Late Friday afternoon a heavy storm swept into Kreuzberg. We were walking home from the Maybachufer Turkish market when the rain started, so we stepped into someone's front hallway (fortunately the front door was unlocked). We waited there for about fifteen minutes with a Turkish woman and her three young children. Meanwhile a power surge ravaged our apartment, destroying the power supply to the modem. So we are without internet at the moment. The girl we are subletting from is contacting the internet provider to see what we can do. Apparently it isn't possible to go to an electronics store and buy a replacement adaptor. Okay.

So now we're in the lovely Graefekiez at a (someway pricey) outdoor café. Chocolate cake (at only two euros per slice, probably the cheapest option on the menu) is on its way.

Speaking of prices -- there was another leg of our travels I forgot to mention in the previous post. On our way out of France and into Berlin, we spent a long afternoon in Geneva, Switzerland. I was very much looking forward to Geneva. We left our luggage in a locker in the train station (one very large locker for 8 Swiss francs). The scenery is beautiful -- it is situated right alongside the Alps, after all. And the lake has a very nice-looking harbor. As expected, it was a little windy along the waterfront. Eating lunch on a bench viewing the lake reminded me of summer afternoons in Charlevoix. We walked around the whole of downtown, plowing through the banking district and stopping for churches, statues and parks. Great shopping, of course -- not that I went into more than one shop. It was probably a good thing because Geneva is an incredibly expensive city. Having some euros and only a few francs left, we had to find dinner. We finally came across a pizza place that would give us a simple basil pizza for 16 francs, dividing it between our euros, francs and our American credit card. That was the cheapest entree we were able to find. Most cafés and restaurants were selling pasta dishes for 25 francs -- keep in mind that the franc is pretty close in value to the American dollar. All the same, I recommend it to a traveller who is looking for the most cosmopolitan city in Europe.

So, now I return to Berlin. Matt and I spent the first week tracking down bikes and then riding all over the city to view apartments. We finally found one -- a sublet that will last for our entire stay here in one of my favorite neighborhoods. It's a studio with a separate bathroom and kitchen for 350€ a month. That's just under $500. I was a little nervous about a studio being large enough for the two of us, but it hasn't been a problem at all. The only problem is the small and narrow kitchen. The cupboards have glass doors and there is hardly any room to open them without smacking one another in the head. We have broken a few glasses only because there just isn't enough room to stand AND cook AND open the refrigerator. Our subletter moved in with her boyfriend and took most of her furniture, leaving behind a mattress, a table, two chairs, a clothes-drying rack, and some dishes. Our first night we made an Ikea run and found dishes, pillows and more for only 20€. We found a large wooden pallet at the Turkish grocery store next door and have used it to lift our mattress off the ground. Three weeks later, I still need to find a pillowcase that fits my extra-large square pillow. More than one coffee mug would be nice, as well.

And for those who want to know where to find a bike in Berlin -- we had luck at a shop near Treptower Park. Two warehouse-style rooms of used bikes. We bargained the price, as we were buying two bikes. It seems a little suspect, but if you give him your passport then you can ride all the bikes down the street. He also gives a receipt -- so the transaction is not schwarz. At first we actually bought a bike off of Craig's List -- as is usually recommended -- but it turned out to be a scrap bike. Fortunately, we were able to sell it off (again, Craig's List) to someone interested in bicycle maintenance.

I gave Matt the grand city tour that first week. We have been to a couple of gallery openings, free museum nights. Anything and everything free and/or very inexpensive. Not many nights out. Not many cafe or restaurant visits, today being an exception. We cook all our meals at home (still going vegetarian, having eaten meat only seven or eight times within the past three months). I have taken over as the primary cook and expanded our recipe repertoire to include Thai, Japanese and Middle Eastern in addition to the usual Indian fare. Matt still prepares the best burrito-style wraps. After dinner every night, we take a walk around the neighborhood, sometimes stopping for ice cream near the Admiralbrücke to watch the papadum salesman harass the young people sipping beers along the canal. One of the most memorable days for both of us was the day of the Mediaspree demonstration.

