Recall something done between writing each of the postcards or recall an image from memory.
Between August 3 and August 4
The sun shone on our backs. The group and I were about to walk along a concrete bridge. We WERE about to, at least before we stumbled upon a brick pattern with the words “Berlin Mauer” written on it. Straight, the former wall was not. It curved. Its path wriggled. Considering its history, it’s a wonder that people carelessly step over the former border. Had the group not stopped to examine this, I would have walked by without a second thought.
Between August 4 and August 5
I recall the tour of the East Side Gallery just ending. The empty void in my stomach rumbled. We crossed a bridge. Some people got “China Box” – stir-fry noodles with vegetables and hot sauce for cheap. I opted to try a Dürum Kebab. Just like the Döners I described earlier but instead of a flatbread, the dish is made burrito-style. The meat was well seasoned but the tortilla was unfortunately stiff. I decided that I would not come back.
Between August 5 and August 7
Out of the heat-wave in Seattle, into the hot Berlin weather. August 5 was no different; my sodium channels worked at max capacity to cool my body down. And then, it appeared. An oasis amidst a desert. Out of the grey, rectangular blocks that make up the holocaust memorial, it stood as a dirty-yellow beacon of hope. The AC welcomed me in all its glorious wind currents. Into the Dunkin’ Donuts I went. I haven’t had as tasty of an ice-coffee since.
Between August 7 and August 7 (Brandenburg Tor --> Sachsenhausen)
Into the subway the group went. Twenty-two undergrads with two teachers and a tour guide named Adam. The underground scenery changed to outdoor Berlin as we transferred from a subway to a train. “We have until the end of the line” we were told. I closed my eyes to the sunny weather, the trees whizzing by, the buildings decorated with graffiti. Sleep. Deep, restful and dreamless. I woke up at a station, with everyone else disembarking.
Between August 7 and August 8 (e-postcard; on Rote Grütze mit Vanillesauce)
A sense of gratefulness. Cheese pizza never tasted better. I sat on a bench conversing with my mentor/friend/groom-to-be. What a journey to get here. Only after going back to an internet café and realizing I reversed the directions did I find the place. D’oh!
……
Lost. The sense of helplessness, vulnerability. I wandered around the town center of Göttingen for around two hours. The address lay on display on my laptop—held to my side as I wandered. It should be here. Instead of an apartment or house, there stood a church. Nope. The novelty of seeing various shops and restaurants wore off as fatigue started to set in. Time to go to an internet café…
Between August 8 and August 9
The country rushed by. Fields, farms, houses, and spinning wind turbines. A countryside that I never got to explore. A set of fleeting images as the train heads down the rails. The Germany outside of Berlin. Open. Vast. Charming. I turned away and glance over at an elderly German woman read a novel of some sort. Conversation being impossible, I shifted my attention to my own book. My reality whizzed by too quickly—time to slow down and escape into someone else’s…
Between August 9 and August 11
My mind draws a blank with regards to what I did between the events outlined in these postcards. Funny how memory works—I recall some exquisite details like the pattern made by a fountain spurting out water but not why I was there. According to the postcard, I sat around Alexanderplatz on a cloudy day. Great. I’m supposed to be in my prime at 22 years in age, but times like these make me think I’m going senile. I think I’ll grab a beer…
Between August 11 and August 12
Walking on a cobblestone street. I knew to avoid the red-colored bike lane to my left. I remember being weary—we traveled around the area and missed the bus. So we walked. Past children with their mothers, past shrubs and trees. Beneath the cloudy sky, we were mosque-bound. I had never been in one, and knew not what to expect. Minarets juxtaposed with a shop selling chai and ice cream. Red tables where we sat and pondered the day ahead.
Between August 12 and August 19
Istanbul. A long period without writing a postcard. Hills and valleys filled with buildings of the same architectural style. Streets and cobblestone paths winding through the city; their paths capricious, unpredictable like a small child. The city swallowed me up. Any hopes of getting my bearing straight were engulfed by the buildings, roads, and sea of taxis.
Language. I couldn’t understand them. They couldn’t understand me. I sat under the sunny August sky while Turkish men and women went about their daily business.
Between August 19 (Figur des Neptun-Brunnens) and August 19 (Public transit map)
Walking through Alexanderplatz. From the park with fountains, through the main station, and out onto the cement square filled with hot dog vendors and surrounded by shops. The variety of people walking through never fails to amaze me. Buskers, locals, tourists, and officials all mingling together, perhaps with a hamburger or bratwurst in hand. I got asked on two occasions if I spoke English, after which a postcard asking for money was thrust into my face. Yes, it’s how they make a living, but I still can’t help feeling a hint of anger when they shove their fake sob story in my direction.
Between August 19 (Public transit map) and August 19 (abstract painting of woman on bed)
From the underground, we emerged. The strong stench wafting through the air from the piles of brown that littered the cobblestone path. The stairs lead to a rays of sunlight—the overworld, a place to synthesize some vitamin D. Still, it was hot. Beads of sweat rolled down my neck. We were going to a park, but only one person knew where. A theater, a venue, a stage to act out our first composition assignment. A mystery, an adventure.
Between August 19 (abstract painting of woman on bed) and August 19 (In Transit)
I recall standing. My mental facilities shut down as sweat began soaking through my shirt. Two women talked about something intellectual; I wish I could say more, but again, my mind was turned off. People on bikes, parents with children, owners walking their dogs—they all passed through the clump of people made up of our class. Modern apartments on either side of the street. Balconies sporting clay pots and colorful foliage. An old wooden door behind us creaked open as a resident went out for groceries. I grew tired of standing; I was ready to call it a day.
Between August 19 (In Transit) and August 20 (Checkpoint Charlie)
A grassy park surrounded by trees. In the middle, a group of men kicked a soccer ball atop the sun-yellowed grass. Groups of people sunbathed or smoked away from the athletes. Our group stood beneath a patch of trees. The rest of the class stood ten feet away, watching, observing our performance. A subway station, a U-Bahn to Istanbul, an annoying street vendor, and stasis. Katie, Sally, Robert and I acted or made music for these scenes. A reflection of our collective experience—study abroad as a performance.
Between August 20 (Checkpoint Charlie) and August 20 (Slussen—Adams)
An urban art walk. What fun. Everyday structures with small details missed by the common eye. A fur coat shaped into a rabbit and glued onto the side of a generator. A sign showing a signal etched with layer of gold foil. Arrows protruding from a building’s layer of Styrofoam. We walked the cobblestone sidewalks while our trusty guide pointed these out. On several occasions, we the boundary of the former Berlin wall—now nothing more than a red-brick line running through the streets…
Between August 20 (Slussen—Adams) and August 21 (Fernsehturm)
Many people crowded the fountain area of Alexanderplatz. A fence surrounded the area as the marathon for the world track and field championships ran the vicinity. Aside from this new development, things remained the same as usual; tour buses crowded the streets not closed off, people mingled and chatted about various things. A group dressed in gothic attire sat on evergreen benches and smoked. Teenagers played volleyball on a sandy court behind them. Another sunny day in the park.
Between August 21 (Fernsehturm) and August 21 (Potsdamer Platz)
My stomach growled at me. The evening found Joe and I hungry and surrounded by tall glass buildings and the world’s oldest traffic signal. Wandering around initially proved fruitless—only coffee shops and restaurants out of the budget range of undergraduates.
In search of food, we descended on an escalator into a small tunnel of sorts. Glimmering jewelry, postcards, and funky electronics presented themselves in different stores. A döner and pizza shop. Nope—had too many already. The next shop caught our eye.
A sushi bar. And happy hour. I ordered combo #3 and was not disappointed. The salmon tasted fresh and the rice was of good quality and well packed—it didn’t crumble but wasn’t too firm. The fish, seasoned rice, and soy sauce orchestrated a joyous symphony of flavors on my tongue. Satiated, we paid the bill and left to meet the rest of the class. Who knew Berlin had a decent and affordable sushi bar?
Between August 21 (Potsdamer Platz) and August 25 (Berlin hbf)
A mob of people congregated on the sidewalk. Most seemed dressed for the weather; ponchos, hoodies, and long pants. My leather bag appeared a poor choice given the dark clouds overhead.
Streaks of color. The rushing of Adidas pull-off plants and bright colored t-shirts. Neon green, purple, orange, yellow, blue—the cameras came out as the colors zoomed by. A man head-down at a 45° angle hanging behind a large sign; three men huddled as a totem pole beneath a subway notice; two people pressed up against the wall—the crowd moved from one tableau to another. A scavenger hunt in a crowded subway station. Modern art; modern performance—bodies in urban spaces.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Assignment #3 - Writing Berlin and Istanbul
Amidst the chaos, beauty emerges…
As far as I was concerned, Istanbul was just another city on a map. A dot on a sheet of paper. I had no idea what to expect and what I found surprised me. Whereas Berlin stands as a city reliant on order, modesty, stability and following the rules (no matter how ridiculous), Istanbul represents the polar opposite. The order and stability I grew accustomed to in Berlin gave me a lens that magnified my perceptions of disorder Istanbul.
Chaos in the streets. A sea of yellow taxis amidst black pavement. Just watching made me dizzy—cars weaving with little disregard to surrounding traffic; completely ignoring the lane-delineating lines; liberal use of the horn as though the car’s warranty depended on it.
Pedestrians fearlessly jaywalking over crowded arterials. Little children holding up bottles of water to drivers in the middle of the road as cars zoom by. Only 0.5 Lira.
Shops and sellers showcasing their wares on the sidewalk. Need some knock-off cologne? Perhaps some fine plastic watches? Grilled corn? Not ten meters pass without being offered some food or trinket.
I recall visiting the Blue Mosque. Stately minarets seeming to pierce the evening sky. I stepped inside onto the lush carpet and felt small; insignificant; that I lose my voice to the cavernous area. I imagine millions coming through this building over the course of centuries, struck with the same feeling of insignificance—hopes and aspirations lost into the collective void.
Earlier, a throng of tourists wandered the outer gardens while a call to prayer blasted through the speakers. Grilled corn vendors and watermelon sellers received great business during this time.
