I politely excuse myself and run to gate 19.  Fuck you, Easyjet.  I hate you and I hope I can find a better way to get back to London.
The flight is 90 minutes long and I manage to sleep for about 45.  We land at Berlin Schoenfeld Flughafen at 8:30 am and getting through customs is fast, thought the agent spends a little too long looking at my passport.  This happened last time I entered Germany back in 2007 on a train from Prague.  It made me uncomfortable then and it makes my uncomfortable now, though not as much this time because there is an orthodox Jew standing in back of me who is speaking German and looking quite comfortable.  Finally I'm out, transfer things around so I again have shoulder satchel, rolling carry-on and beastpack.  Time for currency exchange.  Changing my British pounds is exciting.  Changing USD a bit, well... we all know what's going on with the dollar.

The directions my new roommate gave me are clear, but I don't know how much fare is and I don't speak ANY German.  Someone helps me figure it out.  I get on the 171 toward U-Rudow, descend into the underground, stumble through buying a ticket from a woman who doesn't speak English and get on the U-7 toward Rathaus Spandau, transfer to the U-8 at Hermannplatz and ride one stop to Boddinstrasse.  Ascending into daylight, I look to my left and there, just as the roommate said there would be, is her building on Hermanstrasse, nestled in between a bakery and a Chinese restaurant.  I ring the bell and she buzzes me in.  It's a walk up and she's on the fourth floor.
You know the kind of ache in your joints that comes from dehydration and lack of sleep.  If you've ever been a heavy drinker, you know what I'm talking about, but if not, guess what?  No alcohol necessary!  Still, I'm almost home.  There's a bed at the top of the stairs.  I can do this.  She meets me on the second floor landing and takes the red, rolling carry-on bag.  B-- is only a slight bit taller than I, shaved head, androgenous features.  When we started communicating, I thought she was trans and she thought I was a man.  Neither of us really cared.
B-- is a native to Berlin but speaks English like an American, although every once in a while, her consonants come out a bit sharp.  She shows me around and I really want to talk to her, but I feel like I am underwater.  That, and I am coated with the sticky film of sleepless travel sweat, my feet strangling in the swamp of my striped socks.  Every once in awhile I get a whiff off myself and it is that mannish smell of cut grass with just a hint of taqueria.  I shower and then nap until 16:00.  By this time, Bridge, who did not sleep well the night before, is napping.  I dress and go out with my list of things to I need to buy.  There is a Woolworth's next to the apartment, so I stop here first for hair conditioner, sunblock, shower gel, hand creme and laundry detergent.  Simple, right?  But of course everything is in German.  Things like sunblock are easy to find because the plastic tubes are illustrated by pictures of the sun and they have numbers on them indicating their strength.  Sonnenmilch!  Suntan lotion.  I can read it, but I can't say it.  Yet.  I feel what is a ridiculous sense of accomplishment.  I am also able to find shower gel, hand creme and hair conditioner without a hitch.  They are all spelled the same or similarly to English, although the pronunciation is very different.  Laundry detergent poses more of an issue.  I am able to find powder, but I want liquid.  There are some bottles, but they seem to be stain remover and bleach.  One is definitely for black clothes only.  I'd be up for experimenting, but I didn't bring much with me, and a mistake, especially with my costume, could prove disastrous.  I find someone who works at the store.  "Sprechen sie Englisch?"  They go and get someone else, a pretty girl with a dark, complexion, long black hair and a lazy eye.  I am pointed at and labeled, "Englisch."  My cheeks flush.  The sense of shame I feel is almost overwhelming.  I am so scared of being an ugly American, some Anglo-centric idiot who grew up speaking only one language.  I try to explain that I am looking for liquid laundry soap, but we have a communication breakdown.  I say "Danke," and leave. 
I decide to keep walking, see what I find.  There is an outdoor mall that looks promising.  I float in, hoping that I don't have to talk to anyone.  I walk into a small drugstore (side note: the drugstores here don't actually sell western medicine, just make-up, detergents, soaps, things like that.  For stuff like ibuprofen you have to go to a pharmacy, where you can buy it over the counter, just like in the US.)  I come upon a large, plastic bottle with the word Sensitive on it.  Below it says, "Color- & Feinwaschmittel" and has pictures of colored clothing on it. YES!  I walk proudly to the counter to buy it, only to have my pride evaporate when the cashier tells me the price in German.  I understand "Zwei" (two) and then there's some change in there somewhere, so I give her 4 Euro.  Ah, accomplishment. 
Stuff is much easier at the grocery because I recognize the kind of  food I want to buy and I know how to say and read "Kaffee"  (coffee) which is the most important and necessary item on my list.  On my way back to B--'s place.  (I guess it's my place, too, for 2 months, as I'm paying 350 Euro a month.) I treat myself to a currywurst, a guilty pleasure unique to Berlin.  It's a cut-up sausage doused with curry powder and ketchup and is mm-mmm good.  My hunger sated, I go back to the fourth floor walk-up and spend 15 minutes trying to unlock the door to the flat while not having a total conniption.  Eventually, I get the goddamn door open, make some kaffee and unpack. And I've got a gig at ZirCouplet (http://www.zircouplet-variete-berlin.de/) on the 17th and 18th. 
Yep,  it's happening!

