I seem to have solved the worst of the NT issues, so I now have a functioning work environment. (The solution to the web server problem was very simple: go into IE4 Internet Options and change "connect with a modem" to "connect with a LAN" even though this is, technically speaking, a lie. It does something mysterious to the TCP/IP stack that causes everything to work properly. Thank you Bill.) This is good - I was growing tired of fucking about.

The outstanding technical issues are now fairly small: buy a printer and perhaps a cheap digital camera; devise some reasonable means of hooking the laptop into a CD (external CD drive, network cards, direct cable connection) so that we can load more software; fix the weird dial-up networking issues on the laptop; figure out why Macromedia Dreamweaver has odd display issues with NT.

But the main thing is, I'm ready to get down to work. Today I will finish overhauling my resume, German CV and portfolio site. Then I'll send out a bunch of letters to various people from whom I'm trying to hustle work (a couple of companies in Berlin, friends in Vancouver, and the various European manifestations of my former employer). Eventually I will need funds.

After that, a new journal site, with a somewhat modified literary format. Still plenty of quotidian observations, but less daily grind, more thematic essay. I hope...

Suddenly, there's a doctor in the house. Frau Doktor Frau is home and very relaxed indeed - delayed-reaction jet lag. There have been small amounts of domestic tension since her return, the fault of both I should think (though she may not). F.D.F. is very tired and not in a big hurry to get moving or think too hard; I've been cooped up alone for a week and getting a little antsy, ready to do things.

Worse, there is some uncertainty on the apartment question. We've been unable to reach the woman from whom we are supposedly renting the artist studio in Kreuzberg sometime next month. Early on I insisted that we should stay in fairly close contact with her; Annette felt otherwise, not wanting to pester her during the month or two before the purported move. Now we have no idea what is happening, and my frustration manifests itself in that annoying "I told you so" fashion. I find it highly irksome that we don't know whether we should buy any household goods for this place, which is very sparse, because we don't know whether we'll need them in a few week's time.

We'll get over it. We just need a few days to settle in and get used to each other again.

Then there's the cat problem. Darling Vita has urinated under the kitchen table in the little Wintergarten [a small room off the kitchen, enclosed with glass doors] three or four times over the course of the last week. Thus we begin our strange journey into the world of feline psychology. At first it was clear that she was upset about something: moving to another new apartment, Annette going away again, general post-traumatic stress disorder. She was trying to communicate with us - after she sprayed she would howl a bit, then run away and hide. I tried to eliminate the obvious environmental irritants: I bought new litter and cleaned the box religiously; I made up a bed for her in a cardboard box so that she would have somewhere dark and secluded to sleep during the day - it's very bright in the afternoon, and with so little furniture in the apartment there are few good hiding places. It seemed to help a little.

The problem continued after Annette's return, though the psychological circumstances were somewhat different. She no longer appeared unhappy. The last time I caught her in the act she walked away casually and flopped down in a patch of sunlight - clearly not upset about anything. So we closed off the kitchen area for a few days, which forced her to resume using the litterbox for number ones as well as number twos. No puddles anywhere else; we thought we had the problem licked. But a few days later, when we allowed her a brief period of unsupervised kitchen access, she did it again.

At this point I read a long guide to "F.I.E." (Feline Inappropriate Elimination) Syndrome - yes, it has a name - passed on by a friend. Very interesting. The first thing we need to do, once our financial situation has stabilized a bit, is take her to a vet to check for a urinary tract infection or any other obvious physical problems. If the causes are psychological, we need to be very patient, reduce all stresses, and ultimately treat this as very challenging chess match with a very cunning opponent. (I think my theory was probably correct: she did it a few times to tell us that she was upset, after which she simply grew accustomed to the idea of peeing in the Wintergarten. It's much nicer than the stinky old litterbox, plus the sisal grass carpet under the table has a funny, pee-like smell.) My latest gambit, as per the guide's suggestion, is to move her food bowls into the exact spot where she's been peeing. Cats won't soil their eating area. So far so good - it appears to be working. She gave me a few dirty looks, but hasn't sprayed again. Which is a good thing, because the next step is to throw her off the roof.

Vita is not unhappy, but I think she's a little bored in this apartment. There isn't much to do. Our Vancouver loft was a perfect feline environment, with many places to hide, windows to stare out of, a big hall to walk up and down, other cats to hiss at. Annette's parents house had endless nooks and crannies to explore, and escape to the outside world was always possible. After she arrived here she had the company of two old friends at P's place. But now, nothing beyond a few sparse rooms, a small selection of toys, and two tiresome Dozenöffner [can openers, which is what German cats call their humans]. Not so interesting.

It was touching how badly she missed Annette, though. Touching and troubling - this complicates my secret plan to run away together....

We are going places, doing things. I didn't go to Morrissey last night, unfortunately. It was very expensive, and money is a bit tight just now as we wait for some expenses to be refunded and some cheques to arrive. I've already blown the month's entertainment budget on tickets for the world cycling championships up at the velodrome, which begins tonight. Annette and I have a cheap "family pass" for the first two days, then I have reserved seats for the final three days.

