There's a noticeable change in the length of each day. The paths are bestrewn with yellowed leaves, dried and curled like hundreds of miniature canoes. My puffs and pants turn to asthmatic wheezes in the last mile of my run. It's early autumn, our favorite time of year. It seems to hit Berlin sooner than Michigan, not too surprising considering how much farther north we are. The season makes us anxious to return to the Midwest, where we will devour cider doughnuts, pumpkin pie and, most of all, apples. But until then, we will make the best of our European summer.

A special event currently in the works involves a two-night camping trip on Germany's largest and perhaps most scenic island, Rügen. It is located in the far northeast of the country on the Baltic Sea. In anticipation, we bought a large tent at the flea market last Sunday. The trip will be a birthday present to myself.

And what else do I blog about this time of year? My semi-annual fitness kick. This year hasn't afforded me any more Bikram yoga. Instead, I've been participating in urban bike rides and evening jogs in Hasenheide. After a couple of weeks timing myself, I was disappointed that I wasn't able to get my time down to what it was in high school. But then I realized that what I have now, but previously lacked, is endurance. In 2002 I could run a 5k in 22:30. That gave me an average pace of 7:26 a mile. Now I am running 4.5-6 miles with an average per-mile pace of 7:46 (8:00 on slower days). I might not be finishing a marathon any time soon (though I might!), but I am very pleased with the results of these recent efforts. And with this upcoming camping trip, I'll even get in some hiking.

The Champions Run was on Saturday afternoon. The day started off sunny and relatively cool, picking up warmth as start time approached. The IAAF world championship men's marathon race began in the morning, so we came in time to cheer for the final lap. It is so utterly amazing what these men are capable of! The loop started at Brandenburg Gate, cut south through Potsdamer Platz, then northwest through Tiergarten, down Oranienburger Strasse and finished with a straight shot down Unter den Linden, ending at Brandenburg. 10,000 runners reserved spots three, four, even five months ahead of race day. The starting line was so packed with people I couldn't see Matt despite his hot pink racing t-shirt (thanks T-Mobile!). In the end, he didn't make the time we were hoping for, but he still did very well and finished in the top 11%.

After we reunited at the end of the runner's corral, we shared some of his complimentary bananas and granola bars. Then we went down to Potsdamer Platz to see the first half of an avant-garde dance performance, Bodies in Urban Space. There were about a dozen "dancers" in whole, wearing sweatsuits and sneakers of bold, primary colors. They moved through the city streets, the audience following excitedly behind, creating formations and manipulating their bodies to showcase the urban environment. They crouched under telephone booths, wedged their bodies upside down behind traffic signs and built a tower in the middle of a tall spiral staircase, among other things. It was really quite cool. Even though the dancers weren't moving by the time we "found" them, to hold these positions for five minutes at a time requires great physical strength and agility.

Expect soon a blog with some of our favorite recipes. As I've mentioned before, we have been cooking nearly every single meal. A few weeks ago my mom emailed and asked if I was "getting sick of lentils yet." The truth is, of course not! I love lentils. Besides, we don't eat them too often. There are a lot more cheap, healthy vegetarian options than I imagined. Each week we purchase more or less the same ingredients, which never cost us more than $40. Then we combine them, often repeating favorite recipes though sometimes experimenting. I would like to give you a compiled list so they are easier for you to find when you want to give them a try yourself.

Here is the result of a creative writing exercise. The assignment was to write a scene with a one-sided telephone conversation. It resulted in a study on perfection.
(Not for those easily offended by verbal profanity.)

***

He is the kind of man who, these days, would be described as handsome, but he is not. What he possesses is not an ineffable, philosophical beauty, but a prudent, almost calculating attractiveness. All the same, when I sit across from him I feel my spine grow straighter. My wavy hair falls naturally into place, into the style I have been working to achieve since my senior year in college. Talking with him I find myself speaking smoother, the vowels drawn from deep in my throat, slung from one corner of my cheek to the other and then exhaled fluidly, like a flawless stream of smoke.

