Sunday, April 27, 2008
A Winter's Tale
It's a good thing that I'm salvaging this blog because it will give you, dear reader, a vantage point from which to view my learning curve vis-a-vis the German language. It will also document my overtures towards German culture and the international scene at large. I will also share with you tales that simply must be true because no-one could make them up.
One recent incident involved a kooky Canadian girl whom I met at a cafe where a lot of Americans were going to link up to the Internet (I found this out after I started going, naturlich). She seemed sympathische at first, but the facade of normalcy quickly faded as I realized I was dealing with yet another sufferer of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. It became apparent that this person was never listening to what I was saying, just classically waiting for her turn to speak. But there was a twist: as soon as I tried to give my two cent's worth on any given topic, she would listen quasi-patiently for a minute and then bang her fist on the table and say "No!" like a petulant child, and the subject would immediately shift back to her problems, like a key turning me off...I kept picturing her, hands clasped on ears as if they'd been boxed, shrilly humming Mary Had a Little Lamb: "I don't want to hear what you have to say!"
This got a little tedious, but it was slightly amusing. For kicks I started throwing nonsense words and German phrases into our conversation, and she would just nod as she sat there, never cottoning to the fact that I was spewing gibberish or talking about something completely outlandish. Ultimately she impressed me, though, by dint of her utter lack of awareness of self. How could someone possess such a blind spot? Did I have one which obfuscated qualities only others could see? She was like a steamroller mowing down all and sundry in her path, swatting at those little incoveniences which prevent one from really enjoying Berlin -- like actual Germans.
The piece de resistance was, one night a friend of ours, Ken, another coffee shop refugee (although we all ultimately got internet in our Wohnungs) arranged to meet us at a small Kniepe in Kreuzberg, the de facto liberal heart of Berlin and also the site of the reputedly violent Erste Mai riots each year (Sonntag I saw a man whip out his penis facing street traffic, his big foreskin flapping in the breeze and a strong yellow piss arc stabbing a tree in a park on a roundabout in der Stadt.) It's Ken's last night in town.
So the tableau is set for the night's sturm und drung: one stop west of my flat on the U1, at Schlesisches Tor. Kitty corner from the entrance stands what is known as "The Bar" . Recommended by this gorgeous tall drink of a French guy with cheekbones that could slice gouda, who edits film scripts here in Berlin but moonlights there. Go to the Bar in Kreuzberg, he said. "Which one?" I thought.
F and I traipsed over through a snowstorm. People were everywhere were quaffing Jever or Beck's or Dixie cups full of liquor, 1-Liter Cokes spiked with different concoctions, staggering around the subway. (But Berliners never get too messy. It's a civilized kind of wild.) When we arrived it was immediately obvious that the place was not to F's liking. As I ordered a double Absinthe, she paced the floor, huffing, puffing and harrumphing, fidgeting with her cell phone (I later discovered the nadir of her relationship with technology when I spied her computer in her bed.
"Do you sleep with that?"
Looks at me like I'm crazy:
"I always sleep with my computer!"
Changes subject back to more pressing matters.)
SO she was obviously not having any of this. I am sat sipping on my drink wondering if Ken is getting laid with this girl he's been talking up for weeks, because he really needs to, and wondering if he's bringing any nice German Boys. F then suggests we move to the other room, presumably to play Fussball. But in this room the "White Trash" decor proves too much to take.
F. finally gets hold of Ken on her cell, she's chomping at the bit.
"They're on their way."
When "the guys" finally do arrive, I am charmed. They are all adorable and funny. F's tiny frame leaps to its feet.
"We're going somehere else, I don't like this place" she whines.
Ken's girlfriend says "There's nothing wrong with this place. What's wrong with it?"
"It's too white trash for me! " crows F. I know this really cute cafe around the corner, it's really close, and it's so amazing, I really wanted us to go there." So she has everyone's interest in mind. At this point everyone has already taken off their Jackes.
"Could I please finish my drink?" I say.
The others chime in:
"We are wanted to go dancing, not sit in a coffee shop all night. We are going to the Watergate."
"No, no, I think we should go for coffee, this place is amazing and so cozy!"
The haughty waitress has taken back the menus and we are swiftly out the door and now standing whilst giant snowflakes pinwheel to the ground, sticking to our clothes and tongues. Here on the corner (or as they say in Deutscheland, an der ecke) ensues a battle of wills between the forthright, droll German hipsters and a flaky-beyond-belief four foot nine Canadian-but-born-in-Bangladesh girl.
