spectacle spectacular!

For the last few months I’ve been in the market for a new pair of eyeglasses. In recent years, I’ve opted to wear contacts the majority of the time because:

1) My prescription kept changing and it was cheaper to buy new contacts as opposed to new lenses

2) I wore glasses all through high school and still associated them with being an awkward social outcast

3) When I did choose to wear my glasses, I would receive comments such as: “Oh, you wear glasses?”. Yes, I wear glasses. I’m not just playing dress-up. If I were, I would come into work with a mustache, or possibly a 1950′s style Beehive wig. Oh, and tomorrow, when I don’t wear glasses? Yes, those ARE my real eyes. Not like the fake pair I keep on my nightstand for special occasions.

However, recently it has come to my attention that large, nerdy spectacles – much like the ones I used to rock – are now incredibly fashionable. As well as being disgustingly expensive. While scouring various online surplus eyeglass frame sites in hopes of a bargain, I came across these beauties:

Yes, I know. Its Avril Lavigne, and we all despise her – but look at that set of horn-rims she’s got there! Actually, these are technically brow-line glasses; the chosen style of  Malcolm X, John F. Kennedy, and Colonel Sanders. They are handmade by a company called Jee Vice, come in a range of colors( my favourite being a dark black acrylic with gold flecks). The style is misleadingly named “Sexier”, possibly in honour of the brands sunglasses previously being featured numerous times on the popular yet atrocious sitcom Sex and the City. A pair of these retro-inspired specs will set you back a whopping $380.00 American dollars – without prescription lenses. Ouch.

That, is ridiculous. So I went on a quest, to search flea-markets and second-hand stores far and wide for an equally attractive pair. And sure enough, this past Sunday not a 10 minute walk from my own apartment, I found these:

I love them. They’re made of what resembles real tortoise-shell, or at least a worthy equivalent. The cat’s eye shape, and the size of the frames fit my face to a tee. The gold chrome-like finish is just enough bling for my tastes. As for the cost… €3.00. Three!!! I bought cake & coffee there that cost more than these glasses! Furthermore, if my research of the eyeglass retail services in Berlin is correct, I should be able to purchase prescription lenses for roughly €60. Thrift, WIN.

In short, this is why I love shopping secondhand. You find things that are unique, and have a history attached to them as well. You never know what kind of treasures you may find, if you’re willing to dig.

So, fuck you Sex and the City.

“I like my money right where I can see it–hanging in my closet.” – Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City

“Money is like love; it kills slowly and painfully the one who withholds it, and enlivens the other who turns it on his fellow man.” – Kahlil Gibran

 

Oops, I did it again.

Please don’t be deterred from reading this post – firstly, because it refers to a  once popular Britney Spears song; and two, because of my lack of activity in the last….well, never-mind how long it was.

Last night I made a dish that I’ve cooked quite a few times before. It’s always the same two or three elements, but it turns out different yet equally delicious after each attempt. Last night, this is what I used.

 

Soft Polenta with Red-Wine Braised Meat

(lamb, beef, or game meats work the best.)

for the meat...

1.5c of meat (I had leftover lamb on the bone from a roast, so I simply picked the bones clean, and threw away the gristle. You can put all the meat, torn into smaller chunks, and the bones in the pot.)

2 c.  red wine OR enough to just barely cover the meat

3 med. onions, diced

3 cloves garlic, diced

1 tbsp veg oil

1 carrot, diced into small 1cm. cubes

50 g of dbl. smoked bacon (or pancetta), cut into small pieces (or regular bacon, just toss in a bit more)

3 ripe tomatoes, diced roughly

(I also had a 1/2 lb of ground beef that I needed to use, which I tossed in with this stuff. you can also do that, however if you have delicious lamb or roast beef scraps, it’s not necessary, because they’ll be pretty damn tasty on their own.)

2 tsp honey

salt

for the polenta…

(I have to look up the ratio for polenta to liquid EVERY time I make it, and I also ALWAYS have to adjust it afterwards. Which results in exorbitant amounts of polenta. but, I always eat all of it, and its terrific anyways. If you have WAY too much extra, I’ll put in a recipe at the end for your mounds of corn mush.)

