Why you so dramatic?

You guys know those days when you swan through the city to get to work like you just own it? I know, for me this also constitutes the exception. It is a bit like you find yourself thinking “did Susan put some MDMA in my drink, whynehell am I so motivated?”. Here I was today, cherishing my Motivation Wednesday. Struting through the hallway, totally feeling my fancy-all-black-I-am-so-Berlin-so-cool-so-fucking-cool look, feeling like an extra special scientist, giving off my usual “Come to mother dust, I will tell you how to solve all your problems”. Even singing “Rockabye”. So I enter my office and first thing I do is put the kettle on and prepare myself a big mug of coffee, then check emails and all this shindig.

To make coffee, we use this AeroPress machine. The one that has a little metal sieve on the bottom (here you put the ground coffee) and then you have to sort of press the boiling water through. So I am standing there, fidgeting like I do, and since the office door is closed, doing a little Mariah Carey turn (you guys know, the one when she just turns the chest and shoulders while having the hips still facing the opposite direction?). In that one second, my hand makes the wrong move.

Everything, I mean everything – the floor, the desk, the window, the fridge, the cupboard, the trash cans, my trousers on the spot gets covered in coffee (and milk, because I was cunning enough to pour it already in advance). Here I am, standing in the big puddle of double shot espresso, extra syrup, no foam (unavailable with AeroPress), Colombian grind, with liquid dripping from the window pane on my head, thinking which karma just came back at me. There goes my Motivation Wednesday.

I knew something was shady.

Not today, satan

I and my house music-obsessed Bulgarian bestie (accompanied by dragged into it other friends) used to come to Berlin every two weeks to indulge the best underground DJs, get wasted and prance to minimal beats until the afternoon, the next day obviously. We would stay at the shabbiest and coolest Berlin hostels at Kotti, with 16 other people (9€ per night); we had no clue, who they were, all I knew was that they had also come to Berlin to let their head down, break free, lass es krachen, as Germans would say. Once, the bed beside mine was of a dude that couldn’t find a place to live, so he would just stay at that Kotti hostel (I mean whatever works for you, babydoll). He smelled like rotten feet, but also couldn’t give less fuck about it and – apart from the killer stench  of his paws – I loved the concept. Forget of course about getting some weekend day sleep at that place, forget also about a night rest – the door would slam all the time, the others would fart and giggle or chatter all the time in fascinating Finnish nobody understood. We were young at heart and I really can’t say how on Earth we would do this. You know it, we had all the clubbing paraphernalia on point – no sleep, vodka redbull for breakfast, maybe even a short excursion to Pergamon to take in all the Egyptian hieroglyphs, seventeen beers, maybe a quick döner (ohne Zwiebel, keine scharfe Soße), maybe a several-times-interrupted nap in the hostel lounge to then wake up and frown at friends, who were already sloppily yet proudly making out with hot Israeli guys (go figure).

We wouldn’t care so much about anything, but just spontaneity and having the time of our lives, cruising Berlin on the U-Bahn, getting confused at Warschauer Strasse and consistently lost at Ostkreuz. We would wear something not necessarily flattering and ridiculous, like a satin flowery t-shirt with or even a sweater (pink yarn, golden threads, you werk that outfit). We would chat with open-minded bouncers at the door of about:blank, laugh our asses off with concierge-lesbians at wilde Renate. That was the whole point, to be who you wanna be, no fucks given like the feet-smelling hostel-living dude, enjoying our belloved minimal house, making friends with weird strangers, embracing Berlin night life at its best and everything else it had to offer (including drunk döner breakfasts).

Then, almost a year ago, I moved here and have been the happiest person ever since about it. Clubbig is just 4 S-Bahn stops away. I even have a real bed now and it is only me in the room. And yes, I am a queen and need silence to sleep, coffee in the morning and all this shindig (no farting gigglers, Hhhh-ell’ todano). 

