Assignment #1

There are two things one never associates with the batshit crazies in this world: bicycles and Geoffrey Chaucer.

 After hearing the assignment to buy a journal, I went to AldiMarkt. They did not have any journals in stock, but I bought the 0,4€ liter of shampoo/four-stroke engine cleaner. It smells like sourkraut and makes my hair feel like baleen, but what low prices!

 I went to Kaïser’s next, hoping that I wouldn’t have to leave the neighborhood for a cheap spiral notebook. Kaïser’s has eight different kinds of butter, an annex devoted to beer, and an aisle of weight loss powders. But stationary? Fat chance.

 I figured that as long as I had to hop on a train to get my journal, I might as well venture down to see Dussman along Freidrichstraße. On my way up to street level from the U2, I walked behind a curious fellow. He wore the tattered clothing and shaky grimace of a mentally deranged homeless person. The stench that accompanied this guy was expected, in a way—the typical “I proudly threw my poop this morning” mix of caked-on sweat, sea bass, and Schnapps.

 At an unceremonious spot along the steps, My Guy turned towards the faded teal tile wall and yelled. He didn’t yell anything in particular. His inflection never changed, nor his body language and facial expression. He just held a loud, throaty C-sharp for four seconds, and then continued up the stairs nonchalantly, as if his stentorian scream was just another exhale. If not taken aback, I was impressed. This guy has pipes.

 When I made the last step, I saw the nut-job appraising a bicycle with his eyes. He then thumbed the back tire and gave the rear brake handle a gentle squeeze. I wondered if he was flirting with the Huffy. Dammit, I thought. I don’t know how to report a stolen bike. But just as soon, the guy took a small key ring out of his pocket and unlocked his bike—simultaneously, snorting phlegm and hawking a loogie square onto his seat. I liked this guy already.

 I made my way towards Dussman about 15 feet behind the homeless guy. We never made a green light but he kept puttering along, not giving two shits about traffic. When he stopped in front of Dussman to yell again, I was half a block behind.

 My loony companion disappeared behind a crowd of businessmen and an Italian tour bus. And right then, I missed him. It’s strange how some things stick with you like that: without rhyme or reason, he was the hook and I was the felt in our spontaneous Velcro arrangement.

 I went to the second floor of Dussman with a heavy heart. I found my journal, 150 college-ruled pages proud, and waited in line. As I was counting out my change (who charges 1.57€ for a journal?!), a familiar sound caterwauled through the bookstore. On the floor below me, with a security guard and employee wrangling, was my buddy. His bike was gone (probably wedged in the underbelly of an escalator or shoved into a women’s toilet, knowing his style of humor), which made it easier to throw him out. The security guard huffed and puffed back in the store, tossing a thick book down onto the information desk as he passed. I found it lying there on my way out. The motherfucker had ripped about half the pages out of the translated version of Canterbury Tales.

 I wrote in my new journal with thick underlines and a jagged frame: If I’m the pilgrim, he can be the minstrel.

 

August 22, 2009

A Note to Bryan (22.08.2009)

I’m sorry to bug you, Bryan, but I think we got cut off early today. I suppose it’s not your fault. You have your places to be, as I have mine. I just wish our paths ran parallel a few stops more on the Tram.

When you found me I was lost—not romantically or spiritually, but rather I didn’t know where the fuck I had gotten myself in Berlin. I stopped in front of a Loona poster at an M5 station to look at my scribbled directions, and you stomped on my foot with a combat boot. Did you mean to plant and pivot there? Or did you not see me? I only ask because I’ve never met someone with all-white color contacts and I have no idea if your vision is impaired. I gotta hand it to you… Awesome pupils, dude.

Anyways, I fully accept your apology. It’s funny that you crushed my metatarsals, since we are two proper English-speaking gentlemen in a Deutsche land. You said 'Saury' with a dense brogue, but your guttural voice kept me off your ancestral trail. Are you Scotch, Bryan? Maybe Welsh? I guess that will remain a mystery.

Speaking of mysteries, how did you get into Satanism? I wouldn’t have asked on the train under normal circumstances, but your up-turned devil horn tattoos and “Lucifer” neck chain gave it away. I like that you’re up front with your belief system, however aberrant society might deem it. It’s just annoying when people subject their views passive-aggressively—instead, when I asked about the tattoos, you said “I worship the Devil” like someone else would say “I donate to public radio.” Good on ya, mate. I’m not big on religion myself, but if that’s your bailiwick—mazel tov.

Really great outfit today, by the way. I’d never be able to pull off black-on-black with a sleeveless trenchcoat. You just never find enough people with unique style anymore; Ralph Lauren has turned the world into a catwalk for monotony. A couple questions, though: Do you make the spiked armbands and bracelets yourself? (It’s funny, Bowser has the same look.) And, secondly, does it annoy you when you’re treated differently for your appearance and submission to the Fallen Angel? You seem like a great chap to me. I bet you’re a registered organ donor.