2 c. milk (high fat = better. as in all things…but seriously, don’t use skim milk for this. it needs to be creamy as hell. i recommend 3%ish milk)

1 c water (the recipe I looked up called for chicken stock, but i never have that. if you do, by all means dump it in – the more flavour the better! But as long as the water is properly salted, it works beautifully.)

4 tbsp butter (NOT margarine! i HATE when people substitute butter with margarine – its inferior, and made of freaking hydrogenated vegetable fats. Yuck. Turn over your package of butter, and what are the ingredients on the back? Butter)*

2 tsp salt

3/4 cup of  polenta (a.k.a cornmeal or yellow corn flour. In Italian, Farina di mais per polenta bramata gialla.  Since i’m living in Germany, auf deutsch ”maïsgrieß für polenta”, and I bought it at an asian supermarket across from Alexanderplatz for €1.19 - Go figure.)

1/2 cup grated parmesan (or pecorino, or any hard italian cheese. I had powdery parm, and left over Spanish Manchego in the back of my fridge, which worked very well)

2 more tbsp butter

extra grated parmesan & freshly ground black pepper to garnish

1. Take all your lamb/beef/bison, whatever, and put it into a medium-sized pot(if you have bones remaining, put them in too!). Cover this with the red wine (don’t worry about covering the bones, just the meat), bring to a boil, and turn down to a very low simmer. Then, just leave it alone while you’re doing everything else – the longer it cooks on a nice low temperature, the more tender the meat will be, and the more flavour is extracted. However, keep an eye on it just in case it starts to boil too hard  - there should always be at least a small amount of liquid in there. So, if you need to, give it another splash of red wine. One for the pot, and one for you.
2. In a deep saucepan, or a larger frying pan, heat the oil to a medium temperature. Once the oil is hot, put in your onions, and sweat them ( this means cook them on a low heat, so that they stay clear and translucent, and just get soft. You don’t want them to brown.) After about 5 minutes, or once the onions are soft, add the carrots. Give them about 3 minutes, then add the garlic, and bacon together. Let them all get friendly in the pan – the carrots should have softened somewhat, and the bacon is somewhat cooked. (Now, if you have ground beef, add it & let it brown for 2-3 minutes, stirring occasionally, If not, continue.) At this point add the tomatoes, and if you have it, a generous splash of red wine. Let that simmer on low to medium heat until the tomatoes and red wine get all soft and saucy together.
3. Now, remove the bones from the meat braising in the pot (you can throw them out, you won’t need them any longer). Add the contents of the pan (onions, carrots, tomatoes, the whole she-bang) into the pot with the meat. Make sure everything is combined, then take a spoon and have a taste. When I used my bacon, it was salty enough at this point. I also like to add a tsp or so of honey now to cut the acidity of the wine & the tomatoes (which, I would recommend you do as well).  However, season to your own tastes.
4. Cover this & set aside to keep warm. Now comes the polenta. Polenta is usually far easier to make in very large amounts. For smaller amounts, use a smaller pot with a heavy bottom if you have it.  A lid is useful as well – but most important, is that you have a wooden spoon! Polenta, when you make it will stick to the bottom of the pot. It’s just the way it works, so don’t freak out! You should not attempt to scrape what is sticking on the bottom of the pan at any point in tome – using a wooden spoon lets you stir the polenta & leave this thin layer on the bottom untouched. The second most important thing for nice, smoot polenta, and not clumpy gluey polenta is a whisk (and if you don’t have that, patience.) So here we go.
5. The mantra to remember with polenta is SLOW and LOW. Put your pot on the heat, add the milk, water/stock, and butter with the salt and slowly, bring it to a low simmer. Don’t let it boil, or the milk might burn/scald. Now, take your polenta, and your whisk. Start pouring the polenta into the water, very slowly, but in a steady stream. While you do so, whisk the liquid gently. You do this to try to prevent lumps from forming.  If you don’t have a whisk, just use your wooden spoon and keep stirring while you pour!
6. The texture should be similar to porridge when you stir it – still fluid, but thick. Kind of hard to explain. If you can’t stir it, you need to add a little bit of hot water at a time while stirring to incorporate, until its loosened up. If its soupy, just keep stirring uncovered. It will absorb in the next few minutes or so.
7. Cover it with a lid, and let it cook for 10-15 minutes. Stir occasionally, but mostly just leave it be. Take a spoon and taste the polenta when you think its done – it should be smooth, and the grains should be soft.
8. To finish the polenta, take it off the heat & stir in the remaining 2 tbsp of butter & 1/2 cup parmesan cheese.
9. To serve, place 2-3 heaping spoonfuls of polenta on a plate, or in a bowl. Then nestle 1-2 spoonfuls of the braised meat onto your polenta, along with a bit of sauce. Garnish with ground black pepper and parmesan, and devour.