I smelled grilled beef, onions, and strong spices on my breath. Still earlier, the late-afternoon sun beat down while I avoided the myriad divots, piles of rubble and trash while wandering around on the cobblestone walkways. Stray cats walked by nonchalantly; not a block passes without me seeing one. In my right hand, I held a 3.50 lira Kebab in pita bread. It satisfied my caloric needs but brought about a longing for Berlin’s better-tasting döner kebabs. Regardless, my breath reeked—probably those onions.
I am spoiled in Berlin. Along with the superior kebabs, many people speak English here. Most comprehend and give an answer should I ask a question. In Istanbul, most people don’t speak English. It stands as a border; a wall; a schism difficult to cross. I had no idea where our dormitories stood. Unless I kept a sheet of paper with an address that I could point to, asking for directions of hailing a cab home proved impossible. Unless pictures litter a restaurant menu, I have no idea what I’m ordering. Suffice to say, my communication transformed from spoken sentences to a series of nods, shakes, and finger pointing more often than I cared for.
Up an alleyway we walked, the narrow cobblestone path turning into an obstacle course complete with the tables and chairs of unfinished diners, shelves showing off the trinkets aimed for Asian tourists, and the smell of hookah wafting through the air. Old men playing rummy. Ducking under a vine canopy, we stumbled upon a white sign. A list of undecipherable names and prices. A finger point and a nod. 5 minutes later, I got myself a kebab.
Rules are rules. Except when they aren’t. Berlin made me accustomed to strictly following rules. Every morning, for fear of being lectured by a stern German police officer and a 40€ fee, I triple-check to ensure my transportation pass is in my wallet. Car traffic flows smoothly, with everyone staying within their lanes and the honk of the horn being a rare occurrence. Pedestrians only cross the street when the green walking man lights up. Coffee shops kick out all non-paying persons from their tables. All dogs infallibly act obedient to their owners.
In Istanbul, rules are only guidelines—and even this stretches the truth. Five cars somehow span three-lane road. Locals commonly play “Frogger” across major arterials. Pirated goods and fake t-shirts line all major sidewalks and bazaars.
And yet, amidst all the chaos and rule-breaking there lies a certain irresistible feature to the city of Istanbul. Perhaps it lies in the melancholy, the hüzun felt by the natives and barely perceived by visitors—the vendors still able to smile and act warm despite barely making a living, the stray animals tucked away in random corners; the list goes on, but I’m no Orhan Pamuk. Perhaps its lies in the Bosphorus—vast, shimmering, and opaque.
Even at 5:30 in the morning, they held their place. Some slept atop a makeshift bed composed of two crates. Others stood. Next to smelly shrimp in clear plastic cups, lines cast out into the dark waters. Waiting; hoping for a nibble, a bite. A bite that allows a roadside food vendor to waft the smell of cooked mackerel into the air. These men once had bigger hopes; dreams of a more comfortable lifestyle. Now they stand on a concrete bridge. They fish. Their livelihoods controlled by the whim of the vast waters. It’s as if they cast out dreams along with the shrimp bait, more often than not losing them into the void; a bare hook being all that remains of past hopes and aspirations.
How do they survive this lifestyle? What makes them smile? I pondered this for some time. Then, some light. A faint glow of orange cast on the water’s surface. The sun peeked its head over the horizon and I felt as though I understood. A ray of hope shining on the patient fishermen. A new day. Sunrise.
Perhaps Istanbul’s irresistibleness lies in the warm, friendly demeanor of its people. Old men play cards or rummy at hookah bars, smiling and conversing. Their eyes expressing an open welcome to all who walk by. Café owners chat before the morning rush and are more than happy to point out the nearest burger joint or bakery. It’s difficult to describe, but the people in Turkey possess a certain aura of “welcomeness” about them. A certain something where I am not hesitant to walk up to a stranger to ask directions.
Morning. Sunny as usual. The cool breeze from being near the Bosphorus blew into our faces. The growl of our stomachs. Hunger. Our feet led us into a maze of alleyways nearby our dorms. Peeling paint, disintegrating brick. A ceiling of green vines that keeps the area cool mid-afternoon. On tables stationed outside of neighboring cafes, the owners conversed for all to hear except for we who cannot understand. They smiled. They took us into their shops. Only pea soup and bread stood on display. We asked for the nearest bakery. Two finger points and another smile. Baklava for breakfast.
As attractive and often irresistible Istanbul seems, I felt glad as I flew back to Berlin. Certainly, I miss the friendly demeanor and at times, the chaos, but five days was not enough time for me to get situated enough to call the area “home.” Berlin (well, Mitte and Kreuzberg), became my home after a week of living in the dorms. That’s how long it took to create a spatial map of the area—through runs and field trips—and establish a sense that I knew where things were. When the novelty of riding the subway to Alexanderplatz wore off and became routine. When concentrated thought was no longer required to navigate to essential locations—be it the grocery store, döner kebab shops, or department store. When I began hiding smug smiles upon seeing tourist groups snapping photos of the Brandenburg Gate. What’s so exciting about it?
I’m home. I’m back in routine. I love it.
As far as I was concerned, Istanbul was just another city on a map. A dot on a sheet of paper. I had no idea what to expect and what I found surprised me. Whereas Berlin stands as a city reliant on order, modesty, stability and following the rules (no matter how ridiculous), Istanbul represents the polar opposite. The order and stability I grew accustomed to in Berlin gave me a lens that magnified my perceptions of disorder Istanbul.
Chaos in the streets. A sea of yellow taxis amidst black pavement. Just watching made me dizzy—cars weaving with little disregard to surrounding traffic; completely ignoring the lane-delineating lines; liberal use of the horn as though the car’s warranty depended on it.
Pedestrians fearlessly jaywalking over crowded arterials. Little children holding up bottles of water to drivers in the middle of the road as cars zoom by. Only 0.5 Lira.
Shops and sellers showcasing their wares on the sidewalk. Need some knock-off cologne? Perhaps some fine plastic watches? Grilled corn? Not ten meters pass without being offered some food or trinket.
I recall visiting the Blue Mosque. Stately minarets seeming to pierce the evening sky. I stepped inside onto the lush carpet and felt small; insignificant; that I lose my voice to the cavernous area. I imagine millions coming through this building over the course of centuries, struck with the same feeling of insignificance—hopes and aspirations lost into the collective void.
Earlier, a throng of tourists wandered the outer gardens while a call to prayer blasted through the speakers. Grilled corn vendors and watermelon sellers received great business during this time.
I smelled grilled beef, onions, and strong spices on my breath. Still earlier, the late-afternoon sun beat down while I avoided the myriad divots, piles of rubble and trash while wandering around on the cobblestone walkways. Stray cats walked by nonchalantly; not a block passes without me seeing one. In my right hand, I held a 3.50 lira Kebab in pita bread. It satisfied my caloric needs but brought about a longing for Berlin’s better-tasting döner kebabs. Regardless, my breath reeked—probably those onions.
I am spoiled in Berlin. Along with the superior kebabs, many people speak English here. Most comprehend and give an answer should I ask a question. In Istanbul, most people don’t speak English. It stands as a border; a wall; a schism difficult to cross. I had no idea where our dormitories stood. Unless I kept a sheet of paper with an address that I could point to, asking for directions of hailing a cab home proved impossible. Unless pictures litter a restaurant menu, I have no idea what I’m ordering. Suffice to say, my communication transformed from spoken sentences to a series of nods, shakes, and finger pointing more often than I cared for.
Up an alleyway we walked, the narrow cobblestone path turning into an obstacle course complete with the tables and chairs of unfinished diners, shelves showing off the trinkets aimed for Asian tourists, and the smell of hookah wafting through the air. Old men playing rummy. Ducking under a vine canopy, we stumbled upon a white sign. A list of undecipherable names and prices. A finger point and a nod. 5 minutes later, I got myself a kebab.
Rules are rules. Except when they aren’t. Berlin made me accustomed to strictly following rules. Every morning, for fear of being lectured by a stern German police officer and a 40€ fee, I triple-check to ensure my transportation pass is in my wallet. Car traffic flows smoothly, with everyone staying within their lanes and the honk of the horn being a rare occurrence. Pedestrians only cross the street when the green walking man lights up. Coffee shops kick out all non-paying persons from their tables. All dogs infallibly act obedient to their owners.
In Istanbul, rules are only guidelines—and even this stretches the truth. Five cars somehow span three-lane road. Locals commonly play “Frogger” across major arterials. Pirated goods and fake t-shirts line all major sidewalks and bazaars.
And yet, amidst all the chaos and rule-breaking there lies a certain irresistible feature to the city of Istanbul. Perhaps it lies in the melancholy, the hüzun felt by the natives and barely perceived by visitors—the vendors still able to smile and act warm despite barely making a living, the stray animals tucked away in random corners; the list goes on, but I’m no Orhan Pamuk. Perhaps its lies in the Bosphorus—vast, shimmering, and opaque.
Even at 5:30 in the morning, they held their place. Some slept atop a makeshift bed composed of two crates. Others stood. Next to smelly shrimp in clear plastic cups, lines cast out into the dark waters. Waiting; hoping for a nibble, a bite. A bite that allows a roadside food vendor to waft the smell of cooked mackerel into the air. These men once had bigger hopes; dreams of a more comfortable lifestyle. Now they stand on a concrete bridge. They fish. Their livelihoods controlled by the whim of the vast waters. It’s as if they cast out dreams along with the shrimp bait, more often than not losing them into the void; a bare hook being all that remains of past hopes and aspirations.
How do they survive this lifestyle? What makes them smile? I pondered this for some time. Then, some light. A faint glow of orange cast on the water’s surface. The sun peeked its head over the horizon and I felt as though I understood. A ray of hope shining on the patient fishermen. A new day. Sunrise.
Perhaps Istanbul’s irresistibleness lies in the warm, friendly demeanor of its people. Old men play cards or rummy at hookah bars, smiling and conversing. Their eyes expressing an open welcome to all who walk by. Café owners chat before the morning rush and are more than happy to point out the nearest burger joint or bakery. It’s difficult to describe, but the people in Turkey possess a certain aura of “welcomeness” about them. A certain something where I am not hesitant to walk up to a stranger to ask directions.
Morning. Sunny as usual. The cool breeze from being near the Bosphorus blew into our faces. The growl of our stomachs. Hunger. Our feet led us into a maze of alleyways nearby our dorms. Peeling paint, disintegrating brick. A ceiling of green vines that keeps the area cool mid-afternoon. On tables stationed outside of neighboring cafes, the owners conversed for all to hear except for we who cannot understand. They smiled. They took us into their shops. Only pea soup and bread stood on display. We asked for the nearest bakery. Two finger points and another smile. Baklava for breakfast.