Well, buddy, it’s time I wrap this—

Wow! I can’t believe I almost said goodbye without asking about your other tattoos. How long did it take to get the sword on your arm? And did the red ink for the pool of blood hurt more? I don’t know if it is true, but I always expect the colored tattoos to sting like the dickens. I was happy to see that you got a wrist tattoo for your grandfather, too. Did you get that inked before or after you gave your soul to the Dark Army? I’m willing to bet it was after the skull on your neck but before the headstone of Saint Peter. The memorial is touching, though. Antilogies like that always get me; kinda like those pictures of puppies and kittens napping together.

I guess this is goodbye, again. Great chat today! I hope you enjoy your stay in Berlin (however long that is) and take in the good times. I hear the Berlinerdome is spectacular at night if you’re up for a little walk. Bring your camera, maybe make a sketch of the façade. I also recommend YAAM very highly. You’ll scare the crap out of the Jamaicans, but hey, they’ve had it coming.

All the best, Bryan the Devil Worshipper. Keep on keepin’ on.

— John

PS my foot feels fine. Don’t lose any sleep over it! (Ha ha, as if you sleep.) Miss ya already!

August 18, 2009

How It All Went Down… (18.8.2009)

 “Close the fucking window,” Benoît yelled without looking up from his cereal. “I’m freezing!”

 It was a cold winter in Montréal. The incessant chill stung the skin and gnawed at bones. Benoît sat back, chewing the Frosted Flakes his mother dropped off earlier that week slowly, quietly. Each bite sounded a little bit more like the crunch of hitting rock bottom. He looked across the table at the empty milk carton, locking eyes with the winking cartoon cow. Don’t give me that shit-eating grin. Benoît scolded the carton between spoonfuls. What are you looking at, Cow?

 Benoît was a little drunk, and why not? As far as he could tell, he hadn’t done anything constructive in years. He was 37, single, and unemployed. The only women in his life were his mom and his dealer, and neither of them liked to call except on holidays. Benoît lived with a couple other guys, Hahn and Laurent, two dropouts from the university, in a basement sublet below a Polish deli on Rue de Cyrano near the tracks. Hahn was reading Kerouac on his bed, ensconced in an old eiderdown quilt. Laurent, as he did every afternoon after his shift at the deli, read want-ads.

 “Close your own window, putain!” Hahn yelled back. It was in fact Benoît’s; he only had to reach about three feet to snap the single-paned fenêtre shut. Benoît didn’t really care, anyways. He just hated the silence.

 “We have to do something, fellas,” Benoît said as he pushed his bowl aside and burped. “I’m not going to sit here for the rest of my life, wishing I made something of myself.” Laurent rolled his eyes and circled a dairy farmer’s number in the paper; they needed a shit picker-upper. The three men had never held down an honest job in years: Benoît tried (and subsequently failed) to climb the ranks of the amateur Canadian boxing scene during his 20s and early 30s, Hahn was a stage musician at a chic club in downtown Toronto but was fired for stealing toilet paper and breath mints, and Laurent sold pot outside a McGill café until “shit got too real,” as he liked to put it. They were desperately poor and low on hope.

 “What do you suggest we do?” Hahn demanded with a twinge of sarcasm. He’d heard this spiel from Benoît weekly for a couple years. The ennui was palpable. “I won’t hunt Canada geese again.”

 “No, no. We won’t do waterfowl this time,” Benoît answered. “This time, I’m thinking…” He actually hadn’t thought of anything yet, and instead scoured his brain for any sort of idea. “I’m thinking art.”

 Hahn threw his book to the side and laughed. “That’s great man. You get to work on your Mona and we’ll start pimping you to galleries. Can’t miss…”

 Benoît felt like the world had him cornered; he rolled another joint. “But wait…wait,” he started again. “Let’s think about this. What do dumb, uppity people with money love more than art? And who can really say what good art is?”

 Laurent put the paper to the side. He hadn’t heard Benoît talk like this before.

 “So what are we any good at?” Benoît posited as he raised a finger, trying to look smart. “Hahn, you can still play the violin, right?”

 “Wull yeah, but I don’t have a bow anymore and I’m missing a string.” Hahn now stood, reaching for the Frosted Flakes.

 “Fuck the bow, you can play it like a ukulele!” Benoît was impressed with his own ingenuity. “And Laurent, remember that story about the time you ate shrooms freshman year and made pictures on Microsoft Paint for six hours? Can you still use all that stuff?”

 “Yeah man, it’s no sweat. All I really know how to make are weird little ninja dudes and a bunch of quick scribbles, though,” Laurent said, making the twitchy gesticulations with his right hand. Benoît couldn’t quite put it all together, but he knew he was on to something. If one of his friends played an out-of-tune violin, and another one of his friends could pretend to know what he was doing on Microsoft Paint…

 “Hot damn, I have it.” Benoît looked out, past his two comrades and towards the ankles of the passers-by on the street. “I’m going to dance," he said, sounding aplomb all of a sudden. "I won’t dance like a normal person, though. I’ll have to do it like a cracked-out toddler.”

 “What?” Hahn and Laurent blurted out in unison. They were on board before, but Benoît’s last part was too weird.

 “Hang on, hang on,” Benoît said, calmly. “My sister hitchhiked through Germany a while ago, and she said that all the dancing over there is terrible. As long as I look like I’m not trying to dance well, and in fact dance like a schizo for a couple hours, we’re golden… all we have to do is pretend we’re a raging success here, in Montréal, and convince a studio in Berlin that we’re legit.”

