I am Téa Sloane Smith, and this is our holiday card.
First, big news on the dog front! After ten years of polite, heartfelt requests, we finally found Mackey, thus proving that either politeness or relentlessness pays off, and we’ll never know which. Rescued from China’s illegal dog meat trade (yes there’s also a legal one), Mackey was named for my grandpa’s WWII shipmate who helped get my dad into his alma mater, Pomona.
He is also named in honor of mac & cheese my go-to food (a totally valid reason, back-off), and the classic Kris Kross song, Jump, comprised nearly entirely of shout-outs between Mac Daddy and Daddy Mac.
Having tired of classically fun cities, we chose Berlin for this year’s togetherness adventure. We are big Merkel fans, and the parents share a Germanic belief that life isn’t supposed to be one big party, so we seek resilience-cultivating experiences just for the sheer stubbornness of surviving them. Even the German language is terrifying: “ich liebe dich” means “I love you.” Just read that twice before bed. A firm believer in self-administered second chances, my mom again booked us an Airbnb that looked amazing online. Stockholm deja-vu quickly set in triggering a creeping unease in each of us as we rolled our bags toward our Berlin home that first night. Slogging through the urban dark in the dripping shade of elevated train tracks, we weren’t surprised when our host’s instructions had us enter through three successive security gates and a dark, dusky industrial hallway decorated with “fuck off” and German phrases that looked a lot like “love you and miss you” (ich liebe dich und vermisse dich schon for you German learners!). Paralyzed by apprehension, I sought Mom’s eyes for reassurance that we would survive this walk. Confident in the knowledge that things were about to get worse, Cooper and Devon’s coping mechanism was to literally ignore the writing on the wall. Clearly trying to overpower her own sense of self-preservation, Mom pivoted into lecture mode (strangely comforting under the circumstances). She explained that Berlin was a rich tapestry of peoples with a cultural history of graffiti and that such self-expression should not be taken literally. Also, riffing a bit, she reasoned since they wrote “fuck off” rather than “fuck you” it should be taken more in the spirit of a collective invitation to be free and to not follow oppressive societal rules, rather than as a personal insult. Thankfully, by this time we had found our doorway.
For our first week, our German friends recommended two attractions: a concentration camp and a Spree river cruise. Seeking to ease into fun-optional life, we started with the boat. As we approached the actual vessel, however, the boys started to tense up. In the distance we saw layer of smoke. On approach the smoke resolved into a vast sea of white hair. Playing to their punctuality stereotype, scores of German seniors had arrived 30 minutes early and were waiting on top of an old-timey ferry boat. Our parents aren’t known for their keen sense of “what is fun.” It’s a realization we live with but it still manages to surprise us nearly every day. I started to rub one brother’s back: “Don’t worry, Coop. It is going to be ok.” Despite the rest of us, our feet resignedly walked us on board where a ticket-taker guy asked us if we were sure we had the right boat. Devon visibly held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut – hoping my parents would answer “No.” Instead they showed him our tickets; ticket-guy paused a little too long on them then nodded in disbelief and lead us aboard.
The white hair sea up top was matched by another below deck. Our simulated smiles passing through were returned with expressions ranging from the German equivalent from “oh, mein liebchen, we are sorry for you,” to “welcome to das boot, the alcohol is in the back.” My parents bravely rolled past the pensioners at the open bar, and lead us upstairs (German seniors arrive promptly for the late-morning schnitzel, gravy and pre-departure schnapps). Fortunately, we found the remaining seats were just in front of the only baby aboard, a newborn whose presence lowered the average passenger age to a mere 87. As soon as we cast off, the smartest human aboard, in a desperate last-ditch expression of what we were all feeling by now, began a blood-curdling shriek that it sustained for the duration of the cruise.
The key to life is lowered expectations. If you disagree, it’s because you have never traveled with us.
After a week’s vacation in East Berlin, we needed a break. We found one at The Soho House, a stylish ex-pat embassy different from the rest of the city in every possible way. We could start with the pervasive pulsing techno beat, or the periodic staff smiles, but we would definitely have to end with the full elevator that Milla Jovovich took a step into with us before deciding to catch the next one. Perhaps too late, we learned from the one local that grudgingly agreed to meet us there, that among Berliners, The Soho House enjoys a reputation somewhere between the Hard Rock Cafe and a Trump Casino. And that, my friends pretty much sums up our efforts to broker detente with our closest ally.
One evening four years ago, while enjoying a nutritious Round Table Pizza dinner (which my mom ordered and refers to as “cooking”) we took a poll to see which of us was the funniest. We all agreed that it was dad. Second place was a matter of debate. I claimed it for myself, but Devon does have his enigmatic signature “Devon sayings” and in second grade Cooper was legitimately voted “most funny” by his class. However, we all agreed that mom was the least funny. Never previously finding herself at the bottom of any list and determined to change her ranking, she went straight to her office and locked herself away. Having finally formulated her plan, she emerged recently and is still a bit sensitive to sunlight. In the end, her plan was simple: she will write a book on humor (with her legitimately funny friend, Naomi). And then we’ll see who is most funny!(spoiler alert: still dad).