Enjoy.

I have made this meal in various forms over the past few years, as i said before. The first time i ate it, was living in a one-bedroom apartment with my boyfriend, who was a far more experienced chef than I was at the time. We met while both working at an Italian restaurant, and we often both worked very late into the night sweating & swearing. This was one of the rare days we both had off, and so was a cause to celebrate in itself. I don’t remember the occasion, or what we spoke about, or what a filthy/pristine state the apartment may have been in. I just remember it being a transcendent experience. The rich, hearty meat & red wine with the creamy, smooth polenta. I fell in love, all over again. I asked him to teach me how to make it – and he did. He always got the polenta just perfect the first time, and I have always had to adjust the liquid just the tiniest bit, and it still irks me. I have since made this for my nearest and dearest Juju & her mother; I’ve made it on a third date for a man I loved to cook for (but at that early stage in our relationship, sorely wanted to impress & woo him through culinary means) – and now I’ve made it in Berlin, for myself and my room-mate. I believe we both might be sick, and I needed something that I knew was going to make us both feel loads better. To me, this stuff just tastes like home. I make it, prepare everything, adjust the flavours, and finally see it on the plate – to feel a weight lifted from my shoulders. I sit down, and enjoy every last morsel, and I know why I love to cook. When you make something, and bring it to fruition – you create something perfect, if only for that brief moment. Re-creating recipes from times past is an incredible experience; you re-live those memories through tactile sensation, taste, smell, even sound. In short – I hope you like it.

Guten Appetit.

*Last week we went on a terribly indulgent shopping spree courtesy of a very kind “jewel” of a woman who shall not be named. We happened to buy two types of exquisite butter. The first was Beppino Occelli, a butter made by an italian cheese-maker that had a REVIEW on the back written by Wine Spectator. It smelled amazing, and was indeed superior to many other butters I had tasted –  but, it was unsalted and rather pale for my liking (just to be picky). To my surprise, I much preferred the cheaper purchase of Président La Motte. It is French butter from Normandy, made with sea salt, and it’s absolutely amazing. Currently,this is the only thing I want on my toast, as well as rubbed all over my naked body. It’s that good. You can buy it in Germany, at Netto, for €1.99! As for my Canadian friends, I will be looking for it when I visit once again – but as of yet, I’ve never noticed it in any North American shops. If you do find it, please let me know!

“If you can’t fix it with wine or butter, throw it out!” – Juju

“Wine is sunlight, held together by water.” – Galileo Galilei (1564-1642)

“Food without wine is a corpse; wine without food is a ghost; united and well matched they are as body and soul, living partners.” – Andre Simon (1877-1970)

“Cooking is like love, it should be entered into with abandon or not at all.” – Harriet Van Horne

when i grow up…

First of all, an explanation for my timely absence. As you well know (or possibly not) – I am currently living in Berlin after deciding last September to test the waters of international travel. Seeing as I had my own apartment filled with various knick-knacks and memorabilia, a loving and Just-Dysfunctional-Enough-to-Put-the-FUN-in family, as well as a delicious position at one of the Five Thieves of Toronto’s Elite Food & Produce purveyors – Some would ask, why?

