JFK-Frankfurt-Berlin: Cupcakes & Croissants

So apparently Berlin actually exists. I'm sure you are all as relieved by this as I am.

So my flight sucked! And that's all I'm going to say about THAT.
I have more stuff about New York, but the wacky keyboards here make me want to type the name of that city as little as humanly possible. So maybe later. Remind me to tell you about the cupcakes.

But Berlin. Is so beautiful. Surprisingly warm and sunny (here's hoping it continues), with bright autumn foliage everywhere. Today I had my 'first breakfast' at a little backpackers cafe with an English menu, because I needed to eat and was not confident of my ability to acquire food in German. Several hours later I was impressed to discover that I could order "one tea and one butter croissant" without imploding from the linguistic complexity. It involved a lot of pointing, and the very sweet waitress (whose English was obviously far better than my German) waiting patiently as I stuttered it out.

I found a copy of the local gay magazine. I don't understand any of it, but the word 'Lesbe' and a map seems to be all that's required to find my way around the Lesbekneipen (lesbian clubs? or so I am led to believe).

Last night I went to a club that was like Arak on steroids: mixed-race but Arab-oriented dance club, mixed gay/lesbian crowd, stunning decor. I was too deliriously jetlagged to stay long, but was very pleased with myself for finding it. Now I will finally reach my life's dream of having something to talk to DJ Gemma about (heh).

Baltimore-Vermont-Manhattan: A Story In Gourds

BEWARE THE PUMPKINS!

I went to Vermont, where they have: pumpkins, snow, and cows.

I totally got into pumpkin art. I like to call this one "Life In Gourd". I made it myself. I'm the next big thing!

OHMYGOURD what is all this crazy white frozen stuff???

Essential Survival Skill

I remember at the Imperial once, J urging me to learn how to play pool, and my firm refusal. I remember her referring to it as an essential survival skill, as in "What if you one day need to pool-hustle across Australia?". Pretty sure that I'd never be in that situation, I declined.

Well, I think that my essential survival skill is the locating, and chatting up, of dyke bartenders. Thanks to wandering into a cheesy tourist restaurant (one of those straight places with almost entirely queer bar staff) I have now flirted sufficiently well with the cute dyke bartender to have the name and address of the reccommended local dyke bar here. Which is way more than I would've had otherwise, since of all the dykes I know here, none go out to bars.

(I'm in Baltimore now, safely settled and thus far drama-free. Today I went to the National Aquarium, which was amazing).

How could I not love this?

This is the cake presented at the little office party that actually managed to surprise me, because with my headphones on and my eyes glued to the computer screen, I am completely oblivious to all around me. I love this work place, and not just because they've pumped me full of champagne on a friday afternoon. I actually really love it. They made me a cake that says "Get Out"!

It's the only job I've ever had that made me feel like I could actually do it, eight hours a day, five days a week, for as long as it keeps happening. I can work full-time here without feeling broken. Usually I even enjoy it. That's pretty awesome, for someone who didn't manage to make it to a full week of classes once, ever, at all, in the last three years of highschool.

I think my obligatory speech consisted of "Um, you people make it possible for me to like the United States! Ok. Stop looking at me now. Eat cake." Then went to hide behind Sherilyn, who is somehow much better at this sort of thing than I am (and will cope just fine without me, I promise).

Leaving is wierd but good, even the uncertainty is pleasant in it's confusing way. I'm excited about going on the big trip, and I'm excited about going home, and then it all kind of fades off into pleasant grey static. I'm excited about whatever comes after, I just can't see it, and that's OK.

My very dear friend tells me, and then admits she's lying, that she won't miss me because she knows I'm coming back. I feel sort of the same way. The certainty that I'll be back is a lie, but the lie keeps my chin up and my goodbyes light and pleasant, so that I'm cataloguing the lovely memories without being buried in nostalgia.

The way some people are responding is almost like the fantasy of being present at your own funeral to hear what people say: on the chance that I might be gone forever, people come forth with truths and feelings they might not otherwise admit, but the mood is light because I could be back. I have discovered all these previously unknown crushes on me, which is especially heart-warming because they're held by the sorts of people I'd have crushes on too.

I took this photo on the roof of my apartment building on a warm, windy night last week. You all think I'm really vain because I only ever post photos of myself, don't you? Well, sure I'm vain, but the photo thing is actually because I don't feel like I have the right to post pictures of other people on my blog. Even where I have general permission, it feels like a breach of my blog practise, where it's OK to post really personal details about myself because I never implicate anyone else in the various adventures.