The Spree is the river that divides Berlin in two. In the SE of central Berlin, there are two neighborhoods (technically one, joined by the Oberbaumbrücke): Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg. Both are known for housing leftists and artists -- you know, lesbians and vegans. As a result, squatter villages, cultural co-ops, bars and arthouses have been built up along the river. And so there is a very creative and liberal atmosphere that makes Berlin so darn lovable to someone like myself.

The Man -- the local administration, the corporate world, etc -- has decided to sell off this land to developers. They call the project MediaSpree. The idea is to build large office buildings to house marketing and media companies (that would, somewhat ironically, employ creative, young people. Or that would recruit them to the dark side, depending on precisely which side you're on). The problem is that this would destroy the DIY-scene that has been there for the past decade (or even longer).

So the alternative force did what they do best and created a counter-movement. The climax of their protests was the MegaSpree demonstration. Three separate parades started in different parts of Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg. Each parade had floats, performers and people from every possible subculture out in the streets. Many in costumes. The roads were blocked and the three parades met in front of the city council. It was a peaceful demonstration. Fun, in fact. One float had an icy slide for vodka shots coming off the back. Lots of loud music, dancing, people-watching, the whole lot. What we expected to take 45 minutes (the parade didn't have far to go) took at least five hours. We left before it was over.

One of the places that would likely be abolished if the Media Spree contract continues is Kiki Blofeld, a beach club on the Kreuzberg-side of the river. We went there last night to watch an open-air viewing of Coffee and Cigarettes. About thirty of us piled on top of wooden pallets and blankets and the weather was kind enough to cooperate. The vocal track of the movie was often interrupted by the roar of the nearby S-bahn, a tourist boat on its final loop or electronica coming from another riverside club. Despite the movie's premise (in my opinion) falling flat, the evening made for a very romantic and memorable experience.

Perhaps what made the experience even sweeter was that one of the 30 attendees was carrying a very cool-looking totebag -- a very cool-looking totebag that, as it so happens, I designed. Yes, that's right. Matt and I got sick of being poor and took matters into our own hands by becoming graphic designers. Last week we stayed in the apartment almost all day everyday working on our designs. We found a local screen-printing shop to work with and ordered a whole bunch of cotton-canvas totebags. This past weekend we had a go at selling them in the fleamarket -- and it was a success. We won't become millionaires anytime soon, but we should be able to cover our living expenses while we are here. This self-sufficiency gives both of us -- me, especially -- great satisfaction. And I've been wanting to start a screen-printing venture for years but never had the financial backing (or the guts) to go through with it. Finally, one of my creative efforts reached completion and actually transformed into a finished (consumable) product. To see people on the street wearing my designs -- oh wow. Or to have them buy the bags for friends and then distribute them all over Europe. It feels wonderful, and most importantly, revives my latent creativity by giving me a great confidence booster. Whoever thought that such a simple idea and a bit of effort could give so much back.

Well folks, I've waited long enough. Let me get to retelling that next adventure of ours.

After Ben and Diny dropped us off at the train station, we traveled across southern France, cutting through the larger cities of Toulouse, Montpellier and Nîmes. The best part of the journey was seeing the Pyrenees -- beautiful, snow-topped and peaked mountains -- off in the distance. (If you plan on taking this journey, sitting on the right side will mean a slightly better view and significantly less interaction with the people sitting on the other side of the car.) Our trip ended in Valence, where we had to stay the night. There are only a couple of buses that run out to our third host, and we arrived after the last one had already left. A night in a beautiful Mediterranean city -- boohoo. A visit to Valence (one to three days is enough) is absolutely recommended. I found it almost perfect. The downtown area is full of narrow streets with charming bakeries, restaurants and boutiques. There is an intriguing view from the city plaza and pavilion of a large, mountaintop ruin. The park Jouvet is lovely, full of cultivated flowerbeds and students on their lunch breaks. We ate dinner at Le Rabelais on the Place des Clercs; we both had the regional specialty, ravioli. Matt's with mushrooms, mine with cheese. Chocolate mousse for dessert. We met the two French girls at the table next to ours on the terrace. They bought us manzanas -- a green apple liqueur.

