Berlin -- Kopi Squat -- April 24, 2009

Dagmar felt that I should go meet her friend Frank. So she called him up, and asked if I could go over to the notorious Kopi Squat where Frank had his office and say hello. Frank said sure, he'd be there all afternoon and he'd leave the door open. Dagmar showed me (roughly) where Kopi was on my map, so I jumped on the subway and headed to Kruezberg. It was a bit of a walk down Kopenicker strasse, but once I neared the squat, I knew instantly that I was in the right pace. There was a lot of crumbling concrete, graffitti, and useful looking garbage being stowed. The entrance to Kopi looked sort of like a pirate fort with of banners and anarchy signs. Inside the courtyard were lots of stray dogs and homemade bikes.



There were some guys sitting at a table in the courtyard, and I asked them, "Hey, do you know Frank? The video guy?" I held my hand shaped in a ring in front of my eye = video guy. "Do you know where he is?" They just kind of looked at me and shrugged. I had been warned that the punks at Kopi were not super warm to outsiders. I said, "I don't know, he works here. He makes videos. I'm a friend. Have you seen him today?" I got one's attention. He said, "Oh yeah, hair like this?" And showed that Frank must have had shoulder length hair. I had no idea what Frank looked like, but I nodded yes. He said, "Over there," and pointed to the stairs on the left. Well, the stairs did not look too inviting, and I had no idea where I was going. They could see me hesitating, looking disappointed, so the dude pointed to an open window and said, "There! Second floor!"

"Ok thanks!" So up the treacherous stairs I climbed, it was more like climbing a rocky mountain path instead of stairs since the concrete was in such bad shape. It felt sort of homey, like being in Brooklyn, actually... I poked my head in the first open door and asked, "Hi, is Frank here?"



Well, the man in there was Frank, and he said he was expecting me. Frank turned out to be totally awesome; he's been a Berlin native since 1977 and has been active through it's squatting heyday up to the present. He told me all about the Open Channel that he's been making videos for since 1999. The Open Channel is sort of like public television Berlin style. One of the current pieces he's working on is a short called "Live Fish Paintings." This artist catches a fish in the river, takes it back to his studio and paints it (quickly!) then brings it back to the river to let it go. All in all, it sounded like pretty awesome TV to me.

Frank showed me his camcorder, something he was very proud of. It was very cheap, but the cool part was how he MacGyver-ed a home-made battery pack so it ran longer. This consisted of 8 D batteries in a vinyl pencil case that were held together by a bicycle innertube somehow, and this connected to the camera... very homemade. I couldn't wrap my head around how it worked, but it did! All this cost under 50 Euros, which for decent quality video, seemed like a great price to me.

Frank's office/editing studio reminded me of some lofts I know in Brooklyn. In fact, all of Kopi Squat felt reminiscient and I felt very comfortable there. I tried to explain this to Frank so I told him about my friend's who built their own loft. They put in their own plumbing, knocked holes into brick walls to make windows, and installed a wood burning stove to heat their place. I told Frank that having a wood burning stove was sort of a crazy thing to do in NYC since firewood was sold in these tiny bundles that were quite expensive, and there weren't too many trees around. I remember collecting sticks and logs in Prospect Park, loading them into my bicycle panniers, and riding to my friends' house. They were having a "Bring something to burn", party. Cold winter.

Frank nodded. "Yeah, I know, I do the same," and he showed me this secret room under his lofted editing studio where he also had a little stove. He showed me the curtain that enclosed this space and said, "This is the hot room." The enclosed office space above that was heated by the stove below and he insulated the windows with carefully stretched bubble wrap, layered with panes of saran wrap as well. "This is very good," he said. I nodded.