Actually, quite a few people asked that. Before taking off from Canadian soil, I attended my share of parties, soirees, shindigs, and even a good old-fashioned hoe-down trying to get my fill of social activity before moving to a place where I could count the people I knew on one hand. Right off the bat, after general introductions, one of the first questions was always “What do you do for a living?” or, after I had expressed my future travel plan-of-action, “Canada is such a nice, big, beautiful country. WTF do you wanna go to Germany?”

The first question irks me somewhat, mostly because it implies your career defines who you are, when it doesn’t. Just because I’m a teacher doesn’t mean I huff chalk and collect rare Geology textbooks in my spare time. The most interesting people I’ve met, are those who in their 30′s and upwards still have no idea what they want to be “when they grow up”. Even now, when i mention the long line of random occupations I’ve held in my time ( McDonald’s Customer Service Specialist, Nanny, Math Tutor, Library Page, Girl Guide Jr. Leader, Lifegaurd / Swim Teacher, Paint Shop Auto-Worker, Women’s Fitness Consultant, Chef’s Apprentice/Garde Manger, Photography Model, Kitchen Liason, Cheese-Monger, Environmental Ambassador),as varied & interesting as it may be, that’s just the smallest fraction of what makes up my personality. It is a boring, and static question that causes the first conversation you may ever share with this new and engaging human being to centre around what they do to make money. Fuck Capitalism, and pardon my French. However, after moving here I found the initial interrogation has changed somewhat – now, I am met with the question “What are you doing in Berlin?”. How wonderfully open-ended and receptive to interpretation. Finding an answer to such a question as this could be stunningly easy, as well as informative, (i.e, travelling through Europe, finding myself, making finger puppets out of edible found items). Or, it could open up a whole new introspective can of worms. Case-in-point, moi. However, lets move on for now to: ”Why Berlin?”

Thats simple. It was easy to get a Visa. I had friends living here who loved it and could possibly show me the ropes. It’s cheap to live here,  central to any place i may wish to visit in Europe, and statistically similar** 

  ”Why leave?” - is a tad more difficult.

I still don’t know how to answer that question. I’m searching, that much I know. So lately, I’ve been looking for an answer, and trying to give my life here a little structure & definition. I walk a lot . I read, and take pictures, visit museums and landmarks doing touristy things. One thing I’ve discovered is that writing helps. Having a way to put my thoughts down on paper  helps give meaning to what is otherwise ranting lunacy rattling around in my skull. It helps me think, clear my head, express myself, calm down, and get organized. For the last little while, what results when I put pen to paper has simply been too personal, angsty, or grade-school diary-ish to deserve your precious time. That content shall stay stuffed in a shoebox and never see the light of day – while this shall be open for public scrutiny until the end of eternity. So, I’m back. With a new layout, no less *pumps fists in the air* – the header photograph is courtesy of my own amateur skills, and the talented artists of Tascheles. As if I would leave you hanging  :)

**Fun Fact:  in Mercer’s 2009 Annual Quality of Living Ranking; Toronto is # 15, and Berlin follows directly behind as #16, with a difference of only 0.3 . However, in a study i found based on Happiness Economics, the results for Berlin showed negative numbers (yes, below zero)  for both City Pride & Happiness, while Toronto placed 2nd overall.

“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.”  – Henry David Thoreau

“I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded,
 no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight,
 to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.”  – Richard Wright

 ”A ship is safe in harbour, but thats not what ships are for” – William Shedd

SWF in search of bloomy rind for epicurious relationship

As some of you may know, before I moved to Berlin i had the pleasure of working in a well-stocked cheese shop in Downtown Toronto. In the interest of continuing my Kӓse-education, I have just recently had the pleasure of seeing a play called Blue Vein that focuses on cheese addiction! It was delightful, and I have written a review that is now posted on the Exberliner website, an English magizine about the local culture based out of Berlin. I decided to post the full-length version here for you all to enjoy.

Guten Appetit!

