by barbara drury

we spell things differently

you and I

we sound like different birds

I have gone to a distant land

because of what you said.

I travelled in a caravan

past snaking rivers and wild wheat fields

seeking to gather up their yields.

I thought you would be happy.

I thought I would find something

buried in the sand, some pirate’s treasure

or at least a feeling

Juliet sat in the back seat of the SUV, blind-folded, wondering where she was. There had been talk of a hotel, and she wondered if this was the way to the airport. The vehicle stopped. There was total silence as she was led outside. The air was heavy with the scent of pine trees and it felt cold. She walked rather quickly. Inside she felt the heave of an elevator. On the tenth floor, she got out of the elevator and walked down the carpeted hall. Her heart was hammering behind her sternum, as she heard the click of a card key being accepted by the door. As the sash of black satin was removed, she gasped as she looked out the window at a beautiful forest and a mountain in the distance. She had been here before. The man behind her grinned.

‘Oh, Miles!’ Juliet threw her arms around his neck, ‘It’s perfect.’ Juliet had never liked surprises, but had decided on this occasion to entertain Miles by playing one of his games. This wasn’t what she expected. She thought they would at least have left the country and gone somewhere warm or somewhere new. Miles knew how much Juliet loved Banff, how much she missed the mountains and preferred the winter, although it was only fall. Years ago, Juliet had often walked through the grounds of the Banff Springs Hotel or peeped into the luxurious gift shops, but she had never stayed there. She had worked, briefly, as a housekeeper at a smaller inn in the town, but that was a long time ago.

Juliet thought there must be a catch, asked Miles if this was a business trip. He assured her it was just the two of them: no medical conferences. No business meetings. Juliet smiled. It was good to see Miles able to relax and forget about work. She hoped his good mood would last, and wondered what brought it about. Probably it was the stunning mountain landscape.

On the bed there were two matching black suitcases. ‘Did you bring my hiking gear?’ Juliet asked, as she unzipped the one on the right, that contained a black suit, silk PJs and walking boots, his luggage. Miles nodded, laughing lightly.

‘I thought we could hit the trails tomorrow,’ he suggested, ‘It’s already afternoon.’ Juliet looked around once more at the room.

‘Really, Miles, this is too much.’

‘Nonsense.’ Miles waved his hand dismissively. She hated it when he flashed his cash around, thought it terribly nouveau riche.

‘The hike sounds like a great idea. Then we can go to the hot springs or something this afternoon, maybe wander into town and go somewhere for dinner? Somewhere middle-brow, like the Irish pub.’ She added.

‘Doesn’t your ex work there?’

‘Miles, that was a long time ago, and Danny and I were just friends.’

‘Yeah, uh-huh, sure.’ Juliet sat next to Miles on the bed and kissed him. After she unpacked her suitcase, her garments hung like icicles on the rail. She wore her favourite pair of jeans and a black parka that Miles had the sense to pack for her. Holding hands, they strolled back down the hallway and took the elevator to the first floor, before descending the mahogany coloured, balustrade staircase which led to the marble floored lobby above which a chandelier with electric lights instead of candles was suspended. Again, the classical music played, but Juliet was able to fully take in the magnificence of the hotel that people called Banff’s castle. Once they were outside, Miles lit a cigarette that glowed like a lantern against the darkening sky.

They crossed the bridge across the bow river, while Cascade Mountain kept watch on the horizon, and walked up Banff Avenue alongside a myriad of tourists and hikers. It was too early in the year for the usual ski crowds to have arrived. Finally, they got to St James’ pub, which looks like a kind of Irish theme park. The smell of dark beer hung in the air. And there he was, standing behind the bar, a slender young man with a beard, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, with a beanie on his head. Danny looked good tonight, Juliet thought. No, he looked sexy. Miles cursed mildly under his breath, and Juliet tried to conceal her excitement.

‘Juliet, is that you?’ the bartender asked.

‘Sure is,’ Juliet beamed.

‘Wow, you look… the same. I thought you were this big fashionista,’ Danny mocked.

‘Well, I’m a little dressed down tonight, you know,’ Juliet said, blushing. ‘Trying to blend in.’

