jess and me at the tiergarten today

It has been 70 degrees here in Berlin pretty much every day for the last two weeks, so I have finally retired my winter denim jacket, and have reverted back to my normal jacket. I couldn’t take it much longer. I love my jacket and, a Virginia winter and two Berlin winters aside, I have worn it every single day for the last eight years . . . even if it’s like 100 degrees out.

This is what it currently looks like, including all its dorky contents:

And I think every girl I’ve ever dated has at some point had to put up with me saying some variation of this:

Anyway I’m back, baby. I’m finally RYAN again, for whatever that’s worth . . . probably not much!

OK BYE

Oh uhhh I added a SHAVING SECTION to my skincare routine page if you’re into that sort of thing . . .

baptiste virot

Yesterday I decided to go for a walk around my block on account of it being 70 degrees out. I’d had the windows open all afternoon and could hear birds chirping and children playing and my neighbors talking and drinking beers and smoking cigarettes below. You know, that good springtime stuff. I reckoned it would be a crying shame to not get to experience any of that firsthand, so I went walking, thinking I’d spend a half hour out there.

Everyone had told me how—SORRY, for lack of a better word—magical spring is here in Berlin, but I didn’t really know it until now. I’d only ever spent falls and winters here, so imagine my surprise when this turned out to be absolutely true. Spring is every Berliner’s reward for bearing that long dark period between December and February, where towards the end of it you start to wonder if you have permanent brain damage. But yesterday it was so beautiful in Berlin that I wanted to cry. I have seen twelve springs in the Bay Area in Northern California, and I’m here to tell you that spring is somehow better here, and made all the better having just endured the extreme exact opposite of it.

I ended up walking nearly seven and a half miles, and stopping frequently to sit in the dozen or so parks I crossed through organically, including the Tiergarten, which is a Central Park-sized forest within Berlin, and which is only a fifteen minute walk from my doorstep.

This is what I looked like at the outset:

What a dope!

Everywhere I went, people were outside rollerskating or riding bicycles or hanging out in parks or drinking coffee outside cafes, and on and on, and it was obvious they were all in a real good mood. I was too! Here are the pictures I took along the way as the late afternoon turned to dusk:

Instead of turning back, I kept on going, figuring I’d get dinner by myself at TIBET HAUS, which is one of my favorite restaurants here. I sat at my usual table and ate twelve spring rolls and a massive plate of vegetable egg noodles for €11. Wow!

Outside I saw a stack of records I wish I could have taken, but I didn’t want to carry them, and also I don’t have a record player here (lol):

I hopped on the U-Bahn and rode five stops back to Schöneberg. Just before I got off at my stop, I turned to an American girl who had been talking to her friend and said it was nice to hear someone speak American English again. I walked four blocks home and went inside and made a Little Baby Night Coffee and took Dante out onto the balcony. It was 11 pm and still warm outside. Man! Berlin rules.

Do you know where the word “cappuccino” comes from? It’s actually pretty interesting!

To quote good ol Wikipedia:

It is the diminutive form of cappuccio in Italian, meaning “hood” or something that covers the head, thus cappuccino literally means “small capuchin”. The coffee beverage has its name not from the hood but from the colour of the hooded robes worn by monks and nuns of the Capuchin order.

I love telling people this!!!

Whenever I buy coffee somewhere, I always get an Americano. But my stupid little life-affirming ritual is that I always get a cappuccino before I go see a movie. That way it’s special. And here in Berlin, you can get a cappuccino in an actual porcelain cup AT a movie theater. And I gotta say: I love it~

Dante had to have dental surgery the other day. I had been meaning to get his teeth cleaned for years, but the pandemic wrenched that, and then I had to schedule a cardiologist appointment for him to so they could check out his heart murmur, which took many months of waiting. See, you can’t give a cat anesthetic if they have potential heart issues. A $750 bill later, I learned that his heart murmur was nothing more than a benign birth defect he’s had . . . since birth! It doesn’t impact his life negatively at all, meaning he was good to go as far as anesthetic is concerned.

And so saying, I made a long distance call to Dante’s vet in the US and had all his paperwork forwarded to his new German counterpart. On Thursday I took him in at noon to finally get his teeth cleaned. I was a little nervous on account of having to have my 15-year-old diabetic cat sedated and intubated—but they assured me that three whole people would be performing the surgery. There was one person whose sole function was to monitor his anesthesia and glucose levels, for god’s sake.