However, I don’t know what it is. Is it me who got older and started to notice things that were not obvious back then? Or is it really different now? I feel like the atmosphere around clubbing in the city of freedom, free love and 3€ drugs became tense, stressful. Sort of uncool. Everyone tells you to be yourself, embrace it, to not conform. Yet, to enjoy the music and dance your guts out at some favorite berliner places, you now have to look a certain way at the door, in front of the bouncer, give off a certain attitude, sometimes pass the exam as to which DJ is scheduled at what time. It wasn’t like that before! Not at all! Alright, it wasn’t always easy to get passed the bouncer, but it was never that pretentious. I have a feeling it became just ridiculous in an unfunny way. You are expected to be yourself, yet you are also expected to look like you don’t really wanna get in. So even if are happy to go out, don’t smile. Don’t talk to your buddies. Just stand there, look blasé, look black, black bennie, black Dr. Martens, speak perfect German, show off your neck tattoo, be drunk but also be sober. In the end, there will be some zebra-leotard wearing bitch with pierced septum, looking down on you and – unless you get all her ticks on the checklist, heute leider nicht. Oh sure, embrace your power to fuck up my Saturday night, darling. 

This is not Berlin club scene I remember and love. Maybe this is just the nostalgy for passed puppy times, or maybe I just realized it now. Maybe there is a lot of tourists that kill the vibe. Maybe the night life is becoming exclusive. No idea. Anyway, no pretentious bouncer skank will ever take away my unprecedented love for weekend rave to minimal house, so bring it on, Miss Cunt. Karma will get you. I hope, it’ll get better, happier, easier, more honest and more about what it really is about – the music. Come thru New Year’s wishes! 

MA

Pociągowy esej o szafie.

Główny dworzec w Berlinie o tej porze roku obwieszony jest pozłacanymi bombkami, łańcuchami; choinki majestatycznie rozpościerają się pod sam wysoki sufit. Wysiadam z tramwaju i ciągnę moją wypełnioną kawą i czekoladą walizkę i trochę mnie ona wkurwia, bo jest zbyt ciężka. Jadę na święta odwiedzić stare śmieci. Już nie cieszę się jak kiedyś, już serce nie bije mi szybciej, gdy patrzę na zapowiedziany pociąg do Warszawy. Cieszę się inaczej, bardziej prawdziwie i nie tak naiwnie jak lata temu. Wsiadam i ogarnia mnie jakiś spokój, bo te wymagania do siebie samego, te 100% efektywności, to udowadnianie sobie,  zostawiam w Berlinie, ale też trochę sie obawiam od razu podróży powrotnej, bo podświadomie nie chcę być smutny, że opuszczam Polskę. Już chcę żeby Berlin był jak dom. Już chcę gdzieś ten dom mieć, chcę do czegoś tęsknić, gdzieś zakotwiczyć się.

Zajmuję przydzielone mi miejsce w pociągu, w którym pachnie jakimś zestarzałym pociągowym zmruszeniem i tanią kawą z proszku. Lubię ten zapach. Wyciągam Witkowskiego “Fynf und cfancyś”, wysyłam do ukochanego, że “I will miss you” i kilka całujących się emołdżi, każde obowiązkowo z serduszkiem, zakładam słuchawki i włączam najnowszą Gagę. 

Gdzieś przeczytałem, że osobowość się pod trzydziestkę stabilizuje. I że jakieś kryzysy w głowie to są normalne całkiem, i paru terapeutów mi powiedziało, że to jest jak z szafą, i że jak się starych ubrań nie przejrzy w czas, nie poukłada, to wszystko się nagle z tej szafy wypierdoli na człowieka w najmniej spodziewanym momencie. Nagle się kończy upychając te ciuchy do tej szafy; jakoś wciskając je w dramatycznym amoku, pchając raz po raz bardziej ze złości i przeklinając, ale jakoś nieświadomie płacząc wcale z innego powodu. Że to takie lustro dzieciństwa, i jeżeli się w dzieciństwie o taką szafę nie zadbało, to wkraczając w dorosłość ta szafa strasznie człowieka co chwila podkurwia, źli, mierzi i się kończy z tabsami stabilizującymi serotoniny metabolizm i inne biochemiczne ścieżki sygnałowe. 

Wchodzi do pociągu matka z dzieckiem. Ciągnie chłopaczka tak jak ja rano ciągnąłem swoja walizkę i krzyczy na cały pociąg, że niegrzeczny, że nie da mu czegośtam, że niegrzeczne dzieci to za chwile ktoś porwie. Siada z tym dzieckiem, które jest jakieś zdezorientowane, dlaczego nagle taki rwetes, dlaczego hałas. Matka wyciąga telefon, ciągle na cały głos wyjąc, ale już na sąsiadkę, żeby kwiaty podlała tylko troszkę, bo dużo wody one wcale nie potrzebują, i że już jedzie, już musi na zakupy, po karpie, po rodzynki. Na konduktora też za chwilkę krzyczy, bo nie ma w pociągu kawy i krzyczy, że ona spóźnić się dzisiaj nie może, żeby on zapewnił ją, że pociąg do Poznania na 15:34 punktualnie dotrze. I znowu na dziecko krzyczy, bo rozlało coś, wysypało, że Mikołaj widzi i że za chwile ktoś porwie i nie odda.