‘And you must be the famous Dr Miles?’ Miles nodded tersely, pursing his lips and forcing the edges of his mouth into a grimace. ‘Well, Jules, you and Dr take a seat; I’ll bring your drinks over.’

‘How does he even know what I want to drink?’ Miles muttered almost inaudibly. Juliet poked him gently in the side, glaring at him a little.

 The next morning the sun rose over Cascade Mountain, gently illuminating the dark forest in front of the hotel. Juliet sat on the velvet armchair, staring out the window. Miles was still in bed. When he woke up, they both showered and donned their best khaki hiking trousers, jackets and boots. While Miles was getting ready, Juliet made a pot of coffee, which she offered him. ‘You know we can go to the lounge for that, right?’ But Juliet liked doing something for Miles for a change.

           At the base of Sulphur Mountain, they set off up the trail. Through the winding paths, you couldn’t see much through the thick coniferous canopy. It was a steep climb and they walked one in front of the other. Miles’ cigarette smoke drifted in the air back to Juliet. She thought about how she used to smoke, and how the mountain looked exactly the same, when she was now so different. She thought about seeing Danny last night, how her heart skipped a beat, like it might have before, but how quickly those butterflies disappeared this time. How Miles looked this morning. He might have been rich, but at least he wasn’t boring, and he worked for his money, just like Juliet had. But some part of her couldn’t stand him having power over her: the old Juliet, or rather the young Juliet, who never wanted to commit to anything, who wanted to feel as free as she did on this mountain, free like the wolves and bears that populated the national park.

           One and a half hours later, they reached the summit, where they walked along the wooden boardwalk with information boards displaying history and old photographs. Miles and Juliet stood for a moment, catching their breath, when Miles rummaged in his pocket for something, another cigarette perhaps. Then he did something unexpected. Suddenly he dropped onto his knee, and opened a small box. The diamond shone like glacial ice on top of the mountain. Suddenly Juliet couldn’t breathe. She looked over the valley, where her once beloved town was nestled. The entire world was out there. Juliet could do anything, go anywhere, and be anyone. She felt young again, but different somehow.

as we sat in the dark for hours

Those were the days

that smelled of coffee and flowers

and looked yellow like a bunch of roses

I remember - do you?

  That day I first met you

I asked you for the time

a man was selling scarlet roses

and we spoke for hours

We walked between rows of flowers

The shadows pass like days.

  Now I spend my days

thinking about you,

chocolates and flowers.

It takes up so much time!

I think of the love that was ours

of when we stayed up until the sun rose.

  Waiting, watching wilting roses

drop their pink petals like dresses. Days

drift like boats in the mist and blurry hours

float on the sea. You

stand on the shore, so far away this time

In the air, a scent of flowers

is carried by the waves. Different flowers

and a different man carrying roses

About time

I let you go. My days

are better without you

Now that you're a memory, hours

  pass like shadows. In the early hours

I hear the sound of birds, the perfumed flowers

wake me. Where are you?

There are no roses

There are no days

There is no time.

  It's night-time: darkness lit with blinking stars. All the hours

lost, all the days passed, all the flowers

Heavy metal horrors

farmhouse festivals

toilets Tattoo

I’ll never be the star of a Broadway musical.

There was writing on that wall:

Young stars need Instagram, coffee,

a cute story, a new dress.

Lost stars want letters

written free on adult, green tables whose

Baroque beach novels

became elite objects.

Why deny disaster?

Can’t reshape today.

Today comes calling.

You don’t know how near you come.

Attempts, they take three

to be on TV.

We could take a bow

in front of my window,

looking out on heavy metal horrors

I had a great idea

Where did it go?

If I write in pencil

it will be easier than

writing with this permanent ink.

It’s hot and it stinks.

I just want to drink

cold coffee

the bitter, black beverage that I forgot about.

It’s easy to forget.

Easier still to regret.

How quickly the coffee gets cold,

long before the jitters even start.

