studentcorrespondents

Ich lerne Deutsch

I remember coming to Germany for the first time in May 2003. I was scared, devastated and kept on telling myself that the reason I was going to Germany was to get a good education that I could make use of back home in Kenya. My first big worry and equally wrong assumption was the food and the cold winter tales I had frequently heard of in Kenya. A Kenyan friend of mine told me winter in Germany is like being locked up in a freezer. So a week before I came, I put my hand in the freezer for a 5 minute experiment, just to get an idea of how cold it was really going to be. 2 minutes into my experiment, my hand was out and catching up on the hot Mombasa sun. Afterwards, I was dreading the winter even before I had boarded the plane heading north. But I was very wrong and was to discover another problem despite cold winters, different food and homesickness: That of the German language.

Learning German is not easy. Anybody who has tried to master the language will speak of the horrors. From the 3 famous articles, "der, die und das" to terrible grammatical rules that will leave any ambitious student with a headache. I personally have a love-hate relationship with the German language although people say I speak "ferry gut German." Luckily for me, I was able to get rid of the terrible "ich" after a drilling Sprechtraining from the Deutsche Welle. Sprechtraining is German for speech training. Nevertheless, I do have my own share of incorrect intonation (Betonung) and pronunciation. My best example is however the always eminent and terrible "Umlauts," a true challenge for any foreign speaker of the language. Umlauts are those vowels which have some strange dots on top of them, like ä,ö,ü. They are pronounced like ae (Käse), oe (Möchte) or ue (Müller) or can simply be pronounced long. Here is an interesting link explaining the Umlauts.

Furthermore, learning German also involves mastering the never-ending problem of "Du" and "Sie." Deciding whether to use the informal or formals "you" is a perennial headache for German learners. Anyone over 16 must, according to polite rules, be "Siezen" until they give you permission to "Duzen" them. But the guideline always differs according to age, manner of dress, and where you meet the people. When dealing with young people, a Du is in most cases appropriate. However, in a business meeting, the work environment, and when dealing with older people, the Sie form immediately applies. Avoid the mistake of using a Du with someone in uniform, such as a member of the police force for instance.

Personally, I learned German mainly by doing. After 2 months of Goethe Institute and 1 month at the Colonaden School in Hamburg, and with just enough grammar to keep my interest high, I decided it was time to learn the language the simple way: by watching cartoon networks. The good thing about learning a language by watching kids programs is that the characters speak slowly and clearly. However, this endeavour demands patience.

But why should anyone learn German? Here a few reasons why it is worth the try: first of all,
it is the widely spoken language in Europe, that of "Dichter and Denker" - the world's greatest Poets and Philosophers of the 18th and 19th century, in addition, Germany is world's 3rd strongest economy and number 1 export nation, meaning that being acquainted with German creates business opportunities, furthermore, Germans are innovators and great Engineers, and last but not least, big holiday spenders and are found in all the corners of the world!

But there is hope for all German learners out there: Since German is spelled phonetically, learning the system of sounds helps to predict how each word is spoken and written. Check out Deutsche Welle's German language courses and explore the language while making all the mistakes you can want right here.

The American in the Germans

The German "high society" and "pop scene" totally adores America. Germans want to be like Americans, dress like them, talk like them, dance like them and even sing like them. German TV is full of American soaps and programs such as "DSDS Deutschland sucht den Superstar" a direct equivalent to American Idol. They simply can't get enough of Americans. Unless of course they are whining about how bad and unhealthy American food is. A friend of mine who recently came back from the States claims that the only food you can eat there is burgers and fries (as well as a variety of other fast-foods), which he believes accounts to the problem of obesity. But he was also quick to note that California (specifically, Hollywood) is the place where all the slender girls are. Well I don't really agree with him on that but then that's an issue I will devour in an upcoming blog.

A look at Germany's youth will most likely confirm the assumption. Look around and you will see young Germans dressed up in swagging jeans, hoods and heavy bling (hip-hop-like jewellery) like the G's they see in hip hop videos. Even worse, listen to German hip-hop and you will see what I mean. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7HUY1yK0NHM).

Even the way of talk is changing. It is very common among German youth to talk cooler and with a fine edge of gangsterism. Words like Ghetto, Swagger, Drogen (drugs), Krass (cool), Fuffies (Krass women, and I will refrain from using the B word here) Use of American words is also getting common. Sentences such as Wir chillen in der Crib (we're chilling in the crib) are finding more way into the German language. Alone these examples and the use of the N word always leave me wondering what the Germans youth really know about the-so-called-hard-ghetto life evident among American hip hoppers. Life can indeed be tough in Germany, but not as rowdy as in America. Notable hip-hoppers openly talk about their gunshot wounds and making it from rags to riches. That's something I have at least not heard of in Germany as of now.

Even in politics, Germans don't want to be left out when it comes to supporting their favourite politicians. Has anyone seen the German version of Obama Girl? I am sure you all remember the Obama Girl that became an internet sensation during his campaign for her "crush on Obama" song. Well the Germans followed suit during the election and also had a very own Steini-Girl. In the video, a love declaration for Germany's Foreign Minister and (former) presidential candidate Walter-Frank Steinmeier, the unnamed girl sings of his "coiled masculinity," while his main opponent and Germany's re-elected Chancellor Angela Merkel is dismissed as being "too masculine." Check out the video here.

Well at least Obama's Girl can speak of success here. Steini did not necessarily win the elections but he surely won the heart of a law student from Berlin.

Going underground...

When I first came to Germany in 2005, I was surprised to discover that every large town was able to boast its own metro system. With only two such systems outside of London and busses being both hideously expensive and unreliable, a car is essential equipment for anyone wishing to be mobile in Britain. Lacking this during my teen years, I was dependant upon the kind will of my father who often served as my personal taxi service. Thanks Dad!

