Berliner Konzerthaus

Today I took the train up to Mitte, the cultural and political center of Berlin, and took refuge in the Temple of the Arts known as Unter den Linden. Well, in reality I headed up there to take care of my integration course (so as to be a Good and Proper German Citizen), but in walking back to the bahnhof, I found the Gendarmemarkt and the adjoining Konzerthaus. And, my friends, it was like getting a hug: there's something about the ornately guilded cupcakery of old school concert halls that soothes me. There's the beauty of the architecture, and the sublimity of the music that goes on inside, and both just fill me with peace and comfort. A little weird for a writer to get her jollies from opera houses and concert halls, but whatever.

Actually, in walking around the building I realized that I'd been there before, five years ago on my family's last German tour. We came for Christmas, and somewhere between the airport and the Alps I picked up bronchitis (and the cure for it is a post unto itself). By the time we reached Berlin, I was doing better enough to not snarfle my way through the five frillion performances we went to: Le Nozze di Figaro and the Deutsche Oper, some other concerts that I don't remember, and the most miraculous performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. It was performed by the Berlin Radio Orchestra, and in the Konzerthaus. I remember the gilded luxury of the hall, the way the acoustics picked up every single ringing note, and the way the music felt: like a warm hug from an old friend. Today, walking around, I remembered that night, and decided that it's high time I go to another concert there. Because, in my brother's words, "Hearing the Ninth put on by the B.R.O kinda ruins every other concert in every other hall." I wouldn't say he's 100% right, but he has a point. The Konzerthaus is magic.