The Ultimate Size Post

What should arrive, straight into Katchita's mailbox this very afternoon, but an important news flash for the differently-endowed among you. The sadly defunct TheyFit has been replaced by a new product called Coripa, which claims some 55 sizes. I quote: "Sie wissen es. Wir wissen es. Es gibt ihn nicht, den Einheitspenis." ! Germany, man, is where the condom size revolution is happening! Fantastisch! Coripa's manufacturer has worked, clearly, in close conjunction with Amsterdam's Condomerie, which has set itself up as the primary distributor. MySize will have a run for its money, but, I suspect, only among the most intrepid of men. A 110-plus-IQ may be required; as with TheyFit, there is a nearly indecipherable sizing system involving print-outs, cut-outs, and measurements long and wide, which must be accomplished while maintaining a certain (ahem) stiffness.

Your trusty blogger was, natürlich, on the look-out for the memorable TheyFit paper-cut warning. Here's the surest sign that Germans got ahold of this one and made it their own (I quote directly): "Please pay attention to sharp cutting edges during the application!" Hey, it could be worse, such as: "Please attend with closeness to edges during measurement application for to avoid sharp cutting of penile apparatus." Trust me; I've done more than enough proof-reading to know.

Given that, prior to leaving Spain, I dispatched my latest well-endowed specimen (a champion withholder per this post), I am staring squarely at another patch of sexless Berlin. So I'll have to leave it to you out there to test Coripa (how on earth did they come up with that uninspiring name?) for me.

Mauerfall--The Dominoes

In the cloud of chaos that surrounded my arrival in Berlin, my camera went missing, so these three Mauerfall posts won't have photos until those I talked into taking photos to E-mail to me actually do so. Ah well, it's already been photographed from all ends; Radio Free Mike makes it pretty clear how miserable the rain was. I'll just add that the temperature that day managed to rise from 5°C to, well, 6° (41 to 43°F for the Celcius-challenged among you). I gambled wrong and left my umbrella at home. Despite that, I was in a cheery mood, hanging out with one group of friends, then taking a sushi break at Potsdamer Platz (I do like the little place in the Pasarelle) for an hour to dry out a bit and finally hooking up with E. for the Mauer Mob. Seven hours all told, some of which were dry or only lightly drizzling. My secret is Glühwein and more Glühwein (the hot mulled wine that's ubiquitous in German outdoor winter markets).

At the start of my perambulations, I caught the dominoes before sundown, walked as much of the length as possible (things got complicated around the Brandenberger Tor stage area) and got myself pretty wet. When I braved the elements again, Mauer Mob had about 10K of the 33K needed and I had called it right -- we shored up the very end of Zimmerstraße where they ran out of people. It was neat to look all the way down the length of the street to Stresemanstraße and see the line of people. Then we walked to Postdamer Platz to check out how easy it would be to steal a domino. But we got there shortly before 9 PM and they hadn't even toppled that section. Unbelievably it was possible to get close enough to watch that happen (thanks to the rain, I'm sure). So I was pretty pleased with our timing.

The guards at the dominoes didn't seem to go for my request for a domino as a gift. [E. interpreted as I didn't know the German word for auction, meaning the dominoes will be sold off; for this the wall toppled??] But despite the rain, the guards smiled at my attempts. I remember this feeling, of knowing that I finally have Deutschland figured out. It is possible to crack that stony tough-man exterior. A super-extroverted gringa just in from Spain: that's the secret.

Mauerfall -- The Mob

There's still time to sign up for what will likely be the coolest thing to do on Mauerfall. That's as I'm assuming no one will be able to get within a half-kilometer of anywhere the dominoes are located, and a full kilometer within the stage where the celebration will be based. I'm in Group 137, at the corner of Zimmerstraße and Axel-Springer-Straße, which I chose as they need people to fill that section where the wall heads east, a bit north of the Jewish Museum and east of Checkpoint Charlie. So readers, hurry and register at MauerMob. There are 9000-plus registered at this time, but they need 33,000!

Mauerfall -- The Basics

More on this later as I landed in Berlin late last Thursday to find my sublet wasn't going to work out and have spent much of the weekend couch-surfing and apartment-searhcing. Still, on Saturday I managed quite the appropriate tourist promenade from Schlesisches Tor across Oberbaumbrücke to the East-Side Gallery (which I'd never walked before in its entirety). I popped over to Unter den Linden (renamed Brandenburger Tor S-/U-Bahn) and checked out the wall "dominoes" -- very cool. From the Bundestag to Postdamer Platz the wall has been effectively reconstituted (the dominoes will fall tonight around 7 PM if I'm not mistaken, so there are only short hours left to check them out). I followed them down to P-Platz and shouted across to the West, "Hallo West". This being Berlin, of course, no one blinked, much less shouted back. Of course this being German, I can never be certain if my errors in declination render me completely unintelligible. No matter. I smiled to myself, the shine of Spain still upon me.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

So, womyn, if you'll stipulate that a necessary pre-condition for membership in the Men's Club** is a cavernous void in the space where one might think a heart should be, then you'll undoubtedly, during unrealistically optimistic times in your life, have launched energetic searches for the few men that don't qualify for membership. Vigorous screening, my dears, is the order of the day. In my line of work we like to organize our thinking with two-by-two tables, so I've developed one especially for this problem. I always say my own personal
sample size is not sufficient to draw any conclusions, particularly as it's scattered through far too many countries and cultures. But I'd say the good sex/likeable category (A) is at no more than 10 to 20%, optimistically. I've spent far too much time in the second (total pig) column, I have to admit. There are various reasons for that, not the least of which is my terrible fondness for "social research", meaning figuring out what on earth makes these bizarre, penile-bearing creatures tick. But more importantly, perhaps, it's a man's job to convince a woman that he's really in the sweetheart column, and many of them do quite a good job at the beginning. So don't beat yourself up too much if you only discover after the fact what his true proclivities are, particularly if you're operating in a new culture far from home.

