Berlin: Bleibtreu Cafe

The change in my father's voice gave me all the proof I needed. It suddenly became 40 years younger, became jumpy and excited, as if these 40 years were a heavy coat, he just through of him to run out and show me.

Sunday morning is sacred for Berliners, not for any religious reasons, no not at all. It is their traditional breakfast meeting with friends. So there we were, proud son and daughter of two 1970s Berlin émigrés. Two poor young men who found in Berlin a safe place to study, but mainly to escape from politically troubled little Greece in the dictatorship years.
From stories I know that they used to meet in dark Cafes in Charlottenburg, spend as little money as possible and hunt for those few bits of painful but precious news from homeland. More often in Bleibtreu cafe. It even became a song by the famous musicians of the Greek émigré community. Stay faithful.

And so we did. 40 years on with our parents well back in Greece, established and retired, we retraced their steps. K. lead me to a stylish street that definitely lacked the dynamic character of the new east quarters of the city. Prezlauberg it was not. But he said: "You know, here was the field of action" It's here they met, lived, worked, fought their daily wars. Can you feel it?

Yes I could.

The area aged gracefully. It accepted the fact that it was no longer the “field of action” of modern émigrés’ kept the wisdom of its past and gained in style. Just like the old hippies who come to terms with reality, accepting that they lost the battle, that the world will never change… but at least they know they tried.

West Berlin was full of memories. Not mine. But somehow I could feel my blood moving faster, getting warmer. Maybe after all strong memories and big loves of one’s youth pass on to the offspring and in that way they achieve immortality. They live on.

Maybe this is how you stay faithful to yourself; to your youth and its companions.
Bleib treu

I should ask my father. He'll know.

Feet dialogues

My feet hurt. They feel betrayed. You see, everyone, from ordinary people to creative important poets have celebrated the greatness of braking one’s routine and doing joyful active things that give meaning to life. So I did. But my feet did not feel the glorious touch of novelty and fun. My feet did not share that belief.

They long for their routine. The monotonous repetition of well-known steps, expected needs, and comfortable rest.
My feet think that whoever does not value routine is a fool. No.. I did not stress that enough. Not only a fool… a delusional fool. A hyperactive idiot in self-denial… after eating a huge amount of sugar.

So my feet say to each other at night. They keep talking about me especially when they can’t sleep after a strenuous day I have put them through just for the sake of new experiences or having fun. I am sure they hate me.

Routine and repetition. Keystone of feet-happiness.

The Nomad is so confused. The mind jumps out of the couch every time a new opportunity of exploration/seeing old friends/braking the weekly routine comes to play. But the body is reluctant to materialize that jump, to dress it with flesh and bones and teeth and whatever else should be included make a human being. And the feet, especially the feet, go on strike.

So the Nomad is in constant conflict of interest… within.

Stag versus Hen

Leaving the big, dirty, stressful, noisy (blah blah blah) city, I am heading South.

The blond lady next to me does not have much to say. She stoically accepts being the centre of male and female attention in the train, just because she is made of inflatable plastic. Her name is Lisa. She is the involuntary companion of the groom-to-be sitting in front of me. She is the celebrity of the train. Everybody looks at her, wants to touch her or take a picture with her.

And her? Like a true celebrity is completely apathetic. Not that she has a choice…

The groom is covered in plastic too. In an attempt to give him graceful curves, he has a pair of generously sized boobs, round bottom and an afro wig to add some exotic tint to the curves’ effect. All is cheery, loud and smells of alcohol, the cheap kind… beer and some more beer.

Just at the point that the stag group’s excitement about the groom’s plastic tortures died down a hen group enters the train. And it all turns pink.

Now plastic Lisa has competition. The real "flesh and bone" Lisa (how unfortunate name coninsidence!), bride-to-be, surrounded by giggly teasing ladies. No plastic there. At least no visible plastic. And their alcohol is more sophisticated, bubbly wine (and approach to life I’d say) and gin and tonic. True Ladies.

Both parties are immediately interested in one another especially after realizing that they are both heading to the same beach town in the South of England.

I am in the middle of it all. I keep quiet but… inevitably my transparency does not last. I end up being something like a hostage and a referee silmutaneously.

And all this time I keep wondering. Is this really fun? Or am I just jealous I am not part of it? English pop culture intrigues me. But I never know if this is good or bad.

It’s all plastic… it’s fantastic?

My little farewells to London: Camden

Camden will never be too far away. I just need to open my wardrobe or look through my selection of earrings. I suppose in a way I had Camden in me before I actually moved there.

It was love at first sight. I was 22, at my belated teenage rebel time and I found myself surrounded by pretentious Goths, lost in time hippies, colourful weirdoes. Back then that was paradise. Utopia in London.

Now it is simply the place where I could blend in and feel comfortable in any mood, any outfit, any face. Camden is not the intellectual place where I could conceptualize complex theories and construct abstract voting behaviour models. Thus, not the office. The home. Wannabe bohemian with a hint of commercial taint it is exactly the place where my gypsy heart could float happily, wearing a life vest. Exotic enough but in the familiar wrapping.

Oh and most importantly it is the only place where I can actually stand shopping. Preferably on Monday mornings, not to avoid people, but to have my home to myself!

Camden is the living room of the house. To go to the bedroom, where one relaxes and dreams I head north towards the Heath. My Sundays were full of it.

And home is not a place you leave from, it is a place you return to.