Travel Musings

Why Berlin? Copenhagen?

My destination choices were met with neither skepticism nor suspicion this time: either I'm becoming a mainstream traveler or people have given up on trying to figure me out.

A few people asked. Why Berlin? Why Copenhagen?

First off, September is a wonderful time to visit Europe: comfortable climate from top to bottom, the locals are back to work, and the mass of tourists have returned home where they belong (but I'm not a tourist, I'm a traveler.) Narrowing the continent down from there...

I've avoided Germany, Switzerland, and Austria long enough, my excuse always being, why would I want to surround myself with regimented, type-A, reserved individuals when I basically live with that type (myself) every day of my life? Once I decided to confront my Northern Europe fears, honing in on two cities was easy.

Berlin: Unless you've been hiding out in a cave the past year, you've surely heard that Berlin is Europe's new IT city. Rick Steves produced a Berlin City Guide podcast in March, The New York Times (Sunday edition) published an article on the Berlin Art World in June (as well as a 36 Hours article back in '06), United's Hemispheres magazine printed a Three Perfect Days feature on Berlin in June, and Travel + Leisure highlighted the city as recently as last month. Plus, plus, plus...in the day of the wimpy dollar, it's one of the most affordable destinations in Europe. Sold.

As for Copenhagen: considering that Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Finland are easily accessible from Germany, and the fact that I've never visited Scandinavia, the second-half of my trip was a choice between Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, and Helsinki. Copenhagen easily beat out runner-up Stockholm: I couldn't resist experiencing firsthand the impeccable Danish sense of design; this hippie city I'd read about named Freetown Christiana; Hamlet's home turf; and Noma, a Michelin two-star restaurant that appears to be the Norse answer to El Bulli, at least according to every other food and wine article I've read recently. Not to mention that Copenhagen seems to be receiving a significant amount of press coverage lately. Lastly, I wanted to find out for myself why the Danes are supposedly the happiest people in Europe, according to a recent study.

So, any other questions?

Ich Bin Jetlagged

At some point in 2008 I evolved from a Late Majority (I didn't purchase an iPod until 2007) to an Early Adopter: I think the transformation occured in May when I rushed out to buy Wii Fit at three times its current price. Anyway, my life has been better for it: thanks to my *Bose QuietComfort 2 Noise Cancelling Headphones (and 5 mg of Ambien paired with a big Goose Island draught at O'Hare), I arrive at Berlin's Tegel Airport this morning feeling somewhat human.

I follow the signs towards Gate 1 to the bus stop, exchanging my dollars for Euros along the way. The BVG transportation desk agent advises me to take the X9 (fast) or 109 bus to the zoo (Zoologischer Garten) to catch the 200 bus to Potsdamer Platz. However, if I want to use a 72-hour Berlin Welcome Card to do so, I need to backtrack to Lufthansa City Center, at Gate 13, to purchase it. And I do: $50 for unlimited bus and subway travel within city zones, and a 50% discount for most cultural attractions seems worthwhile. I contemplated purchasing the card in advance, but didn't want to fork-out $20 for shipping: I'm glad I waited.

X9 awaits me: I board, validate/activate my Welcome Card, and arrive at the zoo 15 minutes later. The 200 bus stop is not only easy to locate, but it lists upcoming stops and electronically counts down the minutes between the coaches, which arrive every ten minutes. I'm on, and now I'm off at Potsdamer Platz, which is a difficult stop to miss: it's a major, bustling city center. Turns out, riding the bus in Berlin (and knowing no German) is less intimidating than riding the bus back in Chicago. The instructions on Wikitravel's Berlin page, which I printed and re-read upon landing, help.

The Grand Hyatt Berlin is a beautiful, contemporary hotel located squarely in Potsdamer Platz. I've gone out-of-my-way this past year to stay at Hyatts, scraping together enough points to stay at this bastion of luxury for two days.