To help reduce the time spent in column 2, I've come up with a few infallible rules:
1) Pretty boys will ALWAYS be bad in bed. They just don't have to make an effort because most women will go wild over them all the same. They are nearly always strong practioners of the quantity over quality approach, and I'm certain that many never find out what they're missing. They're solidly in box D.
RULE #1: NEVER WASTE A MINUTE OF YOUR TIME WITH A PRETTY BOY.
2) The extraordinarily well-endowed, their attributes kept exclusively out-of-sight thanks to the stupidity of us over-socialized humans (a fact I lament every day), are in a special category. They're dangerous for two reasons: if you're having protected sex with them (and I really hope you are), it's almost a given that that very protection is turning them into porn stars (per The Size Post: Part I), forever hard, and you are dying of pleasure. I divide these men into two categories; there are those who just want to be loved for themselves, the poor dears, and not for their substantial members. Then there are those men who seem to see themselves as natural resources, to be carefully rationed. Despite the fact that you just had heavenly HOURS-long sex with this man, trust me on this, you're lucky if you get to see him more than once a month. Let's put it this way: the well-endowed are just not the giving type. They're almost always in box B.
RULE #2: A KING-SIZED DILDO WORKS JUST AS WELL AND IS ALWAYS BY YOUR SIDE.

My archetypal example of a well-endowed pretty boy (he's so Fraaahnch) makes me shudder in horror at the memory. It's a lethal combination. If I had followed rule number 1, of course, I would never have had this disagreeable experience... But again, operating outside my culture, diligently conducting social research, what was this girl to do? I can now confirm, this rule can be applied world-wide.

Coming soon: screening tests to protect against the well-endowed -- an unresolvable dilemma?

**As my ex always used to say, "one of our members will be contacting you soon".

The Size Post, Part II: The Solution

Having made the great sacrifice of getting my butt down to Valencia on a nearly all-expenses-paid trip (thanks to a fortuitous sugar-daddy opportunity) to do Important Public Health Research, I went personally to meet the man who may be responsible for saving lives among the differently endowed in Spain. As far as I've been able to confirm, he's the only supplier of a fitted condom in Spain. But I continued in my tireless pursuit of safety+pleasure for the men of Spain, as I have subsequently engaged in hours of intensive product testing. I can testify that I have convinced a confirmed condom dodger to dutifully don the right-fitting tool, who, once properly equipped, subjected these condoms to prolonged, rigorous and highly successful use. Ladies and gentlemen, a drum roll please as I introduce at least a partial solution to the size conundrum, thanks to top-notch German engineering (is there any better?): MY.SIZE.

A few more words on this product: it appears to be a simplified version of TheyFit, although it does not resolve the unfortunate assumption that equates length with width. The wider condom sizes are longer (perhaps too long, though better too long than not long enough). It's a good beginning though there's definitely room for improvement; I'm convinced it's still possible to develop a fairly simple scheme. My ideal would be two or three different lengths for each width, meaning a total of 12 or 15 sizes, which seems to me imminently more marketable than TheyFit's 70 or more.

MY.SIZE also provides a measurement guide that can be printed out, just like TheyFit, isn't that nifty? Then there's the handy educational My.Size video (for the moment available only in German) which engenders the strangest feeling in me -- could there be anything more droll than a German male armed with six differently-sized dildos providing condom use instructions?? Perhaps I'm most consternated by the fact that I understand virtually every word?!

To those otherly-endowed men in Spain: run, don't walk, to the source that will make your life much much more fun and imminently safer: RAMASAnitaria, www.ramasa.com.

The Size Post - Part I: The Challenge

Womyn, it will come as no surprise to you when I say, all men are simply not created equal. But it amazes me that they tend to have only a fuzzy idea of exactly where they fit in, at least those who don't indulge in sex with other men, sex clubs, etc. As ridiculous as it seems, I'm certain their main basis of comparison is the locker room. [Imagine!] Which must explain that old myth we always heard (at least in the U.S.) that, shall we say, members vary greatly in size when soft, but everything pretty much evens out when erect. HA! If experience with men from five continents and at least double as many ethnic groups counts for anything, then believe me, the only rule is there's no rule. And I'd have to say, Vive la Difference! How interesting would it be if every time we unwrapped the proverbial package, the gift inside were always the same?? Finally, for you men, yes, absolutely, there is such a thing as too big, and smaller is definitely nicer for certain pastimes.

But I digress, as the point of this post is to convey an IMPORTANT PUBLIC HEALTH MESSAGE. So, condoms being manufactured by men, and men being convinced they are all the same size (the porn star phenomenon aside, which we should all recognize as ridiculously aberrant examples of FAR TOO BIG, even if admittedly very nice to look at), I am going to say that in the 4 countries in which I've lived, one is very hard pressed to find more than, at most, two condoms sizes. This could be roughly equivalent to a shoe store offering a normal or extra large shoe. Except, unlike feet, members (ahem!) come in compact, all-around super-sized, it's true, but also short but stubby, long and lean, mushroom-shaped, pyramidal, and, well, I could go on and on. Larger by no means signifies longer AND wider and shapes vary to the point were I've even seen one that BENDS half-way down.

Womyn, I used to be completely hard-line, with no sympathy for men who tried to get out of using condoms: What sort of idiots were these, I wondered? But having been hit in Europe with an unusual run of the amply endowed, for whom an XL is not nearly large enough (doh, no, please don't try to STRETCH OUT THAT CONDOM!!!), I've actually come to sympathize. Seeing a man squashed like a sausage into a contraption that robs him of any chance of pleasure has silenced my self-righteousness. About a year ago I started looking around for a solution, and hit upon the intriguing but impossibly complicated TheyFit which had 70 sizes. The sizing system was completely occult (for example, B66 or E17), requiring one to previously print out a template and measure in the privacy of one's own home. Meant, undoubtedly, to assuage the feelings of the more modest-sized man, this company seems to have gone spectacularly out of business -- see the website of Amsterdam's Condomerie. People lucky enough to have sampled TheyFit (I was not) still lament its demise in various blogs. Condomania.com still carries what remains, presumably the less popular sizes.