London Luton: A special kind of Hell

It's one am.  Truthfully, I should have not taken a bus to this hellhole of an airport until 3, but I just wanted the ride here to be easy on the underground, not have to change city buses three times in order to get on the shuttle bus to finally take me to the airport.  So I've got 3 hours to kill until I can check in to EasyJet at 4 and my plane doesn't depart until 6:05.  Joy.  So you're my captive audience.  Held hostage by yours truly for a good, old-fashioned, whiny ass, headachey, bleary-eyed complain-a-thon.  That's right, a real bitchfest.

First off, the lighting is more awesome than a women's dressing room when you're trying on bathing suits (male-identified readers, either remember or imagine, whatever suits your personal gender situation more.)  I mean, it is deathly bright like flash photography in here.  Now, you'd think they's at least have the decency to have it be quiet, or if they're going to have piped in music, have it be something with know lyrics so you can sort of tune it out. But no, they've got this awful new country/rock thing happening, and while it's not loud, it definitely ain't quiet.  I consider digging around for my ipod, but what I really want is QUIET, as in NO MUSIC!  So I guess I'll just soak up this rich cultural experience of sitting in a glaringly bright airport food court and drinking coffee at 1 am.  Of course, I can't even send this until tomorrow when I'm actually in East Berlin at Bridge's place in Kreuzburg because there's no damn internet here.  I am reading a really good book at the moment.  (Thank Darwin.)  It's called "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett.  I highly suggest it.  I'm either going to lie on the damn floor and sleep or read it when I'm down kvetching here.  But honestly, I feel this is necessary.

All of you who thought it was so exciting that I was going off on this amazing adventure, boy, don't you wish you were here experiencing this?  Truly, all these folks with their sleeping bags out and bags and luggage carts around them, it's like a refugee camp in here!  I'm really sorry if that's culturally insensitive, especially for all of you in the bay area, but hyperbole makes for better writing.  If you were hear, you'd feel the same way.  I guarantee it.  Or maybe not.  Maybe you've done this before and are all zen about it.  But I bet you didn't have the piped in music.  That's the real kicker, I tell you.

Everyone here just looks sort of gray-faced and miserable.  I'm sure I do, too.  I mean, after all, we're carting our luggage around with us every time we have to use the loo or whatever and none of the Luton Airport employees are shining balls of light, let me tell you.  EasyJet, you are a miserable piece of shit airline at a miserable, fecal-faced airport.  So why am I flying you?  Because you are cheaper than dirt.  Oh, what I would do to be on a train to the Berlin Hauptbahnhoff right now.  But a train from London to Berlin is too pricey for the likes of this seriously disgruntled clown, as is a reasonable airline.  Us budget travelers, this is what we get.  Flourescent lights, piped-in shitty top 40/new country, and not so much as questionable carpeting to sleep on with our luggage stacked around us like shopping carts, like a homeless encampment or a shanty town.  And guess what someone just turned the volume up.

Soon, Berlin. Soon.