I abandon Bagzillo (my trusty Hartmann traveling companion) in the entryway, close the drapes, crawl into bed, and crash.

*One trans-Atlantic flight seated in front of a possessed toddler was all the convincing I needed.

Potsdamer Platz Neighborhood

I reluctantly drag myself from bed, shower, and toddle to the outdoor Topography of Terror museum, which stands at the site of the former Gestapo and SS headquarters. Christ, this exhibit is depressing. Guess I should have known from the name.

The festive GSW building (which reminds me of my Bonne Bell Lipsmackers soft drink 6-pack collection from 4th grade) towers over the horizon just blocks away, providing a welcome relief from the somber photos here. The Checkpoint Charlie Museum (right across from the reverential Snackpoint Charlie food stand) is a short walk away.

I've read articles describing the Checkpoint Charlie Museum as gloomy. Although a few sections trigger tears (the daughters separated from their mother; the tow-headed toddler who was kidnapped), the sum of my experience here is uplifting: the depictions of successful escapes from East Berlin attest to the power of the human spirit and celebrate ingenuity. The majority of the displays -- which I can reach out and touch -- are the actual escape vehicles contrived by gutsy, desperate people to circumvent The Wall. Just a few of the contraptions include welding machines, hollowed-out coupes, stereo speakers, pulley-driven chairlifts suspended from powerlines, home-made hot air balloons. submarines the size of iron lungs, motorgliders, inflatable kayaks, and gutted surfboards strapped to luggage racks.

I am the sole person roaming the upper floor of the museum, so I contemplate the paintings and immerse myself in them uninterrupted. A three-paneled mural by the artist Matthias Koeppel fascinates me: he depicts Germany as he imagined it in 1937 (he is the homely baby in a stroller in the photo: I cut him off in error), Germany in 1987 (he is the overweight outsider in lederhosen), and the dismal Germany he predicts in 2037 (he is the drunk covorting with the prostitute).

I spend two engrossing hours here then head towards the Judisches Museum Berlin (Jewish Museum Berlin), indulging along the way in a currywurst (hold the ketchup). The sausages -- dowsed in curry powder and smothered in ketchup -- are ubiquitous in this city. With good reason: these greasy bad boys give Chicago red hots a run for their money.

Swanky Architecture

The good news: it's 6:00, and the Jewish Museum is still open for a few more hours. The bad news: entrance is limited to those holding a Lange Nacht Der Museen (Long Night of Museums) ticket. Twice a year -- on August 30 and January 31 -- Berlin opens up its museums to the public from 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. for a $15 fee.

I don't want to shell-out more Euro: I just want to see the inside of this building. Having just purchased my Welcome Card for 50 bucks, I vow to return to the museum later in the week rather than part with more money.

I return to Potsdamer Platz. What luck: the Communication Museum! Only...it's closed except to Long Nighters. Screw it anyway -- I'm hungry and my feet hurt something bad.

The closer I get to the Hyatt, the closer I get to the Kulturforum complex, most notably the golden Philharmonie concert hall aglow in the rays of the setting sun. Double-X chromosomes trump aching arches: I am helplessly drawn towards anything bright, shiny, and gold.

After an indulgent dinner of draught beer and french fries at one of the dozens of touristy restaurants in the area, I cross Leipziger to the Sony Building, a dazzling collection of shops, restaurants, museums, cinemas, hotels, offices and condos. The bold images (and perhaps the German lager) inspire me and I snap away.

What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?

Sunbeams circumvent my windowshade and land upon my face, announcing morning. So my good travel karma has not abandoned me: looks to be another beautiful day in Berlin.

Another day, another museum/memorial/monument. I heft my reluctant Central Standard Time body out of bed.

Potsdamer Platz may be Tourist Central, but the location is unrivaled: I walk a mere ten minutes to the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, which consists of 2,711 concrete slabs arranged in a grid pattern on a five-acre sloping field. The memorial has been plagued by controversy from its inception: criticism has included (but has not been limited to): lacking handicap access to... utilizing materials manufactured by companies that profited from the holocaust to... failing to acknowledge other (non-Jewish) victims of the holocaust, to...