I am happy to report, dear readers, that I've recently taken up this question much more seriously and launched a market-research campaign, so that those of you confronted with lovers of unusual endowment will no longer have to go through condom wars. I'll begin with my own personal experiences. First, there's Germany, not typically a country prone to exaggeration, which offers, funnily enough, the Condomi XXL; note that this is longer (200mm) but NOT wider (its 54mm is a pretty standard width). An XL in Spain (such as Adapta, 57mm x 195mm) gives only a bit more width. The U.S.' Trojan Magnum is meant for large men but its tapered shape is a bit of a puzzle. It would be perfect for the large mushroom-shaped man (the stats I've found on the web indicate it's 64mm tapering to 57mm). But for a man with a more uniformly cylindrical shape, it's, well, a cock ring. Stay tuned for more on my search for the perfect condom brand...

Give Me Fever

Just as I re-surfaced from a wicked heat wave (nine days of 97°F/36°C plus or minus 1°C) in Madrid, after three days of practically arctic temperatures (no higher than 90°/32°), I was hit with another birthday and rising temperatures yet again, up to 35° yesterday. Slogging my way through the birthday aftermath, I'm contemplating the feverish dreams my brain has seen fit to devise for me over the last couple of weeks. Now I'm no Jungian, and it's undoubtedly for the best that I hardly ever remember my dreams. But this fitful sleeping in hot and stuffy little rooms is a perfect dream factory, and it's very difficult to avoid the conclusion that my subconscious, at least, is simply not signed onto the fact that I live in Madrid now.

All three dreams have centered around Berlin, and two of the three, unsurprisingly, involved lusciously cold weather. In one, I seemed to have misplaced a lover somewhere in another country, and turned up another, ill from alcoholism; all the while the Lidl/Kaiser's/Robben und Wientjes area north of the Prenzlauerberg S-Bahn had turned into an ice-skating pond (doesn't that sound great?)! In the second, that previously misplaced lover inexplicably turned up with another woman on a bus in the German countryside, while I had apparently become invisible to him and his friends. Before I had time to become too distressed about this, the bus stopped and dumped us all out somewhere well outside of Berlin, with lots of snow and no clear way to get back to town. To put the icing on the cake, I was completely on my own while everyone else, somehow, miraculously had cars. OK, so, angst and displacement, perfectly explainable, particularly as I'd seen the very very eccentric Anti-Christ (Lars von Trier's latest) the night before the second dream.

But it's the one from last night that has me freaked out, as Mr. Not-a-Gentleman, about whom I hadn't thought for months, somehow replaced Sergi López (picture me wailing in distress) in a faintly-related and definitely sexual reprise of Isabel Coixet's movie, Map of the Sounds of Tokyo, that I just saw last night. López, one of my favorite actors since the oh-so-sexy Une Liaison Pornographique, was also fabulous in Dirty Pretty Things and Harry, Un Ami qui Vous Veut du Bien. In Tokyo, he meets a Japanese lover weekly at a "love hotel" with thematic rooms, Sergi Lopez's character's choice being one done up as a train car (I do admit to that being one of my own particular, ahem, preferences, as well). I can't recommend the movie (for me the plot's too weak), but there is one particular scene where López comes up for air, after pleasuring his co-star's character, and, with the coyest look possible, acts out removing a pubic hair from his tongue. Fascinating concept, that: a French woman directing a Spanish star in a scene that pointedly features (gasp) oral sex au naturel. I do believe it should be required viewing for all Spanish adult males in 2009. Oh my poor, poor brain, please try again tonight, to get it right.

The Opposite Sex

Americans, of course, are terribly fond of examining in obsessive detail the damage our parents did to us and Germans aren't far off the same mark. But most Spaniards seem to genuinely like their parents. One will find children happily living at home well into their 30s, until they're ready to marry, at which point the old song seems to apply: "I want a girl just like the girl who married dear old dad". As I was escaping the heat in Madrid by visiting Rosa, we had time for several intensive days of full-out feminist thinking and arrived at a wonderful epiphany. It's the relationship one had with the parent of the opposite sex that is definitive in determining one's romantic trajectory. Thus, my close relationship with my father ensured I am capable of strongly bonding to men in extended relationships. My friends who didn't have that tend toward unsatisfactory and/or truncated flings and don't make it much beyond two or three years at most. And just think of Germany: so many men with German mothers).

I'm sorry to say, then, that things look grim for those of you who had fucked-up parents of the opposite sex. But don't think I'm home free just because I had a good father. It seems pretty apparent that I am incapable of being attracted to a nice normal son of a nice normal mother. Why? Hell if I know! But Project Mind Made Up will serve as a useful test and is already generating interesting data. In the meantime, Rosa, you and I clearly have more work to do, before we get it all figured out.

Request for Proposals

This post is for those of you men from whom I haven´t managed to walk away completely and who, despite your extremely emotionally-unavailable selves, can´t help but be in contact with me, no matter how sporadically. It´s been two and a half years now that I´ve been on my own -- plenty long enough for this daddy´s girl to say, I proved I can make it alone. And more than enough to know that I don´t much care for solitude. So make me an offer -- virtually everything´s open for negotiation except what I need to do to maintain my residency here in Europe. I´m not looking for the love of my life -- the last time it came close to doing me in. I don´t want the world; I´ve had more than enough in the past, and it becomes harder and harder to bear each time the world falls apart. No more looking back and realizing another decade of my life is gone; I want a couple of years that are simple, peaceful, with enough drama to keep it interesting, but no more. I want the day-to-day, I want you tossing the salad as I bake the bread, I want to wipe your brow when you´re feverish and you to run down for Motrin when I can´t seem to make it off the couch. I want to hear about your day, to celebrate little triumphs together and soothe away each others' setbacks. I want someone by my side who's as out-of-place as I am in these ridiculously large brains of ours. I want to feel our way together, toward our own truths, because the rules have never been made for the likes of us. My mind´s made up: I won´t be alone another Christmas.

Berlinostalgia

As my kvetching about the glacial pace of my Spanish visa proceedings has taken on some pretty apparent tones of desperation, the Director has asked me if I really think Spain is the country for me. And he's asked not once but twice, which, coming from a German, qualifies as a really unforgivable invasion of privacy but which I, as American, take as a possible indication that this acquaintanceship could in, oh, let's say 10 years or so, become a lovely friendship. The word's still out on which country I should (in a perfect world without boundaries) be in, but practical reasons have made it Spain for the time being.