But after using the Hamburg and Berlin metros as my primary mode of transport during my time there, I came to value the freedom they awarded. Although the first weeks were filled with trying to decipher unintelligible maps and timetables, travelling in the metro soon became second nature. If I was ever bored, I could simply hop on the metro and be in the centre after only 5 minutes. It may sound strange, but it was an experience that I enjoyed. It was a rare opportunity to relax, listen to some music, and read a book.

But sometimes it pays not to be too engrossed in your book as every journey on the metro is an adventure into the unknown. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of any such adventure is the people that one encounters. In no other sphere of life do so many people of such differing backgrounds meet in such a closely-confined space. One can gain interesting insights by quietly observing how these people interact and behave.

Isn't it strange how we desperately try to avoid the stare of those we are travelling with? Or how we become visibily uncomfortable when our personal space is invaded and someone takes the empty seat next to us?

There is also a wealth of interesting personalities, familiar faces that one encounters every day. A journey in the Berlin metro is sometimes accompanied by free music as a man carrying a battered accordion and a small boy jump into the carriage. Some passengers appear visibly pleased to hear some musical acompaniement and gleefully drop a euro or two into the paper cup that the boy holds under their noses. Others are not so pleased and do their best to ignore the boy as he walks down the carriage.

For these buskers, the metro provides an income and puts food on the table. At night, the hustle and bustle of the metro fades as the stations become home to the city's homeless, providing relative warmth and shelter from elements. But their lives are not the only ones which revolve around the metro. Indeed, it also affects our lives in ways we don't even consider.

Our lives are dictated by the departure and arrives times of the metro. Our primary task each morning is to ensure that we are ready on time and don't miss the train to work. And if this train is late, then it's the end of the world! Any night on the tiles is governed by the time the last metro departs to carry our drunken selves home. Our only exercise comes either from running to catch the train when we're late or having to stand and hold on tight in a packed out carriage on the way home from work.

So the next time you're travelling on a German metro system, take a moment to consider how difficult our lives would be without it. Instead of cursing when the train is late, we should perhaps be thankful that it arrives at all.

Her highness, the Princess of Kenya, on a train ride

Being a Kenyan in Germany really pays off sometimes. We do shine at times, despite how strange it may sound. Forget all about the clichés that well-groomed and good-looking Africans must be into some sort of illegal activities only because they look "different," or to put it simply, "cultivated and European." You may be wondering why I would say such a thing considering all the cultural differences that exist between the two countries. But a recent encounter left me speechless and made me aware of how some people in Germany view the "different" sorts of African foreigners.

Like many other times before it happened again, only this time it was the icing on the cake. While en-route to New York a couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in the train on my way to Frankfurt International Airport and doing my best to multitask by texting a friend while reading a newspaper. Then, two old German ladies got on and chose to take the empty seats next to me, something that hardly happens with the older generation. And to my surprise, they did not even clinch their handbags like most automatically do when I opt to sit next to one on the train.

What followed explained their kind attitude toward me. After a few stealthy glances in my direction, one of the ladies, Ingrid, turned to me and asked bluntly, "Sorry to bother you. You look very different to many Africans I see in my day to day life. Could it be that your father is a 'Stammeshäuptling'?"

"Wow!" I thought. "She did not just say that. Stay composed and act normal." I felt like laughing out loud but being the person they assumed me to be, I could not of course risk my well and hard-earned reputation among the well-informed German elite. "Stammeshäuptling" is the German word for an African chief, often used to refer to some sort of African king.

Unfortunately, my father is not a Stammeshäuptling or anything of the sort, but such questions require imaginative answers. And so I said proudly, "Oh yes, I am the daughter of a king. Normally," I added, "I always travel with my entourage of servants and bodyguards but they are all on holiday now." Still can't believe they bought that answer. You should have seen the women's reactions and the sudden fear written all over their faces! They turned as pale as death and looked like they had seen a ghost! Well it's indeed understandable that most people don't always get to encounter a princess in their day to day life.

Luckily for me, we arrived at Frankfurt Airport and I was relieved to say a royal goodbye and wish the ladies a safe journey. I wandered off to catch my flight to New York, wondering whether the next question would be whether I am a singer or rapper.

A tale of two cities

Beer isn't exactly without significance in German culture. You're probably aware of that already, but in case you aren't, there are any number of ways to confirm it. For me, a big source of confirmation is that, well, I drink beer here – instead of the mixed drinks or whatever else I'd usually have in the U.S.

Cities and regions in Germany come to be identified with the types of beer that are produced in them, and Cologne and Düsseldorf (neighboring cities, separated by a 30 minute train ride) are no exception. Cologne is known for the beer it brews called "Kölsch" and Düsseldorf for its "Alt," which is darker – and better, if you ask me. By the way, good luck trying to find a Kölsch in Düsseldorf or vice versa.

The cities are divided by a lot more than the beers they produce, though. Their proximity and long, complex histories with one another have created a rivalry that is sometimes joking and sometimes entirely serious. Many "Kölner" (people from Cologne) or "Düsseldorfer" will be happy to describe the other city's faults for you. The typical caricatures seem to go something like this: Düsseldorfer are wealthy, prissy and stuck-up, while Kölner are unrefined and have the added misfortune of living in such an ugly city. I can assure you that both descriptions verge on exaggeration.

Anyway, a friend told me about a hilarious ad campaign that Früh, one of Cologne's best-known Kölsch breweries, sponsored. I checked out their website today, where they archive all of the billboards they have put up. The ads are arranged by year from 1992 to 2009, followed by a lone stand-out category: "Düsseldorf." Früh decided to run with the cities' rivalry and put up a series of ads picking on Düsseldorf's reputation, including pictures of a fresh glass of Kölsch bearing the words: "Now available in the most important villages around Cologne," or a gaudy, diamond-encrusted bottle opener declaring: "For Düsseldorf: now with an extra chic bottle opener."

If you can read German, be sure to check them out. Some are pretty funny. My friend explained that Früh didn't get away with their campaign without retaliation, though. One of Düsseldorf's Alt breweries decided to put up its own billboard in Cologne: this time with glasses of its beer arranged in the shape of Cologne's world-famous landmark, its cathedral. And so the rivalry continues.

