Looking for Berlin…in Berlin.

Berlin was cold the way I imagined it would be, the way I wanted it to be: desolate, romantic, vacant, post-Communist. I had so many ideas about the city, so many stories about my birthplace stored up, that my visit began with getting past them to see what was sitting in front of my own frozen nose.

One Thing I Learned on a Farm in South Africa

I learned about the placement of teacups on a table. About texture. Papaya, strawberries, pineapple woven like a sucrose flag beneath mountains that belong in New Zealand. Muddy rubber boots drying in the sun by the kitchen door.

I learned something about the balancing act between stiffness and disarray and the trapeze artists—hosts like Tinie—who understand how to make a space welcoming without hovering over everything. It’s called Comfort, or maybe Home.

I’m so anti-Valentine’s Day. Or am I. Really?

Eating lunch at the bar with a friend last week, I asked if he’d decided which of the many girls he’s been pursuing to take out for Valentine’s Day. I find his situation fascinating, and hilarious. How a winter holiday is threatening to turn one of his flings into something weighted down by the scent of romance. That kind of pressure could either be a blessing for a fickle one like him, or a disaster.

He asked me what my plans were, probably finding it just as strange that I’ve had a boyfriend (though not the same one) every V-day for the past 5 years.”I’m not a big Valentine’s person,” I tried to convince him, “It’s just so much pressure and makes everything feel weird and forced.” The bartender looked up. “You,” he proclaimed, “are the perfect woman.”

I could take Valentine’s Day or leave it. This is true, I swear. Unless…