And so, as of today I no longer officially live in Berlin; I've abgemeldet (un-registered) from the residency list. I'll admit it, I dragged it out until practically the last minute: my residency permit in Germany expires at the end of this month. I'm feeling inexplicably sad and nostalgic. A year and a half ago I was so eagerly making plans to get the hell out and start my exciting new life in Spain. But maybe, just maybe, this will be the last time in my life that I indulge in thinking that the next move or change is the one that will finally make my life perfect.

So, until I give Madrid exactly as much time as I did Berlin, I'm withholding judgment. Given that I'll be back in Berlin in November for at least a month, maybe more, that means it won't be until at least a year from now that I weigh in on Berlin vs. Madrid. Stay tuned...

Claustrophobia

Some days there’s just not enough strength of will, spirit, or plain old heart to get past the fact that one’s completely alone in a strange land, and the thought comes to mind, that I could fall over dead and days could go by, and when they did find me, I’d certainly end up in the public morgue then probably slapped into a cheap coffin and stuffed into a grave in the section of the paupers cemetery reserved for the unknown and unloved. And when this happens I always swear to myself that I’ll put an emergency contact card in my wallet. But the only person who’s at all appropriate to put on that card at this point in my life is my mother, and that’s right, of course my mother should know if I fall over dead in a foreign country… And then I have two options, either I contemplate how long she’s likely to even be around, after which there's no one who’s appropriate, or I go back to worrying the question of what to do with the body: let’s say it’s at the public morgue, maybe they put it in cold storage, but then she’s supposed to do what, fly over here and somehow take charge?? Or is there some sort of service for shipping bodies overseas?? I suppose there must be, but this is all getting rather out of hand when really all I want is to be cremated. Which circles me back to thinking, good god, how much of the body would even be left, it could be quite some days before anyone notices I have, well, expired. OK, sure, that had more currency in the winter in Berlin, but now in the blistering Madrid summer, it probably wouldn’t be long… And with that I'm tidily back to convincing myself cremation's the only logical option as I make a mental note to tell her to have it done locally, since something about the idea of my decayed body taking wing just freaks me out.

At any rate, what I’m really trying to say is that I’ve always been the kind of woman who needed that emergency contact to be a man, and there is no man now and there hasn’t been for two and a half years, and consequently that emergency contact card has not and probably never will make it into my wallet, because dying an anonymous immigrant in a strange place with no lover to mourn my loss (and preferably throw himself on my [newly] dead and still [reasonably] attractive body) is a fate so grim that I have to push it aside and mentally pick myself up and shake myself off, cursing whatever horrid bureaucrat of the moment has gotten me into such a state (in this case it was finding out that the last step to process my residency isn't until October 23, meaning I can’t leave the country for what will total 6 months, which throws me into a claustrophobic panic), tell myself I have it a HELL of a lot better than 95% of the other people who come from truly difficult situations and aren’t affluent and light-skinned and American and close to fluent in Spanish. Yes, I have it so good, but I’ll tell you I always remember life would be so much easier if I could be, just, well, normal, with a beautiful house and beautiful children and a beautiful job and beautiful SUVs parked in my driveway in the good ol' USA, with, above all, no need to think so damn much, then yeah, life would be just great.

Lost in China

If you'll stipulate to the fact that we are all the centers of our own universes, then it should come as no surprise that I am the most interesting person that I know. Recently, however, I've had the uncomfortable feeling that I've been surpassed, at least temporarily, by the Lively German. Should I be blogging about his Great Adventure rather than whining about the lack of initiative on the part of the local wildlife in various European capitals? I am tempted since, aside from mass E-mailings every week or ten days, he's not doing it for himself...

In the interest of discretion, I'll limit myself to the memories and imaginings that his trip stirs up. From Delhi (where he stayed with my old friend R.) he bussed to his starting point in Dehradun and in less than a month, he'd made it the roughly 1500 kilometers to Kathmandu without incident. But not surprisingly, upon reaching the border with Tibet, since he was neither part of an official guided group nor had he obtained special permission, the Chinese turned him away unceremoniously. This entailed a return to Kathmandu and a whole series of rearrangements to his itinerary, that rather put me in mind of my own blunder trying to leave Costa Rica for Nicaragua in 1986. In my defense, I was very young and it was the first time I'd traveling as an adult outside of my country (although I was accompanied by my theoretically-more-experienced but in reality dead-weight boyfriend who most unfortunately turned into my best-unmentioned ex-husband).

Now then, it was the Costa Ricans not the Nicaraguans who were the problem; hindered by pigeon Spanish, we finally garnered that we'd failed to purchase exit stamps needed to leave the country. The existence of said exit stamps were, of course, a complete surprise to us, but less surprising was that they could only be purchased at the nearest state capitol, which meant back-tracking well into Guanacaste. My well-experienced traveler brain looks back now thinking, hmmm, what would have been the chance of bribing whichever official stood in my way? But I was still (relatively) pure at that point and said thought never crossed my mind.

The bus company unloaded our luggage and dumped it by the side of the road at this shitty border outpost in the middle of a war zone (remember: 1980s, Sandinistas). We probably looked pretty forlorn -- two sweet young things -- and as the bus pulled slowly away, a journalist who'd been traveling with us since San José slipped us $20 worth of colones through the window. [OK, well, maybe he did it before getting back on the bus, but somehow it's more dramatic this way.] Those colones certainly came in handy as we'd of course spent up all ours before leaving and had little chance of finding anyone to accept our travelers checks until Monday morning. I always remember that guy with gratitude and have returned the favor more than once. In that vein, before the Lively German left Berlin, I slipped a few bills into his luggage where I knew he'd find it after it was too late to do anything but scold me long-distance. At which point I told him not to fret, but to put it away somewhere as emergency money. One never knows...