 Hahn slumped back onto his bed. The idea of going to Berlin was enticing, but Benoît had stretched the possibilities too far. “They’ll never go for that. Who are you kidding, man? Me trying to play violin? Laurent getting high and messing around on a computer? And you dancing like—what did you even say? A crack baby?”

 Benoît was indignant. He put his cereal away, tossed some trash through the alley-side window, and swore to no one in particular that he was sick of the pessimism. “What else are we going to fuck-ing do?” he yelled so loud, the old woman ordering her Reuben-on-rye upstairs blushed. “This idea is good! Getting artsy-fartsy folks in Berlin to pay 30€ a ticket is the only way I can think of to keep food on the table. And it’s simple,” Benoît’s diction was getting more and more majestic. “Hahn plays whatever choppy notes he still can, you mess around on Paint, and I’ll be up on stage doing my thing until they pull the curtains on us. We can even say that we have a fourth person in the troupe just to seem more artistic. At the very least, we’ll get some quick cash!”

 Laurent was still unconvinced. “What do we call this whole cherade? You’ll probably want to name it something completely ridiculous so people think you’re full of angst, huh? Is you serious, man?”

 “Exactly!” Benoît replied, not giving Laurent’s tired sarcasm a second thought. “But ‘Is You Serious’ doesn’t quite have the right syllables.” Benoît went deep into thought. Is You Single? Is You There, Papa? Is You You? Is You Me? Is You Me!

 “I think I have an idea...” Benoît said, beside himself with this rush of creative spontaneity. “So all we have to do is figure out costumes and what’s going to be on stage.”

 Hahn and Laurent put their heads down, thinking silently as Benoît practiced dancing convulsively in front of the mirror near the stairs. Laurent spoke up this time: “I can connect to a projector so I can shoot my pictures on to a wall. And I have a pretty cool screen saver – it’s just little wingdings bouncing up and down, but if my cat likes to watch it I’m sure Berliners will, too. But what about the stage? I got nothing.”

 “Hahn, didn’t you used to wear a bunch of white and black and green spandexes when you worked at the carnival? You stole those, right?” Benoît was back in his chair now. Hahn nodded and looked towards a box marked inutile merde. “Well fuck, if I make a little ramp and bounce around in pantyhose, I think we’re set,” Benoît declared.

 It was at that moment that Benoît promised himself to start showering again. The mane of botryoidal dreadlocks that bounced down his back was unfit for the stage, no matter how artsy he strove to be.

 “I’m in Benny,” Hahn said, chuckling sheepishly. He even started rummaging around for his violin, though Hahn knew he and Laurent had traded it to a pawnshop years ago for a pair of numchucks. “You still have your stepdad’s frequent flyer password, right Laurent?” Laurent nodded with an unmistakably rueful frown.

 “Let’s make this happen, guys. We leave tomorrow,” Benoît interrupted, extending his hand. Hahn slapped his mitt down on Benoît’s and the duo waited for their friend to give in. Reluctantly, Laurent placed his hands on theirs.

 “They’ll tell stories about us for years,” Benoît said with a lopsided smile. “Of how three talentless nobodies brought the art world to its knees.” 

August 12, 2009

Between Blinks (12.08.2009)

 The carpet is plush vermillion, with enough cushioning to make repeated kneeling bearable. The space inside is surprisingly small for how large the building is, but the domed ceilings and ornate décor make the mosque seem larger. The gilded scribbles are breathtaking in spite of their illegibility. I feel comfortable.

 The mosque is stunning, inside and outside and metaphysically. It’s difficult to say how, but I can’t shake a feeling of peaceful belonging here. I’d like to sit here until sunset to see how the fading light plays in stained glass windows. I still don’t know why our guide made the distinction that this is a ‘Turkish style’ mosque—it resembles every other mosque I’ve been in, as far as I can tell. Maybe it’s the big pulpit, maybe it’s just nominal. Turks can be so cheeky.

 (Eyes are stinging a little bit.)

 I want Muhammed to show me around the mosque, to translate the Arabic calligraphy and teach me what the prayers mean, but I don’t want to be rude. Artists must have spent weeks decorating this mosque. To call it aesthetically impressive is an understatement—the deep colors and gold trim remind me of a jeweled necklace.

 When I stand directly under the chandelier my voice echoes from the dome above. I think Trang is within my little reverberating sphere; she turned and looked up when I let out a Hoo. My socks are leaving little traces of white on the carpet fibers. I’ll tip-toe from now on.

 (Tearing up.)

 The cantor hums a few unrecognizable bars, probably of the call to prayer. He sounds a little bit like an a capella Stevie Nicks if you don’t listen closely. I think, when I’m old, I’ll take my kids to see different religious centers around the world—mosques, churches, temples, synagogues, McDonald’s. I’ve never been a fan of organized religion but I’ll be damned if my progeny doesn’t appreciate good architecture. Talk about the pillars of religion, eh?

 The group starts to sit and—

 (Blink.)