I lean against a stone, sip my latte (should I be drinking a latte here? I don't know), and attempt to reach my own conclusions. My understanding of the arguments are rudimentary at best, but I see the memorial as worthwhile, A Good Thing. It's out-in-the-open and located in a busy section of the city: it can be neither avoided nor overlooked: sooner or later every parent will pass by it with their curious children and the history will have to be told (therefore, not forgotten, and hopefully never repeated.)

Enough caffeine, enough pseudo-philosophizery. I toss my cup into a bin and hoof it north. This trip has some weight to it. More than I'm used to.

The imposing Brandenburg Gate (five minutes away) guards over Pariser Platz, which teems with people, but no one pays attention to the innoucuous DZ Bank building, number 3, except for two guards standing in casual conversation. Rectangular and staid, blending innocently enough into the surroundings, it's easily overlooked. Am I allowed in there? I pass through the doors, feigning as though I know what I'm doing.

The unassuming facade belies the bizarre interior, a towering, curvaceous carp formed from titanium and glass as only Frank Gehry can design. I spend a minute or so alone in the lobby taking it in, sneak a photo, and scamper out. I don't think I'm allowed in here.

Along the Unter den Linden

I cut through Pariser Platz to Unter den Linden, a main thoroughfare recommended by internet posters, but I doubt I'm catching it at it's best: most of its stores are closed today, Sunday. I stumble upon the Neue Wache (New Guard House), a memorial whose elaborate history dates back to 1816. The site has been dedicated more than once, most recently to the "victims of war and tyranny". Whereas the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe has been criticized for being exclusive, the Neue Wache is considered inclusive: it honors everyone who suffered from the war and totalitarian dictatorship. That's if -- IF -- my simple understanding is correct: afterall, my primary sources of information on any given destination are Time Out and Luxe Guide. I'll take cheekiness and snarkiness over accuracy and profundity any day.

The Deutsches Historisches Museum (German Historical Museum) is located practically next door to Neue Wache. A living map of Europe "occupies" the lobby floor. An overhead projector displays the morphing boundries of the empire over centuries, proving that a picture is worth a thousand words.

The museum is layed-out logically. I walk through the second floor, which delivers me from 1 BCE to 1918, then descend to the first floor, which leads me through 1918 to the present. I've learned a great deal here, and some of the images (none exactly cheerful) are going to stick with me for awhile.

I exit, cross a bridge, step onto Museum Island (a mass of renowned museums stretching along an isle on the Spree River), and arrive at the Pergamon Museum.

Culture Overload

The Pergamon Museum, the most visited museum in Germany, is divided into three distinct sections: the Antiquity Collection, the Middle East Museum, and the Museum of Islamic Art.

Everyone whispers here.

The Babylon: Myth and Truth exhibition (through 5 October) -- especially the second section (Myth) -- sucks me in, most likely because my taste in art leans towards the modern. This section of the museum employs contemporary vehicles (magazines, Legos, films, etc.) to call attention to parallels between Babylon (which fell) to our civilization today.

The most outrageous piece of all: #703: Glitter Cum Series. #703 consists of 20 tabloid photos of Saddam Hussein, comparing him with King Nebuchadnezzar, which have been (get this) splattered with the artist's semen and sprinkled with glitter. That is such crap! I can't believe this artiste -- born as recently as 1981 (1981!) -- scored some serious wall space in the PERGAMON MUSEUM by chucking together The Globe, bodily fluids, and confetti!

I admit that the entire Pergamon museum is amazing, magnificent, superlativetastic: a basketball court-size Zeus Altar, 2,000 year-old statues, the Ishtar Gate from 580 BC, the almweuioeseruipwer, xutieoweknd. euwoie-w eire ;erkjwl;etjelttttttttttesjeht, ... WERjeioo whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. GAAH. aaaaaaaaaaaa...

