Did I really get home from Hawaii only nine measly days ago? Because I could swear that I am already in desperate need of a getaway... apparently, funerals and sick babies aren't that relaxing. Who knew? Sadly, the vacation days are all tapped out and our bank account is circling the drain, so I'm not going anywhere -- unless you count sitting on our patio in sweltering 100 degree heat "going somewhere." Which I most certainly do not. But enough about that sob story. Let's talk about Berlin. No, not the band (though they really take my breath away). Berlin, the city.
Doesn't Berlin just seem like it would be the mostest? All kick ass German philosophy, with a little fringy Euro flair to soften the hard edges. Because there's no need to be brutally serious all the time -- even Nietzsche needed a little break from the angst (that syphilis didn't come from nowhere, right?). Obviously a stay at the at the Soho House in Berlin would bring some sweet relief. Not that they have syphilis there, or anything.
No sir, all the Soho Houses are high class, high dollar establishments, available to an exclusive members only cadre of rarefied beings. All except for the newly opened Soho House Berlin, where 40 rooms are available to us regular folk, and for my mental vacay I plan to check in and sit for a spell.
Sit at the poolside bar, I mean. Well, I shall sit until I've drunk my fill and then I shall swim.
And then I will lie and lounge on the rooftop terrace, where I will pretend to contemplate the mysteries of life, but really I may just read an In Style or some other pedestrian crap because I'm deep like that.
Oh, and then I'm gonna get my nails did.
With my polished tips in tow, I plan to indulge in a giant meal, which best include some goulash and knodels. Anything else may put me in an existential tizzy, wherein I might be forced to jump off the terrace...
Or I will probably just watch a movie. I like movies.
Then I'm going to get my drink on at this jazzy establishment. I hope the pianist knows how to play some Eazy E.
Tuckered out by my long day, I shall retire to my Deco/Nouveau boudoir, ostensibly to meditate myself into a restful, dreamless sleep.
But more likely I will lie awake all night, wondering how I could fit that giant spider lamp chandelier into my purse. And who is in charge of upholstery at this joint? Holy expensive fortune -- it must have cost a ton of knodels. Did I already mention how deep I am?
About as deep as a puddle.