I now have two little ponies, the pretty white and pink one lukely bought me and a little all-pink glitter-winged raver pony who was apparently found on the street. Clearly, her intended home is with me and the other pony- meeting their destiny as my little photowhores in the foreground of my shots of the great sights of the world.

And in the end, to set me free

I've been really valuing having an astrologer in my life. I love her dearly as a friend, but also her very unique, very studied perspective on me and my life is disconcerting and refreshing. While I'm not a believer, I am intrigued by the patterns people see in their worlds, the way one person explains life (the universe and everything) is so different from the next. So, while I may feel that I'm just a meloncholy and overly dramatic person, she tells me no, I'm ruled by Saturn, that's what it is- Saturn, the old soul, who sees loss and joy in the same perfect moment, and impermanence in all things (I used those words before she did, to explain my reaction to a beautiful song, and she went on to attribute it to the gas giant). And it works as well as any explanation of me, doesn't it? I think it also makes it easier for her, the joyful optimist who radiates goodwill, to cope with me, her friend, the critical and rather less friendly one, and for that it makes me happy.

Thursday last week a moment of blinding stupidity on my part collided with a series of unlikely situations to result in me having to smash open a window to climb into my apartment. My hands were cut up badly enough that there was blood dripping down the wall (and it was almost too slippery to hold onto the window ledge to haul myself in) but they've healed pretty quickly. Less quick to heal- my travel savings, decimated by the cost of replacing the window.

Apart from that, my weekend was marvellous. On Friday night Sherilyn and I snuck out of a riotous and slightly worrying office party to go to her Open Mic, which was great, and then on to a dyke party. Saturday I walked for miles across the city collecting up some pre-travel necessities and determinedly NOT looking at my bank balance, then went out to the dyke strip club later on.

Sunday was the special day- we (a crowd) took over a sunny, warm courtyard corner of a big house music club and stayed there, in various combinations, from two in the afternoon til late at night. I took a half of a pretty thing and bounced around in the sunshine, swished my skirt and giggled at my friends. It was beautiful, and although the dance floor was quite satisfactory, I was addicted to the outside. Eventually only O and I were left, and we slowly made our way home for late food and winding down.

Today, despite my slightly non-functioning state, I've been having an awful lot of fun rummaging through and reorganising my little world o' electronics. There is something to be said for the incongruous pleasure of being in wierd positions twisted around desks and computers, wrestling video cables into submission, while being able to admire my pretty painted toenails. I actually (can it be said?) really love this part of my job, the part where I know all about the moderately complicated system I run, and I make decisions about equipment purchasing and chucking, I put it into action, I get to clap my hands in glee when it all actually works. While I certainly did not have the temperament for going around to many different people's offices and dealing with similar set-ups, I get a great deal of pleasure out of having some 'ownership' over this.

What's your favourite island?

Mine is Inaccessible Island, because it kicked the collective ass of many introduced species, including people.

Inaccessible Island is part of Tristan de Cunha, which features gut-wrenchingly awful webdesign and a population of 276.

Just in case you thought that Easter Island was the most remote inhabit island in the world, here is a page of Island Misinformation to ease your confusion. As you will be instructed, it is in fact Tristan de Cunha which is the world's most remote inhabited island. Inaccessible Island is even more remote, but uninhabited.

I don't know why researching obscure islands is one of my most favourite things to do in the afternoon while procrastinating- but it's more fun even than trawling eBay or figuring out the details of my up-coming world domination tour, and that's saying something.

Incoherant Angels (now with unrelated pictures!)

Friends shouldn't let friends blog drunk! Although the problem, I suppose, is that there was no one here to stop me (or distract me with drunken rambling conversation, and thus remove the need for the drunken rambling blog posting). You might not have noticed how drunk I was, because my typing, spelling and punctuation are all impeccable when I am drunk (far more than when I am sober). It's the wildly all over the place content combined with a large dash of maudlin that should tip you off.

My weekend was wild at either end and calm and domestic in the middle. On Friday night (the night of drunkenness that produced the now-deleted post) I went out with my friend O to a writer-performance event, which was just so awesome. I spent a fairly crazy amount of money on independant literature, got drunk on words & beer, and had a moment of realisation that the woman reading the hot poetry onstage (who was giving me something of a litsmut orgasm) was an ex-lover of my amazingly unpoetic, unliterary ex-lover. I know that she (the performer) didn't know it, so I had a little bit of fun being gushing-fan-girl after the show. There's just no way to avoid it in the this town (even after having been here less than a year), so why not have fun with it?