But I digress; back to China where the Lively German, then, was apparently unable to charm or bribe his way over the border. [Would a German ever actually bribe?? Would a Chinese official ever accept a bribe?] He ended up flying to Chengdu in the middle of Szechwan province where he seemed daunted at the spiciness of the food (I drool at the thought of it) but pleased with how prettily-shod the women are. After making it into Aba well up on the plateau that continues west to Tibet, he's been out of touch now for half a month. As he must be somewhere in the wilds of Quinghai Province [sans riots? sans floods?], I've had to rely on flights of imagination, picturing him camping amongst Tibetan or Mongolian herders, his lime tent blending between their white and brown ones and the green highland grasses. Or I imagine he's gorging on lamb and dumplings and noodles to keep those biking legs in shape. I hope he'll make his date tomorrow, to meet up with the requisite (and very expensive) guided tour, which is the only way he's permitted to do the Golmud to Lhasa leg (a mere 1200 kilometers planned for 3 weeks). Here's hoping he'll manage a phone call to one of his biggest fans currently in not-so-exciting Madrid. She'll be waiting for it, likely sipping gazpacho, in between dashing up to La Rioja for wine tasting or over to the Camino de Santiago to expiate a sin or two.

Clean Break

If timing is everything, then I'm not doing too badly -- certainly running well above 50-50 in the clean-break game. There's nothing like it when it's done right, to yield a wistful memory of an ex-lover, a little smile as one thinks, ah yes, now that was something. It's always so decadent to be able to add, with a rueful shake of one's head, that, sadly, it ended badly. The trick is to time it for when the initial lust has just peaked and started its down-swing, before two people become too comfortable with each other and the pettiness begins. I've always thought that it's OK to be a little in love, but just a little. That bears careful watching and a lot of skill, that being just a little in love.

Recently my ex has declared that he no longer feels a burning passion for me, news that has somehow shocked me to the core. By my reaction, I clearly see that I thought he would desire me forever. Isn't every man with whom I've made a break (clean or otherwise) perpetually lusting after me? I certainly thought so, up to a week ago. But my ex quite startled me by stating the simple truth (that so few men seem to grasp), which is that synergy is everything, and when the energy is abruptly removed on one end, well, sooner or later that's the end of it. And preferably sooner. Because, the very worst, the perfect opposite of a clean break, in my experience, are the cases when things ended badly but one talked oneself into thinking it might be possible to recapture that old magic. There can be something downright icky about this; it has never not been a mistake.

Clean breaks have become a bit harder these days for me, I'm afraid; I'm certainly aware that something's changed in me. The messy-to-beat-all-messy break (with my ex) has sent me shying down a new path, it would seem. The emotionally ambiguous, the chronically uncommitted -- and particularly those who hide their pathology well -- seem to hold a strong appeal. The days of having things, well, "settled" seem to be over. But I've made a pact with my ex -- we're back to the days of no more suffering fools gladly. And so in the last week I've ditched two more men, who seem to be under the misguided impression that they can just coast along with me. Case #1: after more than 3 weeks of dead silence on his end, during which I single-handedly moved myself to Spain, found housing, battled with ridiculous immigration paperwork, and managed a half-hearted attendance at DocumentaMadrid, I discovered *I* was supposed to be in charge of communication with the man Berlin threw at me at the last minute. My response? "It is not only the duty of a gentleman, but, one might venture to guess, also his great pleasure, to inquire after the health and well-being of a lady, as often and as immediately as possible. That is even more pertinent given the difficult circumstances which confronted this particular lady at this particular time." His abject apologies, to be accepted between the hours of 14-17, Mondays thru Thursdays, have not, to-date, been forthcoming. And he, I'm sad to say, was to be my evidence that there was more than one can-do German in Berlin. As the Lively German (who, I might add, has managed to call me twice since my move to Madrid) should by now be over the Nepalese border into Tibet, this means Berlin has exactly zero at this moment.

Definitely a more sinister commentary on Spanish manhood (or what passes as such), the second case involved Mr. Boy Toy from back in December. Did he call or Email me to greet me when I arrived? Did he offer any help with house-hunting or moving? Why no, actually, he got the brilliant idea to send not one but two SMSs, spaced at the particularly irritating interval of 11 minutes, at four in the morning last weekend. This, I've decided, is what passes as a mating call among Spanish men of a certain age. I don't suppose I need to outline my withering response (particularly as it was rendered in Spanish).

My ex used to say, semi-accusingly, that everything with me was a test. I prefer to think of it as "social research". But yes, of course we women are testing, and the more seasoned we are, the more refined our tests. After all, it's our evolutionary duty. Even still, I do admit, that I sometimes yearn for those days long past, when somehow everything seemed to just flow, as we jumped in with no thought for the future, because, quite simply, we had no pasts.

Expiation

And now, a special post for the Catholic among you. Mr. Incredible is expiating his sins. Or so he says. When I saw him a couple of days ago, it had been six months since he cut things off with me, shock-and-awe style. Surgically, one could say. The putative cause of this military action? An ex-girlfriend. Who had just flown in from Argentina. And installed herself in his apartment. Against his will. Without (if you'll excuse the crudity) putting out. Which has continued during this entire time. SIX MONTHS. A man and a woman living together, like a pair of monks, incensed and inflamed to a level which, as he describes it, can hardly be humanly bearable. Particularly given that, the last I was in a position to check, there was only one bed in his apartment...

Gentle readers, you will undoubtedly ask, Katchita, were you born yesterday? To which I would respond, Does it seem that way? Well, no, of course not, so I immediately asked what those sins might be. Twice. But sadly no details were forthcoming. My mind has wandered, of course, as is its wont. Just think of the possibilities: monstrous sex crimes that I don't even want to spell out (of course) top my list. Followed closely by the most interesting of the Ten Commandments. Murder. Mayhem. Adultery. Then there are the Seven Deadly Sins. I end with the Golden Rule, hmmm. Well, masochism has never been my thing but my imagination is certainly sufficiently ample to grasp the concept. So yeah, the possibilities are virtually endless. Another case where I will probably never know the true story. But probably the one in my mind is more interesting.

