My travels, my Europe, my Berlin…
I. Arrival: An American in Berlin
My first time abroad, alone. Something that didn’t cross my mind as I frantically rushed to pack my giant green backpack 10 hours before my flight. My jeans, shirts, toiletries, books, sleeping bag, secondary guitar, all packed without a second thought. The cluttered life I lived in Seattle packed into two bags and a guitar case. Even after triple-checking that I packed all necessities, I felt anxious. What did I overlook? An uneasy sleep overtook my final night before departure.
It’s my first time traveling alone. I don’t know what to expect. My adrenaline levels rise. I’m pretty scared.
Nothing special on the plane ride over the Atlantic. Some struggling with assigned reading. Movies—old and new, a limited selection. A sleep as comfortable as an airplane ride offers. Passing thoughts about the research I needed to do in Berlin. I intended to compare buskers between two locations—Alexanderplatz and Akonoplatz—neither of which I had been to. Lots on my plate—a culminating presentation of this research with two pre-assigned group members and a final write-up. No point stressing over what I can’t control at the moment. With very little brainstorming being possible and without the knowledge of the research areas, I occupied my mind with other matters.
It’s a little overwhelming. Myriad people speaking German—a language I can’t understand. I lack confidence. I don’t know what to do but I’m hesitant to ask for help.
At the apartment, I stretched out on the lavender armchairs while the sun set over the courtyard. What a journey to get there. The last leg on the subway went by easily enough; my validated ticket from the first-leg via the bus was all I needed. The subway took me from Alexanderplatz, one of my proposed research sites, to a few blocks away from the apartment. What a place it was: an open square made up of concrete tiles surrounded by stores telling the story of globalization: H&M, New Yorker, McDonald’s, C&A. No buskers out that day.
The trip from the airport to Alexanderplatz via bus proved quite stressful. I had no idea how the tickets and their validation worked. I had no idea where the buses left from. I had no idea what most signs and conversations around me were about. I had never been placed in such a situation before. I didn’t know what to do. I began to sweat and my heart beat increased. No time to think about research. After much awkward bumbling around the building, I happened upon a man speaking in broken English who handed me an extra ticket for the bus. After some explanations and repeats, I validated the ticket and hopped on the bus labeled “TXL.”
I got into a routine. It was comfortable being with fellow-English-speaking students when venturing to new locations. But here, I didn’t grow…
I became accustomed to going everywhere with my peers—to döner kebab stands to get some savory meat strips wedged between bread with vegetables and garlic sauce; to tours of monuments with histories barely kept visible over the sands of time; to grocery stores to pick up a pots of basil and garlic. I took comfort in this. Awkwardness only affects the individual and we were rarely alone. Although fun, I neither grew as an individual nor did I feel that I experienced Berlin’s true nature when we went around in groups. The polarized lens I wore when part of a collective kept me blind to observing how other groups of people interact. Venturing alone brought about a whole another experience.
II. Learning to Talk: The Story of an Introvert
I always hesitate before asking others for help. I can’t stand it when people ask for assistance when the answer lies right in front of them. Now I am potentially that person. He who doesn’t know. He who doesn’t know the usual protocol or speak the language.
Two hours of being lost wandering with a large traveler’s backpack does wonders to your back, legs, and patience. Alone in another city, I looked for a house labeled on a map. A friend’s wedding was taking place the next day and I looked for the gathering location for the evening. I couldn’t find it. And so, I walked. I passed the same buildings in the town square. The church in the center, the tables and chairs with sun-umbrellas overlooking them. Crowds of people conversed, children ran atop the cobblestone paths. And yet, I never felt so alone and isolated. I was an outsider. I was lost. Things didn’t make much sense, but being afraid to ask, I kept moving. Around and around.
Eventually, I re-opened and carefully studied the map. It turns out I reversed the labeled locations. Where I walked was where I was supposed to be the next day, and where I thought I was supposed to be the next day was where I needed to go. Homer Simpson’s “D’Oh!” rang in my head as I ventured towards the correct location. Had I asked around, I would not have wasted so much time. Lesson learned. There is no better illustration for the necessity to open conversations with strangers in asking for help than two hours of hapless wandering. This is something I needed to overcome anyways for my research project.
Community. We all seek it—the feeling that we belong, that we’re accepted by others. Through the beginning of this study abroad program, I only felt hints of this.
Those in this study abroad program got to spend five days in Istanbul. Another city; seemed instead like another world. Chaotic yet friendly. That’s the impression the city left me. This city is also where I spent my 22nd birthday.