As attractive and often irresistible Istanbul seems, I felt glad as I flew back to Berlin. Certainly, I miss the friendly demeanor and at times, the chaos, but five days was not enough time for me to get situated enough to call the area “home.” Berlin (well, Mitte and Kreuzberg), became my home after a week of living in the dorms. That’s how long it took to create a spatial map of the area—through runs and field trips—and establish a sense that I knew where things were. When the novelty of riding the subway to Alexanderplatz wore off and became routine. When concentrated thought was no longer required to navigate to essential locations—be it the grocery store, döner kebab shops, or department store. When I began hiding smug smiles upon seeing tourist groups snapping photos of the Brandenburg Gate. What’s so exciting about it?
I’m home. I’m back in routine. I love it.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Etude: Write with no "E"
Writing Etude: Take a paragraph and re-write it using words that don’t have the letter “e” (proper nouns don’t count).
Original:
From where I sit, I see the buildings beginning to shrink. I feel as though I could pick up a whole handful and fit them on my lap. The trees, skyscrapers, various waterways, and yellow taxis. I turn away from the window and stare at the mini-LCD screen in front of me. Time to Destination: 2.30. Putting my earphones on to see what the plane has to offer, I hear Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face.” Satisfied, I close my eyes as I see myself flying over the clouds. Goodbye chaos. Goodbye shimmering Bosphorus. Hello order. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Changed:
At this location, buildings shrink. I think I could pick up a big handful and fit it all on my lap. All plants, tall buildings, various canals, and bright taxis. I turn away and look at a mini LCD display in front. Hours to Finish: 2.30. Putting on music as I didn’t know what was on, Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” blasts my round and oval windows. Happy, I shut off my visual world with my body flying up past clouds. Ciao chaos. Ciao Bosphorus. Bonjour organization. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Original:
From where I sit, I see the buildings beginning to shrink. I feel as though I could pick up a whole handful and fit them on my lap. The trees, skyscrapers, various waterways, and yellow taxis. I turn away from the window and stare at the mini-LCD screen in front of me. Time to Destination: 2.30. Putting my earphones on to see what the plane has to offer, I hear Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face.” Satisfied, I close my eyes as I see myself flying over the clouds. Goodbye chaos. Goodbye shimmering Bosphorus. Hello order. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Changed:
At this location, buildings shrink. I think I could pick up a big handful and fit it all on my lap. All plants, tall buildings, various canals, and bright taxis. I turn away and look at a mini LCD display in front. Hours to Finish: 2.30. Putting on music as I didn’t know what was on, Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” blasts my round and oval windows. Happy, I shut off my visual world with my body flying up past clouds. Ciao chaos. Ciao Bosphorus. Bonjour organization. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Time Bridge: Istanbul --> Berlin
(From August 17, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
A day of riding trams and flying in a plane. My journal doesn’t give me much to work with. What I recall is a hint of sadness. Sadness that I have to leave this magical place; this chaotic place; this city I'm growing to like. Zooming by on a crowded tram over the Bosphorus; seeing the many fishing lines cast out in the hope for mackerel, the bikers and walkers narrowly missing one another, the sea of yellow taxis surrounding the railway; I’m going to miss them all.
A transfer to a new train. New sights. A wrecked stadium next to an empty white parking lot. Gecekondus off in the distance. Mosques at some point within sight at every angle. A sea of clay-red roofs from houses. Memories of similar places I visited over the past four days. Themes and ideas. Stark divisions in social class. A rich history and beauty in the most unexpected places; I’m going to miss them all.
……
From where I sit, I see the buildings beginning to shrink. I feel as though I could pick up a whole handful and fit them on my lap. The trees, skyscrapers, various waterways, and yellow taxis. I turn away from the window and stare at the mini-LCD screen in front of me. Time to Destination: 2.30. Putting my earphones on to see what the plane has to offer, I hear Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face.” Satisfied, I close my eyes as I see myself flying over the clouds. Goodbye chaos. Goodbye shimmering Bosphorus. Hello order. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Istanbul, Turkey
A day of riding trams and flying in a plane. My journal doesn’t give me much to work with. What I recall is a hint of sadness. Sadness that I have to leave this magical place; this chaotic place; this city I'm growing to like. Zooming by on a crowded tram over the Bosphorus; seeing the many fishing lines cast out in the hope for mackerel, the bikers and walkers narrowly missing one another, the sea of yellow taxis surrounding the railway; I’m going to miss them all.
A transfer to a new train. New sights. A wrecked stadium next to an empty white parking lot. Gecekondus off in the distance. Mosques at some point within sight at every angle. A sea of clay-red roofs from houses. Memories of similar places I visited over the past four days. Themes and ideas. Stark divisions in social class. A rich history and beauty in the most unexpected places; I’m going to miss them all.
……
From where I sit, I see the buildings beginning to shrink. I feel as though I could pick up a whole handful and fit them on my lap. The trees, skyscrapers, various waterways, and yellow taxis. I turn away from the window and stare at the mini-LCD screen in front of me. Time to Destination: 2.30. Putting my earphones on to see what the plane has to offer, I hear Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face.” Satisfied, I close my eyes as I see myself flying over the clouds. Goodbye chaos. Goodbye shimmering Bosphorus. Hello order. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
My Best Birthday Ever
*Edited*
(From August 16, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
“Remember that time in Istanbul when you had your 22nd Birthday?”
The day marks my 22nd birthday. My journal documenting the day gave 1-sentence blurbs about the things I did. Thankfully, the details are returning to me. Objects around me fill in the memory blanks. It was a blast.
……
My eyes awake to the dorm surroundings. I see the camera on my desk. I’m lying down but my legs feel heavy from fatigue. Memories stir. As tired as we were, John, Joe, Muhammed, and I stayed awake and trekked out. At the ludicrous time of 5:45am, we walked. Past the closed Baklava shop. Through a dark alleyway with stray cats wandering the corners. Past an over-turned garbage heap; putrid stench wafting through the air. All to get to the bridge spanning the river. Fisherman already cast their lines out. The structure already smelled like mackerel. What was the point? Was it worth it? Four words: sunrise over the Bosphorus. The clouds exuded a dark pink/purple hue while the orb of orange slowly rose over the horizon. Rays of hope for a new day. The water shimmered as the light shone on it. A cool breeze passed through our hair. Worth it? I think so.
I look over at the clock. 2:00pm. Normally, I’d freak out but today, I’m okay with it. After all, I went to bed just seven hours before. Exhaling, I smell the scent of melon on my breath. Hookah. First time trying, and it wasn’t bad. Nothing special either, so I won’t do it for some time, if ever. The memory piece of what happened several hours prior to sunrise fit into place.
But why an all-nighter? I’m wasn’t cramming for an exam or anything—couldn’t I have just gotten up early? In my attempt at recollection, I put my fingers into my ear. They ring. Could it be from the 3 hours of dancing at a techno club? The lights flickering on and off with familiar and strange faces appearing and disappearing from the mass of people. The bass thumping and synchronizing our movements. A slippery, white-tiled dance floor. Beads of sweat running down everyone’s face. Looking for confirmation of the event, I glance over and see a sweat-stained t-shirt designed with a Turkish flag draped over a seat. I smile with the memories. More hours recalled.
Perhaps instead, the ringing is from a Turkish instrumental quartet —a tambourine, double-reed, drum, and plucked string of sorts—playing “Happy Birthday” in my ear while everyone sang (out of tune like all good renditions) and I sipped beer. A bar before the club—my mind fit the temporal puzzle piece into place.
Shifting my gaze away from the alarm clock, my stomach growls. I am starved. For me, this means I over-ate the day before. What could have caused this? It may have been dinner. The tastes still linger in my mouth. The bread brought out in slices. The mélange of spices making up a reddish sauce playing foil to the comparatively neutral eggplant dish. The bite of arugula in a salad dressed with vinaigrette. The grilled chicken, savory meatballs, and aromatic fish.
The other possibility is beer. I had three over the course of the evening along with a strong licorice-like drink called Raki (Hey, I’m over 21 so I can talk about drinking—yay for calories). Problem is, I’m not a fan of licorice. Overall, I didn’t have enough alcohol to black me out but did drink enough to receive a pleasant veil over my senses for the evening. The final memory piece fit into place.
There. Done. The memory puzzle complete, I lay satisfied. How much more could I ask for on a birthday evening? I get out of bed and dress to face the day; the dorm room now empty except for the four of us and the sun shining through the curtains.
“Yes, and it was AMAZING.”
(From August 16, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
“Remember that time in Istanbul when you had your 22nd Birthday?”
The day marks my 22nd birthday. My journal documenting the day gave 1-sentence blurbs about the things I did. Thankfully, the details are returning to me. Objects around me fill in the memory blanks. It was a blast.
……
My eyes awake to the dorm surroundings. I see the camera on my desk. I’m lying down but my legs feel heavy from fatigue. Memories stir. As tired as we were, John, Joe, Muhammed, and I stayed awake and trekked out. At the ludicrous time of 5:45am, we walked. Past the closed Baklava shop. Through a dark alleyway with stray cats wandering the corners. Past an over-turned garbage heap; putrid stench wafting through the air. All to get to the bridge spanning the river. Fisherman already cast their lines out. The structure already smelled like mackerel. What was the point? Was it worth it? Four words: sunrise over the Bosphorus. The clouds exuded a dark pink/purple hue while the orb of orange slowly rose over the horizon. Rays of hope for a new day. The water shimmered as the light shone on it. A cool breeze passed through our hair. Worth it? I think so.
I look over at the clock. 2:00pm. Normally, I’d freak out but today, I’m okay with it. After all, I went to bed just seven hours before. Exhaling, I smell the scent of melon on my breath. Hookah. First time trying, and it wasn’t bad. Nothing special either, so I won’t do it for some time, if ever. The memory piece of what happened several hours prior to sunrise fit into place.
