In Which Ernestine Makes a New Friend

26 January 2020

St. Oberholz Café

Berlin, Germany

It’s my second day in Berlin!

I arrived via hellish 13 hour overnight bus ride (I know, horribly gauche and off-brand, but a girl has to be careful with money until I find a place to live). After 12 hours of sleep during which I did not move at all (virtually unprecedented), I woke up in a new city in a new country with all my faculties intact—in the place I hope will become my new home.

The first thought upon opening my eyes:

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

You see, it isn’t bad enough that one misses one’s cats, home, (ex- or something) boyfriend, and the sound of a familiar language being spoken.[1] The barriers facing your dear Ernestine to creating a life here are extreme (and could be far worse if I wasn’t white with resources and an leg up on the Oldest Profession). Or at least they feel that way—immense, insurmountable, gigantic, (insert further synonyms here)…

1. Find somewhere to live after Friday morning. Housing here is extremely affordable for a major metropolis, and therefore, competition for that housing is extreme. Or so I’ve been told.
2. Get job offers as a dancer. This is the one and only way to the artist’s visa: You have to prove that you can get offers to work in your chosen type of art in order to obtain the visa; in the meantime, you live off of…what exactly? (This would be a FANTASTIC time to become a patron on Patreon!!!)
3. Get my hooker card. You see, legalization. Hence, any job in an establishment of bawdiness requires a special license, for which you need a work visa. But once that happens, I can attain my absolute dream of the moment and become a fille de maison—in my mind, this follows the age-old prototype painted by Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec of a languid beauty in bloomers and corset with a very long cigarette holder. I think the trappings have changed, but the attitude of “I don’t give any fucks/Je ne donne pas une baise” has survived the eons unscathed.
4. Achieve economic stability doing work I enjoy. This is a goal I have not yet achieved in my life and I’m 33. This shit is getting old.

Until the above starts to come together, I am really living la vie Bohème, burning my rejected manuscripts to stay warm. I hyperbolize. But you get the idea.

In this spirit, I have come to this café to be in proximity to other humans for the price of a cup of tea.

And, in this spirit, I am thrusting myself upon the universe (unfortunate word choice perhaps) to such a degree that:

Ernestine is waiting at the counter for more hot water for her Earl Grey.

Ernestine sees a young man to her left fussing around with his feet.

She analyzes his movements.

She determines in about 30 seconds that this dude is for real.

“Are you a dancer?”

And folks, it’s just that easy! (Please remember that I’m the biggest fucking introvert ever without being actually on the spectrum.) Now I have inflicted myself on this human being, introduced myself, and, in the following ten minutes, found his website, Facebook page, liked it, and sent him a message.

I hope I have made a new friend. His name is Liam.

Because this is the circus of real life, and you Never. Fucking. Know.

…who or which interaction or what random happenstance is your ticket out of the wilderness.

Cheerfully yours as a result of a bit too much tea,

Ernestine

[1] Incidentally, I am of the opinion that the reason that Americans, and people living comfortably (by which I mean heat, hot water, a roof, a TV, sort of enough food, etc.—not comfortable in the existential sense, because anyone making under $100k a year knows what it feels like to be genuinely worried most of the time) under capitalism in general, don’t “Manif!” (a sign I saw in France repeatedly—trans.= “Strike!”/”March!”) is because we are far too fond of our creature comforts, and we don’t have the convenience of a war in our institutional memory to remind us that these comforts are things that have been fought and suffered for. In Berlin, reminders of the war are literally everywhere. Everywhere. Not in the sense that there is rubble, but there will be a street of beautiful old buildings, and in the middle there’s one horrible atrocity built clearly in the ‘70s under the tyranny of an “aesthetic” movement aptly called “Brutalism.” And you know. There was rubble. And probably death. Then you keep walking, and life goes on.