Like him, his home invokes an unguarded contentment. The apartment was recently refurbished, but the walls were left unpainted and the wooden floors given a pale, natural finish, its owner preferring casual, uncomplicated furniture and having an all-around blasé approach to interior decoration. His armchairs are more comfortable than mine, allowing my legs to cross effortlessly without any need for continual readjustment. Despite his being somewhat shorter, when sitting we are of equal height, as if by some phenomenon his lightness allowed him to float or for him gravity did not exist.

Every time I have visited him in this apartment, a pair of black cowboy boots waited by the door, though I have never known him to wear anything other than canvas-top sneakers. An allergy keeps him from owning any dogs or cats, and the required upkeep has meant a forgoing of tropical fish. The apartment’s only other cohabitant is a philodendron placed thoughtlessly to the left of the bathroom, so in closing the door a fair amount of foliage is gobbled up with it.

Stacked on the counter surrounding his kitchen sink were never any less than a week’s worth of coffee mugs. Stacks of papers – presumably manuscripts, deemed complete by someone else’s standards – laid scattered about the living room and dining table, leaving little room for neither living nor dining. In spite of a clear indifference to the condition of his flat, he was always a good host, punctual and quick to offer coffee and hand-rolled cigarettes.

For him I was a ready listener, patient while he kicked around ideas for a new project he was set to embark on, which in the case of its failure would be quite costly. Sitting opposite of him, I watched his hands explain and convince, surrendering the tilt of my head to the flip and pitch of each gesture. His smooth face and hairless wrists suggest an age much younger than his curriculum vitae would present him as. He chuckles, exposing a buoyant Adam’s apple, and I laugh with him. He rarely gives a full smile. As he talks he separates his lips but widens his mouth only slightly, often teasing it to the side to suggest a semi-permanent smirk. This quirk seems playful, as if he is letting me in on the joke. His bottom teeth show only when he is irritated or when the sun catches him in the eye. I became distracted by the way his nose ducks when he talks of his work, as if nodding in agreement to his schemes and propositions.

He had just begun to tell me a story about a recent encounter with the new concierge, who was Guatemalan and unaccustomed to the strange, nocturnal habits of the neighborhood and its creative types. He spoke Spanish almost fluently, as far as I could tell, picking it up after numerous trips to the Caribbean despite claiming to have a crippling fear of the ocean. He could flirt with this woman while asking after her children, with all the social ease of someone who has been introducing himself to industry heavyweights and debutantes since he was able to say his name.

The telephone rang. On the way to answer it, he stopped for two seconds in front of an antique buffet, where a small selection of unopened envelopes was stacked on the glass top.

“Hey-ya,” he answered. “How did the rehearsal go? Did Simon behave himself this time?” One of his sneakers was coming untied, and he pinned the loose lace with the other foot.

“You what? Again?” His voice began to pick up speed. “No, I will not come pick you up. I am busy. Take the train – or a taxi, if you have to.”

Taking the phone with him, he turned his back to me and stepped into the hall, the cord loyally trailing behind. He headed toward his bedroom, though I could still hear him, the agitation in his voice bouncing off the bare walls down the hallway.

“I simply cannot believe this has happened again. Jesus – I mean, we just had a second set made so this would not happen again. You can be such a fucking flake.” His accent began to show.

“I knew you were utterly clueless, but this is unheard of. No, I can’t. I can’t talk now.”

He stepped out of the hallway and back into view a minute later wearing sunglasses. What could be seen of his fair cheeks was flushed red. He walked over to the stack of envelopes and opened one. Without reading it, he set it back on the tabletop. He stood staring down, arching his shoulders forward and leaning with all his weight on his back foot. He stood like that for some time, his thumb in his mouth, its nail clicking against the back of his teeth. After some moments passed, he released his shoulders and returned to his armchair.

He looked at me, or so I presume, and opened his mouth just enough to display the small chip on the left of his front tooth. The phone rang again. He took a sip from his mug and followed it with a swig from a small water glass, then stood up and went to the phone.

“Has Simon already left? And Gabriela? Could you ask her for a ride? Good, okay.” I could hear him speak with a restored calm.