It was no ordinary birthday. It was an evening that lasted until sunrise*. Fond memories formed, of which I can’t pick a favorite. Perhaps it was when some local musicians played me “Happy Birthday” in a restaurant. Maybe instead, it was all my classmates going as a group to a dance club. Or possibly that three classmates stayed with me for the evening and ended with all of us watching the sunrise over the Bosphorus. Whatever sense of community I thought this study abroad experience lacked, I found that evening. I felt that I belonged. I felt that everyone belonged. My classmates were my English-speaking family. It was comforting. We all held each other up and from it grew our confidence. I felt ready to get back to Berlin and talk to buskers.
I felt anxiety. I always had difficulty approaching strangers for conversations, let alone conduct an interview when they were performing for money. But now, as before, it’s a necessity. Do they even speak English?
Research. Is it about the process or the results? In my first day going into the field, I had little idea of what to expect. We all had our own research projects and thus our own places to go...alone. A stretching of my comfort zone. Here goes nothing…
Like a great majority of our days in Berlin, I stepped out of the subway station for the umpteenth time into rays of sun shining onto the concrete ground of Alexanderplatz. Along the narrow face of a large department store labeled "Galeria" in blocky green letters, a guitarist stood strumming and singing. With curly brown hair and a big grin on his face, his winsome stage persona drew glances from all passing traffic. His music wasn’t particularly loud, but it was audible within 20 or so feet. When is it considered appropriate/courteous to approach a busker? I had pondered for a few moments when a young girl and her mother went up and started talking with him mid-tuning. He let the child strum his guitar for a bit. Nice. Time to make my move.
On approach, we made eye contact. I asked if he spoke English.
A little.
Great. I followed up saying that I was a student doing a research project on street musicians and was wondering if he had a few moments for a few questions.
Sure. He smiled with curiosity.
Awesome. And so began my first interview. Admittedly, I hadn’t prepared a set of questions and I didn’t possess a clear understanding of what I wanted to look for. Essentially, amidst mad-scribbling into my red notebook, I got the gist of his story.
Conversing with the busker wasn’t as difficult as I imagined. It’s just a matter of finding the courage and the right moment to walk up and start talking with them. Once initiated it seemed as though he was curious because I was curious.
Did I overcome my hesitancy to strike conversations with strangers? Hardly, but I still felt good about myself after the conversation. The 2€ I left in his bag was well worth the boost in my confidence and information gleaned. This was my Berlin. A city for the arts. A city where a guitarist from Italy sounds his music to the passing crowds. A place where a child can come up and strum his guitar and a Japanese American student asks him questions.
The people you run into. The stories you share. The continuous shaping of one’s self. The tale of me and my Berlin.
The places we go, the people we meet. Wandering around the TV tower in Alexanderplatz, I heard music. Intrigued, my legs moved me to the source. A semi-circle of onlookers intently listened to a group of musicians performing on a shaded walkway. The band consisted of a guitarist/singer, percussion-box-player, and brass accompaniment. Their music was not elegant. Their sound was both loud and rough. And yet, their tunes were recognizable and the crowd appeared to enjoy themselves.
In this semicircle, I stood. If I had to wait for the ensemble to finish, I might was well enjoy myself. I felt the beat, I got into it. Charisma comes in many forms and this group had it. After playing “the Saints go Marching in” for some time, the band members picked up their instruments and ran amongst the crowd while continuing to sing.
Their return center-stage signaled the end and with it, the money poured in. It also marked my chance to speak to the musicians.
Approachable, friendly, and English speaking. They made busking seem easy and fun. I left a 2€ coin in their collection box as they finished packing up.
……
Was busking always a sunny, cheerful profession? These musicians I spoke with in Alexanderplatz sure made it seem so.
Another boost in confidence. It’s not so bad talking to strangers. My Berlin’s buskers are open and willing to be talked to. They feel no stigma when performing in open squares.
……
The final product in research rarely follows the exact proposed path. I still had no idea where Akonoplatz, another open square, was. I pondered the possibilities when someone tipped off the idea of comparing street musicians in open squares to those at street corners. Sure, why not? And so, my research project changed. Asking around, I learned that buskers often visit a place called “Avril.” And so, I went.
At the edge of Graefestraβe lies a restaurant marked in bright red lights spelling “Avril.” As evening sets, casually-dressed individuals sit down to eat dinner or converse over a beer. A quaint, picturesque scene, really. Distant from the tourist-centers, the locals can unwind under outdoor umbrellas; feeling cool breeze arriving with dusk’s onset.
