Eighteenth Letter, February 25
Dear Berlin,
I take S25 towards Heiligensee on Saturday just after 2. It’s cold enough to wear a parka, and sunny enough to wear sunglasses in the train. I have a backpack full of wine to bring to a dinner party, having forgotten about it until the morning of, when it was too late to prepare a dish from my home country.
My phone dies mid-Snapchat, and I spend several minutes trying to power it back on. The Apple iPhone battery has betrayed me right on schedule, but this year I am too broke to replace the phone if not absolutely necessary. I already had a scare with my laptop, and while being a Fulbright grant recipient may be a prestigious position, it’s not a lucrative one.
Miraculously, the white screen with a little black apple in the center comes back. Happy birthday, Mr. Steve Jobs (may he rest in peace). I quickly memorize the address and directions in case my phone dies again.
Although I am more than an hour late when I finally arrive, dinner hasn’t started yet. We feast: vegan bulgogi ddukbokki, chutney, basmati rice, shashlik-style ribs, laugenbrötchen, aubergine casserole, baked almond pears. The courses keep coming. I get to meet Dabin and Zingshowon’s design school friends from all over the world in the best way: over a home-cooked meal, or five.
Tabea, Victoria, Dabin, and I take a walk to the lake for sunset, and we are not disappointed. The clouds are glowing and the frozen lake is both beautiful and entertaining. We throw chunks of ice and watch them slide far out onto the ice, pretending to commentate our own Heiligensee Olympics, taking pictures.
Back at the house, Margo suggests a free light gallery exhibit opening at Schönhauserallee. Unsurprisingly, all of the art students are on board. We plan to catch the 19:51 train back into town, and busy ourselves with dishes and getting bundled up to face the below-freezing evening.
Late, we run towards the station, in pairs. Timo is carrying two beers as we struggle around the blocks of suburban houses and into the stairs. One minute later, we get on the S-Bahn. Gagig passes out Fisherman’s Friend, and I’m told it’s become something of a joke that their Master’s class should be sponsored by the mints for how frequently they share them.
In Prenzlauer Berg, we wait at one end of a block for a line to which I cannot see an end. Another design student, Yousef, joins us. It’s thrilling to be going to an exhibition, laughing, talking with creatives from all over the world in the freezing Berlin air. I finish my drink, and some of the others are smoking behind us in line. Asozial as I learned this week, but no one minds.
Someone exits the exhibit and proclaims to anyone who will listen that it’s a waste of time: just a few beams of light in a room. The crowd isn’t swayed so easily. We move forward a bit, and I can finally see the purple windows where people are going in and out. I turn around to a noise.
Tabea is slumped against a wall, unconscious. Zing and Timo are holding her up, and Yousef is hitting her face to wake her. She comes to, and then passes out again. It’s probably fifteen or twenty seconds until someone in the line pinches a pressure point on her chin, and she comes back, asking what happened.
This has happened to her once before, and she thinks it’s a circulation issue. She’s shivering, laying down with her feet raised. Yousef yells at the line to give us some space. The line now snakes around our group.
Margo is feeding Tabea water, and when she nods off again, Margo takes a huge sip and spits it in her face. We leave the line and walk to a nearby bar where she can get warm and sit down comfortably. Haribo gummi bears, black tea with sugar, Afri-cola. Tabea continues to nod off after every couple of minutes. She looks disheveled. Margo calls her mother, who lives about forty minutes away. Forty seems too long, but we don’t know where she lives.
There are two ambulances outside. Again Margo, speaking the best German in our group considering Tabea’s condition, goes out to talk to the paramedics, who are here for someone else. One of them comes into the bar, seeming unconcerned and talking to her in German. She is trying to explain the situation when she fades back into unconsciousness, Dabin catching her head on the way down. The paramedic’s eyes change, and he goes out to call his partner. They push the tables out of the way and have her lie down on the chairs, checking for a pulse.
Margo, a medical student here and fluent in German, is split between taking health precautions, fielding calls from the parents, and listening to the paramedic’s directions. Somehow, it’s still she that notices we are in a gay bar, and the patrons are less interested in rubbernecking our table than in snagging it when we leave. The second round of paramedics couldn’t care less about the skinny singles smoking all around the bar as they push chairs aside.
They call for coffee with sugar, more cola. We have a hard time getting Tabea to drink so much sugar, but I know from all of the times that I’ve passed out that it’s the best thing to do. It only now hits me how scary it must be for the people who see me pass out, even though I tell them I always feel fine.
By 10:30, Tabea has been checked out in an ambulance, her very friendly mother has chatted with us, taken a picture of us in front of said ambulance, and Tabea is cleared to go home to her parent’s house for tonight. I think everyone is relieved but still wants to take care of her after watching her in such a state for an hour. Timo gently shuts the car door for her, and suddenly we are eight people standing in the middle of the street.
After a mandatory stop for döner, we all head home from such an odd but heart-warming night.
Love,