And sometime soon I should go check out the tasteful typographic gifts at FontShop, perfect for the graphic designer on your Christmas list.

So it appears that I will be travelling to Chicago for Annette's graduation in December. I was pretty ambivalent about the whole thing, but said that if my presence would make other people happy I would certainly go along. She replied that it would make her parents happy, and possibly also herself, depending on how well I behaved. So I agreed. What the hell, four of five days in our old 'hood, meeting with friends, a little shopping, well worth it for two hours of Latin and lineups. Better yet, it removes any obligation to come home for Christmas!

The fall weather has been absolutely glorious for the past week, sunny, crisp and increasingly cold. While it's not frigid, yet, one can feel that winter is not far away. When I ride over the crest of the hill on Landsberger Allee, on my way to the Sportforum in East Berlin, I get the awful sense that this is the last hill until Moscow, that there is nothing left but a few trees to stop the arctic winds (or, in former times, the Mongol Bolshevik hordes) from sweeping across the steppes.

I've been training every day, cycling and skating. When you don't know which sunny, dry day will be your last for god knows how long, you go out whether you feel like it or not. I've skated four days out of the last five, mostly in the Grunewald but once up at the 300m asphalt oval in Weißensee, which is dull after a while but useful for intervals and technique drills, and cross-over turns of course.

The ride up to Weißensee was wonderful. I left the map at home, trusted my instincts, wove my way across town in no particular hurry, getting turned around in Kreuzberg and Mitte but eventually finding my way to Unter den Linden and then across to Prenzlauer Allee. On the return, the remains of the Anhalter Banhof shone yellow in the late-afternoon autumn sun. I wished that I had brought a camera with me.

If only I could have trained like this in September, how different might my marathon have been. But it's still important that I spend a lot of time on the skates; as soon as I buy a klap blade for my boots I'll be on the ice as often as time and frozen toes permit. The old back and hip were bothering me for a few weeks but it's been better since I've begun stretching again, and skating actually seems to help.

Powerbars and other North American energy foods are expensive and difficult to find here, but I don't care, I have Ritter Sport. Lately I haven't been eating much during the day - to better maintain that wraith-like figure that is so pleasing to the eye - so the only way I can survive a long workout is to wolf down a square of white chocolate with roasted nuts. It packs a wallop.

My double-push technique (demonstration: 1 MB AVI) has improved over the past few months. I've had a few epiphanies here and there, and it's beginning to come together. Outside set-down, weight transfer, under-push, heel carve, weight transfer, normal push, quick scissor recovery with toe drag, set-down again... It's not faster, yet, but next year it will be.

On Monday afternoon, skating at the oval, I encountered the unopposable force of nature known as teenage girl. There were three people at the track when I arrived, two sisters and their mother. The older of the two girls had a battered  pair of speedskates, though she wasn't going too fast. When I took a break after twenty minutes she called to me across the track, asking if I trained here very often. I replied in German, then by way of apologizing for its poor quality mentioned that I was Canadian.

"Oh," she said, "I can practice my English! Canada is the best country! Do you know why?"

"No," I was forced to admit.

"Because the X-Files comes from Canada!"

"Ah," I replied, "they film it in L.A. now, but it was made in Vancouver for many years, and Vancouver is also the city where I come from."

She gasped, and said that this was a very good thing, and that I was very lucky. Now, long-time readers of this journal will remember that a few years ago my neighbour two doors down was Mitch Pileggi, the actor who plays Skinner on said show. We weren't exactly pals, but he was friendly enough. Not realizing what I was about to unleash, I mentioned this fact.

"You know Skinner from the X-Files? Yes? He was my neighbour in Vancouver. He lived just down the hall."

She practically threw her arms around my neck. She nearly began to hyperventilate. This was simply too wonderful to be believed.

"Do you know him? You are friends, yes? Will you give him a letter? I will write him a long letter. I want to be an actor too."

And on and on she went. Oh dear. Ten minutes later, squirming, I succeeded in extricating myself without giving up a phone number, though in a desperate rearguard action I was forced to concede an email address. I said that I couldn't promise anything, but I would see if some of my friends from the building knew how to reach him.

There won't be any easy escapes, either, as she skates at the ice oval all winter so I'll probably see her once or twice a week.

I did eventually manage to start skating again, and later left with a polite farewell. Through it all I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. In my culture, chatting up twelve-year-old girls in the park is practically a hanging offense, particularly if you offer a phone number or email address. But things are different here. Mother saw nothing amiss as she blithely rolled past; she did not threaten to call the Polizei when to my great discomfort I was gushingly introduced as the "neue Liebling".

Things are indeed different here.

Supposedly it was a protest over high sales taxes on restaurant meals, but I believe they were secretly attempting to create a new desert, the "Torte Policier".

Only the French - god love 'em - would do such a thing.