I tak sobie myślę o tej szafie. I że może pod trzydziestkę się po prostu nagle wie, kim się nie chce być. Zdecydowanie nie tą matką, zdecydowanie nie tym dzieckiem, ani nawet tą sąsiadką. Myślę sobie, że dopiero pomału zdaję się sobie sprawę, jak bardzo innych szafy się na każdego z nas co chwila wysypują, z tymi brudnymi, nieuporządkowanymi ciuchami. Tej właśnie przykładowej pociągowej cholerycznej matki, nauczycieli w szkole, co tylko mówili, że kto nie czyta Kordiana ten głupi jest, tępy, znajomych, co swoją negatywność w jakiejś dziwnej teatralnej projekcji skupiają na nas, bo jesteśmy przyzwyczajeni, że taką śmietniczką na negatywność jesteśmy od młodości. I jak bardzo się z tego powodu człowiek jakoś w retrospekcji wkurwia i że to powoduje to trzydziestkowe emocjonalne rozchwianie.   I nagle się przejrzało na oczy, że trzeba się od tej negatywności natychmiast odciąć, tej matce powiedzieć, że odpierdala cyrk w pociągu na miarę Królowej Elżbiety. Tym co tą negatywność nam ładują pokazać środkowy palec, dumnym z siebie być, że się udało i cieszyć, że jest się jakoś ponad tym szarym przyziemnym stresem od podlewaniem kwiatków, spóźnionego pociągu, rozlanego soku i bałaganu w szafie.

MA

One day in Neukölln

Jeez, how weird it is to suddenly take off for holidays. Even though it is not any lusciously long leisure stay at Yukatan, just a two-day staycation in Berlin. You meticulously make plans where to go, what to do and – most importantly what to wear on that holiday body – to then find yourself on that very day frantically browsing through the work email inbox. So my self-advice:

Put your tired ass in the middle of the room, take a deep breath, take that 10 AM tequilla shot, take another one, calm down and make a trip to Neukölln!

So i charged my iPhone and took some pictures alongside Maybachufer and Graefekiez. It’s beautiful (and filtered, because it is a tad dirty, too. Besides, get a grip, everyone filters).

What I find really captivating about Berlin, is that every district feels like a different planet. Here, at Neukölln (oh did I already mention I am here?!), I am getting a party-Middle East kind of vibe, cool just-left-Berghain kind of people invariably with their septum pierced, everyone looking like they just finished a salutation of the Sun yoga routine spontaneously heading for a gluten-free matcha bio salmon bagel with a chia salad (but totally not in a pretentious Prenzlauer Berg way). Time passes slowly, but it is intense and vibrant at the Wochenmarkt at Landwehrskanal. It is friendlier than Mauerpark, where everyone seems chilled but somewhat tense. The fruitstalls are filled with mangos  this time of the year:

Mango for a beautiful girl, it will keep you young and skinny!

screams the oriental trader. Hipsters are chilling down around the water, listening to some live music, smoking weed and just being über-cool. I have been forever wondering what they do for a living?! Like how do you get around doing nothing, looking like you just had your hair styled in some expensive ass salon, being all calm and not worried about life! Anyone?! There are blocks of fabric everywhere and yet again I am regretting not being a seamstress. How cool would that be to knit this black tank top, cut a trouser and make a woolen black beannie and just proudly judge Zara! Reality check though.

Next, I am headed to the retro-vintage almost gluten-free boutiques, I was recommended by findingberlin.com. Hoping for some true style-katharsis moment, I am forever lost in the cement jungle, persistent, unfaltered, invincible (Google Maps). OK-so finally I am facing a tiny retro store, I come in.

The idyllic feeling of coolness rapidly takes a twist. Awkwardly squeezed in a 2 square meters space with an attentive owner thinking “I am so uncomfortable right now”, I turn to the clothes rack, to touch just a grey boring sweater. It is grey and boring. Like all the other sweaters on the rack. So I look up the price. 100 euros, straight up. Bye vintage store, i am off to Zara, black section. 

Vintage stores fail. But I like Neukölln anyway!