Strictly by the book

Germans take recycling very seriously. Coming from an island where this concept is still in its infancy, I found their interest in saving the world most intriguing. Before my first stint in Germany, all of our waste landed into one large black bin and only recently have we started to catch up. Still, the range of recyclable materials is puny in comparison to our German counterparts over on the mainland.

They are not newcomers to this arena. It was in the early 1990s that an elaborate system of separating waste into different categories was first introduced into German households. This is something that the Germans chose to follow with religious diligence and they are not afraid to point out if you've messed up. It's not unknown for neighbourly disputes to erupt over improper sorting. It is perhaps not surprising that the system and the pressure to adhere to the rules can be daunting for newcomers to Germany.

To explain the system is beyond this scope of this post but suffice to say there are a multitude of different containers intended for different kinds of rubbish. Break one of the cardinal rules of rubbish separation, and you run the risk of being charged with gross recycling misconduct. But there appears to be some confusion over the classification of certain types of waste.

Does a cigarette butt belong in the organic waste container for composting, or does it belong with the residual waste? Or the next time you are enjoying a cup of tea, consider how the teabag should be properly disposed of. A trivial matter on the face of it, but one which has no doubt been the subject of debate in many German households.

Picture the scene. You have just enjoyed a nice cup of tea and are just about to dispose of the teabag. As it hangs over the organic container, however, a voice interjects, "you surely weren't going to dispose of the teabag without separating it were you?" So if we are going to be pedantic, then the tea leaves are organic waste, but what about the bag itself? Organic or paper? "And there is a label attached!" After carefully removing the small piece of paper, that is not the end of it. "But there is a staple in it! Doesn't that belong in the container for metal recycling?" But what about the piece of string? "In the paper-container? No, the wood-container!" Maybe there is a clear demand here for string-containers?

This debate is a caricature of the German psyche. There exists a deep love of structure and rules. This may explain the German love affair with paperwork and maybe even their ausweisen (proving one's identity) addiction.

My Polish girlfriend experienced this first-hand when she received a letter from the Ausländeramt (lit: office for foreigners) requesting she come in person and produce a dozen documents proving both her identity and income. Why this was at all necessary was unclear, although she put it down to the German need to "cause problems."

She is not the only one who has experienced such "problems." Why, for example, is it necessary for me to produce my passport whenever I enter a certain bank to try to withdraw my money? Apparently my signature isn't proof enough of my identity! Likewise I was puzzled by the request to not only show my passport, but also certification of residency when joining the local library.

Although annoying, perhaps we can forgive the Germans for this oddity when we receive well-run public and private services in return.

Travel guide insight

While waiting around at the train station the other day, I flipped through a travel guide written for German tourists headed to the States. Check one of these out some time, if you haven't – it's always good for a chuckle to see your culture through the eyes of a curious tourist. The section on food was great in this book, complete with the typical measure of horror at the size of portions in many American restaurants (especially the sodas).

A German friend of mine studied in the States and laughed as he recalled glancing at some travel guides back then, written for Americans going to Germany. His favorite line: if you're invited to a party, make sure that you come with plenty of things to complain about, otherwise people will assume you're shallow. To be sure, the guide was tongue-in-cheek, but we both agreed there's some truth to the advice.

I could write a lot about the attitude the author was getting at because I think it's fundamental to the German outlook. It's not that I want to say that Germans have a fundamental affinity for complaining or negativity, but that's one side of the coin. Maybe a better way to put it would be that Germans tend toward caution – decisions are typically made slowly, deliberately and very critically. Fellow OI blogger Joel has also noted this in a lot of his entries, like in his entry on defusing bombs, which, admittedly, is an activity where some degree of caution is probably appropriate.

Working in a Gymnasium (German high school) last year, I was struck by the extent to which my students already shared this attitude. Often, the teachers would use class time to host extensive discussions about the direction of the class, grading policies, or how a particular test was structured. Even the ninth graders would rouse themselves from their general apathy and sleepiness to weigh in and debate each other on how the class should be run. On the one hand, the level of input teachers expected from students was novel for me, but I also found the intensity with which they wanted to arrive at the right method of proceeding interesting.

I've found that a lot of Germans joke about this tendency too – or are at least note that it exists. Of course, there are connections between Germany's post-war heritage and history and the attitude I describe. I think that's an important part of the story, especially when talking about politics.

But what does all of this have to do with complaining at parties? Well, I think it's easy for "German cautiousness" to verge into pessimism. Like someone I met from Poland who now lives in Cologne said to me recently, "I like a lot about Germany, but it frustrates me sometimes that people quibble so much instead of focusing on possibilities and being open to change." Then again, the same attitude can also be a great asset for the country, and it's essential to a lot of the institutions for which Germany is renowned. I have a hard time putting my finger on it exactly, but when I'm here, I have the sense that things are generally well-administered and well-planned. The reassurance that comes with that is certainly a good thing.

Andrew Shale

Andrew Shale was born and raised in the English county of Leicestershire. He studied European Studies and German, during which he spent his third year as a Foreign Language Assistant in Hamburg. After leaving student life behind, he returned once more to Germany after winning a scholarship to work in the European Commission in Berlin. Now, Andrew is a trainee at the Deutsche Welle where he is learning the art of journalism. When he is not working, he can be found either engrossed in a book or imporoving his Polish language skills.

Nancy Wayua

Kenyan born Nancy Wayua is currently a trainee at the Deutsche Welle. She studied media and journalism at the University of Hamburg in Germany, attaining a scholarship to complete her studies in the UK at the University of Sheffield. Her hobbies are fashion, music, traveling, photography and sports. In her free time, Nancy loves cooking and working on her book.

Hamburg

Many Germans love Hamburg, and that's a big reason I was excited to visit last weekend. In talking with people here about their country, I've heard Hamburg mentioned again and again as a favorite place. In some ways, this surprised me. Before living here, Hamburg wasn't really on my radar at all. When I thought about German cities, Berlin, Munich and Frankfurt came to mind, and I sense that this is probably true of a lot of other foreigners.

