Around the corner from the apartment is a decent breakfast joint called "Strandbad Mitte," with big cheese plates and good coffee served up in a beach-club atmosphere that has nothing to do with Berlin, or Germany, at this point in the year. Which is part of the joke: Here we are in the iron-cold Chicago of Mitteleuropa, in the middle of a sandy prairie nowhere near a proper beach, unless you count the lakes and riverside clubs people go to in the summer; and the proprietors want us to feel all sunny and shit. Note old-fashioned Strandkorb on the sidewalk.
OK. Now I'm going to Paris.
posted by Michael Scott Moore |
7:19 PM