Anyway, I handed him over and felt sad to see his little face inside his mesh carrier. He knew I was leaving and he looked real bummed about it, so I unzipped the top and pet him for a minute or two. The vet assured me he would be fine, and told me to come back around five since he’d need a couple of hours to snap out of the anesthesia dream. I said good-bye and walked outside, where I experienced a very nice spring day on my mile and half walk home to Schöneberg.

Back home, I joined Dante in solidarity by sedating myself with some Trazodone compliments of my psychiatrist Dr. Jones back in Berkeley, and fell dick-first into a fever dream. I intended to escape my waking life for a little while so I wouldn’t sit around feeling stressed out about Dante. I experienced dark and dreamless sleep, and awoke several hours later, around four or so, and saw that no one from the vet’s office had called me. By then they would have been done with the whole procedure, and Dante would be resting somewhere until as he slowly came to. Why hadn’t they called to say so? I wondered. My heart started slamming against the inside of my chest. I called them and hoped it had gone all right. The vet said: “Everything went perfectly. There were no issues at all. You can come pick Dante up in about three hours.”

She went on to say that they had to remove several of his teeth in the back because of some heavy plaque buildup, which I already knew was going to be the case. But, she said, cats have 30 teeth, and and he wasn’t going to miss a few of the smaller ones being gone anyway. The guy has been around for a long time after all, so I reckon some missing teeth are inevitable.

I walked the mile and a half back. It was still beautiful outside and quite warm. By the time I reached the vet’s office it was near dusk and the sky was streaked with pink and red. I took off my sunglasses and opened the front door. Inside they smiled and were happy to see me, which was reassuring. They handed me some meds I’d have to give him over the next eight days, a painkiller and an antibiotic, and I knew that was going to be a real pain in the ass. If you’ve never had to give a cat a pill before, I’m here to tell you that it sucks, but then what can you do. One of the girls went and retrieved Dante from the bar and gently set his carrier on the counter next to me. I peered inside. Dante looked coked to the gills on that stuff, his pupils big black zeroes, but he recognized me and indicated to me with a forlorn look that he wanted to go home. Telepathically I told him we were about to do just that.

The bill came due. For them to run bloodwork, sedate him, clean his teeth, extract some of his teeth, brush out some knots in his fur while he was still under, and send me home with some meds, it cost €820. That may sound like a lot of money, but that right there is a bargain anywhere else. Back in California and Virginia, they quoted me $2,000 minimum, with the total potentially going all the way up to $2,800, for the exact same thing. I handed the girl behind the counter my German debit card and told her what I just told you, about how much more expensive it would have been in the US, and she turned ghost pale. She said: “We recently had to raise our prices because of inflation, so Germans think this is quite expensive now.” To which I replied, in so many words: “Well baby, then it’s a good thing I ain’t German!!!”

Outside I called a car to come get us, and three minutes later a huge orange van rolled up and we got inside. The van was being driven by a huge German guy with a massive white beard. He was dressed nicely and was drinking a cup of coffee. He stepped on the gas and drove in the direction of home like a real German driver, which is to say insanely.

Back home I let Dante out of his carrier and it was immediately obvious that he was so doped up he couldn’t even walk. And so he kind of slid around on the floor towards his food bowl. I imagined he was pretty hungry on account of him having been fasting since the previous midnight. He was frustrated that he couldn’t stand up, being real wobbly and all, so I held him upright so he could eat out of his food bowl. Afterwards I essentially baby-proofed my apartment to keep him from falling all over the place. I created a big nest out of blankets and set him in it, and he seemed content. I ended up sleeping on the floor there next to him so he wouldn’t try to jump into bed with me later. There was no way he could have cleared that height like that, though I knew he’d try to anyway.

Today he is back to normal. He’s curled up and purring on my lap now. I gave him his painkiller earlier and he fought like hell about it, but once it kicked in he chilled out. I wonder if his teeth had been hurting him? He seems much happier now. And what’s more is that his breath doesn’t stink anymore. Now that’s €820 well spent!

DAS ENDE