But why an all-nighter? I’m wasn’t cramming for an exam or anything—couldn’t I have just gotten up early? In my attempt at recollection, I put my fingers into my ear. They ring. Could it be from the 3 hours of dancing at a techno club? The lights flickering on and off with familiar and strange faces appearing and disappearing from the mass of people. The bass thumping and synchronizing our movements. A slippery, white-tiled dance floor. Beads of sweat running down everyone’s face. Looking for confirmation of the event, I glance over and see a sweat-stained t-shirt designed with a Turkish flag draped over a seat. I smile with the memories. More hours recalled.
Perhaps instead, the ringing is from a Turkish instrumental quartet —a tambourine, double-reed, drum, and plucked string of sorts—playing “Happy Birthday” in my ear while everyone sang (out of tune like all good renditions) and I sipped beer. A bar before the club—my mind fit the temporal puzzle piece into place.
Shifting my gaze away from the alarm clock, my stomach growls. I am starved. For me, this means I over-ate the day before. What could have caused this? It may have been dinner. The tastes still linger in my mouth. The bread brought out in slices. The mélange of spices making up a reddish sauce playing foil to the comparatively neutral eggplant dish. The bite of arugula in a salad dressed with vinaigrette. The grilled chicken, savory meatballs, and aromatic fish.
The other possibility is beer. I had three over the course of the evening along with a strong licorice-like drink called Raki (Hey, I’m over 21 so I can talk about drinking—yay for calories). Problem is, I’m not a fan of licorice. Overall, I didn’t have enough alcohol to black me out but did drink enough to receive a pleasant veil over my senses for the evening. The final memory piece fit into place.
There. Done. The memory puzzle complete, I lay satisfied. How much more could I ask for on a birthday evening? I get out of bed and dress to face the day; the dorm room now empty except for the four of us and the sun shining through the curtains.
“Yes, and it was AMAZING.”
Ode to Orhan
(From August 15, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
My second full day in Istanbul marked my second day of touring around the city with our trusty professor-turned-tour-guide (for this trip at least), Orhan. Not content with (or perhaps detesting) the touristy spots, we avoided the places that most people go when visiting Istanbul. Indeed, instead of visiting the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia, we went to smaller, “representative” locations. Forget the Grand Bazaar, we instead went through an alley selling “ethnojunk,” as it was apparently the same thing. At stopping points, we sat down and listened to some bit of history or looked at a map retracing our route with exact precision for what seemed an eternity. Indeed, Orhan possessed a rare encyclopedic knowledge of the history of every building we passed dating back to the Ice Age.
Indeed…You can go here during your free time…And interestingly…We’re not going to stop here; capture it with your eyes…Indeed…Are we complete?...And interestingly…It’s transparent just like a glass window…Indeed…Before we do this, do…Very interesting…Indeed…
……
The first day of touring (the 14th) passed by especially slowly—I drifted into the netherworld of sleep and imagination countless times. I kept wondering when the lectures would stop or why I should care that on 12:04 and 42 seconds pm on the 23rd of March of 1934, with the weather 21.98° C, the sun shone at a 19.56° angle over the horizon while 9 men erected a 3 story building with 79 steps just north of the statue that faced us. This perception changed on this second day.
We went to Gecekondu; housing areas for poor immigrants and squatters. We bused around the area, stopping by scenic viewpoints where we were the only non-locals. We went through streets and alleyways that tourists would never consider stepping in. Istanbul is a city where the endlessly wealthy live side-by-side with the most poor. Orhan showed us the city through the lens of a scholar-native that no other tour guide conveys. When I later visited the touristy spots on my own—places with throngs of people in the middle/upper class—and came to truly appreciate where Orhan took us along with the few stories that stuck into my head. I feel that I got to understand the city in a way that would otherwise take months/years if I were on my own. Hats off to you, Orhan…
Istanbul, Turkey
My second full day in Istanbul marked my second day of touring around the city with our trusty professor-turned-tour-guide (for this trip at least), Orhan. Not content with (or perhaps detesting) the touristy spots, we avoided the places that most people go when visiting Istanbul. Indeed, instead of visiting the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia, we went to smaller, “representative” locations. Forget the Grand Bazaar, we instead went through an alley selling “ethnojunk,” as it was apparently the same thing. At stopping points, we sat down and listened to some bit of history or looked at a map retracing our route with exact precision for what seemed an eternity. Indeed, Orhan possessed a rare encyclopedic knowledge of the history of every building we passed dating back to the Ice Age.
Indeed…You can go here during your free time…And interestingly…We’re not going to stop here; capture it with your eyes…Indeed…Are we complete?...And interestingly…It’s transparent just like a glass window…Indeed…Before we do this, do…Very interesting…Indeed…
……
The first day of touring (the 14th) passed by especially slowly—I drifted into the netherworld of sleep and imagination countless times. I kept wondering when the lectures would stop or why I should care that on 12:04 and 42 seconds pm on the 23rd of March of 1934, with the weather 21.98° C, the sun shone at a 19.56° angle over the horizon while 9 men erected a 3 story building with 79 steps just north of the statue that faced us. This perception changed on this second day.
We went to Gecekondu; housing areas for poor immigrants and squatters. We bused around the area, stopping by scenic viewpoints where we were the only non-locals. We went through streets and alleyways that tourists would never consider stepping in. Istanbul is a city where the endlessly wealthy live side-by-side with the most poor. Orhan showed us the city through the lens of a scholar-native that no other tour guide conveys. When I later visited the touristy spots on my own—places with throngs of people in the middle/upper class—and came to truly appreciate where Orhan took us along with the few stories that stuck into my head. I feel that I got to understand the city in a way that would otherwise take months/years if I were on my own. Hats off to you, Orhan…
A Runner in Istanbul
(From August 14, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
I was dizzy. My surroundings confused me: modern shops near archaic mosques, shabby apartments alongside ritzy hotels. The tacky juxtaposed with the homely. Chaos in the roads with all the taxis moving around as if they were hot wheels controlled by a five year old (I got the impression that there are as much if not more taxis than cars in Istanbul). Friendly Turkish men assisting helpless tourists.
......
The morning found going for my usual run. I had no idea what surrounded our dormitory and so wished to find out. Stepping outside, the sun immediately shone on my body clad in black running shorts and a gray t-shirt. This sun felt different than Berlin. Was it hotter? Brighter? Bigger? I really had no idea other than the initial visceral feeling. Not much I can do about that—so I planted one foot in front of the other and went my merry way. Within the first 200 meters (this is Europe, after all), I realized how spoiled I was running in Germany. Berlin’s occasional divot or raised edge on the sidewalk has got nothing on Istanbul’s ubiquitous potholes, shallow snaking water troughs and piles of rubble littering the roadside. This combined with the fact that taxi drivers scream by, missing me by a millimeter while honking their horns, gave me the tricky task of constantly switching between looking down to make sure I don’t fall and looking up to make sure I don’t end up as Japanese American roadkill.
The run was well worth the effort to stay alive, however, as after about 20 minutes of running roadside, I ended up in a small park next to the Bosphorus River. Despite my skepticism when reading about it, I was impressed. The waves crashed into the cement platform, spraying water onto the pavement. The water shimmered dark blue in the sunlight. Water birds flew overhead. Ships cruised around in different directions. I could stare endlessly into this river, my thoughts lost in the undulating currents. This was beauty. Beauty within the chaos of the surrounding city. Staring at the waters, I came to accept the confusion around me. My dizziness was cured.
Istanbul, Turkey
I was dizzy. My surroundings confused me: modern shops near archaic mosques, shabby apartments alongside ritzy hotels. The tacky juxtaposed with the homely. Chaos in the roads with all the taxis moving around as if they were hot wheels controlled by a five year old (I got the impression that there are as much if not more taxis than cars in Istanbul). Friendly Turkish men assisting helpless tourists.
......
The morning found going for my usual run. I had no idea what surrounded our dormitory and so wished to find out. Stepping outside, the sun immediately shone on my body clad in black running shorts and a gray t-shirt. This sun felt different than Berlin. Was it hotter? Brighter? Bigger? I really had no idea other than the initial visceral feeling. Not much I can do about that—so I planted one foot in front of the other and went my merry way. Within the first 200 meters (this is Europe, after all), I realized how spoiled I was running in Germany. Berlin’s occasional divot or raised edge on the sidewalk has got nothing on Istanbul’s ubiquitous potholes, shallow snaking water troughs and piles of rubble littering the roadside. This combined with the fact that taxi drivers scream by, missing me by a millimeter while honking their horns, gave me the tricky task of constantly switching between looking down to make sure I don’t fall and looking up to make sure I don’t end up as Japanese American roadkill.
The run was well worth the effort to stay alive, however, as after about 20 minutes of running roadside, I ended up in a small park next to the Bosphorus River. Despite my skepticism when reading about it, I was impressed. The waves crashed into the cement platform, spraying water onto the pavement. The water shimmered dark blue in the sunlight. Water birds flew overhead. Ships cruised around in different directions. I could stare endlessly into this river, my thoughts lost in the undulating currents. This was beauty. Beauty within the chaos of the surrounding city. Staring at the waters, I came to accept the confusion around me. My dizziness was cured.
Time Bridge: Berlin --> Istanbul
(From August 13, 2009)
A weary travel day. Many of us stressed over having to pack. But hey, we were traveling to Istanbul. With my large hiking backpack on my back, running shoes on my feet (not fashionable but quite comfy), and my laptop bag slung to the side, I looked a seasoned traveler. I was ready for adventure. Earlier in the morning, I traveled to Ostkreuz (another part of Berlin) with John, Muhammed, Katie and Elroy to kick a soccer ball around with the Türkiyemspor soccer club. The smelly feet and dried sweat from this did not bother me. Sitting around for long periods at the airport did.
Tegel (the airport in Berlin) lacked space for those waiting around. Basically, its inside consists of a curved white corridor with many food and drink shops with little/no space to sit. What makes this a problem is that we were in Berlin. As the group learned a few days prior at a coffee shop, this means that shop owners ruthlessly obey protocol and will kick ALL non-paying customers off their tables. This time, our “family” (all of us basically are, with Julie and Shawn as parents) tried to sit at some tables next to a pretzel and drink shop. Some time later, the cashier came over and booted us out, claiming that our presence will make his boss upset. We ended up on the floor, trying to pass the time until our delayed flight. The rest of the day went by without anything noteworthy occurring—just the usual sitting in a plane. Evening found us in Istanbul, weary yet excited for the four days ahead…
A weary travel day. Many of us stressed over having to pack. But hey, we were traveling to Istanbul. With my large hiking backpack on my back, running shoes on my feet (not fashionable but quite comfy), and my laptop bag slung to the side, I looked a seasoned traveler. I was ready for adventure. Earlier in the morning, I traveled to Ostkreuz (another part of Berlin) with John, Muhammed, Katie and Elroy to kick a soccer ball around with the Türkiyemspor soccer club. The smelly feet and dried sweat from this did not bother me. Sitting around for long periods at the airport did.