"Come on you guys, you don't really want to go dancing. Let's just go to this cafe first and then we'll decide. I know you guys will like it."
"Where is this cafe?" someone says.
"I'm not exactly sure, but I know I can find it. I know it's around here somewhere. I thought it was right there on the corner."
"So you can just sense where it is, and you'll lead us all throught the snow to find it."
"I will, you guys, I know I can find it."
Our German hipster friend gives his throatiest, most detached Klaus Kinski: "It's 0:17. This is not the time to go to the cafe. This is the time to start dancing. We are going to Watergate." He turns on his heel to face traffic.
Ken's girlfriend gamely tries to convince F to come dancing. The others agree. F starts stomping her feet.
"No No No! I will not give in to peer pressure! I resent that! People tried to peer pressure me as child and I used to hate it! Do not try this, I will not give in! I'm going now."
"You're really going to go?" says Ken. "That's lame. I can't believe it's my last night and you won't come in and go dancing with us."
"It's just not what I had in mind. I really wanted to go to the cafe, but I won't, I say I won't respond to peer pressure!"
"Uh...OK. Bye." Awkward moment between two people whose Freundschaft has just ended. F. traipses off whence she came, towards the Spree, a huge blanket of snow engulfing the city.
One recent incident involved a kooky Canadian girl whom I met at a cafe where a lot of Americans were going to link up to the Internet (I found this out after I started going, naturlich). She seemed sympathische at first, but the facade of normalcy quickly faded as I realized I was dealing with yet another sufferer of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. It became apparent that this person was never listening to what I was saying, just classically waiting for her turn to speak. But there was a twist: as soon as I tried to give my two cent's worth on any given topic, she would listen quasi-patiently for a minute and then bang her fist on the table and say "No!" like a petulant child, and the subject would immediately shift back to her problems, like a key turning me off...I kept picturing her, hands clasped on ears as if they'd been boxed, shrilly humming Mary Had a Little Lamb: "I don't want to hear what you have to say!"
This got a little tedious, but it was slightly amusing. For kicks I started throwing nonsense words and German phrases into our conversation, and she would just nod as she sat there, never cottoning to the fact that I was spewing gibberish or talking about something completely outlandish. Ultimately she impressed me, though, by dint of her utter lack of awareness of self. How could someone possess such a blind spot? Did I have one which obfuscated qualities only others could see? She was like a steamroller mowing down all and sundry in her path, swatting at those little incoveniences which prevent one from really enjoying Berlin -- like actual Germans.
The piece de resistance was, one night a friend of ours, Ken, another coffee shop refugee (although we all ultimately got internet in our Wohnungs) arranged to meet us at a small Kniepe in Kreuzberg, the de facto liberal heart of Berlin and also the site of the reputedly violent Erste Mai riots each year (Sonntag I saw a man whip out his penis facing street traffic, his big foreskin flapping in the breeze and a strong yellow piss arc stabbing a tree in a park on a roundabout in der Stadt.) It's Ken's last night in town.
So the tableau is set for the night's sturm und drung: one stop west of my flat on the U1, at Schlesisches Tor. Kitty corner from the entrance stands what is known as "The Bar" . Recommended by this gorgeous tall drink of a French guy with cheekbones that could slice gouda, who edits film scripts here in Berlin but moonlights there. Go to the Bar in Kreuzberg, he said. "Which one?" I thought.
F and I traipsed over through a snowstorm. People were everywhere were quaffing Jever or Beck's or Dixie cups full of liquor, 1-Liter Cokes spiked with different concoctions, staggering around the subway. (But Berliners never get too messy. It's a civilized kind of wild.) When we arrived it was immediately obvious that the place was not to F's liking. As I ordered a double Absinthe, she paced the floor, huffing, puffing and harrumphing, fidgeting with her cell phone (I later discovered the nadir of her relationship with technology when I spied her computer in her bed.
"Do you sleep with that?"
Looks at me like I'm crazy:
"I always sleep with my computer!"
Changes subject back to more pressing matters.)
SO she was obviously not having any of this. I am sat sipping on my drink wondering if Ken is getting laid with this girl he's been talking up for weeks, because he really needs to, and wondering if he's bringing any nice German Boys. F then suggests we move to the other room, presumably to play Fussball. But in this room the "White Trash" decor proves too much to take.
F. finally gets hold of Ken on her cell, she's chomping at the bit.
"They're on their way."
When "the guys" finally do arrive, I am charmed. They are all adorable and funny. F's tiny frame leaps to its feet.
"We're going somehere else, I don't like this place" she whines.