This I observed leaning against a lamppost across the street. But alas, no busker. This, I realized, was the main challenge/difficulty in my project—the buskers aren’t always where you’re looking. Productivity in my research requires a fair amount of luck.
But just standing gets boring and so, I wandered. Up and down the street, seeing how the locals passed the time. A few blocks away, music mixed with commotion rang my basilar membrane. A stone bridge connecting a road over a waterway. On it, a throng of people gathered within small groups to smoke and jam on the guitar. Street music but not buskers. A niche location for sure; only the smoking regulars seemed to inhabit the place.
……
Luck was on my side several days later when I walked around Graefestraβe for the second time around. It was Sunday, and leaning against the same lamppost, I observed a man on a bike with a gig bag (guitar case) ride up and stop at the Avril corner side. Out came an electric guitar. After a few chords, he plugged in a cord into the portable amp he brought along. And so the show began.
A series of jazzy guitar solos. Mood music. The musician showed proficiency at his craft and I got into the groove of it at my lamppost observation station. The wine imbibers and diners, however, did not. They hardly recognized the artist’s existence, opting instead to continue whatever conversation they had.
After ten minutes of playing, the guitarist went around each table, pushing a collecting cup into the diners’ attention. I couldn’t tell how much he made, but the situation presented to me a very different approach compared to that found in Alexanderplatz.
Finishing this, I saw my opportunity and made my approach, my original hesitancy all but disappeared. A 40-minute conversation over a beer ensued—my drink came from my wallet, his was on the house. At least the restaurant recognizes quality music…
Street music isn’t always a sunny occupation. At dusk, my Berlin has a guitarist from Bulgaria at street corners busking for beer money on weekends. Illuminated by neon shop signs and street lamps, he feels a stigma and only sometimes enjoys performing there. On a bridge down the street, black-clad locals smoke and strum chords to pass the time. Exhaling, the smoke wafts upward, taking a bit out of their life while easing some of their obvious melancholy with a conditioned spurt of serotonin. If nicotine is the medicine for their psyches, then music is food for their souls.
III. Awkward Bedfellows: Three days and the Story of the Final Showcase
Further observations in both settings supported the ideas I gathered. I found the same differences between public squares and street corners. Although a bit relieved, I still had more to do. The deadline on the final performance where I showcase my work continuously loomed as a specter in the back of my head through my research. Like a splinter that won’t come out, the feeling of not being done jabbed at my psyche every morning as I crawled out of bed. I just want to finish my work! Is that too much to ask?
Worse was that I couldn’t rely solely on myself to get it done. Groups of three were pre-assigned before we moved into the apartments. The two others in my group looked into fast-food/globalization and communist nostalgia, respectively. How were we going to tie our topics together into a coherent whole?
Three days left.
That was our deadline and we remained fixated on the idea of somehow tying the topics together.
We came up with thoughts on how to present our individual parts but drew blanks on how to make the connections. I often felt the odd-man-out in the group as the other two went out on last-minute research excursions or came up with ideas tying only their two topics together. I was the lone thinker on the swing-set, watching other groups pass by talking about their progress. My group was going nowhere.
Two Days left.
Stress levels on the rise. Adrenaline flowing through my blood vessels. Differences in our mentalities exaggerated themselves. The only thing we all shared was the desire to do a good job—whatever that means. Luckily, nothing combusted.
The afternoon found me again thinking for myself as the other two went off to brainstorm together. I wrote the outline for a skit. Ignoring the tolling of church bells outside, Mussorgsky rang in my ears. I envisioned a walk through a museum exhibiting our research. Satisfied with the idea, I prepared to meet up with the other rest of the group.
……
Out on the swings, the other two beamed with excitement. They came up with an idea of how to tie the topics together—a continuous prop. Admittedly, I liked their idea more than mine, so we stuck with it. Outside-the-box thinking. At the moment, I lacked it and the other two had it. With a basic premise set, we could all easily contribute ideas on the details. With the sense of relief, we finally started to lower our adrenaline levels. We lost the rest of the day to work out some kinks and give a few dry-runs of our performance.
One Day left.
Practice makes perfect. A day of rehearsals and suggestions from our Drama Professor, Shenga, fine-tuned our performance. We became more and more prepared as the sun moved across the sky. We were ready. We were eager to show the class. We wanted the ordeal to end.
Performance Day.