So I make another cup of coffee and

He stood on the deck, looking out at the gulf islands scattered with cedar trees and tiny, colourful cottages, which seemed diminutive at this distance. They looked like doll houses. Ferdinand was lucky to have made his four o’clock ferry reservation, although now he began to have second thoughts about leaving his car – a jaguar E-type – unattended on the vehicle deck. But this was Canada. Suddenly a pod of around thirty killer whales burst into view. Ferdinand froze in place, staring at the orcas open-mouthed, and forgot all about his jaguar.

Finally, Ferdinand arrived. It was a resplendent chateau, surrounded by cedar trees and decorated with creeping emerald vines, which resembled a network of veins. In the garden roses grew: blood red, white, silver and gold. He parked outside, marched to the door, and knocked firmly three times. It was answered by a young girl of about thirteen, who turned scarlet as soon as he spoke to her and muttered something inaudible before scurrying away like a frightened animal. Not long afterwards, Alexa Ashworth descended the spiral staircase, carrying herself erect and flashing a set of blinding white teeth that matched her white-blonde hair. ‘Oh, Ferdie!’ They kissed each other on each cheek, the way people do in France. ‘How are you, Ferdinand? How was that awful ferry?’

           ‘Fine,’ he replied, ‘Better than flying.’ Alexa glanced past him at the forest-green jag outside. Pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, she nodded approvingly. She looked back at Ferdinand and smiled, gesturing to an armchair. Taking a seat opposite, she rang a small silver bell on a tray. A young girl in a black and white maid’s costume, with mouse brown hair, walked swiftly into the room.

           ‘Mary, two vodka martinis, please.’ Ferdinand started to lift his right hand, but hesitantly placed it back on his lap, while Mary flitted off. ‘Are you excited for the party tonight? I’m afraid you’ve arrived rather early. No one will be here until at least seven o’clock.’ Ferdinand gazed out the window at the chinks of yellow light sneaking through red-and-gold maple leaves; it was still only October, and Vancouver Island was far enough south that it was light at this hour. He said he might take a walk, and left his drink with the servant girl, who was all too pleased for the chance to dispose of the untouched cocktail. Alexa’s makeup artist was due to arrive any minute, so she pranced upstairs, while Ferdinand went to inspect the grounds. The estate covered twenty hectares, and the gardens required constant upkeep. Ferdinand caught sight of himself reflected in the still waters of a lily pond. He’d been much younger when he first met Mrs Ashworth. At forty-five, his curly brown hair began to sprout a few greys and worry-lines creased his forehead. Though he was still handsome; his eyes were the colour of the lily pads and his cheek bones were prominent on his lightly tanned, perfectly symmetrical visage. He thought he’d better go inside and get ready for the party, which he was suddenly in the mood for.

The household staff busied themselves decorating the mansion, while Ferdinand went to the spare room to dress up as Dracula. He hoped it was original enough. Who was he kidding? His costume screamed indifference. It didn’t matter what people thought, though. It was entirely ridiculous for a serious psychiatrist to disguise himself as a demon and participate in Hallowe’en, which was really about children and candy.

Donning fake fangs, fake blood and a midnight cape, the doctor opened the golden door knob and strode with feigned confidence into the party. Alexa was wearing a floor-length porcelain-white gown and a crown of flowers freshly picked from the garden on her head. She held a bouquet of Parma Violet peonies in between her two full breasts, which were at least fifty percent on show. She was nearly the image of a blushing bride, were it not for the trail of red running from her left breast to the train of her dress and her rather horrifying makeup. And she actually paid for that. ‘Hello, Dracula.’

‘What are you supposed to be?’ Ferdinand enquired.

‘A zombie bride, obviously.’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Oh, look. The entertainment has arrived.’ Ferdinand spun around to regard the latest arrival. ‘Lucy, hi.’

‘Hey,’ Lucy grimaced. She wore a pointy purple hat, a long violet gown with belled sleeves, and pointy black shoes. You couldn’t tell if she were bald, because she was wearing the hat. ‘You look…nice.’

‘Oh, yeah? You do know this is a Hallowe’en party, right?’ When no one laughed, she added: ‘Lucy came as herself!’