August 11, 2009

He Did What? (11.08.2009)

 I was half-asleep and struggling to hold back a yawn when it happened. Markus Heide had just wrapped up his presentation at Hümboldt and the group was milling around the fifth-floor lecture room. I wanted to go home and get to sleep, but I had to wait for Muhammed. The afternoon sun poured into the room, and beads of sweat started collecting on my brow. The windows kept shutting themselves and I cursed so-called brilliant German engineering. I slumped back in my chair, checked to see if the cloud outside the atrium window still looked like Franklin the Turtle, and tried to pick an eyelash off the side of my lower left cheek. Markus saw me picking with one finger from my left side, three chairs down—to him, it appeared that I was digging for gooey gold like a Yukon panhound. We exchanged glances and gentlemanly nods, my index finger still trying to pluck the pesky eyelash from my face.

 I didn’t realize it until later, but to Markus, I was tickling boogers. It’s tough to build an impression off of that. Oh hey! Remember that Boogerpalooza you saw? Yeah, I’m that gross... Say, you hungry? Muhammed finished up talking and I started towards the door, passing Markus along the way. I thanked him for his presentation (a good lecture, really) and extended my hand. It’s wrong to say that Markus recoiled, but he certainly reacted, well, as if a kid with boogery fingers wanted a handshake. “Right,” he said with an amicable slap on my shoulder, “it’s time for me to run as well.” I found the whole act disconcerting. I go for the shake; he hesitates, and pats me on the shoulder. Then it clicked. I was caught yellow-handed in a ruse.

 That little fiasco is reminiscent of a nagging theme in Berlin culture: flash misperceptions. I thought Berlin was neat and space-age when I drove through the city with Shawn on my first day; it’s grungy. I thought the building across the street was a daycare because so many single women hung around; it’s a brothel. I thought David Hasselhoff would have his own blimp flying over the city; not yet. Further down that vein, the observations and realizations we make after a closer look are crucial to our learning experience—not just about the city, but more importantly about each other. I’m learning about you guys, you guys are learning about me, and it’s all groovy.

 Whether it’s the HoffZepplin or a phantom booger, nothing in Berlin can be written off after first glance. Once you think your Ts are crossed and you Is dotted, you’ll notice a serif. It’s just the way this town seems to work. So take three or four looks at everything you can, because when in doubt you’re probably wrong. You got that, Markus?

August 8, 2009

Hertha BSC (08.08.2009)

 I spent a couple seconds trying to figure out exactly what to say to order a beer. It was about 20 minutes before kickoff, and the crowd outside Olympiastadion was bustling chaotically. Muhammed, Joe, and the others had gone up to find the seats and scope out the bathrooms. I was alone, nervous and nursing a full bladder, in a teeming sea of blue-and-white clad Hertha fans. The din was nearly deafening as the crowds stormed beer kiosks and pretzel stands. One crew of drunken supporters were singing loudly—Hooooooh, Hertha! Blahblahblah! Scheiße!!—and I joined the chanting revelry as I passed. One burly guy, with bear claw hands and an inspiringly thick mustache, grabbed me from behind by the shoulder as he shouted something in slurred German. I was sure he’d break my nose or shank me with a broken bottle. Silly American, he was saying, how dare you impugn our glorious songs with your Dirty Harry accent! Prepare for death! (I think I might’ve peed myself a bit.) But before the flecks of the man’s spittle could dry on my face, shouts turned to cheers and he wrapped me up in a man-hug. “Yeah!” I shouted. “Hanover sucks balls!” Creative? No, but certainly appreciated.

 When I reached the head of the line for a libation, a short, disgruntled-looking woman rattled off some German, requesting my order. She looked like she moonlighted as one of Santa’s elves: Snuggles, her name must’ve been. “Ein große bier, bitte” I said with enough bravado to make Hasselhoff blush. I took my place to the left of the line and waited as Snuggles shouted towards the sweat-drenched pourer behind her. And I waited. And I waited more.

 In a dark shed on the Olympiastadion campus, there is an old man, a groundskeeper, lighting his last clove cigarette with a flaming picture of me—because I must’ve killed the plot of grass in front of Snuggles's register by standing in the same place so damn long. For five irreplaceable minutes I was that cheerless, forgotten underage drinker.

 Finally I spoke up. “Wo ist mein bier?” I demanded. Blank stares from Snuggles. “I want my beer. I’ve been waiting for eight minutes,” I charged again. “Ein große bier: nine Euro,” she chirped back, showing me 'nine' with her fingers. What the fuck, Snuggles?

 I’ve learned from this trip that beer vendors are like Carnies: give them an ounce of opportunity, and they’ll coolly rip your heart out. The language barrier, too, was made exponentially bigger since the patrons behind me loathed the American kid having a hissyfit at the front of the beer line. Snuggles forgot that I paid for my beer—woe is I—and my skimpy language muscles had already been exhausted. “Look! My wallet is empty!” I emphatically opened and closed my wallet, as if the antics would razzle and dazzle Snuggles, to show that I was out of money. “I gave you my last 10 Euros, now I need my beer,” I said, this time with a pitiful look.

 A murmur rose up from the crowd behind me. The gang of singing Hertha fans jostled like kids at the back of the line, wondering why it wasn’t moving. Then my walrusian friend saw me up front, waving at him with a strained smile, and started chanting. A chorus of my inebriated German homies sprang into action: “Yaddayadda bier! Yaddayaddayadda bier!!” Snuggles screamed back at them, the way you or I would to scare off a full-grown puma. And I stood in the middle of the verbal melee, little ol’ awkward me.

