On an Island in the Sun + Not Enough Time in Dresden

Klaus Zynski Invades Europe, Parts 5 and 6 (Plus, the Ballad of Giovanni the Roommate)

I spent Easter Sunday among the artworks and antiquities of Museum Island. The Altes Museum collection of Greek and Roman art was totally superb and the Humboldt Forum’s anthropological collection was even better. Daunting in its complexity and variety. Dense! Varied! Textured! A palace full of Buddhas! Whole temples from the Himalayas and the South Pacific were transported whole and housed on the second or third floor of the building! They had whole sailboats in there! Overwhelming, to say the least.

Took in the sights and sounds of the Berlin art market on a gorgeous Easter. Bought a painting.

The highlight of the day may have been the the Berlin Cathedral. An astonishing building with a fantastic view of the island from its apex. A small orchestra was playing near the altar to showcase the phenomenal acoustics. It was a welcome opportunity to fins stillness and rest after running around this city for days on end. You can’t listen to violins within spitting distance of the remains of a Prussian king in the US. This is the stuff you come to Europe for. Had a lovely Italian Lunch on the Spree afterwards. It may be pathetic but we’re already doing the “could we move here?” thing after four days.

Wanted to watch the F1 race with a European crowd. Found a hostel catering to the English. When you first get to Europe as a Yankee you kind of resent the English for turning everywhere they hang out into a little outpost of England. You appreciate it after a while though. It makes them predictable and therefore stable amidst the chaos of travel. Race was kind of snoozer. Liz got hit on by some Scouser Foxy Grandpa on a Stag Do. He told me I had a lovely missus and was a lucky man. Top bloke.

Tomorrow we leave.

The Ballad of Giovanni the Roommate

Let me tell you about a complicated man, how he wandered and was lost. Poor Giovanni, the hostel roommate, driven from London and Naples by high rents, seeking shelter in the Black Iron Prison that is Berghain. Easter weekend. A party that I’m not cool enough to know about. He said the wait would be six and half hours. For a six and a half hour wait, God himself better be live on the wheels of steel.

A portion of the line to get into Berghain

I’d never stayed in a hostel before Berlin but I knew from college dorms that the best roommates are absent roommates and the second best roommates are quiet roommates. Giovanni met both of these conditions. He was either at Berghain or in his bunk, on his phone, not speaking often. When he did speak he was polite. Italian, natch, skinny, tan, beard. I think he was gay but I’m mostly drawing an inference from the leather singlet he had in the closet. It’s hilarious that seemingly no historical or cultural force yet discovered can keep Berlin from being a gay mecca.

On the night after we toured the Gestapo museum, I walked by Berghain just to see what all the fuss was about. The line gave me worse depression than the Berlin Wall Memorial. Giovanni, we found out the next day, was already inside, and would dwell within the Black Iron Prison for eighteen consecutive hours. To each their own.

Not Enough Time in Dresden

Bit of an absurd episode to begin the day, Giovanni the Roommate, exhausted from his revelry, failed to answer his alarm and so ruined our plans to sleep in. Initial attempts to rouse him proved unsuccessful and it wasn’t until Liz took to playing the Persona 3: Reload soundtrack at increasing volumes that he did eventually wake up and turn the damn thing off. I was in the john. Can’t be involved in that sort of thing first thing in the morning. Giovanni left the hostel in short order. He’d set the alarm to get in line for Berghain at 8 AM. The spirit was willing but the fleshh was weak. He wasn’t up until 9.

We had tickets for the lift to the top of the Berlin TV tower, which made for a fitting farewell to the city. A chance to reflect. We could pick out our hostel from up there, we could see the bar where we’d watched the F1 race, naturally we could see Museum Island.

We collected our bags from the lockers at Ostbahnhof, hopped one last Berlin metro train, and headed to Dresden. I had a bag of “Jumpys” on the train. They’re Goldfish, but kangaroos, also paprika flavored, delightful.

This little detour was my idea and so I felt compelled to make it work. Energy was crazy, I saw a Turkish girl slap her boyfriend (?) and storm off in a huff. The rain began to come down and the museums were closing as we arrived. I was feeling like I’d made a mistake in calling for this. Then we got to the old city and my fears disappeared. Why don’t we hear about Dresden more often? It’s breathtaking! We climbed the spire of the old Lutheran church, giving the rain time to blow off and seeing maybe our best vista to date. We encountered a friendly English expat who provided us with dinner recommendations (ignored in favor of some conveniently located and honestly very solid ramen) as well as some Bostonian teens on a school trip, who were kind enough to take our picture. We strolled around the Baroque quarter, took in the sights, had a lovely evening. I’d easily recommend a night or two in Dresden. See more than we did. Maybe see if the Semeroper has tickets available for when you’re gonna go. We couldn’t get in for a photo or any such looksee, they were performing Tosca. They missed out, there was a Trabi driver meet just across the street. I like these cars more in their natural habitat than in a museum.

I felt drawn to the city partially as a Vonnegut fan and partially just as an American. We destroyed this city, this beautiful city, in a single night and they spent sixty years putting it back together. It was worth it and the world ought to show them more love for it. If you want more American tourists, (a big “if,” I acknowledge) maybe put up a little statue of Kurt Jr. somewhere. I’d have gone. Writing this in Budapest. Running behind.