replanning a lifestyle.

I’ve been obsessed with things over the past month.  I keep thinking about that container full of my own things back in Seattle and wonder how far I could reduce it while not eliminating choice completely out of my day.  Could I one day carry everything I own?  Absurd.  Could it all fit in the back of a pickup truck?  This I might be able to do…

Not having much with me has opened my eyes to need versus want and how I perceive my own lifestyle versus what I actually miss.

An Amazon Wish List has been growing in the depths of my psyche, browser window.  I’ve already eliminated a ton - how small could I comfortably go?

Kitchen.  A really good knife.  That and a bread knife solve 70% of life’s kitchen-based problems.  Multi-purpose or used daily or it goes away.  I really miss having a good knife around.

Entertainment.  We’ve come such a long way in the technology of entertainment over the past 5 years!  You can get a netbook-sized laptop that plays most modern games quite well (NVIDIA’s recently-announced 4xxM line of DX11 GPUs has me salivating).  HD projectors are now as large as a hardbound book.  eBooks are everywhere.  My entire movie collection can fit in the palm of my hand.  The iPad** has made us reconsider if we really need a “computer” at all.  Sadly many of my board games will have to go, but only until the table-sized iPad arrives in 2014.  I’ll build a portable set of dice / tile / card games… non-LCD options are vital to mankind’s continued sanity.

(** computer required)

Outdoor gear.  I like camping.  I also like being prepared for the impending apocalypse.  These two compliment each other nicely - a single well-thought out camping pack can fill my needs for  (a) social outdoor time (b) survival option during mankind’s ruin  (c) hammock camping in Thailand.  My existing assortment of outdoor “things” is quite bulky and meant to be carried in a trunk.

Hobbies.  If I don’t actively do it, get rid of it.  The things I do – can I find / rent the raw materials / tools somewhere else?  Surely I don’t NEED my own Dremel.  (the soldering station will require taking by force)

Clothes.  Donate the stuff you don’t wear?  This should be simple.

Furniture.  I have a large frame and large dresser I really like but are QUITE BIG.  I also love giant honking beds, though I don’t currently own a mattress.  Portable comfortable nightly bed option is currently a mystery.  I’m open to ideas.

I have discovered the (small) world of foldable furniture.  I’ve gone as far as choosing the colors to paint future foldable shelving, folding desk with keyboard tray, and rolling folding table with two stools stored inside. !!!FOLD!!!UP!!!!OR!!!!!!DIE!!!!!!

Two foam bags that will fit in nicely with my growing collection of geometric pillows.  Something large enough for 4 people to watch a movie on / guests to sleep on / video game chairs.  Easily squished into storage if need be.

Low tables that can be used as side tables or combined to form a larger table in floor pillow world.  Camping tables adjust and fold up but might look too cheap.

Electronics.  Electronics are stupid and lie about how much room they take up.  Case in point: adapters.  SO MANY ADAPTERS are in our lives I am about up to here being adapted NO YOU ARE ADOPTED.  I would bet a bag full of money there is an equally large bag full of mystery orphan adapters somewhere in the house of you or someone you love.  I’ve decided if it’s “portable” but doesn’t run / charge on AAA / AA / USB I don’t want it in my life.  I don’t miss the proprietary camera battery one bit, even if AAs take longer between shots.

Stereo system.  Holy smokes I’m going to miss mine but reality is harsh: it is far too large and far too loud for my apartment rental ways.  Big speakers are big, aggressive subwoofer is aggressive, heavy receiver is heavy.  Replace with a sweet pair of gaming headphones and a plenty-loud 2.1 system the size of a few books.

- OR -

Burn everything for the insurance money and sublet forever.

berlin festival.

I do not in any way recommend attending a music festival the weekend after you attend a music festival.

That being said HOLY MOSES ON A CHERRY PICKER THIS ONE IS AT A DEFUNCT AIRPORT !!!!  !!!

Best bit of the venue is the attention to detail, such as the band lineup / times listed on the departure board.  I’m just sad the luggage conveyor system isn’t running.  I’ve always wanted to ride one from check-in desk to plane.

Legs willing I’m going back tonight for Tricky and a live Peaches lasershow!!!! !!!!!   !

ireland.

Worn down from the never-ending sales pitch found onboard every budget Ryanair flight, I landed in the bustling Dublin airport a wee bit punchy.  There’s a flying phenomenon in Europe that I completely fail to comprehend: vacant exit rows.

Americans fight over exit rows like they were first-come, first-class seats.  Tall men like myself regularly glare down any shorties that dare sit atop these spacious cloth thrones.  Here it’s the complete opposite – exit rows must symbolize either impending death or an abundance of responsibility, because I’ve never sat in a full one and I now exclusively fly in the leper section.  Love it!

Entry into Dublin was nice and easy – met up with a few friendlies for a few pints (YAY beer sans purity laws!), dinner, and pub-hopping our way back to the “bad” part of town right up against the Guinness brewery.  I had borrowed pieces of the camping puzzle for the Electric Picnic but still had a list of supplies to take care of.  This was not to be a trip of leisure!