They say that true beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. As both a cheese-aficionado and comedy theatre fan – I have just recently witnessed what seemed to be a match made in heaven for my own personal tastes. Duncan Sarkies’ Blue Vein (note the double entendre) is an aptly titled Kiwi stage-play addressing new found passion, spiralling addiction, and the struggle of recovery from the most dangerous of mistresses – cheese. The story centers around Zach – a perfectly ordinary man leading a rhythmically monotonous life. As the plot progresses, other equally dynamic characters are introduced through the dramatic talents of Alan Glen, the sole player in this one-man show. Whether male or female, young or old, he skilfully juggles every personality with flair, and seamlessly builds Zach’s world.

Although the premise is light-hearted at first glance, as the scenes play out the parallels between this parody of addiction and the real thing become increasingly apparent. Alongside the hilarious consequences of his actions come startling moments of clarity. The use of a cello for accompaniment, soulfully played by Katja Kerstiens, brings a sombre element to the performance – raising moments that otherwise may have been simply entertaining, to entrancing. At one point, our protagonist attends a party, much to his own chagrin. He begins to notice a small group of people sneaking off to congregate in a dark, mysterious backroom. Obviously curious, he follows his nose to find what will ultimately be his downfall – Camembert.  He experiences both a sensual and culinary awakening whilst witnessing the slow, practiced technique of an advanced cheese enthusiast. The mood is positively voyeuristic: Zach describes the unveiling of the bloomy rind, its softly yielding texture, heady aroma, and finally reaches an epicurean climax once the first morsel meets his tongue. From this point on, you are witness to the slow unravelling of a man consumed with consumption. 

We later follow his path to recovery through the tried-and true 12 Step Program. Seated centre stage, he recounts in the form of a personal diary his struggle with addiction. Although mentally stimulating, this was the only period in the performance in which I found myself hungry for more. The rest of the play is so visually dynamic, I found myself waiting for Zach to spring out of his seat and command the stage as he so successfully did just moments before.

It is a rare surprise to empathize with a man who lusts after dairy products, but through laughter, killer delivery and even musical stylings, this show – aptly directed by Fingal Pollock -does just that. I hesitate to define it solely as a “one man” show, because frankly it is more than that.  I cannot recall one moment when my eyes weren’t glued to the stage, hanging on his every word. The intensity with which the potentially campy material is performed clearly displays the blood, sweat, and Cheddar-infused tears that went into this mouth-watering production.

the rose of my echoing country

I recently had a friend of mine ask me what my happiest moment was. The memory that stands out in my mind as the most joyous, and casts sunshine into the shadowy corners of my mind whenever i reminisce. The first memory that came to mind was being reunited with my then current, now estranged boyfriend after a long absence. We hadn’t seem each other in months as he’d been working overseas. I was expecting to see him the following day, but he visited my place of work a day early to surprise me. I stepped out the back-door of the restaurant, sweaty and exhausted after a busy service, to see him standing in the back alley. I recognized his silhouette instantly – and my heart soared. It could have burst for all i cared; i ran and leaped into his arms, wrapped my legs around his waist and smothered him with kisses. We both wept joyful tears as we stood there spinning under the stars, blissfully content to be in each others arms. After so long without the sight of his face, or feeling his touch, I was overwhelmed. We were truly, madly, deeply in love, and I will never forget how it felt: at that moment, all was right in the world because we were together again – and that was all that mattered.

I would love to continue this story to its seemingly logical happily ever after, but like i said – it’s just a memory. It ended a long time ago, badly, and left me hurt, lonely and angry for longer than I would like to remember. Thinking about it still shoots bittersweet pangs straight through my heart-strings. The worst part, is knowing that a love that feels that big, pure and endless can stop just as suddenly as it began.