Frank looked at the clock, and it was time for the critical mass ride! So we hurried off to find the starting point. Frank always has his bike with him, but I was bike-less that day. Frank decided we should try to find me a bike. I agreed that it would be awesome to ride in the first Critical Mass of the season. Alas, the bike shop down the road did not rent bikes. So instead, Frank found his friend Uwe, and we walked and talked while looking for a sunny spot to sit. After we were walking for a while, Frank found the spot he was looking for, which was across from the Kopi Squat. To get there we ducked through an opening cut into the chainlink and inside was a field full of weeds and sun, bordered with graffiti. Frank led us to the Spree River, where we ducked through another hole cut into a fence, we walked down a wooded path along the river, then through another hole. Now we were in the Super Secret Graffiti spot, which was definitely a work of art.



This place was an abandoned factory that was somehow spared from being destroyed. I thought I recognized a lot of the graffiti, and wondered if some artists crossed-over with New York. Frank decided we should sculpt our bodies with some of the graffitti images and take pictures. Incredible place.




We headed out, and in front of Kopi we parted ways. I took Frank's number, as he had invited me to his birthday party in Tiergarten on Sunday. Of course I was planning on coming.... This is how you make friends in Berlin.

Paris -- Chez Louisette -- April 21, 2009

I'm sitting at Chez Louisette right now, having my first meal in Paris: Chocolate mousse with rainbow sprinkles and a Kronenbourg Blonde. I have been wandering around Le Marche aux Puces du St. Ouen for hours, only to stumble upon my destination. Right now this fantastic old French chanteuse named Manuela is ripping up the house with her rendition of "Mon Vie en Rose," and her voice is incredible. It's like listening to Edith Piaf live. This woman Manuela is apparently quite famous. She only sings on Sunday afternoons, and I am so grateful that I happened upon this place with perfect timing. Manuela is wearing these tiny stilletos with a wild black and white print on them, a black suit, a red silk rose pinned on her shoulder, and lots of hairspray.


Before she took the stage there was a man whose act was part mariachi part karaoke. He went around with his sombrero when he finished, collecting change: apparently a tradition at Chez Louisette. Earlier this morning I had sorted my change in the London train station, waiting for the Eurostar. I put the Euros in my wallet, cents in one jeans pocket, and pence in the other. Together my pockets may have come together to make one Euro, but I was doubtful and I had no idea what I was going to do with this change.

So now, pence in one hand, cents in the other, I showed my full palms to the mariachi man. He pointed to one hand, and then the other, and nodded. Once I had deposited my change, he then kissed both hands, one after the other.

Up till now, my day has been a haze of mourning and awe. Last night in London I got an email from an old college friend. We had worked on our poetry thesis' together, and he was writing to tell me that our mentor, the poet Deborah Digges, had committed suicide. My brain immediately emptied and my body went numb when I heard this news. I hadn't spoken with Deb for almost four years, and I instantly regretted this. I loved Deb; I admired her poetry so much, and I thought she was incredibly beautiful and graceful. I loved the way she spoke with her slightly trembling hands, and how her long eyelashes fluttered in front of blue eyes, slightly squinted.

I have a memory of Deb sitting at a restaurant. We had all gone out for drinks and snacks to celebrate the completion of our thesis', and she was a pot of bubbly, happy energy. She was enjoying her beer, dancing in her chair, singing little songs, joking, and laughing. All around me now at Chez Louisette, people were dancing in their seats and being merry, and Deb is sitting here too. All day she has been accompanying me through the streets of Marseilles and through the winding corridors of the marche aux puces. Now she is sitting with me at this table covered with a stained blue cloth with little gnawed holes in it. She is dancing because it is all so beautiful and she is whispering "Write, write, write...."

The follow-up singers come up to me and ask for my change, and I give them each 2 euros, which was all I had left, and I like to think that bought Deb a Kronenbourg. They ask, "Mademoiselle, qu'est que vous ecritez? Are you a novelist?" I just smile. I am writing about how this place looks like an inside out Christmas present. The ceiling is an explosion of shiny gold foil, tinsel, and bobbly ornaments. Kitch has never been so beautiful!