August 5, 2009

 “Fashionably Late” Doesn’t Apply to Reichstag Tour Groups (05.08.2009)

 Amy and I didn’t want to spend the money for lunch in the Bundestag district. I had gone out to a couple bars the night before and my wallet felt too light; I wanted something cheap and greasy.

Since we had over an hour to grab lunch, I thought it would be smart to see a part of the city we hadn’t visited before—Davidhasselhoffstraße or something. The Brandenburg-Bundestag-Potsdamerplatz area was all too glitzy, and the Berlin Holocaust Museum was a little too depressing. I was sitting on one of the giant bricks, facing the memorial, not wanting to look at the undulating rows of elegiac blocks anymore but worried about my sunburnt neck. Melanoma is worse than melancholy.

 My forehead and tush broke a sweat when I got up from the block. “I just need to get something in me, who cares where,” Amy blurted out. I don’t think she appreciated my 'That’s what she said...' joke: we walked towards Potsdamerplatz station arguing the whole time about which of us was the bigger dummy. (She is, just for the record.)

 A girl noticed me squinting at the S/U-bahn map on the traincar ceiling once we got moving. She recommended going to Orienenburger for a bite to eat, pointing out the stops and junctions Amy and I needed to take. She was a legitimate Butter Face and had on too much fake tanner; the unholy lovechild of Elle MacPherson and an Oompa Loompa. The traincar was cramped and hot, but the draft from the open windows felt wonderful—which made me think: if the entire U-bahn system smells like bums’ piss and McDonald’s fries, why doesn’t the air between stations stink terribly when it cascades through the windows? Could this unknown phenomenon be used on the Stink Zones in the streets, too? We can only hope. Alas, I digress…

 Orienenburger is hardly the Hell’s Kitchen-esque boulevard that the girl on the train described. Amy and I passed by a couple trattorias and falafel joints, put off by the menu prices. A Thai massage parlor caught my eye, especially since my lower back has been hurting this trip, but 30€ would have broken the bank. (There’s a hint to any girl out there with a key grip. My lumbar needs some deep tish work.) I don’t know if the girl from the train didn’t hear me say “cheap food,” or if I missed her episode of “The Fabulous Life of…” on VH1, but everything was too expensive. My neck got more burnt before we found an Asian restaurant with Happy Hour specials.

 The spot was pretty funky. Three restaurants amalgamated under one roof, called Asia Food Place, which typically doesn’t espouse fine cuisine. Amy ordered a 3,50€ teriyaki burger, and I got 2,50€ Vietnamese noodles and a 2,00€ tray of avocado sushi; tasteless filth all the way around, but it was food. I jaywalked a few times to get back to the subway faster.

 Back in the U-bahn station, I pointed Amy and myself in the wrong direction; we went a few stops before realizing we were heading away from Potsdamerplatz. At Stadmitte we got off the U2 line and looked for the S-bahn line, trotting up a flight of stairs just as a train pulled in. With no time to consult a map, I asked an old lady if that line would take me to Potsdamerplatz. The woman pointed to the open doors and said, “Potsdam, yes!” Amy and I jumped on, momentarily relieved and squatted in a couple seats. To our chagrin, Potsdam is an area outside Berlin, to the Southwest. That old lady was the antichrist.

 I can remember my exact feelings when I saw that damn tourist-view hot air balloon wafting up well behind the train. I could faintly see the Reichstag’s unmistakable roof about three miles away, behind and to the left of us, and I felt just like Chuckie Finster from “Rugrats” that time the kids got lost in ReptarWorld. (Looking back, I have no idea why… let’s just say it fit at the time.) I paced nervously and uttered the requisite expletives until the next stop. With some rueful giggles, Amy figured out our route back to the meeting place and we ran as soon as the train’s doors opened.

 That old lady really screwed us, I said to myself, but that’s what you get for trusting someone with a beehive hair-do and a snaggletooth. Exactly thirty-three minutes late, with a Reichstag tour guide and security personnel leading us, Amy and I found the group. The rest is history.