However, when Germans talk about Berlin or Munich, I note a lot of ambivalence. Non-Berliners typically describe the city by admitting that it may be lively or very international but then proceeding to decry Berliners' arrogance or how sprawling and ugly the city can be. A friend of mine from Frankfurt went further and, against my defense of Berlin, said, "The city has a kind of kitschy-carnival quality that, of course, attracts lots of Americans and other foreigners, but ultimately it's uncivilized, unsuitable for careers, and uninteresting." A different friend from Hesse put it a little more gently and remarked, "I think that Germans tend to be secretly rather provincial at heart, and that goes some way in explaining their preference for the less international, more traditional Hamburg to Berlin."

Munich and Hamburg have a certain amount in common, but Munich doesn't seem to fare as well with the general populace. Both cities have traditionally been well-off. Hamburg's harbor position led it to be a center of trade and import, while Munich has long been a major hub of business and tourism. In contrast to Hamburg, though, I've heard lots of people write Munich off as "schickimicki" – a tough word to translate. I'd say it refers to behavior that's snobby and ostentatious, especially with regard to class or money. In contrast, Hamburg has earned a reputation as a very down-to-earth city with kind, if not always openly friendly, inhabitants.

I can't say much about the people in the city, since I spent the entire time with other non-Hamburgers, and after all, I was only there for two days. Although we stayed with two people who live there now, they are originally from Mainz and Paris respectively. I can say I enjoyed the city and appreciated why so many people have described it as beautiful. It is very green – depending on where you are, it's hard to believe it's the second biggest city in the country because you see trees in so many directions. We spent the afternoon on Saturday engaged in a favorite Hamburg pastime by relaxing on one of the many waterfront areas in the city.

A great weekend with great hosts, but I'm not ready to give up my preference for Berlin just yet…

(Above: a tree outside of the Ernst Barlach house).

German inside and out

Last fall, someone in Frankfurt remarked to me, "You have to understand that Europeans still live less as members of particular countries and more as members of their social classes."

The conversation stuck with me, and I've thought a lot this year about whether he was right. On the face, I was sceptical. Part of what's striking about Europe for someone like me from the huge and homogeneous Midwest is the cultural variety here. These cultural differences are, of course, often tied to particular regions and countries. The character of the areas around Frankfurt and Cologne differs substantially for instance, but still less so than, say, between Spain and Germany.

On the other hand, maybe the regional differences I mention can ultimately be traced back to class differences, and that's what he wanted to point out. Getting to the bottom of that would probably be a bit much for this entry (or even 20 blog entries), but I thought about what he said especially after I had travelled in Switzerland and Austria this winter and spring. I found that people tend to identify strongly along national lines and distinguish themselves sharply from the other two countries, despite sharing linguistic and cultural heritages at least to some extent.

Differences in language and dialect often get brought up when talking about the three countries. Personally, I really liked the dialects I heard in Switzerland and Austria – both of which are a bit more lilting and have a kind of sing-song quality that you don't hear in High German. One is, however, hard-pressed to find Germans that like the dialects there, and the dislike cuts both ways. If you read German, check out this blog on the so-called "German invasion" in Zurich and this "Zürcher's" reaction. As he explains, "High German was never, is not and will never be our real language" – rather, it was an artificial chore endured in school, and the prospect of speaking it with foreigners is far less appealing to him than just speaking English or French.

The relationship between the three countries can be vexed for reasons that go beyond language – a friend even told me about a recent article in a Zurich paper titled, "Do we hate the Germans really?" Needless to say, Germany and Austria also have a complicated relationship historically. Travelling in Austria, I encountered more than a few people who described Germans as arrogant, which may have its basis in how often Germans say Austria is largely provincial and not so interesting to them.

Ultimately, it's all a matter of scope when talking about variations in culture. I mean, I'd probably distinguish myself sharply from someone in the rural South when talking about American culture, but if the scope expands to compare the US with China, then I suddenly find myself having more in common with a "Red Stater" than I thought. The same would probably be true when comparing German-speaking Europe with another part of the world. Even though I won't pretend to have any final answers on the role of class and nationality in the relationships described above, the interplay between Germany, Austria and Switzerland is definitely interesting in this respect.

(Pictures- above: Zurich on a very cold day; below: the outskirts of Vienna)

The naked truth

Lately, I've been looking around at some other blogs that discuss Germany from an outsider's perspective. The German Way is worth checking out. The writers have all spent significant time in Germany and have written on everything from some of the bigger issues also covered in our blog to things like noise laws and raising kids as an expatriate. The blog is part of a broader website targeted at foreigners travelling or living in Germany.

A recent entry about attitudes toward nudity in Germany made me chuckle. It's funny to me how often this gets brought up – both when I'm talking with Germans and with other Americans who have lived here. For Germans that I've talked to, it has to do with a paradox they perceive about American culture: many Americans see their country as the paragon of freedom but nevertheless have prudish or rigid expectations about public morality.

I don't think I'm especially prudish, but that doesn't mean I was immune from a couple of surprises when I first moved here. I remember going for a swim late last summer in the afternoon and noticing two businessmen in suits stroll over to the benches at the side of the pool. I was puzzling over what they could be up to – lost on the way to a meeting? So glad to leave work early that they forgot to change? As you can guess, they proceeded to strip down and change into their swimming suits.

Don't worry – I managed not to have a puritanical freak-out and drown, especially since no one else seemed to notice or care. In fact, I find the nonchalance here about the issue refreshing.

Anyway, check out the German Way blog for more glimpses into Germany. This weekend I'm heading north and visiting Hamburg for the first time to go to a party with some acquaintances – I'm excited!

Just friends

Mentioning my "friend" in a recent post made me think about how this isn't, strictly speaking, the correct designation. I think it's pretty well known that Germans tend to distinguish very carefully between friends and acquaintances, and I'm sure the surgeon would refer to me as a Bekannter, not a Freund – but fortunately not as a patient.