A bed sheet. Not just any bed sheet, but a fantastic one that shape-shifts. A bed sheet that ties communist nostalgia, globalization/fast-food, and street musicians together. It was the Berlin wall; separating a group member talking about the former East from the two annoying Westerners. Invisible, but its presence was noted. It was a symbol of power; bestowing another group member the power to preach and spread the influence of fast-food throughout the audience. She had it, you didn’t. It was a stage; representing a street corner and then a public square where a busker performs. An environment. It was tension. A discord between East and West resolved with music—dissonance giving way to consonance as Berlin moves into the future. Above all, it was bed sheet; taken from our apartments and soiled from our many dry runs…
(Image from http://honorsinberlin2009.blogspot.com/)
It feels good to perform and even better to finish. Euphoria. Relief. The end of the program. A month of my life that I wouldn’t trade for anything. The meeting with interesting people, the experience of another culture, being where I don’t speak the language; all things that nurtured my growth as an individual. Thanks to this, I was ready for some solo-traveling…
My Berlin is also everyone else’s Berlin. We all experienced the city, but each of us viewed the place through our unique polarized lens. Some saw discrepancies in fashion, others the views on legal prostitution. What makes Berlin what it is that everyone who walks through it perceives it in a different way. My Berlin is different from their Berlin—and yet, my Berlin is their Berlin.
In Berlin, the answer to the question “Is you me?” is “Yes; you is me”
IV. The Story of After: Traveling Alone in Spain and France
I sit and type in an airplane flying back to the USA over the Atlantic Ocean. The conclusion to almost three weeks of backpacking in Spain and France. Oh how much I’ve changed since leaving the States.
For one, I now possess a healthy-looking beard. The product of a challenge to grow out facial hair as proposed by a peer. I am the victor.
My jeans stink of dried sweat. My final two days in Europe found me back in a hostel in Berlin where I didn’t get to wash my pants. The sweat originated from wandering the city on foot, taking time to revisit the sites I used to walk daily. The U-Bahn Stations, the colored polygons overhanging our apartment entrances, the chicken-döner shop off Hackescher Markt Station. A trip down memory lane, places I’m already starting to miss.
My backpack is filled with trinkets. Before returning to Berlin, I spent time in Barcelona. Running around las Ramblas to barter with Indian shop owners while enduring a rain squall with newly-made friends met in the hostel. “Don’t think! Buy!” one shopkeeper claimed as mugs and shirts were thrust into our faces. Traveling alone necessitates striking up conversations with strangers and promptly asking for help when needed. The milquetoast doesn’t fare as well traveling solo. I appreciated every bit of my growth.
My mind is full of memories. Of initiating conversations with strangers and spending days and evening wandering around foreign cities with them. Of trying out new foods. Before Barcelona, I was in Madrid trying out a Bocadillo y Calamari. Think of it as fried but unseasoned calamari wedged between a baguette. No salt. No vegetables. No sauce. Only willpower to force the greasy, bland, and chewy monstrosity into my digestive tract.
Bags sit under my eyes. Physical reminders of my staying up all night in Barcelona and before that, Madrid. From hours of dancing in a country where dinner happens at 11:00pm and the club scene doesn’t get going until 2:00am. The idea of siesta finally made sense in my mind.
My wallet feels lighter from museum entrance fees, hourly pain au chocolats, and expensive dinners. Culture for a cost—six days in Paris does that to your bank account.
And buskers! With the research project done, I paid attention to music on the streets. Ever heard Fur Elise as a waltz? The all-too-common accordion player hopping on a Parisian subway to play a minute of music followed by shoving a collection cup in your face exposed me to this. Spain exposed me to flamenco guitarists busking for money in open squares; the silence between pieces interrupted with money clattering as it fell into the collection box. What sights! What sounds! More to observe and think about when traveling around.
……
I found that everyone has a story to share. A past; a history shaping them into their present form. This path to the present is never linear. People change life goals or circle back toward the past. For many of us, this tale is shrouded in darkness; it’s not everyday we tell our story to others. I learned from my travels that this is one of the things most rewarding about talking with people—to learn small bits of other cultures and upbringings. Even strangers tell a small part of their story. Although my original reservations on talking to people hasn’t completely disappeared, it has noticeably decreased. The more I traveled, exploring Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, and my Berlin, the more I grew as an individual. Flying back, I carry a different set of lens—a more worldly perspective—to perceive the world and live my future.
*See my blog post for August 16, 2009 for a more complete story of the evening.