Ken's girlfriend says "There's nothing wrong with this place. What's wrong with it?"
"It's too white trash for me! " crows F. I know this really cute cafe around the corner, it's really close, and it's so amazing, I really wanted us to go there." So she has everyone's interest in mind. At this point everyone has already taken off their Jackes.
"Could I please finish my drink?" I say.
The others chime in:
"We are wanted to go dancing, not sit in a coffee shop all night. We are going to the Watergate."
"No, no, I think we should go for coffee, this place is amazing and so cozy!"
The haughty waitress has taken back the menus and we are swiftly out the door and now standing whilst giant snowflakes pinwheel to the ground, sticking to our clothes and tongues. Here on the corner (or as they say in Deutscheland, an der ecke) ensues a battle of wills between the forthright, droll German hipsters and a flaky-beyond-belief four foot nine Canadian-but-born-in-Bangladesh girl.
"Come on you guys, you don't really want to go dancing. Let's just go to this cafe first and then we'll decide. I know you guys will like it."
"Where is this cafe?" someone says.
"I'm not exactly sure, but I know I can find it. I know it's around here somewhere. I thought it was right there on the corner."
"So you can just sense where it is, and you'll lead us all throught the snow to find it."
"I will, you guys, I know I can find it."
Our German hipster friend gives his throatiest, most detached Klaus Kinski: "It's 0:17. This is not the time to go to the cafe. This is the time to start dancing. We are going to Watergate." He turns on his heel to face traffic.
Ken's girlfriend gamely tries to convince F to come dancing. The others agree. F starts stomping her feet.
"No No No! I will not give in to peer pressure! I resent that! People tried to peer pressure me as child and I used to hate it! Do not try this, I will not give in! I'm going now."
"You're really going to go?" says Ken. "That's lame. I can't believe it's my last night and you won't come in and go dancing with us."
"It's just not what I had in mind. I really wanted to go to the cafe, but I won't, I say I won't respond to peer pressure!"
"Uh...OK. Bye." Awkward moment between two people whose Freundschaft has just ended. F. traipses off whence she came, towards the Spree, a huge blanket of snow engulfing the city.
Liebe Meinen Kumpels
I realize this blog as gone completely off the boil, but I been so busy becoming a Berliner ("Ich bin ein Berliner" to quote JFK) I've scarcely had time to check email, much less maintain a blog. Who reads these things anyway? In addition, it was time for the perennial purge of my spring "datebook", the time when those friends who have revealed themselves as anything but must be cleansed from the email contact list. I don't these erstwhile friends poking their snouts in my business...
To be honest, said purge was the result of a personal identity crisis in my art and life which has been a slight blow to my self esteem, I won't go into it here, but I do vow to bounce back bigger and better than ever, my mojo rising...it'll be "Me Mark II." I have found great solace in the Berlin art scene, not least from an exhibit at the Hamburger Banhof by Joseph Beuys. Beuys based his life's work on a theory of Creative Capital, which is a democratic viewpoint stating that everyone has the capacity within themselves to create, it's a matter of tapping into that creative energy and life force. It may sound a bit Oprah when I put it into non-academic terms, but I find it to be a very optimistic, non-elitist take on art. So often in the past I have found myself paralyzed in front of a computer because writing is something that "other people" do. I guess the best thing for me rather than sitting around waiting for my muse or for some extrinsic force to swoop down and infuse me with confidence is to simply write without thinking about it. The truth is in there, and how else can one get at and begin sucking on the marrow underneath than by revealing the most embarrassing, mundane or painful incidences in one's life? Only by dint of painful, messy birth can the sublime be achieved.
To be honest, said purge was the result of a personal identity crisis in my art and life which has been a slight blow to my self esteem, I won't go into it here, but I do vow to bounce back bigger and better than ever, my mojo rising...it'll be "Me Mark II." I have found great solace in the Berlin art scene, not least from an exhibit at the Hamburger Banhof by Joseph Beuys. Beuys based his life's work on a theory of Creative Capital, which is a democratic viewpoint stating that everyone has the capacity within themselves to create, it's a matter of tapping into that creative energy and life force. It may sound a bit Oprah when I put it into non-academic terms, but I find it to be a very optimistic, non-elitist take on art. So often in the past I have found myself paralyzed in front of a computer because writing is something that "other people" do. I guess the best thing for me rather than sitting around waiting for my muse or for some extrinsic force to swoop down and infuse me with confidence is to simply write without thinking about it. The truth is in there, and how else can one get at and begin sucking on the marrow underneath than by revealing the most embarrassing, mundane or painful incidences in one's life? Only by dint of painful, messy birth can the sublime be achieved.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Berlin is a Grower, not a Shower; Brushes with Fame
This was pointed out to me by an Aussie lad I met recently, whose that Berlin is "the best city in the world, a real grower" is proving true to this scribe. I have to say that each day I find something intriguing about this fascinating place. Although the weather is brutally cold at times, I am told that it has been unseasonably warm, due to a few inconvenient truths. But it seems damn frigid to my delicate constitution.