Tegel (the airport in Berlin) lacked space for those waiting around. Basically, its inside consists of a curved white corridor with many food and drink shops with little/no space to sit. What makes this a problem is that we were in Berlin. As the group learned a few days prior at a coffee shop, this means that shop owners ruthlessly obey protocol and will kick ALL non-paying customers off their tables. This time, our “family” (all of us basically are, with Julie and Shawn as parents) tried to sit at some tables next to a pretzel and drink shop. Some time later, the cashier came over and booted us out, claiming that our presence will make his boss upset. We ended up on the floor, trying to pass the time until our delayed flight. The rest of the day went by without anything noteworthy occurring—just the usual sitting in a plane. Evening found us in Istanbul, weary yet excited for the four days ahead…
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Busking Practice
(From August 12, 2009)
I miss being able to devote time to practice my guitar. I miss having the luxury to spend time with technical exercises and learning new pieces—Piazzolla’s Otono Portena (youtube it—it’s a cool piece) is now on hold. I also can’t complain. In place of practicing, I learn more about this giant city known as Berlin as well as its inhabitants. I am also improving my writing.
Instead of scales or Sor arpeggio studies, I type daily blogs and focus on writing improvement. Bach’s polyphonic fugues are replaced by sentence length exercises. That’s not to say that I no longer play the guitar. I do—but first, lunch.
……
Lunchtime found me eating a döner kebab (my fifth one in Berlin!) without having to spend a dime of my own money. The seasoned meat and vegetables harmonized into sonorous chords on my taste buds. Orange juice sipped between my giant bites kept my senses alert and precluded hiccups. But wait: how did I not spend a dime? I haven’t gotten to know any of the döner shop owners particularly well. People don’t owe me money. But I do play classical guitar.
......
Earlier this cloudy morning, I got off the S7 train onto the Hackescher Markt station. Down the stairs and outside the station lies a raised platform with chairs. A breeze swayed the small trees planted by the city. Although I can’t practice, it was from this location I sounded the notes written by Bach, Aguado, Mertz, and Barrios. I entered the other world as described in Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul. In this other place, the day ahead didn’t matter. Visiting a Turkish soccer club, touring a mosque, eating dinner as a group—all of these were on the schedule but none of them crossed my mind. Despite my technique and ability not improving, it was nice to escape reality for even a mere thirty minutes.
My guitar’s sound carried only a short distance, so my playing remained largely ignored. Asian tourists walked by, businessmen passed with a brisk pace. A few got closer and listened—they liked the Bach (smiling and clapping with the final g-minor cadence) and left 3€ in my case. Lunch money and a sense of acceptance (and .50€ left to give to a busker later on). The clouds began releasing their contents but it didn’t matter. The rest of the day would be quite good.
I miss being able to devote time to practice my guitar. I miss having the luxury to spend time with technical exercises and learning new pieces—Piazzolla’s Otono Portena (youtube it—it’s a cool piece) is now on hold. I also can’t complain. In place of practicing, I learn more about this giant city known as Berlin as well as its inhabitants. I am also improving my writing.
Instead of scales or Sor arpeggio studies, I type daily blogs and focus on writing improvement. Bach’s polyphonic fugues are replaced by sentence length exercises. That’s not to say that I no longer play the guitar. I do—but first, lunch.
……
Lunchtime found me eating a döner kebab (my fifth one in Berlin!) without having to spend a dime of my own money. The seasoned meat and vegetables harmonized into sonorous chords on my taste buds. Orange juice sipped between my giant bites kept my senses alert and precluded hiccups. But wait: how did I not spend a dime? I haven’t gotten to know any of the döner shop owners particularly well. People don’t owe me money. But I do play classical guitar.
......
Earlier this cloudy morning, I got off the S7 train onto the Hackescher Markt station. Down the stairs and outside the station lies a raised platform with chairs. A breeze swayed the small trees planted by the city. Although I can’t practice, it was from this location I sounded the notes written by Bach, Aguado, Mertz, and Barrios. I entered the other world as described in Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul. In this other place, the day ahead didn’t matter. Visiting a Turkish soccer club, touring a mosque, eating dinner as a group—all of these were on the schedule but none of them crossed my mind. Despite my technique and ability not improving, it was nice to escape reality for even a mere thirty minutes.
My guitar’s sound carried only a short distance, so my playing remained largely ignored. Asian tourists walked by, businessmen passed with a brisk pace. A few got closer and listened—they liked the Bach (smiling and clapping with the final g-minor cadence) and left 3€ in my case. Lunch money and a sense of acceptance (and .50€ left to give to a busker later on). The clouds began releasing their contents but it didn’t matter. The rest of the day would be quite good.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My Home Away from Home Away from Home
(From August 11, 2009)
I’m finally settling in. The section in Kreuzberg where my apartment lies, an area I’m getting to know through my morning runs. This is my second home. I now possess a spatial representation of many of the stores, from the döner shop across from the subway station to the artificial pond with turtles and birds swimming in it. This is my hood.
Two subway stops away lies Alexanderplatz, an open square. The area is my new home. More accurately, it is my home away from home (Kreuzberg apartments) away from home (Seattle). Any anxiety I feel from traveling to foreign places melt away when the train pulls into this station.
I can find almost anything here. Food, clothes, you name it. Things here also make me smile. Today, it was buskers who put a grin on my face—first an Italian guitarist who strummed and sang near the department store. Lots of foot traffic passed through the area. Thus, this venue was a loud location requiring a loud busker. The musician kindly let me ask him a few questions. I gave him 2,00€ as I walked off.
Later, I heard a band called Jammin’ Johnny & the Diskofuckers; think popular music singing accompanied by brass (2 alto saxophones, 1 coronet, a singer/guitarist, and a percussion-box player—literally a box he sat on and drummed). My stress and worries melted away as I listened. They even let me ask a few questions as they began packing up. Apparently, they ride the train to a location, play their set repertoire (about 30 minutes worth), pack up, and repeat. I gave 2,00€ for their time.
I spent a total of 4,00€ talking to street musicians today. Not bad for the information I gained, but I’m not sure I can afford to spend such money for every busker I talk with. Then, I thought about the money collection boxes placed in front of the musicians. I recalled lots of 1 and 2 € coins. Epiphany. I’m going to busk (part of my original plan) and use the proceeds to fund my encounters with other buskers. Alright—I’m ready for tomorrow!
I’m finally settling in. The section in Kreuzberg where my apartment lies, an area I’m getting to know through my morning runs. This is my second home. I now possess a spatial representation of many of the stores, from the döner shop across from the subway station to the artificial pond with turtles and birds swimming in it. This is my hood.
Two subway stops away lies Alexanderplatz, an open square. The area is my new home. More accurately, it is my home away from home (Kreuzberg apartments) away from home (Seattle). Any anxiety I feel from traveling to foreign places melt away when the train pulls into this station.
I can find almost anything here. Food, clothes, you name it. Things here also make me smile. Today, it was buskers who put a grin on my face—first an Italian guitarist who strummed and sang near the department store. Lots of foot traffic passed through the area. Thus, this venue was a loud location requiring a loud busker. The musician kindly let me ask him a few questions. I gave him 2,00€ as I walked off.
Later, I heard a band called Jammin’ Johnny & the Diskofuckers; think popular music singing accompanied by brass (2 alto saxophones, 1 coronet, a singer/guitarist, and a percussion-box player—literally a box he sat on and drummed). My stress and worries melted away as I listened. They even let me ask a few questions as they began packing up. Apparently, they ride the train to a location, play their set repertoire (about 30 minutes worth), pack up, and repeat. I gave 2,00€ for their time.
I spent a total of 4,00€ talking to street musicians today. Not bad for the information I gained, but I’m not sure I can afford to spend such money for every busker I talk with. Then, I thought about the money collection boxes placed in front of the musicians. I recalled lots of 1 and 2 € coins. Epiphany. I’m going to busk (part of my original plan) and use the proceeds to fund my encounters with other buskers. Alright—I’m ready for tomorrow!
Monday, August 10, 2009
Döner Kebab
By Daniel T. Kashima—food fan
(Postcard replacement for August 9, 2009--no reflections, just describing food)
One of the world’s largest Turkish populations outside of Istanbul lies in Berlin. It shows in the price and quality of the city’s Döner Kebabs.
Those of you who never heard of these delectable food items are probably scratching your heads at the moment. Allow me to explain.
Meat. Lots of it. A mountain of lamb or beef piled high, skewered, and shaped into a giant cone with various spices. This cone rotates in front of a heating lamp/grill such that the outer meat layers retain a cooked crispiness. The vendor skillfully slices thin strips with a sharpened knife, the meat falling like winter snow onto the metal table. This by itself makes the mouth water; it turns the ordinary human into one of Pavlov’s dogs.
A pannini heated to perfection on a grill. Garlic sauce spread on the inside. The strips of meat packed between the bread like a Japanese subway train. The quantity of meat compares to the amount of corned beef in a Reuben sandwich bought in a Jewish deli. Onions, red cabbage, lettuce and tomatoes added on top.
2.20€.
Hungry? So am I. I’ve already eaten these for 4 meals in the week I’ve been in Berlin. I’m going to miss these treats when I return to the states. Just talking about my love for food. No further reflections here…
(Postcard replacement for August 9, 2009--no reflections, just describing food)
One of the world’s largest Turkish populations outside of Istanbul lies in Berlin. It shows in the price and quality of the city’s Döner Kebabs.
Those of you who never heard of these delectable food items are probably scratching your heads at the moment. Allow me to explain.
Meat. Lots of it. A mountain of lamb or beef piled high, skewered, and shaped into a giant cone with various spices. This cone rotates in front of a heating lamp/grill such that the outer meat layers retain a cooked crispiness. The vendor skillfully slices thin strips with a sharpened knife, the meat falling like winter snow onto the metal table. This by itself makes the mouth water; it turns the ordinary human into one of Pavlov’s dogs.