“Yes, of course I am sorry. Don’t be so silly. No, I did not mean that. You know how – no, not like that. Yes, exactly. Good. You are okay? Good. Yes, I will be here. Do not forget to ask Lucia for the mail. Can you remember that? I am expecting a package from my sister. Oh, and maybe you could pick up some jajangmyeon from Bonjoo? I feel like noodles. Yes, the one by Jackie and David’s. Extra chunjang, okay? That sounds wonderful. Perfect, even. I can’t wait. See you later, yes. Ciao.”

When he returned he emptied his mug and raised it toward me, asking if I needed a refill. He lifted his chin slightly and then turned to face the window, offering me his profile and a view of his lower bicuspids. The evening’s remaining sunlight bleached out his hair so that it matched the beech picture frame hanging on the wall, holding what appeared to be some movie still from a film I did not recognize. He raised his elbow and ran his hand over his head. For a moment he appeared to me as Endymion, impervious to the sun’s beam.

“Ever since that project in Seoul, I have been hunting all over the Village for the best Korean.” He turned away from the window and the city and looked straight at me. “I simply cannot get the taste out of my mouth. The street vendors, everything I tried. It was unbelievable. You have to go, if for nothing else but the food.” He sighed although I had not argued against him and removed his sunglasses. Before the trip, he had been vegetarian for almost seven years. Now he eats fish.

On the way to showing me out of his apartment, he picked up another envelope. This one was manila and much larger, thick enough to hold a technical manual or some papers of comparable size. He volleyed the envelope between his hands undecidedly. He set the package back on the table, underneath a ceramic dish that slipped a little on the lopsided surface.

He stepped past, opened the front door and came toward me. He took my shoulder in one of his soft, hairless hands and then embraced me, although a bit stiffly.

“Thank you for finding the time to stop by. I think it is a shame we have not been able to see each other more often.” I felt his embrace slacken.

“Have you heard from her at all?”

He took a step back and in a moment of fraternal comfort and support, we watched one another. He nodded, shook my hand and opened the door for me to leave.

Last fall I wrote a creative essay for my German class. The assignment was to create a description of the contemporary social and political climate paralleling that of George Grosz and Klaus Mann's Weimar Republic. I am rather proud of it but have not gotten around to posting it until now. An English-only creative writing project will be posted next for those of you who happen to not read German.

***

Wie Fliegen auf einen Kuhfladen kamen sie

In jenem Jahre 2008 gingen wir, sowohl die Alten wie auch die Jungen von Kneipe zu billiger Kneipe, um uns vor den Anderen in Dunkelheit und vor uns selbst in Alkohol zu verstecken. Die Fassade dieses Verstecks wurde von fluoreszierenden Ladenschildern in den Neonfarben blau, rot, und weiss beleuchtet. Die Meisten rauchten, obwohl sie wussten, daß es für die Gesundheit gefährlich sei. Alle verschwendeten viel Geld, obwohl es sich die meisten nicht leisten konnten.

Überall konnte man von der finanziellen Krise über Lautsprecher hören. Draußen feierte eine Gruppe, die stampfte und jubelte auf, als ob sie beim Rodeo wären, jedoch hasste die Gruppe den einzigen Mann, den sie kannten, der aus Texas kam. Alle feierten, weil sie dachten, daß ihre Kredit nicht zurückbezahlt würde. Sie trugen die Kleidung – Stiefel, einen Hut, Levis – wie Cowboys, aber es war weder Pferd noch Kuh in Sicht. Dahinter kam eine zweite Gruppe, die grunzte rhymthisch im Chor die Schlachtrufe der Affen. Und so waren sie die Affen in dem Urwald der Meinungsverschiedenheiten. Sie bekleideten sich als ob sie ziemlich übele Strolche wären, aber sie kamen wahrscheinlich aus der fünftsichersten Stadt in Amerika. Sie hatten die Nachricht noch nicht gehört.

Die Stadt war steril, durcheinander und voller Glashäuser. In einem unterirdischen Klub wurde Musik von dem jungen Schwarz, Otis Redding, und dem seligen Bob Dylan über afrikanischen Stammestakte und die Gurren der brasilianischen Rebellen gespielt. So tanzten die Gebildeten, erschütterte ihre Körper wie Fliegen in einem Insektenzapper. Im Nu fiel einer, bald fielen auch eine andere hin. Aber warum trugen sie Sonnenbrillen, wenn sie nur im Rampenlicht stehen wollten? Ein paar junge Amerikaner, die gestern noch der König und die Königin von Soul gewesen waren, sagten zu einander, “Ich habe genug von Soul. Gehen wir auf die Funkparty!” Im Nu fiel noch einer hin.