Naturalische, as the cold has been permanently etched into my bone marrow. I was locked out of meine Wohnung (flat) for 2 days, which was quite a miserable experience. This sent me into a downward spiral in which I was rent with homesickness, for obvious reasons. I was able to spend the night at Assaf's, but not before I was unceremoniously dumped at Potsdamer Platz at the stroke of midnight when the UBahn stopped running. This was several miles from his Soviet compound at Heinrich Heinestrasse, and the night bus system was difficult to navigate (although user-friendly, I got off course twice on the triple-bus route), as I tend to launch into panic mode when a situation is out of my control. Vielleicht this will help me get over my control-freakishness and realize that control is always a total illusion. I finally ended up at my buddy's place at 3 am, shaken and refrigerated. The following day I was deflated, but still made it to language school.
After this mishap I finally accessed meine Wohnung when my flatmate Amandine arrived . I had dinner with her and her charming Freund and we spoke German together and all was well. The following day I was looking forward to some some r and r, and having the place to myself for a while. Unfortunately, Amandine arrived home early and informed me she was having a dinner party for 6 colleagues. Where had she been before? Christ. I decided, though, to rise to the occasion, pull myself up by the bootstraps and don my best party shoes and use this as a chance to polish my admittedly meager skills auf Deutsche. However, as happens so often here, English became the default language, as it was the common denominator amongst the Turkisch and Francozich company. The meal was lovely, I made my excuses and decamped to my room to do my Hausafgabel (homework).
After being upbraided by Fraulein Buschmann re: losing meine Schlussels (keys) I was feeling a bit harassed (she felt I should have called her in Turkey, but I saw no reason to drag her into it). It didn't help that in the interest of not hearing her grousing I went ahead and agreed to water the plants in the Erkerzimmer. I stole into the room the day after my return to complete this thankless task (esp. since the consensus amongst my colleagues is that I'm being totally ripped off by the exorbitant rent), and I realized that the entire room had been jerry-rigged into this elaborate Rube-Goldberg-esque deathtrap. As I began to water the plants I realized that almost every flowerpot was festooned with spiderwebs of electrical cords. Some of these plants were teetering on speakers and other live objects and if you even touched one thing it would set off a terrible chain reaction. Although I am realistic and understand the maxim that one should never ascribe to malice that which can be explained by simple ineptitude, the paranoid side of me wanted to believe that there was some kind of conspiracy on the order of Roman Polanski's The Besides, if said aphorism is true in this case, the sheer number of village idiots in mein leben has reached critical mass. At any rate, I was livid that Frau Bushmann would ask me to risk my life in order to water her ugly-ass plants.
I did have high hopes for a place I had seen online in Prenzaluerberg, in the city East Berlin. But when I went to see the digs today I was crestfallen to find that it looked like a squat, with coal stove you have to start yourself. Although this may be preferable to the situation I have now, and it's cheaper, the current inhabitants kept mentioning how the phone was broken, the Waschmachine was broken, the wireless was broken so you had to use a cable, etc. None of this, of course, was mentioned in the ad. So for now...better the devil you know, I guess.
After all the trouble I forgot to mention my brush with "fame" the other day. Assaf and I had gone to the beautiful Jewish quarter to look for a kosher bottle of wine and decided to stop at this dramatic-looking old dance hall called the Ballhaus. After entering and admiring the ancient wooden floors, mirrorball and tinsel-studded stage, and querying the hostess on duty about the different theme nights (jazz, swing, etc) I noticed a diminutive fellow in all black enter with his partner. The note of familiarity struck by his appearance was stereo-ized when he opened his mouth, but rendered dissonant by the fact that this was an actor I had seen on screen many times, seen in the flesh. At that moment I realized it was Willem Dafoe, the Green Goblin from the Spiderman films. Assaf and I were gobsmacked. After scanning the place for a moment, the weathered-looking thespian turned on his heel and walked out, passing me and giving me us an "I know you know who I am, and give me my privacy" kind of look. It was a true Gloria Swanson moment...