‘Actually, I came as you.’ The whole room erupted into laughter and the bride’s face waxed red as magma.

Pockets of partygoers prattled animatedly, as Ferdinand poured himself a red plastic cup full of punch. He poured one for Lucy, smiling at her.

‘Cheers,’ she said, ‘To a fabulous fête.’

‘Are you Métis?’ Lucy rolled her eyes and laughed. He shouldn’t have asked that.

‘Yeah.’

‘Hi, hi.’ Alexa waved, waltzing over. ‘Is everybody having a good time? Mm… punch.’ Ferdinand wondered how much she’d had.

‘I think I’ll go out for some fresh air,’ Ferdinand suggested, swaying slightly as he stumbled towards the door. Alexa darted in front of him, lifting the train of her dress.

‘Why don’t I join you, Mr Vampire?’ Ferdinand shrugged by way of reply and removed his fangs. The doorway was barricaded by Harry Potter, Darth Vader and a ghost. Alexa and Ferdinand eventually got past them. Ferdinand lit a cigarette, and Alexa snatched one, holding it in her mouth for him to light. He asked how and, for that matter, where Richard was. The normally loquacious Mrs Ashworth replied tersely that her husband was fine, that he would be late as usual.

‘Oh, it is so cold.’ Alexa huddled herself up against Ferdinand, looking up into his green eyes. He put his arm around her shoulder and led her back inside, where Darth Vader started playing Shostakovich on the violin. ‘Dance with me, Ferdie.’ He placed his arm tentatively on her waist, as he led her around the dance floor. It was a sort of Viennese Waltz. If an octopus tried to do a Viennese Waltz. Spinning around in that ballroom, Ferdinand started to feel dizzier than he was already, and Alexa looked different somehow. Almost like it wasn’t Alexa at all. She flung her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his, and he held her head in his hands, kissing her back furiously. Her lips were so soft, like those of a twenty-one-year-old. For a moment, nothing happened. The fiddler kept fiddling, the drinkers kept drinking, the dancers kept dancing. Suddenly, Ferdinand was brought back to the present, to a sober realisation of what he had done. He opened his eyes, and in his peripheral vision he saw a sobbing bride scrambling up the staircase. In front of him stood a laughing witch, albeit a rather pretty one.

‘Have we met before?’ he asked.

‘Lucy Wilson-Knight,’ she replied, ‘And you’re the famous Dr Ferdinand Faber.’

‘Oh goodness, Lucy. Forgive me, I’m afraid I’m rather drunk.’

‘Yeah, we did tequila shots earlier.’ Did he? ‘You probably won’t remember this in the morning.’ But Alexa probably would.

I sat beside a pool of swans when Calliope appeared.

I read a book of poetry.

At this, fair lady peered.

She helped me to understand what it was they said.

Through her I met Shelley, Keats and Shakespeare

Although they all were dead.

 No longer shy of her fair eye,

I began to bravely ask,

How can I write such poetry?

She said, take off your mask.

Reveal to the world your soul.

Imagine every image whole.

 Thereafter, fair Calliope fled.

Mists sift through thick forests

Cedars echo with the howl of ghosts.

Words drift across the page

Poets echo in the room of ghosts.

Dreams collide with clouds

White clouds dance in the sky

A cemetery of dreams

who sink down to die.

Deep in the Ya Ha Tinda, forests filled with firs and aspen trees are punctuated with fields of wild horses, Mustangs running free in the wind which shakes the tall, coarse grass.

           Annabelle gazed out the window of the cherry red pick-up truck, which was firmly closed to stop the dust getting in, as she drove along the dirt road to nowhere. Her GPS had cut out over a mile ago, and she wondered how she was going to find the ranch in the first place. Luckily, all the roads were in grid out West, which made things easier, and there was no traffic to speak of. But there were also no gas stations. The nearest one was in Sundre, so she just had to keep driving. She wasn’t lost yet.