My parents met in high-school, through a mutual acquaintance. They often went to the same parties, shared quite a few friends, and often bumped into each other as often happens within small schools in rural Ontario. They went on a few dates together, but then decided to continue seeing other people as they just didn’t really float each others boat. They continued to be friends, and after finishing school they went their separate ways. My father moved up North to work and branch out as an ambitious, hard-working young man – he also went to some Neil Diamond concerts, took a road trip to Florida with his best friend, and generally exerted his independence sowing his wild oats. My mother stayed a little closer to home, and (as I have) tried her hand at more than a few interesting job opportunities. Anything from working at the local racetrack to holding her own in the male-dominated but quirky environment of the Engineering Dept at University of Toronto. She also drove a kick-ass black sportscar with a golden arrow emblazoned on the hood, and broke her share of hearts. She even seriously dated a fine upstanding young man other than my father, who she came very close to considering for the position.

This, did not end up working out. My father grew tired of the job he had taken, and moved back home. They met once again, most likely (though not definitely) at a friends frequent / annual costume party. At one point in time, my mother accidentally dialed my fathers phone number whilst trying to contact her current beau. It was a full on conversation before she realized who she was speaking to, much to my fathers delight. To add insult to injury, her family then started encouraging her to ask him out instead (lucky for him, he had made a fabulous first impression already). Through some odd twist of fate, they did end up going out. They’ve been together ever since, for twenty-five years now and still going strong. They are, in a word, actual factual high-school sweethearts. It is a wonderful, true story – and whenever i become cynical about the mere possibility of real romance, or the likelihood of finding someone i want to spend the rest of my days with, who thinks  i am simply the bees-knees, this is the fable that consoles me. All i have to do is look in the mirror to realize my own life came into being out of the kind of love some people spend their whole lives searching for.

I spent my life growing up thinking this was the social norm. That everyone’s parents have a healthy, happy, loving relationship – and that love is as easy and natural as breathing. I have since discovered this is not the case at all. As the song goes, love hurts. It can be agonizing, caring for someone and not being able to be with them. It is torture, watching as someone you once deeply cared for, finds another. I remember all too well how good it feels to rekindle the passion of a past flame. You lose yourself in one another, slipping back into former roles, remembering the good times you once shared. You pretend you’re back in those moments, and its wonderful – until you awake the next day to realize you’ve simply poured salt into open wounds. That which was once sweet has soured, and no amount of heartache or imagination can restore it, even from the most vivid of memories. When loneliness reigns, the temptation to lie in familiar arms seems far nobler than chasing random tail.

This is why i hate being alone on Valentines Day. Luckily, this is only one day out of the calendar that specifically targets the shortcomings of my personal social life. As for the other 364 days, the lyrics of the Radiohead song “Creep” keep running circles through my head. In the most basic and simple terms, I want someone to notice when i’m not around – to be missed. I wish i was special, to someone. I am fed up with being the secondary object of affection. I have no other demands – not undying devotion, or romantic sentiments, not even monogamy. Just a simple request of favoritism. I really don’t think thats too much to ask.

In closing – however nostalgic, bitter, naive or pessimistic this may have seemed, in the end “All is Full of Love” as Bjork so aptly croons. I love my family, my friends, the life i lead and each day that brings with it new hope and possibilities. On that note, I deliver you into the skilled hands of one of my favourite poets, Pablo Neruda – this is a poem called Your Laughter:

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

Eau du Köln

So here’s a short summary including the more interesting parts from my brief trip to Cologne last weekend:

This was the first time i had seen sun in almost 3 weeks. As the plane took off from Berlin, there was a massive snowstorm going on, dark, grey, about -9 outside; we broke through the flurries and cloud cover, to see this. Golden, blissful, silent; as far as the eye could see – a wave of warmth washed over my entire body. I can honestly say that i nearly cried; i was smiling for the rest of the relatively short flight, sleeping like a baby after finally resolving within my heart that there was Sun, somewhere. This set the tone for the entire trip; and even though it wasn’t the warmest, or the brightest when i arrived; I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed regardless.

