Just to continue with the food theme, I would also like to sing the praise of a French-style croissant. I know that some Americans think their local bakery version gets it right, but I’m here to tell you that’s very unlikely. A croissant should be moist and incredibly flaky at the same time. They should not taste anything like a bread roll. And they should leave your fingers with a slight buttery feeling. Delish.
It’s hard to believe that I have not yet written an ode to the German version of the jelly donut (in this part of Germany referred to as a Berliner). I was more of a glazed donut (think Krispy Kreme) person growing up. But Germany has changed all of that. The beauty of the German jelly donut is that both the dough and the plum jam filling are much less sweet than the American versions, while still tasting somewhat sinful. Of course, probably because they aren’t packed as full of sugar and fat, they get stale really fast. So the trick is to make sure you’re buying a fresh version. There’s nothing more disappointing than a dried-out jelly donut.
My only friendly neighbor (actually, it’s surprising that there is even one. This is Germany, after all) asked me today if I was just getting back from a funeral, as I was dressed head to toe in black. No, just winter as usual. I guess it’s time to dig out the one read sweater I own.
Background:
During Wisconsin winters, any centimeter of skin left exposed to the elements gets whipped raw within seconds. So people bundle up. And when they come inside, unbundle.
Setting:
One of those classic old university lecture halls with stadium seating and old wooden desks stretched in rows. The professor is up at the chalkboard, writing something as students begin to file in.
The action:
For some reason I had arrived early. And watched as one student after another came in from the freezing weather, eyelashes crusted with ice, cheeks rosy, dusted in snow, and took off layer after layer of clothing, hanging them on hooks lining the walls. Scarves, hats, jackets, sweaters. The old radiators were kicking up that special kind of heat that only old radiators do and letting out a hiss. It was so warm inside that it felt kind of dreamy. I can still smell the wet wool.
(photo credit: Rachel’s flickrs)
Background:
At the end of a long Saturday night in Madrid, we were walking a friend to the night bus. On the way, we found ourselves in a quiet residential area that felt a million miles away from the hub
ub of Saturday nights in Madrid. So it was surprising to see a piano bar advertised in the basement of one building. And it was even more surprising that it was open at 3 a.m.
Setting:
We walk down into the tiny bar and a friend ordered a round of Spanish whisky, which if I remember correctly, had already been ordered on other occasions earlier in the evening. I notice that all the patrons (there were maybe 30 seated at tiny tables) are dressed like very frumpy middle aged women (think Monty Python sketch) and are listing to an equally frumpy looking woman lip synching to cheesy old Spanish schlager music.
The action:
I don’t remember how long it took for me to realize these were all crossdressers and that I was the only woman in the bar. And I also don’t remember how long we were there. It could have been 10 minutes, it could have been 2 hours. But it was bizarre. The strangest part was that it seemed like nobody noticed us. That we were getting this glimpse into a world that should not exist, but somehow did.
(photo credit: cmbellman)
Background:
Up until the age of 22, I had always either lived with family or roommates. Which meant that my livingroom was not completely my own.
Setting:
Yet 
there was this one Friday night when all my roommates were out. I turned up the stereo and was totally enjoying this unexpected alone time when the doorbell rang around 2 a.m. A German friend had stopped by on his way home from a party.
The action:
As we’re hanging out, a cop car pulls up outside the apartment, blue lights flashing. Which magically turned the room into a disco. When a disco shows up in your living room, you gotta dance. In this case, the 80s new wave song from Radio Futura “Enamorado de la moda juvenil” was playing on the stereo. I can remember everything about those 10 minutes of improvised disco. I think that was the pinnacle of my dancing career. Although I can at least take comfort that I’ll always be a better dancer than Radio Futura.
(photo credit: Aim and shoot!)