Yours, with humor, love, fun and meaning!
xoxoxo
Stop. You shouldn’t read further. This letter is already ridiculously long, but for those of you who are really bored or are reading this in prison and have questions about the Berlin club scene…
So glad you asked!
So, as super cool people do, I did some research to determine which club/s we might visit. It turns out there are two types of clubs in Berlin: one where kids could join and one where they should not and it is not clear which one is hipper. Berlin is a unique city where sex and drug education in schools commences in 6th grade, and at an extraordinarily advanced level. German teachers don’t mince words or images. Full disclosure is the norm. Though I’d recommend against it, an American of any age would learn a lot in a conversation with a 6th grade Berliner.
Insufficiently prepared to hang with German middle-schoolers, Andy and I focused on an adult club, one that could match our aspirational level of cool – Berghain. Fortunately, my research produced extensive notes on how to get in (because as with Stanford, that’s the hard part).
How to get into clubs in Berlin:
Wear all black. Also, no button-downs. Not that you would consider that, but to be clear.
Go with Germans. If you don’t know any Germans, meet some, ask them where to go, then ask to go with them. Chances are that they will say “nein,” blow smoke in your face and walk off. But if you somehow throw them off their game, and they say “ya,” you have improved odds.
Be cool. Despite there being no line, be ready to stand by the door for a couple of hours. First, it is always busy inside. Second, that is what Germans do: they stand stoically. And remember you are German, work especially hard on this if you have no Germans with you.
Don’t talk in line. AT ALL. SILENCE!
No cell phones. I am writing this mostly for myself and not you. We/you can’t get “other things done” while in line. So no texting, emailing, and definitely no picture-taking. If you don’t smoke, now is the time to start. Be nonchalant and glum. Life is nothing except the contemplation of individual insignificance and the burning desire to express that in violent dance.
If they say no, walk away, they won’t change their mind. Ever. Because: Germans.
Andy and I set our alarm for 6AM Sunday, as we were told that the low water mark / best chance for admittance was at 7AM Sunday I slid on my black pleather Spanx, which had the double benefit of looking super cool AND flattering. Andy also dressed in black, complete with a Nordstrom’s-looking pullover. The logic was a) it was a little chilly out and that would keep him warm and b) Nordstrom’s hasn’t gotten to Berlin yet so it might create a novelty effect. I decided to not take my Tory Burch purse because research suggested that East Coast preppy wouldn’t fly well yet Nordstrom’s would strike the right note of collective, possibly intentional irony (keep them guessing).
We hopped into an Uber; the German driver took one look at us and did not stop grinning ear-to-ear the entire 10 minute ride to Berghain. (We are CRUSHING making Germans smile these days. It is barely a challenge).
We rolled out of the cab, and walked towards the massive concrete building in the distance. The former coal-fired East German power generating station emitted a pulsing, definitely non-funky beat that shook the ground. Andy politely declined all the friendly dealers who offered us an exhaustive menu of drugs.
We approached the door, only to realize we didn’t have any money. I whispered to Andy, “Do you think they take AMEX?” Andy’s eyes and mouth suddenly squeezed tightly shut to suppress his reaction to my question as well as his frustration with himself for forgetting cash. We ever so casually turned around (in a glum German way, ostensibly to reconsider the drug dealer’s wares or life itself) in search of the nearest ATM.
We walked past all our drug dealer friends, who had clearly seen this turn-around-to-find-an-ATM-strategy before and offered us drugs once again because we might need them more now. We declined, but this time looked in their eyes and smiled because familiarity was our growing our friendship.
We walked to an ATM four blocks away, which gave us a chance to check out what other club-goers were wearing: not Spanx. Noted.
Andy and I made our way back to Berghain, excited (but not showing it) that there were only 2.5 couples in the line. We stood behind the five people in silence, ostensibly emoting a similar, acceptable level of cool and glum.
After 30 minutes, the line was starting to grow (apparently 8AM Sundays is when the 2nd shift arrives) and some 1st shift club-goers started to leave (all had sunglasses on, suggesting that inside the club it is sunny!). The doorman looked at the first couple in our line and let them in, and then the next person in – we were on a roll. But then, BOOM, the doorman stared at the couple just ahead of us and shook his head imperceptibly.The guy stared at him as if to ask, “Really? You aren’t going to let us in? But we are so cool and glum!” The doorman glared back and took a mental picture as if to say, “you will never ever get into this club. Ever.”
Then, the doorman looked at Andy and I – all well-dressed with just the right amount of novelty – and slowly (but with ambivalence, you could tell) shook his head kindly. I gave him a sly wink and small smile, as if to say, “we get you, you have hard choices to make on a Sunday AM, and we are for sure not going to argue because we might come back and we are now friends, cool?”
It is not clear, but I am pretty sure he winked back. So, I wanted to share the good news that Andy and I FOR SURE HAVE A SHOT at getting in next time we are in Berlin. And you can come with us!