To your right; is the Cologne Cathedral, or the Dom as they so lovingly refer to it. It’s huge. Absolutely effing massive; i had never been in a structure that felt this enormous – and apparently, that’s the whole point. The church took over 600 years to complete construction, with a hiatus of roughly 400 years on account of…well, not having enough money to finish this enormous structure according to its grandiose gothic plans. The highest spire is 157 m ; the CN tower is 553 m tall, to give you an idea; however, this was completed in 1880, and i lived in Toronto a good 4 years and never have i seen anything this…big. I couldn’t get over it. You enter the church and are immediately awestruck at the sheer size; nevermind the stunning stained glass windows, the bellow of the church bells, intricate floor mosaics…i could go on. The reason this church was designed this way was to a) create a structure that would pay homage to the greatness of God and symbolize in its height and grandeur the respect due to such a being, should they exist; and b) to make room for the extraordinary amount of people who were travelling here to view the church at the time.

The reason this was such a popular pilgrimage for Christian folk at the time of its construction, was on account of the relics that make their home here. This is the resting place of what is believed to be the remains of the Three Wisemen that were present at the birth of Christ, also referred to as the Three Magi. They are enclosed within an ornately decorated gold coffin, covered in precious stones, cameos and scenes depicting the different stages of Christ’s life: it is located in the inner choir of the church, on display for all to see. During Easter celebrations, the front of the coffin is removed so that their three crowns can be seen from within.

Now, i’m not religious: i don’t go to church and i don’t support any one specific religions right to superiority. However, i do find the history of religion extremely fascinating; which is exactly why i geek out at things like a cross said to be made of wood from The Cross, or a statue called the Milan Madonna that claims to have miraculous curative powers, as well as instilling fertility. Another Madonna statue, though much smaller sits in a small shrine in the Cathedral – her gown is covered in trinkets and keepsakes people have left as offerings in return for her blessing. In front of the glass case where she is located are stands holding small votive candles; exactly the same as other candles offered in other churches, to be lit in the name of a loved one, or to honour a particular saint, or dedicate a prayer. Behind were a few rows of wooden pews: so, i sat down to think for a moment. Of the amount of people that had sat in this exact place and marvelled at this delicate little statue. The number of people willing to offer up their most precious belongings in order to communicate and pay homage to their beliefs. At the sheer wonder of such a structure, and that I of all people was sitting here. So, i stood up, and i lit a candle, and i cried. I thought of people i had lost, and those i still had to lose. I was hard-pressed to think of anything more beautiful at that moment than this tiny flame representing the memory of all those i hold dear. It occurred to me, that in travelling to visit this place, seeing sights and wonders unbeknownst to me, will be part of my own history someday. In time, all that will remain are the stories i tell.

To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.
~Thomas Campbell, Hallowed Ground

On a lighter note…My last night in Cologne, i went to dinner at a bar named Weinhaus Vogel down the street from my hostel. They served cheap, tasty German fare: i ordered Schnitzel with fried onions, and for dessert had some very tasty Apfelstrudel mit Vanillesauce. This was my first time trying the local beer, Kolsch, which was light and refreshing. As i was gathering my belongings to leave, I heard a strange noise coming from outside the establishment. Much to my surprise, I saw nothing less than 30 people, clad in red and white dress (the official colours of Cologne), resembling Napoleon begin marching through the entrance. One at a time they came through the door, like clowns unfolding from a VW bug; playing trumpet, trombone, cymbals, even a large bass drum. Slowly they filtered past my table, turned and went through the doors beside me, and began to congregated at the bar. All the while they were chanting and singing what i can only imagine to be a locally known anthem of some kind. Once everyone was inside, they ordered a round of beer, and continued singing and playing to their heart’s content. I was flabberghasted.

So, all in all – i had a great time. If you have the chance to visit, the Chocolate factory is also pretty cool, as is the Ludwig Museum. I took a whole bunch of pictures, which if you’re interested are on my Flickr account – just follow the link in the righthand sidebar. Aside from the photos, the coolest, and most valuable thing i gained from this trip, was the confidence to begin travelling alone. I really enjoyed myself, and now i feel comfortable enough in my own skin to seek out other destinations – and explore them solo. I think the more i push myself to do things outside my comfort zone, the happier i will ultimately feel anywhere i choose to be.