 The yelling ran its course, and Snuggles still refused to pour my beer. Then, out of nowhere, a hoity-toity (but heroic) man spoke up. I could only pick out “bier” and his hand gestures, but he must have said something like, “Give him the beer or I’ll make you disappear in four hours. Kapish?” because Snuggles hopped backwards, poured two beers in nine seconds, and slid them across the bar with a blank expression. At that moment I felt sort of bad for Snuggles—I silently wished that I wasn’t the reason she’d have a bad day. I shot my knight in Armani armor a wink to show my gratitude, but he didn’t care.  “Danke schön,” Snuggles said to me with a forced smile as I left. I tossed her a 1€ piece, and she immediately slid it back without looking. You gotta love German women.

 I got to my seat a few minutes before player introductions, a beer in my stomach and its gratis twin in my hand. Sam Lim asked where I’d been, and I told him it was a long story; bloggable, but long. Music blared from the speaker above our heads as players took the field, and we stood and clapped and cheered. “Hey man,” Sam said as he poked my side. “A 10 just fell out of your pocket.”

... Sorry, Snuggles.

August 7, 2009

Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp (07.08.2009)

 I believe this picture encompasses the mise-en-scène of Sachsenhausen. A bare, anonymous cell in the solitary confinement building with boarded up windows and meager bags of stray for a bed. It stirs, as intended, every compassionate fiber in the human soul.

 I stood outside this cell taking some pictures and watched people as they passed. No one found reason to smile or reach out to one another, save for a whispered utterance or a gentle touch on the arm as if to say, Hey, I wouldn’t let this happen to you. The solitary confinement prison—what they’d call The Hole in movies—cast a blatant pall over the group. I saw an older woman covering her mouth, half disgusted and half heartbroken, and I wanted to hug her; not for her comfort as much as mine. Watching the gallery of silent people in this horrid setting made my stomach churn a little bit.

 There’s no simple word in English for the weight one feels in his chest in the presence of something depressing, but we’ve all felt it from time to time. In some cases, during Relay For Life or “Marley and Me,” we open up to people and nourish our vulnerable sides. But this was different. Lauren and I found each other’s eyes for a moment, and all I could do was look away. The remnants of brazen hatred were strangling and musty, like a thick woolen quilt out of the attic. The entire building seemed to choke the sun’s rays—too chilling, too heavy.

 The old woman accidentally pivoted into me when her grandson jostled to see inside the cage. She had not seen me, partly because of her somber transfixion on the cell and partly because I’m too gangly to see in peripheral vision. She stood there, still slightly spellbound, trying to explain with her eyes why she bumped me. “It’s okay,” I eyed back. “It won’t happen again.”

August 6, 2009

Jewish Museum Berlin: “Hey Victor…” (06.08.2009)

 I was calculating how much a cold beer would cost on Friedrichstraße and trying to give Joe a flat tire when the Jewish Museum came into view. It looked large yet featureless from the outside, kind of like a concrete airline hangar.  Hopefully the museum wouldn't be a gallery of dingy photos and 8” x 8” monitors playing looped mini-movies—a “seen one, seen ‘em all”-type museum. It didn’t help that I was sweating through my shirt and worried that my deodorant would break like a pane of glass; I wasn’t in the best of moods.

 The caress of air conditioning inside the museum's turbine doors brightened my spirits a bit. My group followed Victor the tour guide. He resembled a shrew in almost every way: close, beady eyes behind spectacles, thick beard, unibrow, and remarkably small, circular ears. He led us downstairs to the basement, past some exhibits and through throngs of people, to a dark room in the corner of an ell. The room looked up to the roof of the building through a chasm in the architecture. I took pictures. 

Victor explained the design of the museum as broken lines, with one lateral line cutting through the jagged structure to create the gaps. I liked Victor’s accent: a mix of Chantilly tone and London articulation. I guessed that he studied abroad as a kid. He finished up his spiel as Lauren and I started saying Hey Victor! like that guy from “Smoke Signals.” Lauren said Sherman Alexie’s movie was made where she lives, and I called her out for living in Buttfucknowhere, Idaho—I pretended like the dead-arm she gave me didn’t hurt.

 My favorite part of the museum tour was the discussion on why Jewish Berliners were so successful, especially in entrepreneurship. Victor said that Jews constituted about 60% of department store owners, though they were only 1.5% of the city’s population, and we spent a good 15 minutes discussing why. Victor’s hypothesis (widely accepted by the group) was that Jews worked their butts off, stressed education, and found new avenues for business out of necessity. They were in a lower social stratum and therefore had to dominate their field in order to merit some respect. They didn’t just reach the ceiling of prejudice, they busted through it like Willy Wonka in his glass elevator.

 After taking some pictures in the Garden of Exile, Molly and I took off with Sam. He explained why he loves Berlin so much—a story that makes you want to hug someone, if you ever get the chance to hear it—and then we parted ways. Molly creeped on a little boy wearing adidas shoes at the bus stop, and I thought about sitting down with my book and having a beer or two before checking out a museum. Hey, I justified the idea to myself, when in Rome…

August 5, 2009

 “Fashionably Late” Doesn’t Apply to Reichstag Tour Groups (05.08.2009)

 Amy and I didn’t want to spend the money for lunch in the Bundestag district. I had gone out to a couple bars the night before and my wallet felt too light; I wanted something cheap and greasy.