Naturalische, as the cold has been permanently etched into my bone marrow. I was locked out of meine Wohnung (flat) for 2 days, which was quite a miserable experience. This sent me into a downward spiral in which I was rent with homesickness, for obvious reasons. I was able to spend the night at Assaf's, but not before I was unceremoniously dumped at Potsdamer Platz at the stroke of midnight when the UBahn stopped running. This was several miles from his Soviet compound at Heinrich Heinestrasse, and the night bus system was difficult to navigate (although user-friendly, I got off course twice on the triple-bus route), as I tend to launch into panic mode when a situation is out of my control. Vielleicht this will help me get over my control-freakishness and realize that control is always a total illusion. I finally ended up at my buddy's place at 3 am, shaken and refrigerated. The following day I was deflated, but still made it to language school.
After this mishap I finally accessed meine Wohnung when my flatmate Amandine arrived . I had dinner with her and her charming Freund and we spoke German together and all was well. The following day I was looking forward to some some r and r, and having the place to myself for a while. Unfortunately, Amandine arrived home early and informed me she was having a dinner party for 6 colleagues. Where had she been before? Christ. I decided, though, to rise to the occasion, pull myself up by the bootstraps and don my best party shoes and use this as a chance to polish my admittedly meager skills auf Deutsche. However, as happens so often here, English became the default language, as it was the common denominator amongst the Turkisch and Francozich company. The meal was lovely, I made my excuses and decamped to my room to do my Hausafgabel (homework).
After being upbraided by Fraulein Buschmann re: losing meine Schlussels (keys) I was feeling a bit harassed (she felt I should have called her in Turkey, but I saw no reason to drag her into it). It didn't help that in the interest of not hearing her grousing I went ahead and agreed to water the plants in the Erkerzimmer. I stole into the room the day after my return to complete this thankless task (esp. since the consensus amongst my colleagues is that I'm being totally ripped off by the exorbitant rent), and I realized that the entire room had been jerry-rigged into this elaborate Rube-Goldberg-esque deathtrap. As I began to water the plants I realized that almost every flowerpot was festooned with spiderwebs of electrical cords. Some of these plants were teetering on speakers and other live objects and if you even touched one thing it would set off a terrible chain reaction. Although I am realistic and understand the maxim that one should never ascribe to malice that which can be explained by simple ineptitude, the paranoid side of me wanted to believe that there was some kind of conspiracy on the order of Roman Polanski's The Besides, if said aphorism is true in this case, the sheer number of village idiots in mein leben has reached critical mass. At any rate, I was livid that Frau Bushmann would ask me to risk my life in order to water her ugly-ass plants.
I did have high hopes for a place I had seen online in Prenzaluerberg, in the city East Berlin. But when I went to see the digs today I was crestfallen to find that it looked like a squat, with coal stove you have to start yourself. Although this may be preferable to the situation I have now, and it's cheaper, the current inhabitants kept mentioning how the phone was broken, the Waschmachine was broken, the wireless was broken so you had to use a cable, etc. None of this, of course, was mentioned in the ad. So for now...better the devil you know, I guess.
After all the trouble I forgot to mention my brush with "fame" the other day. Assaf and I had gone to the beautiful Jewish quarter to look for a kosher bottle of wine and decided to stop at this dramatic-looking old dance hall called the Ballhaus. After entering and admiring the ancient wooden floors, mirrorball and tinsel-studded stage, and querying the hostess on duty about the different theme nights (jazz, swing, etc) I noticed a diminutive fellow in all black enter with his partner. The note of familiarity struck by his appearance was stereo-ized when he opened his mouth, but rendered dissonant by the fact that this was an actor I had seen on screen many times, seen in the flesh. At that moment I realized it was Willem Dafoe, the Green Goblin from the Spiderman films. Assaf and I were gobsmacked. After scanning the place for a moment, the weathered-looking thespian turned on his heel and walked out, passing me and giving me us an "I know you know who I am, and give me my privacy" kind of look. It was a true Gloria Swanson moment...
Berlin is a Grower, not a Shower; Brushes with Fame
This was pointed out to me by an Aussie lad I met recently, who asserted that Berlin is "the best city in the world, a real grower." I have to say that each day I find something intriguing about this fascinating place. Although the weather is brutally cold at times, I am told that it has been unseasonably warm, due to a few inconvenient truths. But it seems damn frigid to my delicate constitution.