That's it: I have reached my museum threshold. Statue saturation. Memorial immunity. Culture overload. One more clay tablet today and I am Seriously Going to Lose It. Enough! I flee the building, into the Lustgarten, snapping silly pictures (superimposing heads of sculptures onto the bodies of others and taking a Beavisian pleasure in German proper nouns) behind me as I go.

Moment of Zen

The Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral) dominates the Lustgarten (Pleasure Park). I stare up at it in awe, as my mother's pragmatic voice infiltrates my thoughts: "I'd hate to have to clean that thing." *The Dom (aka The Domster, the Dom-meister, Ramalamading-Dom, ...) has gathered a bit of dust over the years.

17:00 on-the-dot and the Dominator's doors open: an obvious invitation for sweaty, bedraggled tourists like me to barrel through its archway and go nuts with our cameras. Mine fails to capture the beauty of its domed interior.

Time to go. I need to skidaddle back to the Hyatt and make myself presentable for my 7:30 dinner reservation (I've been looking forward to it for months). I backtrack across the bridge, down Unter den Linden, and there are all these people. Damn them. All these people are blocking my way! And then I pause, look around me, listen.

The Staatsoper Unter den Linden (Berlin State Opera) is perfoming live outside the Opera House, and half of the city -- couples, stragglers, infants-in-tow, the elderly, bikers, punk rockers, 'tweeners, thirtysomethings, **motorheads, geeks, sluts, dweebies, dickheads...have gathered to celebrate it.

So Perfect: The sky is cerulean, a crowd of thousands engulfs me, and Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 bursts forth across the square. Yes, I'm joyful. All of Berlin is collectively joyful.

Moment of Zen. If my trip ends tonight, the past five minutes alone have justified the expenditure. Years ago, just hours before dawn, perched on a balcony of a castle hidden within the Loire Valley, overlooking a forest alive with birds of prey, with only a candelabra and a bottle of vin de pays for company, I epiphanized that "Moments of Zen" -- the split-second realizations that there is no better place to be in the world, at the moment, than the place I am -- would be the measuring stick by which I would gauge the success of my life. That's why I travel: MoZs don't stike while I'm watching Dancing with the Stars from the comfort of my living room.

*SNL

**FB's DO

Surprise Me

I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date!

Dammit. I've held this reservation for over a month and now I might miss it. Finally, my driver locates the cross-streets. I throw a fistful of Euros at him and scurry down the road to unSicht-Bar.

The bar is nearly empty. The host greets me enthusiastically, escorts me to a table and asks if I'd like a drink.

Hell, yes.

He hands me the menu. My choices: veal, poultry, fish, lamb, vegetarian, or surprise. The individual items within the categories are described in indecipherable riddles: I have no idea what I'm in for.

Oh hell, I've come this far; I'm not backing out now.

"I'll take the surprise."

Harry, my server, comes out to greet me. He is sight-impaired. I stand behind him, place my hand on his shoulder, and follow him into the pitch-black dining room, as instructed. I'm grinning like an idiot out of nervousness, but that's ok: no one can see me. Harry pulls out my chair for me and deposits me at my table.

Folker and Ingrid, a married German couple seated on my left, overhear our exchange and introduce themselves to me in English. They are one course ahead of me: Ingrid ordered the poultry menu and Folker; the "surprise."

My salad course arrives, and Folker and I compare notes. We agree upon watercress, spiral-cut cucumbers, carrots, and lettuce. I reach into my purse, pat around, locate my saltshaker, and cover the entire table in crystals. Who's going to notice? Meanwhile, his entree arrives.