The lines that get drawn in this respect are interesting to me. A friend of mine here (an actual friend – at least as far as I know) corrected me just the other day when we were talking about an acquaintance of his, whom he's known for years. They met as colleagues but hang out privately now, usually weekly. Still though, they're not friends: "We've known each other for a long time and have a good time together, but it ends there really. I wouldn't call him a friend." Of course, the basic word for "friend" is also used to mean boyfriend, but that wasn't exactly the question.

The conventional wisdom in Germany seems to go something like this: a German may be slow to designate someone a friend, but that makes this designation that much more significant than in, say, the US. You can rest assured that you're actually friends and can count on each other no matter what. I've met a lot of Germans who find the opposite to be true in the US, where they've found people's haste in making friends to be somewhat superficial and/or irritating.

I don't ultimately think the difference is that significant, though, even though I've met a number of people here who think it is. On the one hand, there is definitely a linguistic difference in that English-speakers typically distinguish less sharply between friends and acquaintances than here. But I'm not convinced that that translates into significant cultural differences. Anecdotally, I don't notice many differences between my circle of friends and the friend circles I've seen here. We, too, have been friends for years; we've remained in contact even as I've been abroad this year, and I know that when I go back, I'll be able to count on them as much as before.

Anyway, regardless of what may be true about Americans and their attitudes, I've found Germans live up to their end of the stereotype. Particularly depending on where you live in the country, it can be tough to get close to people, but the friendships that I've established have made the effort worthwhile.

For the bookworms

I buy a lot of books. My last few moves in the US have involved lugging around so many boxes of them that I've realized I really need to reacquaint myself with libraries. This decision has served me well during my time abroad, which has so far involved living in no fewer than four different apartments.

Germany hasn't made my prohibition on book buying easy (admittedly, I've fallen off the wagon a few times), because I find the bookstores really interesting here. I noticed this when I came to Germany for the first time four years ago and was staying in Dusseldorf. Sure, there are plenty of big chain bookstores with all of the usual stuff, but it seems to me like there's a really thriving culture of independent and niche bookstores here.

Back then, I remember finding myself in a large shop devoted to books on art - in particular, everything imaginable pertaining to photography. Given the state of my German at the time, being able to flip through photography books was probably for the best. More recently, when I lived in Darmstadt, I discovered several really cool stores near the university, including a labyrinthine bookshop focusing on architecture and interior design. It's spread out over three floors and five rooms, but you wouldn't guess it from the small and understated entrance.

I haven't had a chance yet to check out bookstores in Cologne, but I've noticed that there's a shop a few doors down from my apartment exclusively selling "Krimis" – mystery/detective novels. I started thinking about book culture in Germany recently, when I was exploring my new neighborhood and came across this in a park nearby:

It may look like a big TV in this picture, but it's a mini-library with probably about 100-200 books, in case you'd like to pick up something to read while you're lounging in the park. It doesn't seem to be an official city library, and there haven't been any librarians when I've seen it. This is the third time I've run across some variant of this concept in German parks. Bonn has a few book racks in the parks near the university, for instance. I think it's a cool idea – helps me resist the book buying urge, anyway.

Standing out

A friend of mine is a surgeon who did a six-month residency at a hospital in New York. We compared our experiences abroad one night, and he said something along the lines of:

"I just never felt comfortable in the US. People are so conformist somehow. If you do something differently or stand out at all, people usually react negatively or like they're bewildered."

I pressed him a bit on the point – just what did he do that he felt stood out? I mean, I imagine it's tough to attract attention to yourself in the E.R. at Mount Sinai with patients and frantic relatives constantly whizzing by. He wouldn't quite give me a direct answer, though.

It's hard for me to agree with him because I have the feeling of being seen as out of place much more in Germany than in the US. Of course, virtually anyone living abroad can expect to feel this way to some extent. Even among countries that have a great deal in common like the US and Germany, social subtleties and expectations that we take for granted in our home cultures differ and lead to a degree of alienation – especially when you're first settling in.

When I first moved, I definitely didn't "get" the culture in the German state of Hesse. I've since learned that Hessians have a reputation for being pretty reserved. This may account for some of the sideways looks I got when approaching people in those first weeks, and I can assure you I'm not particularly bubbly. At the time, I assumed it was just because of my bad German, but I think a few bigger factors were at play (the bad German didn't help though).

Anyway, I think a case can be made for Germany being more homogeneous in some respects than the US – e.g. social classes do not seem nearly as stratified in Germany. Most Germans I've talked to view society as having a strong obligation to ensure a reasonable standard of living for everyone, so on the one end of the spectrum, you see little to no desperation like you encounter in American cities. But on the other end of the spectrum, my friend noted that as a doctor here, for instance, he makes far less than half of what he would earn in the US. Needless to say, differences in salary aren’t universally so pronounced, and medicine is a rather particular case, but the prevalence of this phenomenon does produce a different kind of society.

Namely, I think Germany tends toward a system with fewer extremes. For that reason, a certain behavior or style of dress may stand out much more starkly and be met with more confusion than somewhere like Chicago. You can definitely look a little more disheveled in everyday situations in Chicago – but maybe we just have less taste.

Wandering to Wachendorf

A few weeks ago, I was messing around online and came across some pictures of architect Peter Zumthor's work. He has worked a great deal in Switzerland, where he's from, and in Germany, where he has created spaces for art galleries and a Swiss embassy, among other projects. He won the Pritzker Prize this year.

When I first read about him, I still lived in Hessen, but now I'm (happily) in North Rhine-Westfalia and was able to make a day trip on Sunday to see one of his designs that's in the area. I visited his Bruder Klaus Feldkapelle (Brother Klaus Field Chapel) just outside of Wachendorf – a small village associated with the town of Mechernich, which is southwest of Bonn.