The Only Town in Germany

I've been asking ex-pats in Berlin about what it is, exactly, that's special about this town. It's difficult to put a finger on it exactly, but Berlin has a funny way of wending its way into the hearts of those of us who don't belong anywhere, exactly. When I moved to Berlin, I will admit to something approaching outright prejudice against German culture and language. My move was completely expedient: I absolutely had to get the hell out of the U.S. and between professional contacts and funding opportunities, it pretty much had to be Germany. I hardly thought twice about Cologne (the other possibility); there was really only Berlin. When I arrived, my German vocabulary consisted of exactly six words: bitte, danke, Pfefferminztee and Mineralwasser mit gas, which was all I'd managed to learn in a 10-day visit in 2003. OK, make it ten words, as I'm sure I knew Mein Kampf, Blitzkrieg and Luftwaffe as well. They weren't going to be of much use to me, of course, particularly as I doubt I even knew what they meant other than Bad Things Germans Did. It wasn't until two years later that The Lively German pointed out to me Kampf is struggle; I'd simply never bothered to ask myself what it might mean. German was "that Nazi language" to me, and my clearly formulated intent my first year was to give the impression of a nice but linguistically-challenged woman who simply could not manage to learn it. This may be possibly the only example in my entire life when I've qualified as sufficiently incurious to border on bigoted.

So, that's how I ended up in Berlin, but after that first year, why did I stay on? The choice between more part-time work in Berlin or going back to Bush's U.S. was pretty clear. It was only a half-year later that I took off for Spain, convinced that I was through with Berlin. But I kept having to going back to Germany for visa matters, then was hired for another part-time gig, and somewhere in that time I realized I actually could speak some rudimentary German (how did that happen?) and also that Berlin was slowly seducing me. At that point the stage was set; all it took was a German as tenacious as he is whacked to break through to the side of me that is always there, voracious, insatiable, ready to gobble up knowledge. I am as discomfited by looking back at my petty close mindedness as I am amused by the fact that in the last four months I've progressed from little better than beginner to a solid intermediate level in German.

Back to Berlin, then. I shared this last sublet in Prenzlauerberg with the most perfectly uncomplicated Swiss guy one could imagine (he had all of one moving part). He's the reason I know that Berlin's charm only works with freaks and misfits. I asked him several times when he'd be back. He was always completely uninterested: "oh no, there are far too many other cities to see in this lifetime." I can't disagree with him about so many other cities, of course, but it was interesting to see Berlin was completely lost on him. And this despite the last four weeks of as close-to-perfect weather as can be.

As for me, Berlin was up to its usual tricks. In the last week she tossed out, of all things(!), another German man with energy and initiative. That means there are TWO in Deutschland; Mein Gott, what on earth am I supposed to make of that?!? I returned to Madrid yesterday with that old familiar what-the-hell-am-I-doing-moving-yet-again feeling. Have I gone from sexless Berlin to sexless Madrid?! It's 10°C (18°F) colder in Madrid than Berlin as I write, and I have not ventured out of my new sublet today. Berlin -- so hard to love, but so hard to leave -- ich vermisse Dich.

Chorin Chorale

The visit to Chorin in March, Lively German-style, meant tagging onto someone else's Deutsche Bahn group ticket, in this case the Brandenburg ticket, and only paying a couple of euros for each of us each way. Of course this takes a fair degree of hutzpah and luck, both of which the Lively German has in spades. This is easier to do as a single person traveling to and from larger population centers, but it's a great way to beat the system when it works. On the way back, the conductor wasn't far behind us as we searched for and found a group of three on its way back to Berlin.

Our visit to the monastery coincided with that of a Hamburg choir, which, as soon as they found an acoustically perfect room, burst into song. I was, quite simply, spellbound. There is nothing more captivating than stumbling into completely unexpected beauty. It didn't take much mangled but enthusiastic German to talk them into an encore. The complete truce that the L.G. and I had declared, combined with the immediate rush of endorphins that choral music dumps into my bloodstream, must have meant we were both emitting unusually strong peace-and-tranquility vibes. After a walk around the nearby pond into which the L.G. immediately plunged (that German suffering thing, don't you know), we were both chilled through. This nearly perfect day was topped off as we returned to the monastery for our bikes, struck up a conversation with a retired pastor who guides monastery tours, and were invited to his house for tea in front of his spectacular Ofenheizing.

Biosmokes

When I first moved to Berlin two and a half years ago and discovered my favorite pool, the Europa Sportspark at Landsberger Allee, there was a cigarette vending machine right out front, all the better to get budding athletes hooked on nicotine as early as possible. I can't say exactly when it disappeared; perhaps it was a result of Berlin's smoking ban, phased in during the second half of 2008. But I'm happy to report I've found another one in the most unlikely of places -- Lehde, in the middle of the Spreewald bioreserve. Lehde is the cute little town about 2 kilometers east of Lübbenau via the footpath that winds through the various canals and wetlands. This was another pleasant day trip just before Easter and I highly recommend the canoe/kayak rentals. We only did the basic one-hour route but I definitely want to go back some other time for the longer two- or four-hour loop. It's simply too too precious!

Important New Flash for Men

OK, you men, I know that female behavior probably seems completely arbitrary to you, but it's really not that hard to figure out, with just a little thought. Has it really not occurred to you that roughly 15% of the time, a woman between the ages of, say, puberty and 50, is having her period and no woman chooses to initiate sexual relations under such conditions!?! I mean, what if you're one of those guys who's totally icked out by such things, which is a definite majority of you, in my experience? Why would we want that funny look (some of) you get on your faces to be our memory of The First Time? We can add to that another 25%, at least, for the times when a woman certainly never thought things would go quite as far as they have and, in all seriousness, 1) hasn't shaved in the various places she feels she should--first sexual encounter and all--and 2) has on old shapeless underwear that is not in the least sexy! Hey men, we women have been brainwashed (just as you have) into thinking these things are important and you really have to allow for them, unless you can convey to us with overpowering animalistic energy that you couldn't care less if we just spent the entire last year in the Amazonian jungle sans soap! So that means chances are high that you'll need at least a second, and probably a third, date. After all, no decent woman has sex before the third date, am I right? Just a simple tip, courtesy of Sexless Berlin.