Naturalische, as the cold has been permanently etched into my bone marrow. I was locked out of meine Wohnung (flat) for 2 days, which was quite a miserable experience. This sent me into a downward spiral in which I was rent with homesickness, for obvious reasons. I was able to spend the night at Assaf's, but not before I was unceremoniously dumped at Potsdamer Platz at the stroke of midnight when the UBahn stopped running. This was several miles from his Soviet compound at Heinrich Heinestrasse, and the night bus system was difficult to navigate (although user-friendly, I got off course twice on the triple-bus route), as I tend to launch into panic mode when a situation is out of my control. Vielleicht this will help me get over my control-freakishness and realize that control is always a total illusion. I finally ended up at my buddy's place at 3 am, shaken and refrigerated. The following day I was deflated, but still made it to language school.
After this mishap I finally accessed meine Wohnung when my flatmate Amandine arrived . I had dinner with her and her charming Freund and we spoke German together and all was well. The following day I was looking forward to some some r and r, and having the place to myself for a while. Unfortunately, Amandine arrived home early and informed me she was having a dinner party for 6 colleagues. Where had she been before? Christ. I decided, though, to rise to the occasion, pull myself up by the bootstraps and don my best party shoes and use this as a chance to polish my admittedly meager skills auf Deutsche. However, as happens so often here, English became the default language, as it was the common denominator amongst the Turkisch and Francozich company. The meal was lovely, I made my excuses and decamped to my room to do my Hausafgabe (homework).
After being upbraided by Fraulein Buschmann re: losing meine Schlussels (keys) I was feeling a bit harassed (she felt I should have called her in Turkey, but I saw no reason to drag her into it). It didn't help that in the interest of not hearing her grousing I went ahead and agreed to water the plants in the Erkerzimmer. I stole into the room the day after my return to complete this thankless task (esp. since the consensus amongst my colleagues is that I'm being totally ripped off by the exorbitant rent), and I realized that the entire room had been jerry-rigged into this elaborate Rube-Goldberg-esque deathtrap. As I began to water the plants I realized that almost every flowerpot was festooned with spiderwebs of electrical cords. Some of these plants were teetering on speakers and other live objects and if you even touched one thing it would set off a terrible chain reaction. Although I am realistic and understand the maxim that one should never ascribe to malice that which can be explained by simple ineptitude, the paranoid side of me wanted to believe that there was some kind of conspiracy on the order of Roman Polanski's The Tenant. At any rate, I was livid that Frau Bushmann would ask me to risk my life in order to water her ugly-ass plants.
I did have high hopes for a place I had seen online in Prenzaluerberg, in the city East Berlin. But when I went to see the digs today I was crestfallen to find that it looked like a squat, with coal stove you have to start yourself. Although this may be preferable to the situation I have now, and it's cheaper, the current inhabitants kept mentioning how the phone was broken, the Waschmachine was broken, the wireless was broken so you had to use a cable, etc. None of this, of course, was mentioned in the ad. So for now...better the devil you know, I guess.
After all the trouble I forgot to mention my brush with "fame" the other day. Assaf and I had gone to the beautiful Jewish quarter to look for a kosher bottle of wine and decided to stop at this dramatic-looking old dance hall called the Ballhaus. After entering and admiring the ancient wooden floors, mirrorball and stage, and querying the hostess on duty about the different theme nights (jazz, swing, etc) I noticed a diminutive fellow in all black enter with his partner. The note of familiarity struck by his appearance was stereo-ized when he opened his mouth, but rendered dissonant by the fact that this was an actor I had seen on screen many times, seen in the flesh. At that moment I realized it was Willem Dafoe, the Green Goblin from the Spiderman films.
Naturalische, as the cold has been permanently etched into my bone marrow. I was locked out of meine Wohnung (flat) for 2 days, which was quite a miserable experience. This sent me into a downward spiral in which I was rent with homesickness, for obvious reasons. I was able to spend the night at Assaf's, but not before I was unceremoniously dumped at Potsdamer Platz at the stroke of midnight when the UBahn stopped running. This was several miles from his Soviet compound at Heinrich Heinestrasse, and the night bus system was difficult to navigate (although user-friendly, I got off course twice on the triple-bus route), as I tend to launch into panic mode when a situation is out of my control. Vielleicht this will help me get over my control-freakishness and realize that control is always a total illusion. I finally ended up at my buddy's place at 3 am, shaken and refrigerated. The following day I was deflated, but still made it to language school.