Man war fröhlich, kolossal fröhlich. In dieser Stadt war jeder Moment die sogennannte “Happy Hour.” Die einzelne Tatsache aber blieb, daß in dieser Stadt “Ängstliche Stunde” sich nicht verkaufte.

As I am not too keen on watching American TV news anchors relay mass amounts of misinformation to our often gullible public, I have only a limited idea of how much publicity the IAAF World Championships are getting stateside. In case you didn't know, this year they are being held in Berlin. We found out about them a month or so ago and debated buying tickets, but decided they were too expensive (they are). It is a bit of a shame, really, because a slew of amazing events have taken place and we have to watch the races broadcasted on big televisions in the bars on Potsdamer Platz.

A holy-cow congratulations to Usain Bolt for breaking the 100 (9.58) and 200m (19.19) world records. He runs like a crazy man with limbs grown too large for his body.

This evening was the 4x100 relay (everyone's favorite to watch). The Americans had another tricky hand-off. Saw it when it happened, but it is very difficult to tell. Even more difficult to see on a grainy television screen through the rain. They won a spot in the finals along with Trinidad & Tobago but have now been disqualified.

Suspicions have been raised over the sex of South Africa's top middle-distance runner (and female world champion) Caster Semenya. Seems she may have an unexpected Y chromosome, or produce extra testosterone. Officials are still waiting for the results of very thorough genetic tests. Even if there are proper grounds to strip her of the medal, this is surely an emotional, if not traumatic, experience for an 18-year-old woman.

What's more, you ask? Tomorrow is the men's marathon, in addition to the Champion's Run -- a 10k road race following part of the marathon's course. Registration closed in May or June, but I found an online contest through Tip Berlin magazine giving away 20 spots. I knew Matt has been running six miles regularly and had the desire to try out a race. So without telling him, I entered his name in the contest. And guess what -- he won! This past week we have been training (although I'm only the trainer, cheerleader and masseuse). Tonight we ate the pasta dinner. Tomorrow afternoon we will head up to Brandenburger Tor, stop by the Deutsche Telekom sponsorship booth to pick up his shirt, number and chip and at 3:45, he will be off. (Good luck, Matt!)

Looking for a little extra English-based socialization, the other week I began a hunt for good audiobooks and podcasts. That's when I discovered The Moth, a New York City-based live storytelling event. Their podcast features some of their best stories, and I've been enjoying it tremendously. Maybe you will, too.

http://www.themoth.org/podcast

Yesterday, after a long day at the market, we rewarded ourselves with an Eiskaffee (think root beer float with coffee instead of soda) at Kauf Dich Glücklich in Prenzlauerberg. We are making conscious efforts to cut down on the sweets. Less sesame ice cream from the café on Grimmstrasse. Fewer slices of cheesecake from Avril. No more sweet and sour gummies, even if I'm at the movies (Wednesday night, Jarmusch's Night on Earth, Lichtblick Kino in Prenzlauerberg). Of course, I don't know if it's wholly necessary. The effort to cut down, that is. Matt's running quite regularly and I join him at least once a week. The other day went particularly well and we ran 7.5 miles. I felt totally fine until I tried to make a 300-meter gut check.

Of course, not all of our days are spent snacking at decrepit public pools and lying in the sun. Much of our time is taken up by the domestic demands of adulthood. Especially because we have been cooking so much at home, a significant amount of time has to go into the shopping, preparation, enjoyment and clean-up of each meal. Either the peanut butter container needs to be rinsed or the kidney beans need their water changed. Excuses, right? But add that with the fact that each week presents us with a new challenge. Last week it was the internet. If you think compromising with Comcast's tele-personnel is a challenge, give it a try in German. Kabel Deutschland was, surprisingly, more sympathetic than Comcast. But only once we had the technician out to our house to replace our modem were we told that our router was also kaputt. In the end, after a long call to D-Link's service line and an unusual reset procedure, we were able to get it up and running without purchasing any replacement parts. Soon we will have to deal with more bicycle maintenance -- Matt's bike won't shift gears, mine has only one functional brake. And yesterday my headphones stopped working.