Day Tripping

It seems I'm finally moving away from Berlin -- after two years and seven months I will abmelden (un-register) with the German authorities, as my Spanish residency will require me to register there. I'm feeling quite wistful about this, and as seems to have become quite a pattern with me, I don't seem to be able to make a completely clean break. I'm storing some winter things in the Lively German's cellar as I doubt I'll be able to resist coming back for the 20th anniversary of the Wall-Fall in November. That's how I justify it to myself, anyway, as to why I'm only planning on being in Spain for the next six months.

Another sign I may actually really be leaving, though, is I've gotten serious about doing tourist things I never bothered with as a Berlin resident. Over the last couple of weeks I organized two Toytown outings: Poland (I'd never gone, even though it's all of one hour away) and Spreewald southeast of Berlin (I'd been once years ago but hadn't allowed enough time to hang out). I've always kept my distance as Toytowners can be a snide, nasty bunch, but the Berlin-Brandenburg special train tix are really cheap when one travels in a group of five, and Toytown's the quickest way to round up the necessary bodies. Both times I was lucky to find some nice people; one very cool couple went along on both trips.

Poland was Szczecin (included, incredibly, in the Brandenburg ticket and accessible via several DeutscheBahn non-stops daily). This wonderful weather found us sitting at a café on the Oder river drinking Starka vodka and eating pierogis (a delicious food that for some reason I'd never sampled before in my life). The next time I'm in Berlin I'll either have to hop over to the Polish side of Frankfurt-an-Oder or find a good Polish ex-pat restaurant here in the city. These pierogies are not to be missed! Although Szczecin is said to not measure up to other cities a bit further into Poland, in addition to the river, it had a quaint, if small, old town and I was quite taken with the green ceramics decorating the red brick buildings. I found Szczecin to be a cheap and easy introduction to the country. The direct train back to Berlin was a peaceful two-hour ride, which I made with a bottle of Starka vodka nestled in the seat beside me. I'm leaving it here, untouched, to celebrate the Mauerfall anniversary.

The (Anti) Monogamy Post, Part I

There's no escaping that the secret to my (past) success with men was my ex. A woman who's getting (most) of her needs met elsewhere is virtually irresistible to men. I found it very interesting, actually, that most men are surprisingly good at playing second fiddle for an alpha female. Only once in ten years did I have someone (quite a bit younger) fall a bit too hard, although I do remember one other relationship where, due to circumstances, and by unspoken agreement, we didn't declare ourselves. Living the alpha-male <---> alpha-female <---> beta male(s) construct for nearly 15 years now has been wonderfully instructive. All in all, I've found many men are very good at not pair-bonding. I'm virtually certain this is something deeply embedded in human sexuality. After all, why not engage in a little beta-male behavior on the side, as long as it takes little effort? It can only improve a man's chances at passing along his genes.

The interesting thing is that the opposite seems to be completely untrue: very few women can deal with their partners' extracurricular activities and precious few seem to be any good as beta females. I simply can't make up my mind if the alpha-female <---> alpha-male <---> beta female(s) construct fails so dramatically in European and American (including Latinamerican) culture because of socialization or if it's something that runs deeper, at the bioanthropologic level. The only men who I've found to be the least bit adept at managing relations with multiple women are Nicaraguans (this could possibly be expanded to Latinamericans in general, but I hesitate to do so as I haven't spent enough time in enough countries). What's the secret to their success? I'd have to say it's an uncanny ability to keep extra-curricular activities completely hidden. And this brings me to one of the strangest things about humans: we are the only species to hide our sexual behavior, unique within the animal world. Is this for women's benefit? I really wonder if might be.

I'm certain that I can hardly think of anything more contrary to women's best interests than socially-dictated monogamy. The extremely long time that it takes to properly raise a human child virtually guarantees a mother will need multiple protectors, and I believe it is a fundamental drive within us women to seek as many as possible, both alpha and beta. And how exactly does a woman do so? By convincing as many partners as possible that her offspring are theirs as well. And how can she best do this? By having surreptitious sex. I'm constantly flummoxed that, no matter how good I am as a modern woman in taking care of myself, I always feel a deep, visceral need for a protector. Or two, or three! So you men, let me cite Henry Miller, Nexus, who got it completely right: "A woman, when truly grateful for the attentions she receives, nearly always offers her body." It's really that simple. And that's why Mr. Berlin, Mr. Europe, and Mr. Germany just won't work, at all, ever.

And He's Off...

With the usual heavy lifting attendant upon an international move (or in this case a partial move for most of the rest of the year), the Lively German is on his way to his Great Adventure. After spending Thursday and the first part of Friday helping with any and all last-minute moving, organizing and errands, I ended up at the Hauptbahnhof with 5 minutes to spare and him realizing that he had brought no water at all. He was on the top level of tracks, the stores are 2 or 3 levels down, and it isn't easy moving through the Hauptbahnhof, unfortunately -- the elevators are worthless and the escalators hopelessly truncated. There were no large bottles of water in sight (Germans seem to subsist on half a liter per day) so in desperation I grabbed several, blatantly cut in front of everyone waiting to pay with a thousand pardons, explaining my friend was leaving in 5 minutes. Then I ran as fast as I could, shouldering people aside in my best imitation of a Hollywood chase scene, down the main hall, up the escalator, around the turn, halfway back to the center of the hall, up the center escalator to the tracks and out of sheer luck (the Lively German is the luckiest man I know), he was hanging out the door of a car just ahead. I ran up, threw myself and the water at him as the door was sliding shut on us; the door backed off, of course (German safety engineering, don't you know), giving me time for a big dramatic kiss and hug before it slid shut again, with me blowing exaggerated kisses as the train drew away. I do SO like dramatic send-offs, and this one simply could not have been better!