After this mishap I finally accessed meine Wohnung when my flatmate Amandine arrived . I had dinner with her and her charming Freund and we spoke German together and all was well. The following day I was looking forward to some some r and r, and having the place to myself for a while. Unfortunately, Amandine arrived home early and informed me she was having a dinner party for 6 colleagues. Where had she been before? Christ. I decided, though, to rise to the occasion, pull myself up by the bootstraps and don my best party shoes and use this as a chance to polish my admittedly meager skills auf Deutsche. However, as happens so often here, English became the default language, as it was the common denominator amongst the Turkisch and Francozich company. The meal was lovely, I made my excuses and decamped to my room to do my Hausafgabe (homework).
After being upbraided by Fraulein Buschmann re: losing meine Schlussels (keys) I was feeling a bit harassed (she felt I should have called her in Turkey, but I saw no reason to drag her into it). It didn't help that in the interest of not hearing her grousing I went ahead and agreed to water the plants in the Erkerzimmer. I stole into the room the day after my return to complete this thankless task (esp. since the consensus amongst my colleagues is that I'm being totally ripped off by the exorbitant rent), and I realized that the entire room had been jerry-rigged into this elaborate Rube-Goldberg-esque deathtrap. As I began to water the plants I realized that almost every flowerpot was festooned with spiderwebs of electrical cords. Some of these plants were teetering on speakers and other live objects and if you even touched one thing it would set off a terrible chain reaction. Although I am realistic and understand the maxim that one should never ascribe to malice that which can be explained by simple ineptitude, the paranoid side of me wanted to believe that there was some kind of conspiracy on the order of Roman Polanski's The Tenant. At any rate, I was livid that Frau Bushmann would ask me to risk my life in order to water her ugly-ass plants.
I did have high hopes for a place I had seen online in Prenzaluerberg, in the city East Berlin. But when I went to see the digs today I was crestfallen to find that it looked like a squat, with coal stove you have to start yourself. Although this may be preferable to the situation I have now, and it's cheaper, the current inhabitants kept mentioning how the phone was broken, the Waschmachine was broken, the wireless was broken so you had to use a cable, etc. None of this, of course, was mentioned in the ad. So for now...better the devil you know, I guess.
After all the trouble I forgot to mention my brush with "fame" the other day. Assaf and I had gone to the beautiful Jewish quarter to look for a kosher bottle of wine and decided to stop at this dramatic-looking old dance hall called the Ballhaus. After entering and admiring the ancient wooden floors, mirrorball and stage, and querying the hostess on duty about the different theme nights (jazz, swing, etc) I noticed a diminutive fellow in all black enter with his partner. The note of familiarity struck by his appearance was stereo-ized when he opened his mouth, but rendered dissonant by the fact that this was an actor I had seen on screen many times, seen in the flesh. At that moment I realized it was Willem Dafoe, the Green Goblin from the Spiderman films.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Kreuzberg Krunk
The past few days have been jam-packed with activity, hence the dearth of posts. I've been flying high on a new wave of energy, quaffing kaffee and all manner of caffeinated beverages to beat the band, exploring all the nooks, crannies and subterranean lairs of Berlin.
I have a new best friend. His name is Assaf, he's an Israeli architect (yes, there are a few Israelis in Berlin) who lives near Alexanderplatz in an unimaginably huge Soviet era tower block, which is tantamount to living in a concrete box, but kind of fun in an Eastern bloc kind of way. Frankly, while the apt. is very New York, I can't imagine being able to sleep there at night. Of course, Berlin is a city that never sleeps. The energy here is really infectious, not like that sleepy burg whence I came (although the weather is quite similar to the Pacific Northwest.)
Last night I picked up Assaf at the Stadtoper (he just assumed I didn't like opera, so didn't invite me, but I want to go -- he scored a ticket to the Magic Flute for 8 Euros) and afterwards made my first foray to a gay bar, in Kreuzberg. I guess we went on the correct night, because it was good old unwholesome, unpretentious trashy fun. One thing I noticed in stark contrast to the bar scene in the U.S. was that everyone seemed to be there to have a good time, without the kind of boring body fascism so endemic to gay culture in the US. In short, the guys here just seem comfortable in their own skins, with what they have, not striving to meet this vile, diseased ideal of some buffed, plucked, shaved and moisturized day-spa queen. Even the drag queens here seem more natural and hence more glamorous here, and think it has to do with the same gender issues which drive U.S. gay men and women to this kind of guilt and self-denial which results in eating disorders, body dysmorphia, etc. Queers here in general are just more integrated as a natural part of life, like the rain.