Luckily Dublin is a great city for walking – compact and flat with some nice obvious landmarks to keep you combobulated.  I lugged back sacks of dried foods and sleeping supplies, hindered by a belly full of spicy Chinese. The soundtrack to my meal was the owners screaming FUUUUCKKKKK YOUUUUUUU over and over at one another.

Pre-camping dinner that evening was quite splendid at the Bull and Castle.  Dr. Dutch and I both ordered the family farm steak served up juicy as hell.  This fine piece of beef was probably the best splurge I’ve had all year.

The next morning I gathered my things and made the long trek out to the awaiting bus.  The ride to Stradbally was my only chance to take in the Irish landscape – the abundance of fat happy cows knee-deep in lush grass made me appreciate that lovely steak even more.  The bus collectively squealed as we pulled in to a bright and sunny Picnic.

I wasn’t prepared for the sheer scale of this event.  After walking a good 10 minutes to find a suitable spot away from fence, noise, and toilet I set up my tent and headed toward the not-tents.  15 more minutes of scenery involving nothing but people, food stands, and tents tents tents tents (so many tents) finally got me queuing for a tug on my wristband followed by an abrupt stop. I was a bit stunned and quite giddy at the number of distractions which had unfolded before me.

Electric Picnic does a fantastic job of making the festival about more than music.  The comedy tent was always jam-packed full of people, there were writing workshops, amusement park rides, book readings, sculpture and art everywhere, space for political causes, and poetry slams (one poem so penetrating it had me guzzling Jameson).

Back at camp a group of young guys were setting up tents around me.  I introduced myself and shook hands before snacks for dinner and heading out to see what I came for: BANDS!!!!!  Little did I know I would catch these fine young men 6 hours later, pissing designs all over my tent.  Well, not mine - the tent of Lady A.  God I hope she doesn’t read my blog.  This was after my camp chair was stolen.  Right... her chair. Needless to say my guard went up and down several times that weekend – the many packs of Irish boys were wildly friendly and wildly unpredictable.

What I didn’t successfully wrap my head around was the plethora of boundary-pushing jokes.  I get the jokes bit - the Irish live for laughing.  I love that part, especially being in all-too-serious Germany.  It was the never-ending toggling of gay and black that never sat well with me, and I found it impossible to tell when people were crossing cultural lines.  The two kids with ski-masks and shirts reading This Guy Is Gay + direction arrow, standing beside people was oddly funny at first.  Unfortunately it started appearing in spray paint, written in Sharpie on tents, and the same few words kept hitting my ears over and over again.  I couldn’t help but wonder what it’s like to be a gay black man living a decent distance outside of Dublin.

My favorite two dudes were old(er) and bearded, more than happy to share a smoke and tales of travel right after I’d showed up at their tent door full of all that Jameson I told you about.  I certainly felt old at Electric Picnic, so moments like these were nice reminders for the lot – not all of us needed to be doe-eyed and under extreme peer pressure to put out.

The bands here were a bit of a mixed bag.  I was sad to see some of my most anticipated shows (Modest Mouse) muddled, stiff, and failing to scale while others OH MY GOD THERE SHE IS (Fever Ray) were so arty you couldn’t even make out the performers.

The most “epic” moment had to have been the last evening of the festival – drenched beneath a half-poncho in the midst of a monsoon.  Before me stood Massive Attack, larger than life and taking me back, in perfect sync with the thick crowd surrounding me. Brilliant.

We all awoke to rain and sludge, doors torn off of toilets, trash piled high, and thousands of people in dire need of a bath.  The long line of broke and hurting kids dragging their belongings through the slippery 3-inch mud was an amusing sight to see.  The ride back was dead quiet and connected.

My alarm rang at 4:40 the next morning for the flight back.  I slid back into still-wet pants, tried not to wake my gracious hosts, and found I had the entire city to myself.  Those 30 minutes of owning the streets and the skies?  My absolute favorite moments in any populous place.

the idles of august.

I’ve been nudged about the lack of updates here, and rightfully so – this was to be an account of personal insight + adventure and I’m throwing up month-old food pictures I didn't even take from a country I’m not even in.

Truth be told I’ve been chipping away at a monster while making myself home here in Berlin.  I'm still trying to find that balance between spending too much time with this laptop and simply being a tourist.  Is it possible to do a startup's amount of work and travel at the same time? 

I’m still not sure.

What I do know is that Berlin is the perfect place to lock your old jaded bones away for days at a time.  I’m able to emerge at any hour of day or night, walk a few blocks away, and find something to do.  How many cities do you know that can nourish the mental health of a man who goes to bed around 6am every day?