(And yes, I am planning that New York trip, in case you haven’t noticed. Gasp!)

My Personal Queen

Heat. Hard to stand, overbearing sultriness accompanied by anxiogenic strands of hair sticking to the scalp. All you can imagine doing is starfishing with a pile of ice cubes nearby tantalizing with soothing cold. I, however, was at the Waldorff Schule, performing our jazz choreography in front of actual human audience. People that consciously decided to pay money and leave the house risking fatal dehydration, sit and watch dancers-to-be (not) failing at the series of wobbly grand pliés and screaming for a face whip, crooked arabesques. We got to be there the entire day, as everything had to be absolutely perfect. The school quickly filled up with frantically moving ballerinas in flashy green tutus, swarms of joyfully blabbering little girls in tiaras and tacky (but hey) pink hairpins and people looking like they really regret having said yes to the whole thing. Here I was, I thought, the sole representation of the ballet school’s male fraction, soon to be proven wrong and inspired to write this entry in my hipster online oh-my-god-so-cool-so-fucking-cool blog.

Three cutest boys, 6 years of age, as I quickly became aware of from their interrogation-like Q&A session, also happened to be performing. Because we were all trapped backstage, waiting for never-ending warm-ups or other rehearsals (arms higher and higher, legs in a split and stretch that bo-o-ody, breathe in and out, now FALL TO THE GROUND LIKE A BAG OF STONES, FEEL IT, FEEL THE GROUND UNDERNEATH YOU), I got to chat and make friends with all the ballerinas, especially with the remaining male representation (girls decided to fight over crayons and make squeaky sounds over a bag of unidentified snacks – ‘no, you already had one, Sarah, I’ll tell mommy’). So I – unwillingly – got to know pretty much everything about the habits of Francis’ guinea pig, his favourite TV show, favourite shoes, that I am really old, that next year I’ll inevitably turn twenty-nine and the type of drawings he is really good at right now at school. Suddenly I notice, that the queen-to-be is wearing a pink nail polish, pretty explicitly and is being absolutely shameless and fierce about it. So (as a grown up queen) I get to ask Francis: ‘Hey so why are you wearing nail polish?’.

He looks me in the eyes, clearly taken aback (what-are-you-stupid-or-something) and answers ‘Duh, because I want to?’.

This is a shout out to all the queens out there. Wear your nail polish like this kiddo. DO grown up and yeah, it gets better. And if it doesn’t – make it better. But it all has to start in you. Can now can I get an amen up in here?

(PS: After the bows at the end of fantastic show, the choreographers were giving out roses to people that helped with organization of the event. Naturally, Francis was very explicit about getting one too).

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I can’t.

Seriously I can’t because I am too slow for my nerve. And I really sincerely believe in all this Buddhist shit like project the good energy towards people and you’ll get it back. Well guess what, no, life is a bitch. So I gotta spill some tea right here, right now (not that I am acrid, like my bestie Charlotte would say, I am actually pretty amused).

I need to give some background to the plot. At the end of 2014, my relationship was inevitably coming to an end and I was desperately looking for a friend that I could share my sorrows with. Accidentally I came across Franco, who I have hooked up with several times before. We always had good chemistry, but never really got around to go forward with it, because there was always weird circumstances to it. Well, turned out that Franco was going through a really tough break-up too, the dude had cheated on him with some old queen and he only got to know because of being sneaky (dirty, disgusting story)… I was really looking forward to hang with Franco and share some kiki, share some gig, share some grease, until he suddenly stopped replying to my messages. Oh well, I thought, weird circumstance again.

I got over that real quick and here I am, weeks after that, having them drinks with my gurlz Charlotte, Dorris, Ursula and her boyfriend Roger and I am telling them about this date I have recently been on. And gurl, I live for the guy. The dude is cute, tall, charming, has a beard, is a bit weird (which is always a plus), doesn’t want to buy me, throws jokes and truly interests me, I am telling them all the details and Charlotte goes ‘really queen? because this sounds a lot like Franco’s infamous ex’. And no, it can’t be so I make my ‘I am taking a shit’ face and turn to her completely baffled and already completely convinced otherwise. She knew Franco much better than I did, she knew all the tea about his ex. Oh fucking well, yet again this was too good to be true. Suddenly all the puzzles began to fit together, by stomach jumped into my throat and I felt my brain just discovered that one plus one makes two.

All I want to do is go hibernate. I thought this happens only in really shitty, cheesy and predictable movies about straight people???

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