           Finally, the trees cleared and a log cabin on a hill and a sizeable red barn, bordered by a wooden post-and-rail fence, appeared in the distance. Annabelle turned the truck into the driveway, putting it into park and climbing out to clumsily open the gate with a hand-carved sign inscribed ‘Lucky Diamond Ranch’. Sounds like the name of a Casino. After closing the gate, she pulled up right by the cabin, and looked around for signs of human life. The air was rich with the smell of horse hair, horse dung and silage.

           ‘Howdy,’ a lean man wearing a Stetson, worn-looking leather cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans and a blue plaid shirt swung one leg and the other over a fence and jumped down like an agile cat. ‘I’m Lenny.’

           Annabelle introduced herself, reluctantly shaking Lenny’s rather dirty outstretched hand. Lenny and his brother Bryn, who was really his half-brother, ran the ranch. Bryn happened to be a veterinarian, and was out on a farm call at the time. Something about a cow with a prolapsed uterus. Annabelle said she didn’t want to know.

           ‘You want anything? Coffee? Some Jack Daniels?’ Lenny offered. Annabelle had almost stepped in some horse apples.

           ‘Coffee, please.’ She followed Lenny inside the log cabin, which consisted mainly of one room, with paintings of country scenes and all manor of animal heads hanging on the walls. She took a mug of tar-like substance that smelled something like coffee in her hands, and thought better than to drink it. Lenny just smiled. He was handsome but, Annabelle thought, wasted on this solitary existence. What kind of man lives out in the boonies with his brother and other animals, anyway?

           After exchanging few words, Lenny lead Annabelle out to the paddock. The horses stood around, their coats gleaming in the bright Alberta sunlight, swishing their tails back and forth. One, a buckskin gelding, nuzzled Annabelle’s palm. ‘He likes you,’ Lenny said, ‘That one’s Joey.’

           Annabelle regarded the beast. He was around 15 hands high, probably a quarter horse and young, maybe three. ‘Is he broke?’

           ‘Yeah, he’s a fine animal,’ Lenny beamed, ‘Strong, though. Not suitable for beginner riders.’ He gestured to the gelding’s flank and powerful quarters.

           Annabelle rolled her eyes. ‘Can I take him out?’

           ‘What, all by yourself?’

           Annabelle said of course by herself. As a girl, she loved watching the show jumping at Spruce Meadows, and she had taken lessons in dressage as many years ago. Lenny shrugged and went to the barn to get a saddle. As he hoisted the leather saddle onto Joey’s gently curved back, fixing the girth in place, Annabelle noticed Lenny was smirking and shot him a questioning look.

           ‘Out here we call you folks “Coca-cola Cowboys”.’ Not funny. Annabelle found it about as amusing as she found the horn at the front of the saddle, and she unwillingly found herself imagining what sorts of injuries a person could sustain from that appendage. She said nothing while Lenny continued saddling her horse fluently. ‘Do you know how to neck-reign? No? Well, you can pony-reign if you need; most horses understand it.’ He gestured a neck-reign demonstration, which looked rather as though he were miming how to change gears in a stick-shift car. Annabelle drove automatic for a reason.

           Having mounted the horse with some elegance, Annabelle gathered the smooth, brown leather reigns in her right hand and sat straight with feigned confidence. Lenny told her to go straight across the field to the west of the ranch, and head along the well-worn path through the forest towards the Blue Mountain, said the ride took about an hour there and back.

           Commencing at a walk, Annabelle rode Joey through an open barb-wired gate into a lush green field, with hills and forests in the distance. She nudged him gently with her heels to guide him into a trot, but also squeezed him slightly with her legs, prompting Joey to burst into a gallop. His long, beige legs propelled them forwards with ease, as his hard, black hooves danced rhythmically across the field. He moved so smoothly, Annabelle felt like they were flying.

           After a while, Annabelle left the city behind and relaxed her shoulders. This expedition felt like the most natural thing in the world. For the first time in weeks, Annabelle forgot about Eric. She could have gone to a spa or done yoga in a comfortable studio with a hardwood floor and a vast window overlooking the mountains. Eschewing luxury, she opted to get as far away as possible, which the Ya Ha Tinda promised. In reality, she found herself in the middle of nowhere: the antithesis of glamour. She thought of Lenny, about how ridiculous he must have found this yahoo with her designer handbag and brand-new Levi’s.