The magic of Berlin is that every day here is different, and not in a “what asshole is going to chase me today” sort of way.  A man casually walking down Warschauer Strasse wearing a cardboard puppet stage.  Giant trucks blaring rhythmic noise for the Fuck Parade - the origin of TechnoViking and anarchist’s answer to the Love Parade.  Climbing to the bar on top of Tacheles with the literal hole-in-the-wall view of Berlin, only to watch the poor New Zealand girl’s glasses fall four stories off of her face and onto the bar below.  Witnessing the timid and the nervous sing karaoke to a group of thousands at Mauer Park.  Hearing the lure of beats from an open doorway on the street, and knowing that investigating the sound might end in your best evening ever.

It’s a shame that curiosity in America has in many ways been replaced by fear, or at least trespassing with a 40% chance of shotgun.  As a kid I was reckless in my exploration of the world around me.  Being in Berlin gives you the freedom to be as young as you want.  The illusion lasts at least until someone asks how old you are…

There is really no other city like it.  Just promise me you won’t come in February.

So what the hell am I doing?  Working.  Stupid working.  Working until the end of the month, at which point I fly to Dublin for Electric Picnic, return back in time for the Berlin Festival, followed by more stupid working, and then move to the UK at the end of September.

Why the UK?!  MR. BLOGGER I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO ASIA YOU BIG LIAR!!!

When I arrived to Seattle well over a decade ago I saw my first show at a venue called the Crocodile.  Godspeed You! Black Emperor was a band I’d heard some of but wasn’t overly familiar with.  A few friendly types would be there and it was a good chance to explore my new city.  That show was so many things to me: the best musical welcome a man could get, the start to some of my closest friendships, and one of the most intense live acts I’d ever seen (trailing only to Crash Worship and Coil).

Shortly after arriving to Berlin I got word that the never-touring-perhaps-pronounced-dead band would be not only doing a tour, but curating a weekend at the infamous All Tomorrow’s Parties.  A week later I found out the Swans were getting back together for a new album and headlining the wild line-up of the Supersonic festival.

Beijing will always be there. These two combined, I cannot resist.

three meals: 2. finish!

Mr. T and I put Sora Margherita off until late in the week, as research led us to rumors of fresh handmade gnocchi each and every Thursday.  Sora Margherita, like Trattoria der Pallaro, can be found smack dab in the center of the Jewish Ghetto.

In both instances I found it incredibly hard to imagine the cyclical persecution of its people amidst Rome’s high style, beautiful stonework, and dense tourists.  Somehow doing this in Berlin is trivial, thanks in part to the giant cranes being a permanent reminder / fixture of the fractured skyline.

We passed right by the bright red curtain-as-door several times trying to find the address, but once we walked through we descended into this long, small restaurant just below street level.

Our waitress gave us our menus and rattled off half a dozen languages she could deal with us in.  She only let us look at them for a second before offering up “or let me take care of you”.  Gnocchi was our only demand - we relaxed back in our seats, wondering what the meal would bring.

Sharing a table with us was a Californian woman and her daughter, both bug-eyed and awe-struck by the food they were eating.  This was their first time out of the US, and it showed.  Their amplified shrieks of OH MY GOD DID YOU TASTE THIS?! were cute at first but quickly turned into a soundtrack of disingenuous appreciation, a complete lack of range from which to measure what they were experiencing.  It was almost as if this trip served as catharsis of a lifetime spent in numbness.

Not to say the food wasn’t good – it was damn fine food that came in far more aggressive portions than Mama subjected us to.  Our waitress eyed each of our near-empty plates with suspicion, barking FINISH! dare we leave remnants.  This was ramped up during the pasta course where she took my fork, scooped the final bits, and fed it to me!  Hilariously unforgettable.

What destroyed us here were the starches, plain and simple.  The gnocchi was added as an additional course to a huge lunch, and what appeared from a distance to be palate-cleansing pineapple turned out to be gut-bomb potatoes.  We both rolled out of there drunk on calories.

(deep-fried artichoke, out of season but a really great texture)

(amazing eggplant mozzarella goodness)

(hand-fluffed gnocchi worth waiting for)

(pasta after gnocchi is not a good idea)

(fried chicken chunks)

(destroyer of our worlds)

three meals: 1. mama

What stands clearest in my mind from my visit to Italy were three distinct meals.  These meals had nothing in common, except that I had little or no choice in any of them.

The most satisfying of the lot had to have been in Rome at Trattoria der Pallaro.  There is no menu here, you sit and are served a carafe of the house wine and whatever Mama Paola is cooking up.  Everything we ate from the 10 [!!!] plates of food was simple, fresh, and hearty.

One of the dishes I’ll never forget was a perfectly cooked pasta topped with two different sauces.  The bits of mystery scattered through turned out to be crunchy fatty nuggets of pure porky bliss.  I’ve had some splendid bacon in my day but these wee nubs were taste and textural perfection.

A few times that evening Mama would appear tableside to make sure everyone was enjoying the food.  The regulars got extra love.

My only regret from this trip is that we didn’t go back.  Maybe a return visit would have gotten us a hug, too.

(pictures not mine, they were taken by my Italian companion Mr. T)

italy.

Rome

Pacentro