Behind every Berlin building there seems to lie a hidden story.
I have lived in Berlin twice. At 21, I lived in Moabit, a former industrial area to which immigrants flocked during the industrial revolution and today in Schöneberg which, as one New York Times reporter called it, is the Bürgerlich side of Berlin (in other words Bourgeois, not Eastern hip.)
And although many of my bike trips lead me to adventures in the East. I am a girl who has always lived in West Berlin. There is extreme appeal in East Berlin, the historic center, the artists and their house squats, and of course that endearingly soviet-vintage tower that soars above us no matter where we live in Berlin.
There is beer, so cold, so refreshing, and so easy to drink — especially on long summer nights along the Spree. And then there is wine. White in the summer. Red in the Fall and Winter, but mostly there is only red wine for me.
Red wine. At 24, off of a street corner in Les Halles in a restaurant where we ordered plate after plate of food from the Basque country, a Frenchman once told me that red wine was always preferred. White wine was for fish. No other time, he emphasized.
And with these brief words, my transition from white to red was complete, especially during the colder months.
It’s Fall and I’m craving meals cooked slowly for hours
Boston winters are cruel.
I thought I was a stoic Northerner, but the 7 feet of snow and the long nights slowly chipped away at my resolve to brave the winter and I became a husk of the sun-loving girl that had embraced Boston and its summer only a few months before.
Boston summers can, at times, be even crueler, at least when it rains.
Yesterday, I baked a cake using a 150 year old recipe.