The night wound up with marching through the freezing, windy night to other bars: the (uninspiring) dyke bar provided (bland) eye-candy and a venue for the loud discussion of strap-on jerk-off techniques, and later an awesome vivid Cuban bar that sold enormous, cheap, extra-strong cocktails and was therefor packed with people. I have a foggy memory of trying to write out some instructions for computer maintenance to O while so inebriated that the page was doubling in front of my eyes.

Amazingly, I woke up without a hangover, and spent Saturday on travel-preparation tasks (like sorting through the huge quantity of clothes I've acquired here to decide what is worth paying to ship home, and what isn't). I also found time to make the best cookies I have ever made (and high on the list of the best cookies I have ever eaten), proving just how far I have come with the Mad Baking Skillz. Sadly no-one other than a few housemates were able to sample my culinary genius, because they were so good I ate them all. Next time, I'm doubling the batch.

Sunday was more frolicking and amok-running, with a wonderful group of older women I am happy to say are having a very bad influence on me indeed. I went out in my daytime clothes, which made for some dissonance while trying to dirty-dance in a black-and-white embroidered little-girl pinafore-frock and white ruffled ankle socks, but I bravely powered through it.

So yes, the BIG NEWS right now is that I have an American Accent, which is source for endless entertainment to those at home. If you want me to call you and talk all funny & American at you, just let me know. I have plenty of phone cards to use up before I leave.

Plenty

There was a Burlesque convention in the city this past weekend. I took a few classes (“Beginner’s Burlesque Moves” and “Stage Make-up”), both were a lot of fun and very informative. I didn’t manage to make it to either of the big evening shows, but hanging around the venue in between classes I saw more pointy-breasted, wasp-waisted, large-haired Americana 1950’s girls than I have ever seen before, ever. These girls were immaculately made up, squeezed into flawless outfits, they seemed to have a sheen of lacquer over their entire visages, and all were followed (at a respectful distance) by men in black jeans whose job seemed to be to fetch drinks and carry make-up cases. This isn’t a generalization- I saw at least six different girls fitting this description, all accompanied by the boyfriend/assistant/creature. It was somewhat surreal, and it seemed especially so because of the contrast with the girls who were in the classes I took: much messier, facially pierced, cheerful girls with curves and candy-colored hair.

So I learnt some really fun dance steps, taught by the stunning Indigo Blue (who counted time for us like this: “And cute! And cute! And naaasty, naaasty!”) and also that I should no longer fear blush and eyebrow pencils. The most fun thing I learnt was how to put on those beautiful, perfect, intense-shimmer solid-glitter ruby-red lips- I practiced the techniques when I went home and they looked great, although a little scary in daylight hours. I look forward to finding an outfit to pair them with.

Sunday was the Castro Street Fair, which I was only vaguely interested in because a) it seemed like the perfect opportunity to wear my big, flamboyant, pink-and-roses frock that I so rarely get to wear and b) of all the San Francisco street fairs I’ve been somehow involved in since I’ve been here, I’ve not been to one where I wasn’t working, performing or not human. So I just wanted to be able to stroll, dodge drunk people, and look at expensive crafts, all of which I did, and had a great time. I saw cheerleaders! Gay cheerleaders!

As we were thinking of leaving for the next party, my friend and I wandered into a little bar for some cocktails and snacks, and at that same moment, a troupe of drag kings began to perform directly outside the window we were sitting at. It was so awesome! We had a perfect rear view of the kings and their mini-skirted back-up dancers, as well as the audience that assembled- apparently every good-looking dyke at the fair managed to be there watching. Even after the performance finished and tips were solicited, the majority of the good-looking dykes continued to mill around outside the window, so we ordered another round of cocktails and got quite nicely, decadently drunk.

Then rolled off to another party, which was rather quiet, but did feature some amazing break-dancing (yeah, really, I got excited about break-dancing and live rapping. America is doing this to me!) and some fun people to flirt with.

I went home feeling quite giggly and cheerful, reflecting that I’ve made out quite deliciously with at least one different person each weekend for as long as I've been functionally single, and that in itself is plenty to enjoy.