The next day was the Critérium du Dauphiné Libéré -- a regional bicycle race, a smaller race than the Tour de France but is also very important to cyclists from all over the world. Many of those who win the Dauphiné go on to win the Tour de France. Parts of downtown were blocked off for the race, so we watched the introductions of all the participants and cheered at the starting line.

We stayed at the Hotel de Lyon, a very small and basic hotel, but that was also clean, inexpensive and offered free Wi-Fi in the rooms. Also very close to the train and bus station. (Note to travelers: Valence has two train stations -- Valence Ville and Valence TGV. TGV is outside of the city and requires taking a cheap bus from Valence Ville. The ride is only 10-15 minutes and costs 1.80€. Purchase tickets in advance at Valence Ville bus station.)

The ride out to the village took approximately two hours, cost just under 9€, and had me gripping Matt's arm, fearful of a fall from one of the mountain bridges or over the cliffside.
Arriving safely in the village, our new host was already waiting with her truck to take us up to the farm.

This farm was the one we were the most looking forward to (goat cheese!), but also expected it to work us the most physically. We were quite right about this second part. We originally planned to stay just short of a month; we left early. I feel a bit torn about what to say of our experience. Considering everything, I was not pleased with our experience there. I'm happy we went, of course, and I learned much about myself, about Matt, and about at what point it's okay to give up and throw in the towel. I don't want to give a bad impression of the farm as a whole, as I suspect many of our frustrations to be purely situational. Our host was having some difficulties in her personal life -- her girlfriend was just laid off from her factory job and one of her coworkers had committed suicide. So at 45 years old and with seemingly limited skills, she was unemployed. Our host's husband -- they have been separated for two years -- was also coming to visit for a long weekend. We were once again the only WWOOFers on the farm, and I think we felt a bit neglected.

Rather than to reflect back, I will post something I wrote in my journal during our stay. (We had limited internet access on the farm, so I took to journaling in my Moleskine.)

***

It's our third full day on the farm and it's our day off. We slept in until 8:00. (Note: Normally we woke up at 7:00, ate breakfast at 7:30, were in the stable to milk the goats by 8:00.) We ate our muesli and goat milk breakfast and took off for a day in the valley - that is to say, in the village. (Note: Everyone on the farm ate more or less the same food. Especially the muesli, from the WWOOFers to the goats to the dog.) The village has two sports bars, a couple of churches, a boulangerie and butcher shop, a library that's open 3.5 hours a week, an auberge. Everything closes at noon, so we bought fixings for lunch and ate on a park bench. Matt explored for a bit and found a local's cherry tree, and I watched men lean out of their windows to get a signal good enough to talk on their cell phones. We went to the beach, where we bathed in the river Doux. The water was cold and refreshing, and we prepared by bringing bathing suits, a razor and a bar of soap. After sunning ourselves dry we visited the snack bar near the beach -- a Heineken, in the can, and a Coke, in the bottle. Fountain, caged birds, Nestlé umbrellas and a breeze. A man in a blue Ringling Bros. Circus t-shirt, carrying a green backpack, wearing a ponytail and beard and thick glasses like I've seen Cortázar wear in pictures. Now, I feel like I'm in Florida. Beautiful nature, casual conversation, wet swimsuits draped over plastic chairs, cheap artificial decoration. A caravan.

Our present farm leaves much to be desired. There are at least three large vegetable gardens, too much to care for in addition to the goats, cheesemaking, and the three-month-old puppy, Tuey. (Et tu, Brute?)