A pannini heated to perfection on a grill. Garlic sauce spread on the inside. The strips of meat packed between the bread like a Japanese subway train. The quantity of meat compares to the amount of corned beef in a Reuben sandwich bought in a Jewish deli. Onions, red cabbage, lettuce and tomatoes added on top.
2.20€.
Hungry? So am I. I’ve already eaten these for 4 meals in the week I’ve been in Berlin. I’m going to miss these treats when I return to the states. Just talking about my love for food. No further reflections here…
Rote Grütze mit Vanillesauce
By Daniel T. Kashima—pseudo-food critic
(Postcard replacement for August 8, 2009--no reflections, just describing food)
Tart and sweet. Need I say more? Read-on.
Rote Grütze: a mélange of berries suspended in a thick, viscous syrup. The various berries mixed together create a tingling sensation atop the tongue while leaving seeds stuck between the teeth. Strawberries? Raspberries? Blueberries? This mixture looks a dark, opaque red in color. Although I can’t discern the individual components, I can say that it tastes quite tart if ingested alone.
Enter vanillasauce. Creamy and sweet; like melted ice cream except less viscous and more yellow.
Neither the Rote Grütze nor vanillasauce are special on their own. However, mix them together and you get a product whose whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Emergent complexity—a dance of taste molecules creating a beautiful fugue on my tongue. The vanillasauce cuts down the berries’ tartness just enough while adding a hint of vanilla flavoring. Although the two begin as separate layers, a little action with the spoon created a reddish-pink dessert that took every bit of willpower not to wolf down. Needless to say, I went back for seconds.
(Postcard replacement for August 8, 2009--no reflections, just describing food)
Tart and sweet. Need I say more? Read-on.
Rote Grütze: a mélange of berries suspended in a thick, viscous syrup. The various berries mixed together create a tingling sensation atop the tongue while leaving seeds stuck between the teeth. Strawberries? Raspberries? Blueberries? This mixture looks a dark, opaque red in color. Although I can’t discern the individual components, I can say that it tastes quite tart if ingested alone.
Enter vanillasauce. Creamy and sweet; like melted ice cream except less viscous and more yellow.
Neither the Rote Grütze nor vanillasauce are special on their own. However, mix them together and you get a product whose whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Emergent complexity—a dance of taste molecules creating a beautiful fugue on my tongue. The vanillasauce cuts down the berries’ tartness just enough while adding a hint of vanilla flavoring. Although the two begin as separate layers, a little action with the spoon created a reddish-pink dessert that took every bit of willpower not to wolf down. Needless to say, I went back for seconds.
Artificial Lake
Writing Etude: Varying sentence length (also doubling as a daily blog post)
The number of words in a given sentence is to be decided before each sentence is written.
(8, 12, 7, 4, 6, 7, 10, 5, 9, 14, 7, 10, 6, 12, 5, 10, 7, 13, 4, 14, 6)
(Events from August 10, 2009)
No camera today
I need new tools for my writing toolkit. The day leading up to now involved many train rides and tours. I sit on a bench near water.
Fountains spurt liquid upwards. Gravity pulls it all back down. The lake appears brown; only ducks swim. The sky cloudy overhead, I ponder the events experienced today. What do I write about?
The fountains here remind me of the Reichstag entrance. Powerful sprinklers watered narrow stripes of grass interspersed with straight lines of gray concrete. Beer cups and napkins littered the area. At first, I did not think much about it. Later on, it returned to me.
Inside, we learned about German right-wing extremism and its surrounding politics. Basically, its existence is recognized. Combating and preventing hate crimes plays a visible role in local politics. This differs from the U.S..
The sprinklers and litter out front returns to me. A metaphor for present-day Berlin. Despite all cleaning efforts, unpleasant ideals continue to resurface after every night. Swastikas, violence, people fearing night. Legislation passes in response, yet the violence continues to increase. Is this one face of Berlin’s identity? Like a deep cut, the city’s reunification was not without an ugly scar. A reminder of history.
Clean up the litter every day, water the grass, and hope for the best. What else can the government do?
The number of words in a given sentence is to be decided before each sentence is written.
(8, 12, 7, 4, 6, 7, 10, 5, 9, 14, 7, 10, 6, 12, 5, 10, 7, 13, 4, 14, 6)
(Events from August 10, 2009)
No camera today
I need new tools for my writing toolkit. The day leading up to now involved many train rides and tours. I sit on a bench near water.
Fountains spurt liquid upwards. Gravity pulls it all back down. The lake appears brown; only ducks swim. The sky cloudy overhead, I ponder the events experienced today. What do I write about?
The fountains here remind me of the Reichstag entrance. Powerful sprinklers watered narrow stripes of grass interspersed with straight lines of gray concrete. Beer cups and napkins littered the area. At first, I did not think much about it. Later on, it returned to me.
Inside, we learned about German right-wing extremism and its surrounding politics. Basically, its existence is recognized. Combating and preventing hate crimes plays a visible role in local politics. This differs from the U.S..
The sprinklers and litter out front returns to me. A metaphor for present-day Berlin. Despite all cleaning efforts, unpleasant ideals continue to resurface after every night. Swastikas, violence, people fearing night. Legislation passes in response, yet the violence continues to increase. Is this one face of Berlin’s identity? Like a deep cut, the city’s reunification was not without an ugly scar. A reminder of history.
Clean up the litter every day, water the grass, and hope for the best. What else can the government do?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Next to the Flea Market
(Events from August 9, 2009)
--> No camera today...sorry! <--
After combing through several aisles in a flea market, a small group consisting of Joe, John, Muhammed, Molly, Cassie and myself walked into an expansive field resting besides a grassy incline. Atop the field lay a combination of short, sun-yellowed grass mixed in with beer bottle caps and broken shards of glass. Despite the obvious dangers, many people sat on the field—some with cigarettes in hand, with tattered pants and without shirts while others talked amongst themselves in small groups. In the distance, a throng of people crowded the hillside—this necessitated us to check it out…
Approaching the hillside, we noticed music drifting through the air. We thought: “Is it a live concert?” Ne—closer inspection revealed a stage with a rainbow-colored umbrella played host to a giant karaoke event. Surrounding the stage stood another large group of people, singing and clapping along with those on the hillside as the chords from the Beatles’ “I want hold your hand” vibrated the air in the area.
Besides the singing event stood a small pit surrounded by large cement blocks, three layers thick. The “tagging” form of graffiti colored them with hues of green, black, and brown. The centers from plums combined with broken glass littered the lower levels. Within the pit, a single metal basketball hoop stood atop a flat, black asphalt surface with the markings to denote half a court.
Some locals played hoops when we all arrived on the scene. Muhammed, John and Joe proceeded to challenge them in a game of 3v3—with John and Joe playing barefoot. Not having anything to do and not being a huge basketball fan, I sat down atop the cement blocks and wrote of the scenery in my journal. Also felt the contents of my laptop bag for my newest possessions: a new leather bag and a long-sleeve t-shirt I bartered for in the flea market.
These items also possess sentimental value for me as they came into my possession due to my first successful venture into bartering. The bag came first: beneath a tent stood an elderly (possibly Turkish?) woman sitting behind a table with other wares. The hung down from one of the supports with other leather wares.
Asking how much, the woman responded saying 10 Euro.
I asked for 7. She refused.
Not really caring whether I got the bag or not, I turned to walk away.
She called out for me with 8.
Okay—I got out my wallet.
The story behind the t-shirt pales in comparison. A younger saleslady stood in the middle of the through-fare with a pile of shirts. John noticed the shirt first—a perverted Japanese cartoon character by the name of Crayon-Shinchan surrounded by clouds adorned it. However, it was too small for him and seemed the right size for me.
I proceeded to ask how much. She responded with 1 Euro.
I asked if I could have it for .50 Euro.
She accepted. Simple. Done.
I learned something today: to barter, one shouldn’t get too attached to any particular item. Just offer what seems reasonable and if they refuse, walk away. I figure I won’t get everything this way, but without significant attachments, I will also have few disappointments.
……
Snapping back to the present, the 3v3 basketball game finished with the UW players victorious. The final score: 11-4.
The guys sweaty and the girls eager to get on with the day, we grabbed our belongings and headed towards the subway station…
--> No camera today...sorry! <--
After combing through several aisles in a flea market, a small group consisting of Joe, John, Muhammed, Molly, Cassie and myself walked into an expansive field resting besides a grassy incline. Atop the field lay a combination of short, sun-yellowed grass mixed in with beer bottle caps and broken shards of glass. Despite the obvious dangers, many people sat on the field—some with cigarettes in hand, with tattered pants and without shirts while others talked amongst themselves in small groups. In the distance, a throng of people crowded the hillside—this necessitated us to check it out…
Approaching the hillside, we noticed music drifting through the air. We thought: “Is it a live concert?” Ne—closer inspection revealed a stage with a rainbow-colored umbrella played host to a giant karaoke event. Surrounding the stage stood another large group of people, singing and clapping along with those on the hillside as the chords from the Beatles’ “I want hold your hand” vibrated the air in the area.
Besides the singing event stood a small pit surrounded by large cement blocks, three layers thick. The “tagging” form of graffiti colored them with hues of green, black, and brown. The centers from plums combined with broken glass littered the lower levels. Within the pit, a single metal basketball hoop stood atop a flat, black asphalt surface with the markings to denote half a court.
Some locals played hoops when we all arrived on the scene. Muhammed, John and Joe proceeded to challenge them in a game of 3v3—with John and Joe playing barefoot. Not having anything to do and not being a huge basketball fan, I sat down atop the cement blocks and wrote of the scenery in my journal. Also felt the contents of my laptop bag for my newest possessions: a new leather bag and a long-sleeve t-shirt I bartered for in the flea market.
These items also possess sentimental value for me as they came into my possession due to my first successful venture into bartering. The bag came first: beneath a tent stood an elderly (possibly Turkish?) woman sitting behind a table with other wares. The hung down from one of the supports with other leather wares.
Asking how much, the woman responded saying 10 Euro.
I asked for 7. She refused.
Not really caring whether I got the bag or not, I turned to walk away.
She called out for me with 8.
Okay—I got out my wallet.