All of this costs money. But we have our venture selling Einkaufstaschen. If by chance any of you want one of these 100% cotton, long-handled shopping bags (save the environment and look great doing it!), let me know and I'll reserve one for you! I would be very honored, of course, to have some of you fine folks carry our bags. Only $9! All bags are printed on natural-colored cotton. The Berlin bag and the Bicycle bag are printed in black ink, the one we nicknamed Waves is royal blue. Check them out below, additional photos are on Flickr.

So much to get to. This week awarded us with the first summer-appropriate weather since arriving in Berlin. The last thing I have been wanting to do is sit in front of the computer. But today -- a chilly, gray Monday with rain falling slowly and steadily -- seems to be a good day to catch up and recover a bit from market day.

Like every Sunday, yesterday we hauled our table and totes up to Mauerpark. I thought that the hot, sunny weather would make for a productive day. But it also makes for a very sweaty and thirsty 8-hour market day, especially without the shelter of an awning or beach umbrella. We consumed enough sun the day before, when we took the train to the beach at Wannsee. (A one-hour ride from Kreuzberg. S-Bahn lines 1 and 7 stop at Nikolassee, from there it's just a half-mile walk to the beach. Entry costs 4€ for adults, 2,50€ for students.) Wannsee is one of the bigger lakes in the Berlin area even though it stays quite shallow. Dozens of sailboats tacked and jibbed their way across the greater part of the lake. The beach boasts volleyball courts, beach trampolines, giant chessboards and (our favorite) a waterslide. For those wanting a proper European beach experience, there is also a nudist section. The food is cheap, the beach, hot and the water, cool.

Friday was the closing day of the Urban Affairs: Extended, a large exhibition of some of the world's best urban artists, most notably El Bocho, Alias and Banksy. Although Philadelphia is attributed as being the birthplace of modern graffiti, Berlin has the right to claim itself the center of contemporary street art (think graffiti, stenciling, postering). I found the exhibition fascinating for the very fact that it was a professionally-executed art exhibition. The work was great, it was carefully curated, there were videos and interactive displays, and a gift shop sold streetwear, stencils and prints. It was put up in the Stadtbad Wedding, a public swimming hall that was closed down in 2002 and has since been hosting art exhibitions, concerts and parties, each event leaving behind an increasing number of broken tiles and pipes and fewer of the pool's original signs. This past winter the Grand Palais in Paris also hosted an urban art exhibition, thus legitimizing graffiti as fine art. I am curious to know how these artists feel about this fact. I'm sure they love the recognition (even if they only receive it under their pseudonym) and the money probably doesn't hurt. But I imagine that what brought these artists out late at night, sneaking around city streets and scaling walls in black hoodies, had more to do with the thrill of doing something illegal, engaging in an energetic and artistic rebellion. When the governments they were protesting begin to pay them to exhibit their work, or when art critics respond approvingly, does this thrill wear off? These artists are undeniably real artists -- they understand composition and color and can handle paint better than any art student I've ever met. Their subject matter is usually intelligent, critical, even witty. When it's not, it still passes as above-average graphic design. I hold an enormous amount of respect for these artists. It doesn't matter if anyone ever sees their work. They understand that their medium is very short-lived -- weather, city clean-up crews or even other artists can destroy hours' worth of work in a matter of minutes. And many of the murals just blow the sponsored contemporary art I've recently seen out of their art houses and galleries.

The best gallery show we've seen this summer was at the Lucas Carrieri gallery, a post-graffiti art collective in Mitte. Eron, an Italian street artist, creates realist portraits and landscapes using spray paint. Ebon Heath is a graphic (and more) artist based out of Brooklyn. He works with three-dimensional script.

My interest in contemporary art for the past couple of years has been directed at the rather vague "new media" and its computerized, interactive installations, but I made it a point earlier this year to start paying attention to and learning about contemporary painting. So soon after redirecting my attention, I'm faced with a new term to contemplate: post-graffiti.