Busking on the Southbank, London

I'm not going to lie to y'all.  London is a fast, difficult city.  Folks don't run for the train here, but folks will run straight into you if you stop moving at the wrong time.  It's just, well, populated! Though I do enjoy the booming metropolis of a big city, I do tend to get a bit overwhelmed.  Now that I have a phone, it will be easier to make plans with- wait, I don't know anyone here!  Oh, hold on a second.  I do know one person, a puppeteer and lighting/set designer named Max that I have worked with in the States.  I email her my number on Sunday night and sure enough, there is a text message waiting for me on my tiny, utilitarian Nokia phone the next morning when I get up.  It's Max.  She lives near the norh London forest and I should go see her.  Okay!  So I hop on the District line from Plaistow station in order to transfer to the Northern line at Euston Station (or something like that) but when I get to the station, the Northern Line isn't stopping there because of planned construction work, so I go up out of the station and walk a block to Euston Square, where I can board the Northern line to Highgate.

I'd just like to take a moment and say that crossing the street here is dangerous and confusing.  Everyone drives like their pants are on fire AND they drive on the opposite side of the road, so if you live in a country (like the US) where you are used to looking left and then right before crossing the street, you're going to want to rethink that instinct or else you just might die.  Ah, adventure.  Enough said.

At Highgate I come out of the station and seriously, my father, the late great Dr. Eric Westheimer must have been having a good laugh, because right in front of me is a store front that says "Neutering your cat prevents felne AIDS!"  And this is true.  If you neuter an FIV+ kitty, they can't pass it on.  There's another veterinary hospital on the corner that boasts "Puppy Parties," whatever that is, and also "Seperate Feline Waiting Room," which I'm sure all the cats appreciate.  I have a few laughs with the ghost of my father and then Max meets me at the Station. 

We take a long walk through this amazing, medieval forest.  It is as old as the redwoods of Northern California, but the history here is different.  you can feel it.  these woods were host to knights in shining armor, robin hood and his theives, royal fox hunts.  Camelot, King Arthur, all that stuff that Disney has commodified?  It happened here, where I am standing.   I look up at the dappled sunlight coming through the branches and for just a moment, I am transported to another time, a time where I might be a poor peasant woman, a farmer's wife,  a witch making magic potions to fend off the black death.  (I have an entirely new appreciation for Monty Python, let me tell you.)  I saw a mound of earth that was 6,000 years old!  The ancient feel of the place makes me breathless.

 

     

We stop at Max's new home in Muswell Hill, an amazingly ritzy neighborhood where she somehow found an affordable (and giant) room and then wander.  There is an Irish pub in a building that was probably once a cathedral.  I experience Pimm's and Lemonade for the first (but hopefully not the last) time.  Yum!  And then we wander a bit more.  We come upon a street called Avenue Mews.  A mews is what they used to call the alleys off the main rode where folks would tie their horses up when they went to the shop, pub, etc.  There's all kind of great art work on the buildings.  Best of all, Avenue Mews is completely devoid of people at 18:00 on a Sunday evening.

It's dark by the time I head back to the station, so I don't get to check out Queen's would, where evidently there are 100 different kinds of spider!  I will have to have a romp around there when I come back in November.  It will be cold, but a little chill has never stopped me from enjoying the outdoors.  On the way back to Highgate Station, I find two 10 pound notes on the sidewalk!  Thank you, universe

Yesterday, I decide it is time to work, so I take my chicken handbag full of balloons and go to the Southbank of the Thames River.  One is permitted to busk without a permit here.  I set myself a lofty goal of 15 pounds and a time limit of two hours.  Busking is HARD WORK!  I really don't enjoy it one bit.  For me, it is mostly standing around with a ridiculous balloon hat on my head, trying to catch the eyes of children and their parents.  I take donations, never set a price.  I worked for two hours yesterday in the raging wind and made £17!  Alright!  The Southbank of the Thames river is near the Westminster Underground.  The Houses of Parlaiment, Big Ben and London Eye are all there.  Though I am really not into all the touristy crap, I've got to say, all of these landmarks are quite breathtaking.  I briefly consider a ride on the London Eye and then look at the queue.  It is reminiscent of the line at customs to get into this country.  No thanks.  I walk on.