The story behind the t-shirt pales in comparison. A younger saleslady stood in the middle of the through-fare with a pile of shirts. John noticed the shirt first—a perverted Japanese cartoon character by the name of Crayon-Shinchan surrounded by clouds adorned it. However, it was too small for him and seemed the right size for me.
I proceeded to ask how much. She responded with 1 Euro.
I asked if I could have it for .50 Euro.
She accepted. Simple. Done.
I learned something today: to barter, one shouldn’t get too attached to any particular item. Just offer what seems reasonable and if they refuse, walk away. I figure I won’t get everything this way, but without significant attachments, I will also have few disappointments.
……
Snapping back to the present, the 3v3 basketball game finished with the UW players victorious. The final score: 11-4.
The guys sweaty and the girls eager to get on with the day, we grabbed our belongings and headed towards the subway station…
Balloons in the Sky
(Events from August 8, 2009)*
Several hours following the wedding ceremony, the entire group found themselves milling around the backyard of the bride’s mother’s house. The yard gave off many signs of being well kept: the grass looked healthy, green, and cut to an even length; roses grew tall in a restricted space, greeting the sky with their bright red petals; an apple tree bearing tons of unripe fruit lay to the right; hedges neatly trimmed; a few thin-tree-like dicots cut back to make room for a red painted wooden table; the list continues. The moment involved clouds beginning to cover the sky and the group showing the initial signs of boredom.
Just then, a woman walked out of the house and began handing out tan note-cards with a hole punched into one corner. One side of the card listed the bride and groom’s address while the other side gave the date and said “Just Married.” The woman instructed the entire group to write a wish/message/picture/etc. on the card. I did as told, decorating my card with a short note and drawings of various objects that came to mind.
After everyone finished this task, several other people came out of the house and started handing variously-colored helium-filled balloons to the recent writers. Tied to the end of each balloon was a single dangling string. Following the next instructions, I tied my card to a blue balloon. When everyone finished this task, the whole crowd stood up and gathered on the lawn.
With a “Hip-hip! Hooray!**,” everyone simultaneously released their balloons into the cloudy, breezy sky.
They rose and rose—their route of flight at the whim of the incoming breeze. To watch 60-something balloons fly away drew an indelible picture into my mind. 60-something balloons, wishes, hopes, and drawings. Perhaps we’ll hear from them but I have my doubts. As I stopped to ponder, the wedding festivities continued…
*This entry was written on August 8, 2009. However, I had no internet connection so the posting has been delayed.
**I don’t recall the exact phrase used, but the effect is the same; we all released the balloons at the same time.
Several hours following the wedding ceremony, the entire group found themselves milling around the backyard of the bride’s mother’s house. The yard gave off many signs of being well kept: the grass looked healthy, green, and cut to an even length; roses grew tall in a restricted space, greeting the sky with their bright red petals; an apple tree bearing tons of unripe fruit lay to the right; hedges neatly trimmed; a few thin-tree-like dicots cut back to make room for a red painted wooden table; the list continues. The moment involved clouds beginning to cover the sky and the group showing the initial signs of boredom.
Just then, a woman walked out of the house and began handing out tan note-cards with a hole punched into one corner. One side of the card listed the bride and groom’s address while the other side gave the date and said “Just Married.” The woman instructed the entire group to write a wish/message/picture/etc. on the card. I did as told, decorating my card with a short note and drawings of various objects that came to mind.
After everyone finished this task, several other people came out of the house and started handing variously-colored helium-filled balloons to the recent writers. Tied to the end of each balloon was a single dangling string. Following the next instructions, I tied my card to a blue balloon. When everyone finished this task, the whole crowd stood up and gathered on the lawn.
With a “Hip-hip! Hooray!**,” everyone simultaneously released their balloons into the cloudy, breezy sky.
They rose and rose—their route of flight at the whim of the incoming breeze. To watch 60-something balloons fly away drew an indelible picture into my mind. 60-something balloons, wishes, hopes, and drawings. Perhaps we’ll hear from them but I have my doubts. As I stopped to ponder, the wedding festivities continued…
*This entry was written on August 8, 2009. However, I had no internet connection so the posting has been delayed.
**I don’t recall the exact phrase used, but the effect is the same; we all released the balloons at the same time.
Travel Bumps and Overcoming Them
(Events from August 7, 2009)*
Unless you experience the lows, you can’t appreciate the highs
What happened today? What went things went wrong? What caused stress? Many things: I felt rushed in needing to pack all my clothes, etc. for the weekend prior to leaving for a tour of a Nazi concentration camp, I felt rushed in validating my train pass before departing for Göttingen, I took the wrong train to Göttingen, I got lost and wandered around helplessly for 2 hours, and I remained lost when the sun began to set and the stores closed. While walking around the town center area, I felt secluded.
It’s an odd feeling to feel as such when physically surrounded by lots of people. And yet, I felt nothing but seclusion and isolation—my timid nature combined with the fact that I couldn’t speak their language makes for a deadly duo.
Eventually, after much wandering around and double-checking where I was supposed to go (turns out I had the wrong destination for those 2 hours...oops), I got to my planned destination and rarely felt happier—I greeted people I knew and could speak my tongue. My dehydrated self eagerly downed the water placed in front of me and my body welcomed the nutrients in the form of a cheese pizza. People chatted and I felt as though I belonged.
Several hours passed since then. I now sit in a white room with a tan carpet decorated with small brown dashes. My laptop rests upon a square wooden table along with a small lamp and a large bottle of “fizzy water.” On the far edge of this table lies a metal lamp that looks like a shovel if viewed two-dimensionally. Two rectangular windows surrounded with white window panes sit four feet away at a 45° angle to both my left and right. Below the window sill of each stand heating grates, for times colder than now.
The soft pillow atop my bed beckons me as the adenosine buildup in my brain prompts me to get some rest. Tomorrow is a big day…
*This entry was written on August 7, 2009. However, I had no internet connection so the posting has been delayed.
Unless you experience the lows, you can’t appreciate the highs
What happened today? What went things went wrong? What caused stress? Many things: I felt rushed in needing to pack all my clothes, etc. for the weekend prior to leaving for a tour of a Nazi concentration camp, I felt rushed in validating my train pass before departing for Göttingen, I took the wrong train to Göttingen, I got lost and wandered around helplessly for 2 hours, and I remained lost when the sun began to set and the stores closed. While walking around the town center area, I felt secluded.
It’s an odd feeling to feel as such when physically surrounded by lots of people. And yet, I felt nothing but seclusion and isolation—my timid nature combined with the fact that I couldn’t speak their language makes for a deadly duo.
Eventually, after much wandering around and double-checking where I was supposed to go (turns out I had the wrong destination for those 2 hours...oops), I got to my planned destination and rarely felt happier—I greeted people I knew and could speak my tongue. My dehydrated self eagerly downed the water placed in front of me and my body welcomed the nutrients in the form of a cheese pizza. People chatted and I felt as though I belonged.
Several hours passed since then. I now sit in a white room with a tan carpet decorated with small brown dashes. My laptop rests upon a square wooden table along with a small lamp and a large bottle of “fizzy water.” On the far edge of this table lies a metal lamp that looks like a shovel if viewed two-dimensionally. Two rectangular windows surrounded with white window panes sit four feet away at a 45° angle to both my left and right. Below the window sill of each stand heating grates, for times colder than now.
The soft pillow atop my bed beckons me as the adenosine buildup in my brain prompts me to get some rest. Tomorrow is a big day…
*This entry was written on August 7, 2009. However, I had no internet connection so the posting has been delayed.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Stasi Museum
(From August 6, 2009)*
The gray indoor carpeting gave the building an initial impression of being a modern office—the kind where workers sit on office chairs within gray cubicles. Yet, many aspects made it feel out of place with the modern world.
The smell; not dirty but unnaturally sterile. Whenever I opened my nostrils, a stench made up of an artificial cleaner mixed with the smell of an aged building overwhelmed my olfactory receptors.
The colors; not bright but instead quite drab. The amount of off-white gray did little to stimulate my photoreceptors.
The temperature; warm and stuffy. The dull curtains appeared to do little in mitigating the entering heat. This made the occasional cool breeze feel that much better.
The sounds; nothing unusual—the place is a museum. Although people walked through the hallways and rooms, the usual commotion and air of frenzy remained absent. Taken together, the interior of the Stasi Museum made me feel "out of place" as it felt more like a nursing home or hospital of several decades back.
For the whole guided tour, my sensory world lay in complete disarray and prevented much of the historical information about dates, people, and stories from reaching the higher centers of my brain. The feeling of being “out of place” began with the start of the tour, and I failed to either accept or shake it off. Only the exhibit showcasing the clever contraptions used for domestic surveillance clung—a camera in a watering can, spy devices in a log, etc.
The little information I gleaned from the other exhibits instilled a sense of privilege in not living in a society of forced transparency. To possess a choice in what I share to the government regarding my relationships, jobs, and connections—I take for granted and am okay with it. My lasting impression of the museum, however, will lie in the sensory disarray experienced throughout the tour.
……
Today, I end my blog post with a joke:
“If you hail a cab in East Berlin, you only need to give the cab driver your name and he’ll take you home.”
*We took two other tours over the course of the day, but what my mind remains fixated only on the Stasi Museum.
The gray indoor carpeting gave the building an initial impression of being a modern office—the kind where workers sit on office chairs within gray cubicles. Yet, many aspects made it feel out of place with the modern world.
The smell; not dirty but unnaturally sterile. Whenever I opened my nostrils, a stench made up of an artificial cleaner mixed with the smell of an aged building overwhelmed my olfactory receptors.
The colors; not bright but instead quite drab. The amount of off-white gray did little to stimulate my photoreceptors.
The temperature; warm and stuffy. The dull curtains appeared to do little in mitigating the entering heat. This made the occasional cool breeze feel that much better.
The sounds; nothing unusual—the place is a museum. Although people walked through the hallways and rooms, the usual commotion and air of frenzy remained absent. Taken together, the interior of the Stasi Museum made me feel "out of place" as it felt more like a nursing home or hospital of several decades back.
For the whole guided tour, my sensory world lay in complete disarray and prevented much of the historical information about dates, people, and stories from reaching the higher centers of my brain. The feeling of being “out of place” began with the start of the tour, and I failed to either accept or shake it off. Only the exhibit showcasing the clever contraptions used for domestic surveillance clung—a camera in a watering can, spy devices in a log, etc.
