I never could get the hang of Thursdays

yesterday sucked.

I'm in Mitte, a neighborhood in what used to be East Berlin, in a hostel entirely themed around Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker Trilogy. I shit you not. It's called The Heart of Gold Hostel and it has quotes as part of the decor ("Ford, you're turning into a penguin. Stop it." "On no account allow a Vogon to read you poetry"). As far as hostel standards, it's pretty damn nice, and decently priced. Lots of brushed stainless steel. The doors and lifts, unfortunately, do not burble happily when you enter and exit. Nor can I find any depressed robots. But I got to do my laundry, which at this point in my life is quite a luxury (WOW! Y'all have a warshing machine! Well la di da!)

I know I've said this before, but I'm tired. Emotionally, as well as physically, for one or two reasons I can't mention here. Part of me is genuinely thrilled to be in Berlin, but it's pretty much buried under the part of me that wants to curl up in bed and weather this head cold with a cup of tea and a copy of Christopher Isherwood. I read The Berlin Stories when I was 15, far too young for it but fascinated; I remember sitting in the sun on the grass of my convent school, reading about homosexuals and cabaret singers in 30s Berlin while the girls in the choir sang madrigals. Wish I had a copy with me now.

So suffice to say, I won't be hitting any dyke bars here. I've got the will, but no energy. I'm probably going to leave on Saturday; it's a hell of a trek to get back to Verdun and my luggage, and I need time to say goodbye to Paris. It's a shame, because my grandparents lived in West Berlin in the 80s and I was looking forward to exploring a city they love so much.

Well, off to buy a train ticket and see what I can of the town.