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2005-01-19 - 1:43 p.m. Exhausted I plunk down on one of the cozy chairs in the private Air France lounge and start to read the Berliner Morgenpost. After a long day of viewing apartment after apartment I am too tired to even read this paper and just let it rest on my lap. The first apartment I saw was stunning, brand new building, a gorgeous kitchen off the large living room, complete with counter to sit and eat at, large fridge (almost 1/3 the size of an American fridge), real oven, gas burners, microwave, and�yes�.it�s true�.a DISHWASHER! Not that I really have too many dishes, but damn was I excited to see that. It�s a few Euros more than I wanted to pay, but it is still half the price of my tiny, beautiful Paris flat and nearly twice the size. The next bunches of apartments were ok, well better than ok, but they weren�t as nice as the first. Finally I saw the one I had been sent pictures of, it was nice, the landlord was kind, and I could see myself living there. As I got back on the subway to cross the city again to see the last one, I realized I was about 2 hours early. I wasn�t hungry so I figured I would just shop to pass the time. When I got off the subway at Alexander Platz I found myself only blocks away form this last apartment, I decided to phone the woman and ask her if I could see it now, then I could take an earlier flight back to Paris. I found the building before I found a phone and was disgusted by the look of it. The agency had said it was a new building, but it was at least 10 years old, and though I had liked the fantasy of living in a high-rise (the apt available was on the 18th floor) I just hated the outside. It was a big square box holding at least 100 apartments�not for me at all. I pictured myself in the elevator; squeezed in with a bunch of other occupants, Turkish immigrants, old German widows, latch key teenagers, etc. The building just oozed depression and I kept thinking this is probably where the girl who played Christiane F ended up living. No, this building did not scream fresh, alive, and vibrant�it just screamed. Still unable to find a phone, I decide to just take the bus back to the airport and call her and cancel the appointment form there. Able to change to the earlier flight, I was once again in my own row on the plane. At least I was until after we were airborne, and then for some strange reason a man from the row ahead of me left his row and took the aisle seat on my row. At first annoyed, I quickly let apathy take over, he wasn�t bothering me. Stealing little glances at him I noticed he had an English paper, a French paper and a magazine I thought was Polish. Curiosity (and maybe boredom) taking over I asked if it was a Polish magazine thus opening �the dialog�. He actually turned out to be quite an interesting man, Polish, lives in Paris with his wife and comes to Berlin every few weeks where his company is headquartered. We spoke a lot about the city of Berlin, what it looks like, how it compares to other European cities, the difficulties with reunification; it was actually a nice conversation. In the end he invited me to meet him and his wife in Paris sometime, friendly and very bright, I liked him and chatting made the flight very quick. Landing in the dark, just as I had taken off that morning I exited the plane, said goodbye to my new friend and headed for the RER. And then the shit hit me full tilt boogie! I am leaving Paris. Wow, it was a sucker punch to the gut. Walking through CDG I was just overcome with feelings. This was no longer going to be MY airport; I was not going to live in Paris any longer. 45 minutes later I pop up from underground and at the top of the stairs of my Metro station. It is starting to rain, and the few blocks I have to walk seem to go on forever. Every restaurant is crowded, the little Arab market is still open and I stop and buy water. �Bonsoir Monsieur, ca va?� the man asks me. �Oui, ca va bien, et toi?� I answer. �Bien, bien, Merci� he says. How many more quick hellos with him before I leave, I wonder. I spent the day speaking GerEnch, although I would ask questions in German, I kept answering them in French, keeping most of the landlords laughing. I had had to ask for directions once, and the women didn�t even flinch, she just answered me in German, and I completely understood. When I do that in Paris the person will usually smile and then give me the directions in English, my accent so noticeable. In Berlin, one of the landladies even complimented me on my lack of a traceable accent, although I think she was just being kind. So strange, all of this. Trying to describe the difference of the cities to my Mom and friends in America the next day I come up with the perfect analogy. Paris is like San Francisco and Berlin is like Los Angeles. Most everywhere in Paris I walk to, unless I am running late. In Berlin, you must have a car, a bike or use the Trams, Subway or Suburban Trains. Paris is overwhelming with beauty on every corner. Berlin, you have to find the beauty, but it�s there. Paris was redesigned during Nap�s reign by Baron Haussman, and has managed to maintain that structure and elegance ever since. Berlin was leveled in the mid-forties and then split in two and is now back to being one, it�s not an easy task to rebuild two sides of a split city with drastically different concepts of aesthetics, then 50 years later try to merge them. Paris has very, very little graffiti. Berlin is literally covered in graffiti, it is part of its culture, and you can�t avoid it, period. Having lived in both San Francisco and Los Angeles I took some time to reflect on what it was like in both those paces, having called each of them home. When I think of my time in SF I am almost instantly nauseous; I hated it. When I think of LA I immediately think of home, of good friends, of great experiences, of growth, of ups and downs and ultimately a whole lotta good living. Although I did eventually learn to appreciate SF, after I had moved home to LA, and enjoyed many a weekend trips up to visit it just didn�t fit me (then, who knows about the future). LA was like a warm, cozy blanket, it enveloped me from the minute I landed there in Oct. �93 and cared for me like a parent. SF was a struggle, LA was the magic land. SF is full of people on the move and bright, sophisticated folks. LA is filled with hope, with aspiring everybodies. To me it seems everyone in SF knows their role and in LA you can change hats as often as you like and everyone thinks that is wonderful. SF is for the pragmatic. LA is for the dreamer. Paris, I realize, is for the pragmatic. Berlin is for the dreamer. I am a dreamer, and now a Berliner. Jetzt bin Ich Berliner. And I can actually feel it. � � 
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