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.”