I am Berlin
To whom it may concern,
I'm sad to say, I do not know who I am anymore. After a mere five weeks, questions I once had the answers to now keep me awake while I lay in bed, sweating in a cold panic. Questions like
Where is home back home? Does Wynwood still exist?
What is sushi? Can you eat it raw?
How many feets are in a meter? Why aren’t inches called toes?
I fear I am too far gone, slathering exuberant amounts of mayo on everything. Ketchup with fries (pommes?) seems disgusting. Football is football and football isn't football. Which one has feet and a ball? Both. God help me.
As a goodbye, I leave you with this poem. Take it and cherish it, as it may be the last you hear from me before I marry this schnitzel.
Late to My Dinner Reservation By Christian Napolitano
There is no bigger sin
than being late in Berlin.
The restaurant door locks,
the hostess grins.
“The U-bahn was late! It’s just two past eight!!”
Now I’m stuck in the rain
This is good beer.
I feel nein pain.