I'm in a hostel in Berlin. (I have three minutes left, so goodbye, eloquence! Also proofreading.) This trip has been indescribable so far, in good and bad ways. I've lost my wallet, missed planes, almost cried at more consecutive rehearsals than is strictly healthy, but I also (as part of my badass quintet) won an international performance prize. And now I'm in Berlin, so that's good. Today I will walk my feet to pieces at Museuminsel, Museum Island, where for twelve euros I can s4ee as much of four museums as I can handle. Then I'm thinking falalfel and bed.
Last night I ate excellent naan-based pesto pizza with an Australian man named Ray. He told me I'd missed the flea market, but that Berlin in the summer was the best place to be. Right now I'm inclined to agree. On Thursday, though, I'll fly to Paris, where I hope they don't hate me for speaking pretty much zero french, and then a day in London and then home.
Home sounds incredible. Right now it might all be pizza and museums, but for my first two weeks in Germany I literally did almost nothing but practice and rehearse. A typical day involved four to four-and-a-half hours of intensive rehearsals, lunch, two hours of practice, a lesson, a lengthy and intellectual concert, and then a slow collapse into bed. I was nearly at the breaking point, and I have rarely been so happy to have a cocnert occur. Our work paid off though, and we will be returning in two years to play a full concert. That kind of recognition for such effort is astounding, and nearly drives me to tears.
But home. I want it slow and lazy, with no goals. And afternoon napping, without worrying about my ability to buy produce or communicate my needs afterwards. I'm looking forward to it.