The little information I gleaned from the other exhibits instilled a sense of privilege in not living in a society of forced transparency. To possess a choice in what I share to the government regarding my relationships, jobs, and connections—I take for granted and am okay with it. My lasting impression of the museum, however, will lie in the sensory disarray experienced throughout the tour.
……
Today, I end my blog post with a joke:
“If you hail a cab in East Berlin, you only need to give the cab driver your name and he’ll take you home.”
*We took two other tours over the course of the day, but what my mind remains fixated only on the Stasi Museum.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Holocaust Memorial and Memory
(Events from August 5, 2009)
Pictures taken by Daniel Kashima
Holocaust Memorial
A street brushes against each edge of the holocaust memorial. Tour buses, cars, bicyclists, tourists, and locals create traffic and significant amount of commotion. Stepping onto the memorial, several things strike me. Right angles. Lots of them. Gray boxes of concrete. Lots of them. Atop an uneven terrain that at parts represent a sine wave lay these gray blocks of concrete, with all the blocks virtually parallel to one another on all surfaces. This results in the apparent topography created by the tops of the blocks to differ from the small rolling hills on which they lay as well as a similar pattern of light shadowing for all structures.
Walking through this garden of concrete immerses me into a wholly different environment. Whereas the structures on the edge hardly reach my waist in height, walking deeper into the memorial soon finds me surrounded by structures taller than I am. This results in me unable to see beyond a straight and narrow plane of vision. Behind the sheets of concrete, I lost sight of others I easily fixated on prior to entering. Even the hustle and bustle of the surrounding streets and tourists die away in this concrete jungle. In the middle of four busy streets, the memorial managed to isolate me and instill a sense of desolation.
Are these feelings what the designer planned for this memorial? I vaguely recall that this memorial stands as a place where different feelings come and go for different people. For myself, my first visit yielded desolation and isolation. At the same time, I saw children climbing atop the stones, leaping from one to the next. Presumably, their viewpoint of the memorial is one more simplistic and less dark than those knowing more about the holocaust. I wonder what their interpretation is?
……
Memory. To build and forget?
One of the arguments made against the construction of the holocaust memorial stipulated that its building will give an excuse for people to forget about what happened. I presume the same argument was used against the construction of the holocaust museum, chronicling the events leading up to and following the rise and fall of the Nazi Party. While a valid argument, I feel as though the creation of symbolic memory aids provide a catharsis to help cope with (but not forget) the past.
Keeping one’s head stuck in the past does little good for the present or future while fixating on the present and future while forgetting the past infallibly leads to disasters down the line. I’m in the opinion that these memorials are a metaphorical rear-view mirror; allowing the city to glance back on itself to view the road blocks passed while looking along the road ahead.
Pictures taken by Daniel Kashima
Holocaust Memorial
A street brushes against each edge of the holocaust memorial. Tour buses, cars, bicyclists, tourists, and locals create traffic and significant amount of commotion. Stepping onto the memorial, several things strike me. Right angles. Lots of them. Gray boxes of concrete. Lots of them. Atop an uneven terrain that at parts represent a sine wave lay these gray blocks of concrete, with all the blocks virtually parallel to one another on all surfaces. This results in the apparent topography created by the tops of the blocks to differ from the small rolling hills on which they lay as well as a similar pattern of light shadowing for all structures.
Walking through this garden of concrete immerses me into a wholly different environment. Whereas the structures on the edge hardly reach my waist in height, walking deeper into the memorial soon finds me surrounded by structures taller than I am. This results in me unable to see beyond a straight and narrow plane of vision. Behind the sheets of concrete, I lost sight of others I easily fixated on prior to entering. Even the hustle and bustle of the surrounding streets and tourists die away in this concrete jungle. In the middle of four busy streets, the memorial managed to isolate me and instill a sense of desolation.
Are these feelings what the designer planned for this memorial? I vaguely recall that this memorial stands as a place where different feelings come and go for different people. For myself, my first visit yielded desolation and isolation. At the same time, I saw children climbing atop the stones, leaping from one to the next. Presumably, their viewpoint of the memorial is one more simplistic and less dark than those knowing more about the holocaust. I wonder what their interpretation is?
……
Memory. To build and forget?
One of the arguments made against the construction of the holocaust memorial stipulated that its building will give an excuse for people to forget about what happened. I presume the same argument was used against the construction of the holocaust museum, chronicling the events leading up to and following the rise and fall of the Nazi Party. While a valid argument, I feel as though the creation of symbolic memory aids provide a catharsis to help cope with (but not forget) the past.
Keeping one’s head stuck in the past does little good for the present or future while fixating on the present and future while forgetting the past infallibly leads to disasters down the line. I’m in the opinion that these memorials are a metaphorical rear-view mirror; allowing the city to glance back on itself to view the road blocks passed while looking along the road ahead.
Beach and Eastside Gallery
(Events from August 4, 2009)
My white Adidas sneakers sank a few inches as I stepped onto the soft white sand. Above me sat a blue sky with the sun shining unobstructed onto my skin. A painted yellow packing crate read “Jerk Chicken” and pointed to an empty half-pipe with a red spray-painted arrow. Further ahead stood an archway with the words “YAAM” painted in yellow outlined by red (Figure 1).
Figure 1. Entrance to Beach Bar
Entering the archway and twenty paces to my right stood a wooden beach bar while twenty paces in the opposite direction led to a standing volleyball net, swaying slightly with the occasional breeze. Around here, the surface of the sand appeared clear of objects save the occasional wooden bench or brown coconut—freed from its rough hairs.
Did I tell you that I’m in Berlin? Gaps within the remaining sections of the Berlin Wall made way for these “beach bars” leading straight to the river: an oasis of pacific calm within the heart of a big city. On the outer surface of the Berlin Wall stands the “Eastside Gallery,” a collection of commissioned wall graffiti from many artists from around the world. The works showcased here span a wide array of topics and styles; from the simple and elegant (Figure 2) to the busy and initially nonsensical (Figure 3). The sheer number of different paintings requires future visits to take in and do justice to more of the art displayed.
Figure 2. Simple and Elegant Wall Graffiti.
Figure 3. Busy and Convoluted Wall Graffiti.
My white Adidas sneakers sank a few inches as I stepped onto the soft white sand. Above me sat a blue sky with the sun shining unobstructed onto my skin. A painted yellow packing crate read “Jerk Chicken” and pointed to an empty half-pipe with a red spray-painted arrow. Further ahead stood an archway with the words “YAAM” painted in yellow outlined by red (Figure 1).
Figure 1. Entrance to Beach Bar
Entering the archway and twenty paces to my right stood a wooden beach bar while twenty paces in the opposite direction led to a standing volleyball net, swaying slightly with the occasional breeze. Around here, the surface of the sand appeared clear of objects save the occasional wooden bench or brown coconut—freed from its rough hairs.
Did I tell you that I’m in Berlin? Gaps within the remaining sections of the Berlin Wall made way for these “beach bars” leading straight to the river: an oasis of pacific calm within the heart of a big city. On the outer surface of the Berlin Wall stands the “Eastside Gallery,” a collection of commissioned wall graffiti from many artists from around the world. The works showcased here span a wide array of topics and styles; from the simple and elegant (Figure 2) to the busy and initially nonsensical (Figure 3). The sheer number of different paintings requires future visits to take in and do justice to more of the art displayed.
Figure 2. Simple and Elegant Wall Graffiti.
Figure 3. Busy and Convoluted Wall Graffiti.
Assignment #1 - Buy a Journal in Berlin
Prompt: Tell a simple story about how/where/why I chose the journal I did.
With the evening weather sunny, a breeze cooled my sweaty brow as we trudged through the carefully laid gray bricks that make up Alexanderplatz. The day filled with walking did not deter us from again using our legs’ actin and myosin to venture out with the goal of buying necessary supplies—a notebook/journal ranking near the top of the list.
The evening was typical for the area; myriad people walked, talked, and otherwise mingled in a variety of languages throughout the crisscrossing sidewalks, tram rails, stores, and open spaces. Already, our group stopped by the German bank and spent time sitting along the grassy front area near the Berlin Dom.
Our stomachs growling, we passed food-stand after food-stand, each seemingly more appealing than the last. Dönor kebabs, currywurst, pizza, ice cream…our appetite called but our undergraduate penny-pinching mindset prevailed—we marched on despite great resistance. Soon, we came upon a bookstore beneath one of the raised railways. The well-lit interior and displays of books beckoned to the group, drawing us in.
Scanning the store, we found several blank notebooks near the cash register. One showed Albert Einstein on both covers, another had a baby-blue surrounding. A small, red-covered journal caught my eye and, for lack of any other journals that suited me, I soon found myself buying it.
Heading out of the bookshop back into Alexanderplatz, my watch read 8:05pm meaning the others stores of interest just closed. Although unable to purchase all the necessary supplies as planned, at least I got a journal. It now sits in my carrying bag with miscellaneous thoughts and drawings beginning to fill its pages.
With the evening weather sunny, a breeze cooled my sweaty brow as we trudged through the carefully laid gray bricks that make up Alexanderplatz. The day filled with walking did not deter us from again using our legs’ actin and myosin to venture out with the goal of buying necessary supplies—a notebook/journal ranking near the top of the list.
The evening was typical for the area; myriad people walked, talked, and otherwise mingled in a variety of languages throughout the crisscrossing sidewalks, tram rails, stores, and open spaces. Already, our group stopped by the German bank and spent time sitting along the grassy front area near the Berlin Dom.
Our stomachs growling, we passed food-stand after food-stand, each seemingly more appealing than the last. Dönor kebabs, currywurst, pizza, ice cream…our appetite called but our undergraduate penny-pinching mindset prevailed—we marched on despite great resistance. Soon, we came upon a bookstore beneath one of the raised railways. The well-lit interior and displays of books beckoned to the group, drawing us in.
Scanning the store, we found several blank notebooks near the cash register. One showed Albert Einstein on both covers, another had a baby-blue surrounding. A small, red-covered journal caught my eye and, for lack of any other journals that suited me, I soon found myself buying it.
Heading out of the bookshop back into Alexanderplatz, my watch read 8:05pm meaning the others stores of interest just closed. Although unable to purchase all the necessary supplies as planned, at least I got a journal. It now sits in my carrying bag with miscellaneous thoughts and drawings beginning to fill its pages.
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