How about Berlin, she said. Yes please, I said; let’s spend some days uncovering the layers. Let’s, she said; and how about a cabaret and some underground jazz? Sure, I said; you go ahead, I will meet you there.
And met we did, for a dinner. And half a day’s sightseeing, after which I was forced to exchange my not too uncomfortable hotel room for another room on the 19th floor, with fantastic views of Berlin. This is what I was told. I never made it to the window to enjoy the view. I spent most of my vacation in an adjustable bed receiving special treatment, hospital food, and the loveliest and most amusing care by the staff by the push of a button.
At the day of our departure she said, let’s go to the Schloss Bellevue. Let’s have strawberries in the sun and tea at the Tea house in the Lustgarten. Yes please, I said; let’s spend the day pretending I did not just undergo emergency surgery.
And I left my appendix at the Charité, heaved myself into the taxi with all three belly holes sutured up, and headed for the sun, strawberries, and finally, Berlin in the summer.
(My only souvenir from Berlin, Germany; July 2013)
This blue marble 