Afterward, The Painter -- who had volunteered his car to schlep the 35 kilos of baggage, which the Lively German apparently intends to cycle over the Himalayas -- and I took a deep breath, then another, looked at each other and shook our heads. I said, in English, "I need a drink". We ended up at his house toasting the Lively German with a bottle of very, very nice Ukrainian vodka. The sun was shining fiercely as I walked up Bernauerstraße, past the Mauer (Wall) memorial which they've expanded since the last time I was there. The cherry blossoms are out in force from Prenzlauer Allee to Mauerpark, there's not been a drop of rain for 12 or 14 days (I've lost count) and scarcely a cloud in the sky the whole time, all of which is forecast to continue until my departure. All's right in Berlin, schlampe in her Easter finery, and, once again, sexless.

Mr. Germany

There is some possibility I was not in my right (or full) mind while composing the Mr. Europe post, as I was feverish with a flu at the time. And I most certainly cannot be held responsible for performing it in person, with various flourishes and embellishments, several hours later, at the Lively German's birthday dinner. Really, how could I possibly resist, as the sole woman there with five men, four of them German? Reports of it are apparently making their way throughout Berlin, as last night The Director was able to repeat some of it word-for-word (or at least the most important word: WANK). I do always encourage active audience participation, which in that case led me to a critically important discovery. One of my victims (I mean, audience) described his approach to seduction as "posing". Well, my friends, I was beside myself with joy at this hugely revealing remark, which has increased my understanding of the German male roughly infinitely (from zero to 0.001).

Last night The Director and his brother provided me the opportunity for a short reprise of the Mr. Europe performance and I was able to gather that The Director believes wanking happens not before but after the outing in which the typical German male interacts with, well, no one at all. [Posing, don't you know.] The Director's sample scenario, as far as I was able to make out, is this: German man spots desirable barista; does nothing (oops, I mean, poses). German man returns following night and poses to beat the band in a corner of the bar. German man returns a third night and observes object of desire depart with another man. German man returns home to punish her (I am very clear on this exact phrase, delivered with a giggled insistence that this "punishment" will involve hands places chastely ABOVE the covers). Honestly, I'm shaking my head: will I ever understand These German Men?!?

No matter, at this point we were extremely well lubricated, having been at an Arsenal screening of a particularly incomprehensible film from Thai artist/director Apichatpong Weerasethakul. Every time I've been there this year, they've had wine flowing freely after the screenings (they are really doing something right when it comes to grantsmanship). We decided to shut that party down, and were in the process of finishing off various partially poured bottles of wine when it occurred to the brothers to ride the glass elevators up and down the Filmhaus' seven floors. I went along to test whether drunkenness trumps vertigo (it does) but decided I'd be more comfortable riding on a bar stool on which I proceeded to plant myself within the elevator as I continued sipping wine. In my mind this was great performance art, but, sadly, at that point, we were rather indulgently shown the way out. Bicycling back very late to Prenzlauerberg via Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom back-lit in blue from the Radisson's agressive neon lights, I had another Berlin moment. I told The Director's brother, "Sometimes I just love this place". Na ja, it must have been the alcohol doing the talking.

Berlinale Recycled

NEWS FLASH -- Berlinale must-see films currently playing in Berlin: Deutschland '09 and Hayat Var (more below).

Immediately after the Berlinale, the original-version theaters in Berlin screen the pre-determined "hits", such as Milk (definitely worth seeing for Penn's performance but 1984's documentary, Times of Harvey Milk, was better) and The International (total crap). A month or two later a few of the more alternative films from the festival might cycle through, per the incomprehensible hit-or-miss system that seems to govern film distribution. I was hoping Human Zoo would be one of these, but I don't see any evidence of it in the two cities I watch film: Berlin and Madrid.

Another film I'm pulling for is Hashmatsa (Defamation), the best documentary I saw at the Berlinale, but it will, I'm betting, be a bit difficult to track down. My U.S. readers can see it soon at the Tribeca film fest's international documentary competition
and I'm guessing it will show up on the Jewish film festival circuit this summer. Israeli director Yoav Shamir asks two very important questions: does the extremely powerful Jewish American anti-defamation lobby actually do Israel more harm than good? And, is it of any benefit to Israel to play the role, as some of his ADL interviewees expressed it, of "last resort" for American Jews? You'll have to see the film to find out exactly what he makes of these issues, but I will describe one thread that I found most touching: his portrayal of Jewish children as inculcated with fear of the outside world. I have no way of knowing how extensive this is, but watching teenagers explain in such a matter-of-fact way how the whole world hates them simply because they are Jewish, was, I found, somewhere between heart-wrenching and maddening.

Back to my main point: the charming but equally heart-wrenching Hayat Var (My Only Sunshine), about a young girl growing up in poverty in Istanbul, is playing tomorrow and Friday at Berlin's Turkish Film Festival this week in Berlin. So if you can read German subtitles or understand Turkish, SEE THIS FILM! And, my second favorite documentary, Deutschland 09, is, as expected, all over Berlin. Of the 13 shorts, 10 ranged from quite good to amazing, and for a compilation, one could hardly ask for a better hit ratio.

Spring is Sprung

Yesterday at 5 PM, the sun came out for the first time since November 17th and by 6 PM I was in Helmholzplatz licking an ice cream and sitting on a park bench with my face like a sunflower pointed straight up at the sun. Today was even warmer and the mercury is forecast to approach 20°C by the weekend, so all thoughts of working on my FUTURE in capital letters are out the window and I am instead focusing on recovering from so much grey, grey, grey. I'd forgotten the delight of spring after a long, hard winter (the hardest since I moved to Berlin). One thing that the Germans know for sure is that suffering, once removed, can feel oh-so-good. I learned this, of course, from my German mother. Zu leiden ist ihre Leidenschaft. [See -- isn't that neato? -- suffering and passion have the same root in German!]

Berlin is once again meine Leibe, though her renewed seduction is perhaps rather too dependent on the Lively German. He is leaving soon on his Great Adventure (bicycling from Delhi to Shanghai -- yes, that's right, that means big mountains, actually the biggest in the world, so can we all say BUNS of STEEL??); I will have to see if she can hold her charms in his absence. And if not, my return to Spain is fixed; I will be interested to see how I feel flying away -- leaving home, or returning to it? I really have no idea where home is at the present time, but am counting on yet another move to show me exactly.