Could this be the coming about of my alter-ego; the secret persona of Aislinn Abroad finally surfacing? You tell me.

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” – Marcel Proust

bookless in berlin

“I forgot my book.”

Famous last words of someone who hates waiting, yet always seems to arrive in situations that require it unprepared. I’m currently sitting in Schoenfeld Flughafen (airport) waiting for a plane to Cologne, (or Köln in German) in an attempt to chase the sun Berlin has been without for roughly two weeks now, if not longer. This hasn’t happened since 1974, when the record of 11 days consecutively without sunshine was set. We are breaking records here people, each and every day

You would think coming from Canada I would be used to the dismal grey skies that accompany snowy weather. The truth is, despite it being significantly colder in the Great White North, we often have bright gorgeous sunny days – almost blinding in their pristine, sparkling…whiteness. The truth is, humans are simple creatures with primitive needs, sometimes. A lack of light has put me in a rather melancholy state of mind as of late – and having no distraction of work, as well as no time constraints, my sombre mood has gone unchecked. I hadn’t realized just how deeply i had been affected until a friend asked me what was wrong – and even then, i couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I felt generally restless, irritable, depressed and without direction. Without the sun as a focal point for my schedule, a vital guiding star – i felt lost.

Lucky for me, i am surrounded by people who care enough to ask what’s wrong, as opposed to simply chalking my behaviour up to sour apples – and who also have much more experience at solving the Berlin Blues than I. It was at this juncture, than an adventure was suggested.

“Blind booking” is an option on some airline websites for purchasing tickets for a flight. You select your current location, and a number of possible destinations are presented: my choices were  Bucharest, Cologne, Munich, Stockholm, Stuttgart, Zagreb, and Zweibrucken. You pay a flat fee, which is very reasonable, choose your arrival and departure dates and order your ticket. Not having a clue as to where you will end up going.

How exciting! I was tickled pink at the idea of planning an entire trip, completely unawares of my ultimate destination. Like spinning a globe and travelling wherever your finger lands. I explored the possible outcomes, decided i would be more than pleased with the majority of destinations just as long as it was a change, (hopefully for the warmer) and an adenture, above all! I booked my flight that very evening – and Köln it was.

This week will be filled with me recounting my Adventure – Eau du Cologne, through pictures and prose . This particular entry however – beginning with me waiting in an airport, interrupted by almost missing the last boarding call for my flight (Cologne, in a German accent sounds remarkably like Dublin. Go figure.), and concluding with rifling through the scribbled notes that survived – will end with the words of others.

“Be the change you wish to seek in the world.” – Mahatma Ghandi

 There is simply no use in being unhappy about the way things are, unless you are willing to take steps to improve, or at least alter the situation. Bring joy to your own world – build, mold, shape and break it until you find satisfaction and peace within it. No one is going to come along and do it for you.

On the flip side: loneliness, is an entirely different animal from being alone. At times i may feel terribly, painfully lonely. My current situation invites these kind of feelings quite easily: it is unfortunately the trade-off for my choice of lifestyle at this point in time. The moments when these emotions feel almost overwhelming, and i start doubting the choices i have made, as well as my overall sanity – I have only one thing to remember. I don’t have to do this alone.

I am asserting my independence, striking out, diving in: I am altogether one tough, ballsy cookie. This has been established. Even though i know i am capable of all these wonderful things – i need other people, no matter how i may try to deny it. For some reason, i have come to believe that i shouldn’t – that me, an only me has to be entirely self-reliant. At some point i stopped believing if i fell that somehow, someone would help me back up again if i couldn’t find the strength. Falling free and not finding a safety net too many times, has made me stop jumping. However, it sometimes takes the most simple of gestures to cause someone to find that courage again. The strength to try, and fail. The wisdom to know that asking for help takes more nerve than not. I am so blessed to be in the company of people who inspire me every day to strive towards that next leap.

“In everyone’s life at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who re-kindle the inner spirit.” – Albert Schweitzer

Thank you.