Vielleicht one reason for this is that the Germans actually treat homosexuals with the dignity and respect that they deserve, and Berlin is ground zero for the German homosexualist. (Qualifier: just as New York is not the US, Berlin is not all Germany) Don't forget this was the home of pioneering gay rights researchers and activists Magnus Hirschfeld and the Mattachine Society. Even Hitler could not completely dampen this legacy, and today it feels like no less than the Queer capital of the world. Just take a stroll down to Schoneberg and pop into the community center. There you'll find all manner of queer boys and men filling out paperwork for their free HIV tests, having coffee, getting flyers with the straight dope on all the latest club drugs and generally taking advantage of the support on offer here. Or cruise down to Bruno's (I sound like a glib travel guide here) , a gay bookstore that would put any of it's US counterparts to shame. Even Assaf remarked at how the bookstores in Chelsea couldn't hope to be as sleek and nice. But that's how we treat our community in the states; it's as if we don't deserve to have nice things. I found several DVDs there I had been looking for for ages too!
Changing gears a bit, I'm trying to decide on my next critical piece. I thought about doing a piece on Doblin's Berlin Alexanderplatz paralleled with the Fassbinder mini-series, which was just released on DVD. This could prove to be a massive undertaking being as how the book is a zillion pages and the miniseries about 27 hours...Marianne was actually encouraging me not to concentrate too much on literature as it could prevent me from the social interaction being abroad begs. Once I get out to the museums and theatres this may inspire me to do an synthesis of lit crit and that of other art forms. An American Harvard student I met today is here for two weeks on a grant doing a critical study of literature about the Berlin subway system. So anything is possible really!
Tschuss for now
I have a new best friend. His name is Assaf, he's an Israeli architect (yes, there are a few Israelis in Berlin) who lives near Alexanderplatz in an unimaginably huge Soviet era tower block, which is tantamount to living in a concrete box, but kind of fun in an Eastern bloc kind of way. Frankly, while the apt. is very New York, I can't imagine being able to sleep there at night. Of course, Berlin is a city that never sleeps. The energy here is really infectious, not like that sleepy burg whence I came (although the weather is quite similar to the Pacific Northwest.)
Last night I picked up Assaf at the Stadtoper (he just assumed I didn't like opera, so didn't invite me, but I want to go -- he scored a ticket to the Magic Flute for 8 Euros) and afterwards made my first foray to a gay bar, in Kreuzberg. I guess we went on the correct night, because it was good old unwholesome, unpretentious trashy fun. One thing I noticed in stark contrast to the bar scene in the U.S. was that everyone seemed to be there to have a good time, without the kind of boring body fascism so endemic to gay culture in the US. In short, the guys here just seem comfortable in their own skins, with what they have, not striving to meet this vile, diseased ideal of some buffed, plucked, shaved and moisturized day-spa queen. Even the drag queens here seem more natural and hence more glamorous here, and think it has to do with the same gender issues which drive U.S. gay men and women to this kind of guilt and self-denial which results in eating disorders, body dysmorphia, etc. Queers here in general are just more integrated as a natural part of life, like the rain.
Vielleicht one reason for this is that the Germans actually treat homosexuals with the dignity and respect that they deserve, and Berlin is ground zero for the German homosexualist. (Qualifier: just as New York is not the US, Berlin is not all Germany) Don't forget this was the home of pioneering gay rights researchers and activists Magnus Hirschfeld and the Mattachine Society. Even Hitler could not completely dampen this legacy, and today it feels like no less than the Queer capital of the world. Just take a stroll down to Schoneberg and pop into the community center. There you'll find all manner of queer boys and men filling out paperwork for their free HIV tests, having coffee, getting flyers with the straight dope on all the latest club drugs and generally taking advantage of the support on offer here. Or cruise down to Bruno's (I sound like a glib travel guide here) , a gay bookstore that would put any of it's US counterparts to shame. Even Assaf remarked at how the bookstores in Chelsea couldn't hope to be as sleek and nice. But that's how we treat our community in the states; it's as if we don't deserve to have nice things. I found several DVDs there I had been looking for for ages too!
Changing gears a bit, I'm trying to decide on my next critical piece. I thought about doing a piece on Doblin's Berlin Alexanderplatz paralleled with the Fassbinder mini-series, which was just released on DVD. This could prove to be a massive undertaking being as how the book is a zillion pages and the miniseries about 27 hours...Marianne was actually encouraging me not to concentrate too much on literature as it could prevent me from the social interaction being abroad begs. Once I get out to the museums and theatres this may inspire me to do an synthesis of lit crit and that of other art forms. An American Harvard student I met today is here for two weeks on a grant doing a critical study of literature about the Berlin subway system. So anything is possible really!
Tschuss for now
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