Dear Germany,
Let’s get one thing clear. We’ve given up a lot to come live with you. On Friday we finally took the long flight that brought us to Berlin from Brooklyn. There’s so much we left behind. Take for instance Brooklyn lager, the Brooklyn flea, Brooklyn water towers, Prospect Park, Provisions’ morning coffee and the inimitable C train to work every morning.
Moreover, you’ve got a hell-of-a-job in the friendship department: our New York dancing card included some eclectic folk: there’s Anabelle, the erstwhile theatre critic, with her long-time boyfriend, legal eagle Moritz. There’s Martinique, the Mormon artist with a soft-ish spot for the Yukon … could we say more? There’s Ariana and Rob — she rounds up the glitterati and intelligentsia for discursive entertainment, he’s a music producer and record-label owner turned father. Next: Jadore, travel writer and editor extraordinaire with her more than art-designer fiancée Joel. Add Delilah and Jenelle, she a financial wizard, auteur and chef, the other she a designer and muse. There’s Jasmine, professor of English and twin tamer with her husband Sebastian, infamous for cashing out of the dotcom bubble at exactly the right time and following his dreams (and his wife) to New York. Last, but not least, Emerson, anti-artist; Alondra, art restorer; Eddie, buddhist actor with Rosalie, non-buddhist actress and their Harry, acting buddha.
Those are the the players. These friends of ours have been through a lot with us: years of ups and downs, margaritas and martinis, parties and quiet nights, tears and tearing up the city. Here we know no-one. Well, almost no-one. Actually that’s not strictly true. We’ve got a few people up our sleeve but we’ll introduce you to them one at a time.
Berlin, we’re here finally after 5 years of talking about joining you. We’re going to miss those we’ve left back in Brooklyn but—for the moment—we’re giving you the benefit of the doubt.
Yours, Germanofile