We shared a ride to Berlin with two television producers from Köln. Knut spun hilarious stories of his travels in Canada while Regine knitted an ever-expanding yellow something. ("I'm just bored," she remarked, laughing. "I don't know what it's going to be.")
Joke was waiting for us in his flat.
He'd been invited to a Christmas dinner party, so we were soon left to our own depleted devices. The accumulation of weeks of stress (renovations, Claudia working round-the-clock, the fucking holidays) was both waning and pressing upon us. The only option? Indian takeaway...
Up at four for the taxi to the airport. Yobbos on the train howled and sputtered and were duly recorded for some future meisterwerk.
The walk to the terminal would kill most Americans - no carpeting or mechanized sidewalks, just concrete abutments and the soothing sound of hundreds of pairs of plastic wheels clattering across the pavement. CP noted that I should be capturing those sounds, but my hands were full. The memory suffices.
Three hours on EasyJet, a fifteen-minute careen by cab through a labyrinthine warren of sidestreets, and we arrived.
(CP begins to unwind... Click above for a larger version.)
This spot is a field recordists' wet fucking dream, and I promise no soporific Chris Watson mulescapes of purring ocelots.