"I'm eating with my fingers," Folker confesses. A lot of people are eating with their fingers. I know because I can hear them licking their digits like they're starring in a KFC commercial. I don't notice that my sense of taste has become more acute, but I've acquired Superman's sense of hearing: I'm in-tune with the slightest noise: the servers snapping as they turn corners (to alert each other of their presence), 360 degrees of German banter (which is frustrating: not only am I deprived of people-watching here, but I'm unable to eavesdrop either), and a nose-blowing episode equal in force to the brass section's perfomance today during the Ode to Joy.

Folker and Ingrid converse in German, and then switch to English, my cue to join in. We converse for nearly two hours, good-naturedly comparing/contrasting and attacking/defending each other's country and culture. I'm aware that, at times I become so engrossed in our conversation that I'm oblivious to the fact that I can't see a damn thing. Folker states that public nose-blowing is an "American Thing" and I counter that I'm the only person in the dining room speaking English. He charges me/us of being addicted to ice (I am) and asks if I own an ice crusher (I do). They inquire as to whether or not I'm wearing socks with sandals. I respond that I'm not taking any more of this crap from the people who invented lederhosen. We call it a draw.

Folker, Ingrid, and I finish our dessert simultaneously and agree to meet in the bar for a drink/coffee.

And.....they look like normal, thirty-something-year-old people! Like me. I request a copy of the actual menu in English from our server, remove the page from the menu, fold it, and place it in my purse.

"That is SO American!" they accuse in response to my petty theft. I shrug. We chat for a half-hour more, and part amicably, smiles and waves.

That was SUCH fun!

Fun n' Pranks n' Stuff at the Reichstag

Good Morning, Ber-lin! I spring from bed: today I feel like a hundred bu-- I mean *66 Euros!

I walk briskly by the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, past the Brandenburg Gate, and arrive at the Reichstag Building. Every one of my go-to research sources -- Fodors.com's Talk Forum, Time Out Berlin, Luxe Guide Berlin -- recommended ascending to the dome (representing transparency in government) atop the building to be treated to an unparalleled, 360-degree view of Berlin.

At 9:30 the line is practically non-existent, but Folker and Ingrid mentioned that it worsens as the day goes on, and my guides warned as much.

The view of Berlin IS breath-taking, if not photogenic: this city lacks beauty on the macro-level, but I've found several of its individual buildings stunning upclose.

I follow the spiraled ramp hugging the perimeter of the dome -- up and around, up and around, up and around -- to the top, glance behind me, and survey my accomplishment. GOLF BALLS! Oh, how I wish I had just one -- just one little golf ball -- on my person right now! I would conceal it in my front jeans pocket, drop it through a hole designed for this one devious purpose, feel it roll down my leg and out my pantleg, and nudge it on its journey with a surreptitious kick of encouragement. The angle of descent is perfect: my Lady Pink would wind its way downward, gradually gain momentum, and hit the marble floor with a satisfying series of cloks! across the marble floor.

I interrupt the INFORMATION guys mid-chat and ask them how frequently someone rolls a ball (a tennis ball would work as well -- although it would deliver no satisfying clok!) down the ramp.

"Never," one answers stoically, revealing that light-hearted sense of gaity and humor for which Germans are known.

That's crazy-talk! No one has released a ball down the Reichstag dome? I am now a woman obsessed. But I don't carry golf balls on me as a rule. Although...I carry them on me when I'm golfing.

My mind spinning with possibilities, I exit the Reichstag, cut through the Tiergarten (a large park in the city center) and arrive at the Bauhaus Archive Museum of Design.

Wow...so many tubular steel chairs. I didn't know so many types of tubular steel chairs existed. I'll never look at tubular steel chairs the same.

I use the restroom before departing the museum and notice that the toilet is a good two inches higher than most: I'm balancing on my tippy-toes; no small feat in a form-fitting skirt. And I've never before seen a plunger located so at-the-ready, like a pistol in a holter. So...a simple piece of plumbing fails on multiple levels, which is kind of ironic, considering that the primary principle of the Bauhaus philosphy is that design should fulfill function.

*And falling