Since we had over an hour to grab lunch, I thought it would be smart to see a part of the city we hadn’t visited before—Davidhasselhoffstraße or something. The Brandenburg-Bundestag-Potsdamerplatz area was all too glitzy, and the Berlin Holocaust Museum was a little too depressing. I was sitting on one of the giant bricks, facing the memorial, not wanting to look at the undulating rows of elegiac blocks anymore but worried about my sunburnt neck. Melanoma is worse than melancholy.

 My forehead and tush broke a sweat when I got up from the block. “I just need to get something in me, who cares where,” Amy blurted out. I don’t think she appreciated my 'That’s what she said...' joke: we walked towards Potsdamerplatz station arguing the whole time about which of us was the bigger dummy. (She is, just for the record.)

 A girl noticed me squinting at the S/U-bahn map on the traincar ceiling once we got moving. She recommended going to Orienenburger for a bite to eat, pointing out the stops and junctions Amy and I needed to take. She was a legitimate Butter Face and had on too much fake tanner; the unholy lovechild of Elle MacPherson and an Oompa Loompa. The traincar was cramped and hot, but the draft from the open windows felt wonderful—which made me think: if the entire U-bahn system smells like bums’ piss and McDonald’s fries, why doesn’t the air between stations stink terribly when it cascades through the windows? Could this unknown phenomenon be used on the Stink Zones in the streets, too? We can only hope. Alas, I digress…

 Orienenburger is hardly the Hell’s Kitchen-esque boulevard that the girl on the train described. Amy and I passed by a couple trattorias and falafel joints, put off by the menu prices. A Thai massage parlor caught my eye, especially since my lower back has been hurting this trip, but 30€ would have broken the bank. (There’s a hint to any girl out there with a key grip. My lumbar needs some deep tish work.) I don’t know if the girl from the train didn’t hear me say “cheap food,” or if I missed her episode of “The Fabulous Life of…” on VH1, but everything was too expensive. My neck got more burnt before we found an Asian restaurant with Happy Hour specials.

 The spot was pretty funky. Three restaurants amalgamated under one roof, called Asia Food Place, which typically doesn’t espouse fine cuisine. Amy ordered a 3,50€ teriyaki burger, and I got 2,50€ Vietnamese noodles and a 2,00€ tray of avocado sushi; tasteless filth all the way around, but it was food. I jaywalked a few times to get back to the subway faster.

 Back in the U-bahn station, I pointed Amy and myself in the wrong direction; we went a few stops before realizing we were heading away from Potsdamerplatz. At Stadmitte we got off the U2 line and looked for the S-bahn line, trotting up a flight of stairs just as a train pulled in. With no time to consult a map, I asked an old lady if that line would take me to Potsdamerplatz. The woman pointed to the open doors and said, “Potsdam, yes!” Amy and I jumped on, momentarily relieved and squatted in a couple seats. To our chagrin, Potsdam is an area outside Berlin, to the Southwest. That old lady was the antichrist.

 I can remember my exact feelings when I saw that damn tourist-view hot air balloon wafting up well behind the train. I could faintly see the Reichstag’s unmistakable roof about three miles away, behind and to the left of us, and I felt just like Chuckie Finster from “Rugrats” that time the kids got lost in ReptarWorld. (Looking back, I have no idea why… let’s just say it fit at the time.) I paced nervously and uttered the requisite expletives until the next stop. With some rueful giggles, Amy figured out our route back to the meeting place and we ran as soon as the train’s doors opened.

 That old lady really screwed us, I said to myself, but that’s what you get for trusting someone with a beehive hair-do and a snaggletooth. Exactly thirty-three minutes late, with a Reichstag tour guide and security personnel leading us, Amy and I found the group. The rest is history.

August 4, 2009

Soviet War Memorial (04.08.2009)

It’s eerily quiet, and my shoulder hurts a little bit. It’s funny, we’ve walked for about 38 miles today in warm weather and the only part of me that's fatigued is my left shoulder. I think back on the day’s events—the Wall, the lunch near the water, Sally getting mad at me because I asked her to translate Telekommunications—and wonder why my shoulder hurts. Sadly, this leads me to miss Tobi’s half of our little conversation. I think he was talking about the misinterpretation of the West in Russia. Did a bee sting me in the shoulder or something? Damn…

The mosaic in the memorial building at the far end of the promenade is gorgeous. I overheard a fellow onlooker: “It’s a mosaic because all the pieces represent all the people helping to keep the Soviet Republic strong. The different colors show the different characters and how unique the Soviets are.” This remindes me of something Prof. Searle talked about one day in class: one of the most annoying things in this world is when a work of art, be it a novel, a painting, a song, or an action, is ruined because people overanalyze it. (The word he used was 'flotchynotchynihifilipication.') The woman, an American, adulterated my simple oohs and ahs with her cufflink commentary. Who is this lady anyways, and what are the chances she is a post-WWII Russian visual art scholar? She probably isn't. I don’t know why this bugs me. The more I think about it, the more I agree with her theory, really. But how does she know what the artist wanted to convey? How can she know? The thought experiment provides a momentary distraction from the silence and my shoulder.