They came into a clearing in the forest, where a large elk stood wearing a crown of great antlers. Annabelle didn’t see the elk, and neither did the horse at first, so she was unprepared when her mount leapt sideways with all four feet in the air.

           ‘Whoa, boy!’ the command came forth instinctively. ‘Whoa! I said “whoa”!’ Surprise became panic, as the horse kicked his hind legs towards the sky, bucking like a bronco at a rodeo. The rider flew into the air, and fell onto the forest floor like a bird shot out of the sky. The elk had already dashed into the woods. Annabelle picked up a small, smooth stone and threw it at the horse, who whinnied and took off down the trail. ‘Stupid animal!’

           Annabelle started to shiver slightly, and she looked up at the sky, blue streaked through with crimson, lilac, flame orange and pink, like a painting of meadow flowers: Indian paintbrushes, fireweed and pale pink Alberta roses. She pulled her denim jacket around herself. It was still Spring and the nights could get cold. Having shaken off the shock of her little misadventure, she scrambled to her feet and walked slowly to the edge of the clearing, hoping to find the trail. Appraising the ground, she couldn’t make out any hoof prints. Deer, elk, and coyote prints all mixed together. If a horse had walked there, Annabelle didn’t know. Tears sprang from her eyes, running down her cheeks like the Red Deer river which roared in the distance, too far away for her to hear.

           Grasshoppers clicked their legs, chirping softly. A small bird, high in a Balsam tree sang chick-a-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee. Compared to the city, it was so quiet, but Annabelle hated the silence and every noise the forest made. When a coyote howled like a ghost, Annabelle thought it was a wolf, great and grey with menacing fangs. In the clearing, bushes decorated with bright red berries clustered around. Although her stomach growled, she dared not touch the berries for fear they were poisonous. What Annabelle didn’t know was that these fruits were named bearberries, and the grizzlies who feasted on them were somewhere in the mountains enclosing the Ya Ha Tinda’s Western perimeter. For a moment, Annabelle took her cell phone out of her pocket and laughed. That was useless out here. There was no way to call for help. If, in her panic, she cried out frantically for help, there’s no telling what creatures she would awaken. If she climbed up a tree, there’s no way she could get away from a mountain lion, with its sharp talons and unnatural speed.

           Stick to the trails and be back before dark.

           As the sun disappeared, the painted sky turned inky black, dusted with stars. Far from the city, you could see every star with clarity, and a group of stars gathered in the shape of a ladle. And at the tip of its handle was the North Star. And if Annabelle had known this, she could have found her way back through the thick forests, down the hill and across the grassy plain. But the forest was forbidding, a sea of trees standing still like totem poles.

           Annabelle turned around. Something rustled in the bushes, heading towards her. Two brown eyes peered at her from the dark forest. Suddenly the beast burst into the clearing.

           ‘Joey!’ Annabelle cried, startled. Moonlight revealed the familiar outline of a horse. The animal had appeared like a spirit from the forest, a shadow of the history of the Stony tribe who once wandered these plains and mountains. The western wind moved through the trees, gently tousling Annabelle’s auburn mane like waves on the sea. Surrounded by this wonderful wilderness, she paused and hesitated mounting on the horse. She was lost in a dream. While her feet were planted firmly on the ground, she stood on a higher plane. While the wilderness was filled with mystic, it managed to simplify life. Before, Annabelle had only imagined that such places still existed, untouched by the urban sprawl.  Joey lowered his head and strolled shamefully towards Annabelle, who hugged his neck, as he bent his neck towards her, hugging her back. Joey looked different somehow, Annabelle thought, almost human. His big brown eyes were filled with apology. ‘I’m sorry too, boy,’ Annabelle said, gently stroking his nose. Sliding one foot in the stirrup, Annabelle got back on her horse. For a moment, she remembered she was still lost with no idea how to get back to the house.