I took the train to Mechernich and hiked, well, probably twice as long as anyone with decent navigation skills would have and finally ended up at the site a couple of hours later.

Some views:

Outside:

Looking upward:

The chapel was commissioned by a local farmer and constructed using local timber alongside other materials. As you can see in the second picture, the ceiling is left partially open. When inside, you can watch clouds pass overhead, causing the shadows to shift within the chapel. On Sunday, I was surprised at how many people visited, considering that it's relatively remote.

What strikes me the most about the building is its simplicity and the way it blurs the distinction between being outside and inside. In fact, these features are shared by a lot of the more modern German buildings that I've lived and worked in since arriving here. I think, for instance, of the expansive windows that open completely when it's hot and typically don't have screens to shield you from bugs, bees, the occasional bird, etc.

In terms of simplicity and functionality, I think Germany has clearly earned its reputation for excellence in design. Most apartments, for instance, that I've seen here are simple and unornamental yet attractive and highly functional – much like the chapel in a way.

I really liked visiting it. You can see more pictures of it and other Zumthor designs here.

And read more about Zumthor on DW here.

Greg Scott

Greg Scott is currently an intern at the Deutsche Welle. He spent the previous year in Hessen as a Fulbright exchange participant, where he taught English at a Gymnasium. He is from the US originally and moved to Germany from Chicago. In the US, he studied philosophy and German.

A day in Lübeck

Dodging a sun-shower in Kandinsky, a café in Lübeck, I ordered my third coffee of the day and disappeared into my surroundings, a wallflower in the corner away from the two sitting at the bar and chatting with the barkeep.

A low-key cafë-bar, the Kandinsky has weathered yellowish-orange walls. Two huge palms in terracotta pots balance on metal pillars mounted on the bar. The wicker and wood ceiling fan is missing a light bulb and the yellow-framed window across from me is opened to the outside.

My cappuccino appears in front of on me on a smallish oval-metal tray with a glass of water and one of those wafer-rolled cookies. It’s the third time today my drink is served on one of these trays; my tea at the airport restaurant, my large latté macchiato at the place I ate breakfast-lunch, but not brunch, and now here at Kandinsky. Perhaps it’s a Lübeck thing.

I’m in Lübeck to drop a friend, fellow Erasmus Mundusian and former classmate off at the airport in Lübeck. It’s June 14, and tomorrow she flies back to Canada. We caught the 6:45 airport shuttle at the Zentral Omnibus Banhhof. After seeing her off at the security gate, I jump on a local bus and head into the city centre for a day of exploring.

Lübeck is, according to Politiken’s guide “Turen går til Hamborg og Nord Tyskland”, one of Germany’s oldest cities. The former Hanseatic League city was once under Danish rule- back in the 1200s, and annexed to France in the 1800’s. Since then it had been an important city in the Hanseatic times, once considered as powerful as Hamburg and Bremen.

Although it’s power declined slowly, the city was an independent state up until 1938 when the Nazi party incorporated it into the state of Schleswig-Holstein. The city was bombed in both world wars and three of the most important churches were destroyed. However, Lübeck’s historic buildings are still plentiful (many of them restored following the war) and the “altstadt” (old part of the city) features many crow-stepped and old red-brick buildings. Lübeck is designated as a UNESCO world heritage site.

I turn the milk foam mounded on my cappuccino idly with one hand while scribbling in a notebook with the other, trying to formulate my impression on the Global Media Forum I attended over a week ago now, still at a loss for words.

As I sip my coffee and stare out the window at the intermittent showers I realize the matter of journalism in peacekeeping is so wide and complex and the conference was so intense that I’m not sure where to start, so instead I write this. I finish up my coffee, leave my money on the silver-metal tray and carry it over to the bar before heading out onto the streets of Lübeck again.

I wander through the cobblestone streets, stopping to take pictures on my way back to the bus, which will take me to the airport. From there I catch the airport shuttle and sleep away the 75 minutes it takes to Hamburg, waking just as we take the exit to HH Hamm.

Photo preview of the Global Media Forum 08

Last week I was so lucky as to attend the Deutsche Welle's first annual Global Media Forum.
I've been mulling over the sessions ever since and am still working on formulating my impression(s). So, until I've done more mental sorting on the topic of the Media in peacebuilding and conflict prevention, you'll have to settle for two photos.

The first is Shirin Ebadi, a lawyer and Nobel Peace Prize laureate who delivered a thought-provoking and inspiring key-note speech to open the conference.

This lamp post was about half way (or down, depending on which way you're going) up the Dachenfels in Köningvinter.

Green poetry

So I was listening to Fuel for Thought episode from one of my favourite podcasts. Produced by New Internationalist Magazine, it a sort of social conscious podcast that reminds me of bigger issues.
Among the reports about the rise of agro-fuels and the sugar-cane industry in Brazil, was a poem by Danny Chivers about going green which was clever and entertaining and definitely worthy of sharing.
So, please enjoy!
Or to stream the whole program, click here.

A walk in the cemetery

Perhaps it's a little unorthodox to hold a picnic in a cemetery. But at the Friedhof Ohlsdorf, the municipal cemetery in the Ohsdorf neighbourhood of Hamburg, we weren't the only ones settling on a piece of grass with our picnic.

The almost 400 hectare cemetery is the largest "park" cemetery in the world. It's a virtual open air museum/garden/park inviting exploration by tourists and locals alike much like the Père Lachaise Cemetery (44 hectares) in Paris.

With stately mausoleums, in various states of repair, several chapels and other ornate structures like an old water tower and fountains, the cemetery is is fascinating place to muse of the nature of life.

So, here are but two photos I took on the journey through the cemetery. The first is of the columbarium, and the second is of a once-grand Riedemann Mausoleum with boards on the front doors, bricks covering the back entrances and broken stained glass windows, leaving us to speculate on the family that once commissioned it.

The harbour birthday and holidays

The air smells a little like soap on my street today. Another beautiful day in Hamburg, and I’m enjoying the last few hours of sunshine on the balcony. It’s a holiday in Germany today. In fact as I gather, much of this week is considered a holiday due to Pfingsten, also knows as Pentecost in English.