On the walk back towards the group I see a little note someone has written at the base of one of the marble edifices surrounding the promenade. The scene on the stone is of people running from an air attack, and Stalin's quote mentions the Rote Armee a few times. It’s not surprising how such a loud depiction sticks out in such a quiet space. The note is in French: Je t’aimais, je t’aime, et je t’aimerais – Marc. Translated, it means “I loved you, I love you, I will love you.” Touching line, really. But it bothers me that someone took the time to write such a poetic, romantic line on a Stalin-consecrated slab of marble. I think, The war memorial deserves its peace, Marc. You kinda suck, Marc. Then it strikes me that there is no word for a pretty thing juxtaposed with an ugly base--or if there is one then it’s lost on me. We see this relationship all the time in art and in life, but there’s no phrase in the vernacular. That’s a shame, I guess. My shoulder hurts again.

I remember that I tried to do a one-armed handstand with Daniel at YAAM and failed miserably. If I had one guess as to why my shoulder is sore, that’s it. But maybe it’s the sobering silence of the memorial weighing down on me. No, no… That’s stupid. It was the handstand.

August 3, 2009

An Ode to Susanne: Angels Have German Accents, I Guess (03.08.2009)

(Note: this was written on the cuff and was not edited for publication. Admittedly, I sound like a maniac in this post. But she just has that affect on me. Bless you, Susanne.)

I got a foot cramp just as we met Susanne for our tour of Hümboldt. It was one of those acute guys that pulls your toes under and rips your fascia to pieces. And so, lo and behold, my first words to the woman I love were: “Eff my life!”

Susanne wasn’t just a tour guide showing us some old, dead men named Gustav and Dieter and Wilhelm. She was an angel, sent from Above, to show us Gustav and Dieter and Wilhelm. And she did it with grace unspeakable.

Did you notice the way she pointed to the statue of Theodor Mommsen? Adorable. Or how she was polite enough to not mention the small square of tomato skin pasted to my front tooth until the end of the tour? There is a reason the sun rises every morning, and it is Susanne.

A solemn tear collects in my eye as Susanne and I part ways. Is it really so soon, my nectar, that we must say our farewells? I will never forget how funny she is. When I asked if she had a boyfriend when we stood next to Marx’s quote in the atrium, she pretended like she didn’t hear me. What a crack-up! Oh, there I go again. It seems like every time I feel sad she lifts me up once more. For too long I’ve yearned for the warm touch of love to grace my heart. And, yea, there she goes.

But did she just look back in my direction? It was a faint motion, but her intentions are crystal clear to me. (We have that sort of tacit connection.) Susanne, my Susanne, could you please elucidate the meaning of the marble friezes just once more? Oh, what was it you said about the rear staircase and of the ascension towards knowledge?

An institution of Hümboldt’s storied brilliance could learn something yet from you and I, Susanne—for 29 Nobel winners could never explicate the stories they’ll write for us, nor assay the chemistry that burns red between us. I could read you the treatises of Alexander von Hümboldt under the shadow of faceless Nike's statue; for our love is the embodiment of victory in this cold, cruel world.

Fare thee well, Susanne. You are my being, as the great German philosopher Schopenhauer may have once penned, for it is to you that I entreat all my soul…

August 1, 2009

Berlin: That One Girl You Knew in College with Bad Tattoos and a Musk, but Still Kinda Cute… (01.08.2009)

The first day in Berlin was rough. I was extremely tired and sore from sitting next to Libyans for ten hours on the plane. After a short nap, I sauntered down to the internet café with Muhammed for a beer and a phone call to the parents. I immediately noticed how peculiar this city looks and smells. Berlin has an undeniable distinctiveness, which effortlessly caught the attention of a sleep-deprived Me. I like to joke that if Paris is the dignified lady of Europe, Berlin is its college-dropout, motorcycle driving boyfriend. It has the grunge of bitter, artistic youth in every iota of its being. And, shit, I like it!

But there are some limits to the appeal. Namely, aesthetics and scents. First of all: why all the tagging? The street art is unbelievable—don’t get me wrong. All over the city, aerosol-toting Michaelangelos are visualizing Berlin’s twisted history and psyche. But as I sat along the edge of the café’s pond on a cloudless August afternoon, keeping track of a turtle that kept giving me the stink eye, I didn’t want to see inane “Ich bin da shizznit”-type tags. The more I look, the more I see. They’re all over the place.

I understand that Berlin has an infatuation with spray paint and therein the art will have its fair share of peripheral graffiti. But why so much, Berliners? It is my understanding that tags originate from the compulsion to put one’s name out there. It’s a way to toe the line from anonymity to heylookatme!-ism; non-conformity gets its 15 seconds in the sun. The hitch is that too many non-conformists bask in this hotbed of graffiti. The basis of tagging (sticking it to the man by putting your name on something that isn’t yours) is lost here in Berlin. Obscurity throws a heavy cloak over artists’ intentions because, frankly, there are too many of them. I hope tagging sees a decline for the sake of Berlin. Make sure the artists are happy and working, but throw the rest in the cellar—where rubbish belongs.