           As they traversed the woodland in search of the trail, Annabelle breathed in the scent of lodgepole pines, listening to the call of a barn owl asking who-who-who? She couldn’t see a darn thing. The odd Alberta rosebush pricked her legs, and when Joey walked too close to a poplar she felt its corrugated bark against her calves. The young horse ambled along cautiously, until they eventually reached the edge of the forest. The night sky illuminated the field; its reflection played on the waters of a lake, so that it was impossible to differentiate the Earth from the atmosphere. Under the starlight, Joey galloped in the direction of an artificial light glowing in the distance.

In London I can’t know, I think and drift

I shapeshift

Stop talking … listen

to an artist … and his ritual

He discards a tiny piece of paper, a memory of her

Don’t love me anymore and go?

Next morning I found my room completely destroyed –

The artist vanished, the music banished,

the pitch drifts down the silver stream

This must be the place you moved.

 Plants and animals play by the water

Listen … a heart beats

I put ice on it

and I arrange pictures of you on stage

reminders of our intimate origins on the page

I sink into the depth of that lake

and I stretch out my hand and grasp

a tiny piece of paper.

1. Do You Read Me?!

Auguststrasse 28 (Scheunenviertel) 

With a special thanks to Angelica Taschen for suggesting this brilliant store in Berlin Street Style. My husband and I both enjoyed poring over the poetry and photography publications. 

2. Kisch & Co. Buchhandlung

Oranien Straße 25 (Kreuzberg)

This was absolutely one of my favourites. We went there twice, naturally without leaving empty handed on the second visit. Considering the size of the bookstore, it contains a carefully considered collection, ranging from German and international magazines to music criticism to fiction (mostly in German). 

What I bought: Verblendung (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) by Stieg Larsson for €4.50. I’ve read the English version (translated from Swedish) and it’s one of my favourite books. 

3. Dussmann  

Friedrichstraße 90 (Mitte)

A large bookstore, catering to a wide variety of tastes, with a reasonable range of English books. If you’re Canadian, think Chapters. If you’re British, think Waterstones. 

4. Shakespeare & Co.

Ludwigkirschstraße 9a, U-Station: Hohenzollernplatz  (Wilmersdorf).

Another superb recommendation from Berlin Street Style. Anticipate a predominantly German curation of literature, with a smattering of books translated from English (Charles Bukowski in German, anyone?).  

What I bought: Als der Zug Abfuhr by Gunter Grass 

5. Museum für Fotografie bookstore: Buchhandlung Walther König

Jebensstraße 2  (West Berlin)

1. The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

As a huge fan of the writings of the Beat generation, I liked this book even more than Kerouac’s more famous work On the Road. While I was at London Gatwick airport, waiting for a flight, a fellow bookshop browser saw me looking at the book and said, “Read it, it’s good!”

2. Into the Wild by John Krakauer

This is undoubtedly one of my favourite books of all time. Scarily, I could identify with the protagonist Chris McCandles (aka Alexander Supertramp) in many ways. It’s about the quest for adventure, the dangers of ignorance and the relative fragility of man as a species when it comes to surviving in the wilderness.

3. The Best of Everything by Rona Jaffe

I have sort of a penchant for the 50′s (and 60′s and 70′s for that matter) and found this book to be an example of very well-written chick lit. There is plenty of gossip, drama and romance in its pages and it depicts a very interesting world of publishing in 1950′s New York City.

4. The Girl at the Lion D’or by Sebastian Faulks

You don’t know who I am, but I know who are. Yesterday I was a wild, print-clad leopard in a zoo, I was Edie Sedgwick, I was Jack Kerouac. Today I’m 26.

Our existence on this Earth is too brief for constant fretting over fickle frivolities. We are but mice and men. Better to be adaptably resilient than absolutely rigid. Planning to please everyone? Pointless and impossible. In fact, it’s the only thing that’s impossible. Anything else can be done and undone. Just when you’ve got it all figured out, fate decides to fuck with you, or you think that’s what’s happening, but really it’s destiny making love to you. 

In the mountains, the sun rises high over the trees.

My green eyes open, as I rise this winter morning. Opening the log cabin's door, I inhale the breeze I look upon the white forest floor, pale like my snowy skin. Icy, infinite, illuminated: Winter, waiting...