While I lived in Canada I never experienced Pentecost as a holiday on the calendar. It way mainly confined to a day marked by the church, but not something celebrated beyond that. In Denmark, however, Pinse is designated as a public holiday so kids and most adults have the following day free from school and work. I’m not all together sure if younger generations know what Pentecost is supposed to mark on the Christian calendar and instead know it only as a free day.

Here in Germany, Pfingsten is also considered a public holiday, marked on the Monday so everything is closed today. Also, depending on when the school year started across the different states in Germany, Pfingsten marks the beginning of a holiday week much like Spring Break. This week my rowing class is cancelled due to the holiday and as far as I gather, my faculty at the university is on vacation this week as well.

In Hamburg, this happens to coincide with the anniversary celebration of the habour and Hafengeburtstag-fever, if I may call it that, has taken over the city. The Hafengeburtstag is apparently the largest harbour fest in the world. Of course, out in my neighbourhood it’s like any other holiday Monday; quite, the smell of BBQ and chatter from neighbour’s balconies or gardens. But when venturing toward the Elbe, there’s a different feeling in air.

Landungsbrücken has been transformed into a carnival site with vendors selling cotton candy, roasted corn, ice cream and all other manner of treats. Amusement park rides have been set up and there’s the characteristic bustle of people queuing for rides. And been carrying on all weekend with entertainment and music, rides and fun fair activities, not to mention all sorts of activities on various boats docked in the harbour

Friday I ventured down to take in the opening parade or Einlaufsparade from the Altona Balkon, a perfect lookout spot just off the Grosse Elbestrasse, where it seemed that everyone with a boat, large or small had been instructed to cruise up and down Elbe between Altona and Landungbrücken, larger ships like the F-218 with its crew all lined up in a row being pulled through the harbour by tugboats. I, too, took the water on the public ferry to experience catch a different view of the festivities.

It was quite the sight but I must admit I didn’t last too long before retreating to the U-Bahn with my ice cream and heading home to my neighbourhood and enjoying the nature in our end of the city instead.

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man

Bake me a cake as fast as you can
Roll it and prick it and mark it with a B
And put it in the oven for baby and me

One thing you don’t know about me is that I love being in kitchen. Baking or cooking, it doesn’t matter as long as I can make food. I use it as a sort of therapy. When I’m frustrated, kneading a batch of bread seems the perfect antidote. Or when I can’t seem to get it together enough to work on my assignments, whipping up a batch of muffins instantly cures any feeling of unproductiveness. In under an hour I can whip up something concrete that can be tasted and smelled and shared. And then there’s the pleasure of spending time in the kitchen on a finicky dessert that looks and tastes like heaven when it’s finished.

In my class I’ve been dubbed the baker and with pleasure produced baked treats for my classmates who are always an appreciative audience. Perhaps as a trade, more than one of my classmates that have left the country, for research purposes, passed on some of their cookbooks and spices imported from India, to me and I’m looking forward to experimenting with their gifts.

Sorting through old pictures the other day I found this cake, I baked for my cousin’s 35th birthday celebration a few years back. I thought it so beautiful that I’d post it here. Of course this is rather egoistic, but I just had to share. And invite anyone with “traditional” German recipes to post them for me to try out. I’m afraid aside from hammering a wiener schnitzel, I’m pretty inexperienced with German cuisine.

Spring is in the air

With the onset of spring I’m easing myself into the weightlessness of summer. I’m back home in Copenhagen practically walking on sunshine and enjoying reconnecting with life and love.

Yesterday, May 6, I spent the day with my pseudo niece and nephew running amok in Copenhagen’s city centre. A morning in the National Art Museum, a picnic on the lawn, frolicking in Kongens Have, the Rosenborg Castle Gardens literally translated as the King’s Garden, and an hour of sightseeing on the harbour/canal tour in the afternoon finished off with a gigantic ice cream, snacking on strawberries and a walk through the city centre made me forget about everything else.

Back at home later that evening I sat thinking about everything I have to accomplish this summer. Collect my data and write a thesis, a rather overwhelming task. And then there’s the big question looming: what about when it’s all over? Where will I live, what kind of job do I want/can I get? The responsibilities of “real” life are looming just around the corner, threatening the weightlessness of summer.

But timeless days like yesterday make those thoughts fade, making room for aspirations and dreams to grow, imaginations to run wild and to see the world not from the eyes of a adult constantly worried and analysing, but from the eyes of a child, wondering at the possibilities of a bucket of water, and old tree and open lawn.

Ps: You see the text today, and tomorrow some pictures since I forgot my usb adapter for my camera so I can’t transfer photos until I’m back in Hamburg tomorrow evening.

EDIT: I've added a few photos.

You are a scientist!

“You are a scientist!” I’ve been told several times in the course of the last six months of classes in Hamburg. Each time I’ve laughed it off and scoffed that I’m hardly a scientist while inside trying to convince myself that it’s not completely untrue. In the process of doing this master’s project I will be a media scientist- collecting, studying and analysing data like scientists do. But still the idea of me as a scientist is one I abandoned in grade 10 when I realized my destiny was not in marine biology.

I may be on my way to being a media scientist, but brain science isn’t quite in the same field of expertise, shall we say. So the idea of sitting in on a lecture about “The neurological basis of intelligence in man and animals” understandably raised latent scientist-deficiency anxiety.

The lecture was part of the program of the Deutscher Akademischer Austauch Dienst (DAAD) Stipendiatentreffen held at the University of Bremen from April 25-27. Over 400 scholarship holders from 85 countries descended on Germany’s smallest city-state about 122 km southwest of Hamburg.