Speaking of rubbish: why is it that every block in Berlin has about three 5’x10’ patches of horrible, something-died-here stench? I’ve been through Beijing and New York and London, and they all are guilty of foul odors in some places. It comes with the territory of being a major city. But every one of these patches (I call them Stink Zones) smells the same. Why?! It’s as if Berlin was built over a gigantic steaming vat of broccoli, chicken crap, rutabagas, and what I think is waffle batter, and the vapor slowly makes its way up to strategically placed vents all over the city.

I have no follow-up remark to this portion of my blog post. I suppose it is better suited for open-ended inquiry, as I expect you to pause and think Hey, yeah! I can’t walk 18 feet without passing through a Stink Zone! after reading this. One day, I will solve this conundrum. Until then, as I did my first day in Berlin, I’ll just plug my nose and run home.

In Berlin, finally...

Wow.

The first week in Berlin has been, to put it underwhelmingly light, full. My preconceived notions about this foreign study (as they so often are) were wrong. We won’t spend six, seven hours a day in class being talked at. We won’t take the ‘raging tourists’ track. We won’t even have to dither in the muck of German cuisine every day and night. So far, life has been good.

Considering the jam-packededness of our stay up to the point of this writing, I won’t try to recapitulate all the trips and experiences, but nor will I flutter through this reflection without including details from my point of view. Stories are probably the best course of action. You might have noticed that I tell an exorbitant amount of stories – they can make people laugh, reveal a lot about me and where I’ve been, and I talk too much anyways. So while I have ya, I would like to tell some stories…

 

SeaTac to Amsterdam, with a layover in Hell

I was the first person seated in my aisle on the plane to Amsterdam. Just before the flight attendants closed the fuselage doors, a Libyan woman rushed down the aisle with an infant in one arm and two young kids in tow. They jostled into my row. (This is the part where I sigh painfully and rub my temples as I recount the flight.) The woman looked to be in her mid-40s, with an ornately decorated head scarf and a neat black shirt and pants combo—she was sweating like a turkey in November but lacked the relief of cooler layers. Her son, four, and her daughter, three, wore matching “Dora the Explorer” shirts. A ripe, greenish-yellow booger dangled in the infant’s nostril. I said Hello to my new buddies. The woman lowered her head and emphatically shook an open palm. “I speak no American.” Whoop-dee-doo!

Take-off went smoothly; I mindlessly flitted through Sebald’s The Emigrants with my thumb and looked out a window towards the snowcapped Olympics. Before we had settled into cruising speed I went to my Zen place: long breaths in and cathartic gushes of air out, hoping for a quick daydre… WHAP!!... and the little bastard to my right stomps the seat in front of me. We were three minutes into the flight, at best. The elderly Dutch man in front of me was irate, but since we were still hurtling upwards he could not turn to give me a proper tongue-lashing. What ensued was an awkward he-did-it-no-he-did-it discourse crossing three generations and three languages. The flight attendant politely asked us to remain cordial for the duration of the flight.

As it happens, the two kids speak some English. Their dad either works at UW or is a student there—I high five the boy with a “Go Huskies” hoo-haw. The boy reveals their plans to visit family in Libya while the girl asks for my name. This is a wonderful trick, you see, because the two brats love (LOVE!) to sing the Name Game. I should not have let my guard down. In my casual state, I was vulnerable to their collusions—you could call me a casualty of casualty. I was bombarded by: John, John, fo-fawn, banana-rama, mah-go-blawn, fee-fie-fa-foe-fawn… va-John-John! and all the silly variations until the flight attendant came around with refreshments. Aspirin chased with beer tastes like shit.

I caught some sleep sometime after we had passed Greenland. The kids were passed out and “Fool’s Gold” only goes so far. After some time I stirred and sleepily fixed my cotton ball pillow, taking a quick peek to my right to see how the little ones were. Mom and the three-year-old girl were gone, the boy lay prostrate across their seats, asleep, and the baby was teetering close to the edge of her seat. I picked the baby up and looked wildly around for her mother. As I hunched back into my seat, baby in arms, the mom came back from the bathroom. She gestured that she wanted her baby back, I obliged, and then she turned towards the bathroom again. Two minutes and three Name Games later, mom returned with the baby and a grapefruit-sized white bundle in her hand. She was having some difficulty maneuvering into her seat and so I held out my hands to take the baby. Instead I was presented the curious toilet paper-and-plastic baggie bundle.

(The finale deserves its own paragraph. Sorry, grammar.)

I looked over the unknown package quickly and slipped out of my seat to see if the flight attendants could point me towards a trashcan. The stewardess, Jeanne, turned up her nose when I approached. “Do you have a bin somewhere? I have this thing…” I muttered, trying to keep hushed in the darkened cabin. “We can’t throw that away here. That’s a diaper,” answered Jeanne with a frank chilliness that only a 55-year-old flight attendant possesses. And it was only when the toilet paper flapped open to reveal a healthy deposit of tepid feces that I realized my bundle—which I tossed in the air and yelled “Kobe!” only 15 seconds earlier—was full of Libyan babyshit. How expensive per minute is Child Protective Services on an eastbound Delta flight?