We live in a quickly-restored room that has a ruin on one side and a cellar on the other. Next to the place where they slaughter the goats. On the wall hangs an old scyth and a pitchfork. Goat skin carpets. A dry toilet that we have to empty regularly, no drinking water, spiders the size of our fists that our host forbids us to kill.

The hamlet is high on the mountain with little around to offer shelter from the sun. The soil is very dry. Great view of the valley, especially at night, and the moon has been swung strikingly low in the sky and is big. When a car drives up one of the hill's winding roads, the headlights glow and curve like a fluorescent snake.

We work from seven to eight hours a day. Outside it's 30 degrees (86 for us Americans). We haven't been taught how to make the cheese, but at 8 am every day we do our best to milk the goats. Our host is Belgian, has lived in Germany and Africa, is not very talkative to us. We receive privacy but no place to spend it. This farm feels more like France than the others, maybe because we hear the language so much more.

***

As time went on, the puppy went from adorable to annoying. No shoe or leather glove was safe. We continued to work 7-8 hours a day, always milking the goats twice a day (8 am and 7 pm). We ate an unsound amount of goat cheese and milk. The milking was all done by hand, so we joked that should one of us ever be stranded in the mountains, we could always milk a goat for food (presuming, of course, we could catch one, and one that was giving milk). When we first arrived, our host gave us some of the fresh milk in champagne flutes. It's her version of champagne, she says. Still very warm from being inside the goats. Politely, we finished the glasses.

We never did get to make any of the cheese -- which is what we really wanted to learn. In the gardens, we picked berries (I realize this sounds like a task for farm girls in whimsical fairytales, but is really quite laborious), strung wires for tomatoes, cleaned the goat stable, spread manure and of course, pulled weeds. One of the hardest tasks was using hoes to break-up and build the soil around the potato plants. But the highlight of our stay for me was harvesting (accidentally or otherwise) potatoes. I could dig for potatoes all day! Very rewarding, even when they are the size of marbles. Real cute little things I liked to stick in my pocket.

Here's a story I'm sure at least one of you will enjoy. As previously mentioned, our living quarter was outfitted with a dry toilet. Not the fancy kind of dry toilet you see in green-living magazines, but a bucket with a wooden seat built over it. After using the bucket, we would take a trowel full of sawdust and dump it in the bucket. This covers the smell. It works quite well, I admit. I came to the decision that it would be one of Matt's duties to empty (as we so endearingly called it) the shit bucket. So every other day or so, Matt would take out the bucket, clean up any spots that resulted from poor aim (oops), and walk down the driveway to the dumping hill. One day, Matt concluded that it was my turn to empty the shit bucket. Okay. If I can sleep within ten feet of spiders that probably could and happily would feed on a small bird, I can empty a bucket of feces. So I walked with the bucket and the dog down to the hill, grabbed the rim with one hand and used the other hand to hold the bottom, and tossed. But instead of tossing the contents of the bucket, I threw the whole bucket. The little slick flew out of my hands. So I had to climb down into the pile and retrieve it. Eugh.

Our last working day coincided with Fête de la Musique. We spent the later part of the afternoon at the outdoor concert and around midnight, after a hot dog and some wine, we made our way back up the mountain in the dark. Another WWOOFer arrived our last night, so she was given our living quarters. We were transplanted to an unfinished room with no door or windows. The room is where they slaughter the male goats; blood stained the concrete and a large meat hook hung from the ceiling. There was electricity, so we plugged in an industrial floodlight so that we could see our way up the ladder into the loft area where our mattress was stored.

By the time we were finished, we were very tan and very thin -- but also strong. Unsurprisingly, meals heavily composited of muesli, salad and goat cheese don't offer the same heartiness as, say, meatloaf and baked potatoes. But after working farm tools and climbing up hills long enough, even skinny people such as us will bulk up.

So where did we go, after having had enough of the isolated farming life? The big, bad city (MY big, bad city) -- Berlin. And after spending a week hiking and looking for the right view, what did I get to see from the plane? The peak of Mont Blanc.