                                                            London Eye and Big Ben

Houses of Parlaiment

I have been VERY good about being thrifty in this expensive town, but I have also just worked my little tail off twisting balloons in the blustering wind for two hours, and let me tell you, wind is not a balloon sculptors best friend.  In fact, it's right up there with pins and needles.  Plus, I saw a girl at the Plaistow station the other day with the best backpack I have ever seen in my life, a black cat who's eyes are speakers, so you can plug your ipod in and have music.  It runs on 3 AA batteries.  She said she got it at Camden Market.  I don't need a lot of things.  But I NEED this backpack.  I have earned the right to go shopping.

I must digress for a moment and say that the visibility of disabled people here trumps even Berkeley, CA.  Everything is blunt, out in the open.  People talk about issues, don't try to shove them under the rug.  It's refreshing.  Also, I don't know if you can get it in the States, but there is a four part documentary show called "Katie: My Beautiful Friends" about facial disfigurement.  It is hosted by Katie Piper, a model who survived an acid attack.  I wish I had had resources like this when I was young.  This woman is beautiful, incredible, and definitely not a victim.  Really, this show is worth a watch.
When I get off the train at Camden Town this time, I know what to expect and where to avoid.  I also have a goal: find that backpack!  I make a beeline for the market place and see many interesting this, including a new kind of spa treatment, (I shit you not) the fish pedicure:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/may/01/fish-pedicure-health-animal-welfare

This is fucking ridiculous!  It's supposed to feel really great, which is why it's so trendy, I suppose.  But, um, weird.  I find several similar backpacks to the one I am looking for, but no kitty.  I leave the indoor market place and check out the outdoor Inverness market.  No dice.  I decide to brave the outdoor market across the street where I got trapped the first day with all the Indian and Pakistani sellers who are like sharks.  "Ma'am, this dress perfect for you!  Buy this!  You need jacket?  Will be cold soon!  Buy this!  I give you special price!"  Uch.  But know I am looking for something specific.  One thing and one thing only.  I see some really unique dresses and sweaters that I almost consider.  But no!  Stay focused!  Kitty backpack.  I find it!  It's £25.  I haggle, offer £20.  The Turkish shop keeper says £23.  Sold!  I am hungry and the only groceries I have at Angela's are eggs, cheese and carrots, plus it is too early to go back to the outskirts of everything.  I decide to relax and wander.  At a horrible tourist shop, I buy a pair of egg cups that say "I heart London."  I came to London with the thought of getting egg cup, because ever since I dated this Brit, I've developed an affinity for soft-boiled eggs.  I justify my purchase with the decision that I will soft-boil an egg for breakfast tomorrow.
I wander some more, down the canal, around a large, cobblestone market called "The Stables," where I find a tiny, independent book store with a paper back copy of James Herriot's "If Only They Could Talk."  I've already decided that, even if it leaves me without a pence to my name, I am going to the Yorkshire Dales when I return in November.  Everyone else in my family went to Italy and lit a candle at some cathedral for my dad.  My connection with my father was different.  Zappa, Van Gough, Fellini, animals.  He read me each and every one of James Herriot's books when I was a child.  So that will be my special pilgrimage.
LED shirts, especially one's that react to sound, seem big here.  The rave scene is still happening, and there are a plethora of blacklight shops.  I see this girl done up in an amazing, candy style.  She is ready to roll and dance all night.  I ask her if I can photograph her and she agrees.  Her name is Rosie and as you can see from the photo, she looks perfect. 

On my way back to the Underground to come home, I come upon a circus shop.  They have clubs, diablos, hula hoops, stilts.  I briefly consider surprising Eve with a brand new set of clubs upon her arrival in Berlin, but realize I can't afford them.
I get back to Angela's around 8 and decide to stay home.  It's been a lot of energy output.  I'm having a mellow day today as well. Tonight I don the behemoth  backpack again catch a bus from Gloucester, (which is near Baker Street Underground Station) and get to Luton airport around 1 am where I check in and then sleep at the gate until my plane to Berlin boards at 5:40.  I land in Germany at 8:55, buy a German sim card for my phone, and make my way to Bridge Markland's flat in Kreuzburg (http://www.bridge-markland.de/) where I'll sublet a room until November 15th.  I start gigging (in a circus tent!) on the 17th! This is what I'm here for!  Hope they laugh!

Camden Market