I woke up in Berlin this morning and, as promised, had hot coffee and a cup of Bircher muesli from the coffee shop around the corner. The German boy I’m staying with came along, but he has only lattes. We drank and were warm together; us versus the rain. Us versus the world.

Later, a sprawling Vietnamese grocery outlet on the edge of the city. Bok choy, super garlic, chili sauces, and strange beefy gelatins steamed in banana leaves. We bagged it all and paid our euros, then had lunch in a beaten down diner perched on the northernmost tip of the complex — it boasted a large stage for a band in event of a wedding party, laughable— and that was vermicelli, fried beef, glass noodles.

We talked about things I can’t remember.

Later on, the ABC Art Fair, with tickets from a friend of mine who helps run the show. Our names were on passes at the front counter and they whisked us in sharply, Very Important People. Then the sprawling complex with its industrial attitudes, full of terrible sculptures and performance art: a woman cracking a whip mercilessly against the concrete and some idiots with masks circling on motorcycles. We ignored the entire, illogical assault and retired to the corner where alcohol was served and strangers shared tables. The wine was crisp and dry and a pair of bald twins wearing matching, flame-orange pants and fur coats sat opposite us. (See above.)

We ignored everybody and collaborated over advice to be given to the GB’s best friend via text message.

“He should wait a few days, right?”

“No, they only dated three months. What’s at stake?”

These were the kinds of things that we said, getting steadily and steadily drunker.

Then the light had changed or the sun had come out, because the room was effusive with watery, warming glow, but no, it was just in my head and chest and body, the warm, turning glow and the happiness that is being warm and safe when it’s cold out, and moving like a beetle inside my chest, the warmth, this is all that I need, I know, and I glow like a buffoon.

Now we are home and we write more things and play music — this time, Bill Fay — and GB stands in the other room and cooks dinner for me. Bok choy stir-fried with garlic and more glass noodles.

Here is the thing I am most excited for. To close my eyes and wake up and have it be a new day, in Berlin, all over again.

Say, what’s a glass noodle anyway?