(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…
Sunday, August 9, 2009
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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