A quick survey of fellow scholarship holder’s faculties revealed most seemed to “real” scientists, and during a quick glance at the list of participants mechatronics, physics, and various forms of engineering seem to dominate. A few musicians, the odd sociology candidates and a whole three people listed with “Infomations-, Kommunikations-, Medienwisshenschaft and Publizistik” as their “fachgebiet” are among those in arts/humanities and social science faculties. I, along with my fellow roommate and only other Dane in attendance, fall into that last category.

It turned out that beside the lecturer’s rather monotone voice and lack of prior knowledge in the subject area, I could process the information and even make jokes with it to other participants. But brain science isn’t really for me, and that’s not just because I have science phobia. While I can appreciate the field, often my affinity for social sciences, arts and humanities overrides the pure science approach.

A reassuring moment came when a peer asked the lecturer to define what IQ level determines “genius”. The answer was, you can’t really. Of course on the IQ scale, which tops out at around 150 with the majority of people falling between 90 and 110, the higher the score, the more intelligent a person is. The idea of IQ was developed by a German, by the way. But having an abnormally high IQ isn’t equal to being a genius, according to Prof. Dr. Roth. The difference between geniuses and intelligent people has to do with activity in the frontal parts of the brain, where creativity lies, if you believe what brain mapping as shown so far.

The idea that genius has to do with creativity is one that I have no problem negotiating. And creativity is highly reliant on dopamine, which is related to noradrenalin and adrenaline, words we mostly all recognize from basic biology and chemistry and such as being good and associated with positive performance in everything from learning to sports.

But really, it’s not the technical part about dopamine and frontal brain activity that I appreciate. It’s the word creativity, something that is not limited to science, but valued across all fields. Creativity is found and valued across the board - regardless of your faculty or specialty. And you don’t necessarily need to be a scientist to understand or appreciate that.

So little me, with an aversion for all things relating to math or hard science, can accept that genius isn’t just for scientists. Genius is in creativity. I like that.

GlobeBoot '08

A walk in the park for ice-cream with my roomie Katja and her guest Morten, led to a photo-shoot of the kayak-polo game taking place in the Stadtpark lake.

Hosted by the Globetrotter outdoor-retailer outlet in Hamburg, there were all sorts of activities to try out and the chance to see some serious kayak polo players. Slack lining, a wall climbing station, axe-throwing, kayak and canoe testing drew a crowd to the lower-eastern bit of the huge park.

We took in a little of the spectacle underway on the water before heading for the ice-cream wagon. Here are a few of the photos I snapped with my new camera.

The Docklands

When I first imagined Hamburg, my mental picture didn’t include one of the world’s largest ports. More or less landlocked, I knew there was a river flowing through the city and maybe a few lakes, but that was about it.

Considered a sea port due to its ability to handle large ocean vessels, it lies some 90 kilometres from the open sea down the Elbe River. Hamburg constantly rivals Rotterdam as Europe’s largest port, handling some 134 million tonnes of goods, according to an article in Lloyds List Daily Commercial News.

The harbour and docklands cover an entire section of the city on the south side of the Elbe stretching across 73.99 km². And most of it is accessible through public transport. A series of public ferries connect parts of the port to the Landungsbrüken stop, also a stop on the S- and U-bahn.

With a ticket from the HVV you can get on and off these ferries and sail around the harbour, which is exactly what I did yesterday, April 16, which playing tour guide for my family visiting from Canada.

Below is a photo at the Docklands stop. I love the yellow of the ferry painted as an advertisement for the Lion King musical running in Hamburg matching the cranes in the background.

Stay tuned for more pictures of Hamburg and tidbits to go with it.

My new experience Germany project

After six month in Germany, you might think I would be able to say that, “I’ve experienced Germany”. But it’s only with the departure of all my classmates and friends that I realize that my German experience is only just beginning.

Entering the thesis writing stage of our two-year master’s program in journalism and media studies, my co-hort of some 15 internationals is disbanding. Teke has flown back to Cameroon. Ruta, Priyanka and Radhika all flew home to different parts of India in the last week. Muni and Parvati are on their way home this week too– to Indonesia and India, respectively.

Our Erasmus Mundus program has been a strange time-space compressed experience that’s been terrible and amazing and stressful and relaxing all at the same time. Our group has had a unique dynamic that has given me friendships that have satisfied my need for socialization. Arriving in Hamburg last October, it wasn’t like starting some place new. While the landscape was different, we weren’t in Amsterdam anymore, the people were mostly the same.

There are still a handful of classmates staying here until at least June, but most of the people I’ve grown close to are gone. Leaving me with the realization that I actually know every few Germans. There’s the girl living in Berlin whom I met on the metro in Istanbul a few weeks back; my roommate and our upstairs neighbours. Oh, and a few of the ordinary master’s students at the Institute for Journalism and Communication Studies.

These next six months on the horizon offer an entirely different possibility for experiencing Hamburg. My goal, besides starting and finishing my master’s thesis, is to get to know Germany better and learn more of the language so I can say something beside, “excuse me, I don’t speak much German”.

After a short week in Denmark for my Grandmother’s 92 birthday, celebrated along with my father, step-mother and a brother flying in from Canada and my uncle and aunt in Denmark, my new experience Germany project begins. I’ll continue with my weekly yoga sessions, and multiple fitness classes in German. I’ll also start a rowing-for-beginners course and get my membership to the German Alpine Club so I can go rock/wall climbing with our neighbour and his daughter. Katja, my Danish roommate extraordinaire, and I will meet with the neighbour’s daughter once a week to help her learn English and help improve our German.

And hopefully all this will yield in an expanded social sphere with Germans somewhere in the middle.

Beautiful burg

Here's a look back at October in Hamburg to prepare you for shots of spring to come.

A cafe on Mühlenkampf alongside a canal at which I intended to enjoy a latte machiatto very soon

Bridge view of Goldbekufer canal from Moorfuhrtweg

Zeitumstellung

Anyone have any ideas why it is that the clocks change in English, but the time in German?

It seems I'm always pardoning my absence but...

I'm experiencing the joy, or more aptly frustration, of dealing with an unreliable internet service provider, and therefore lacking a connection to the internet at home.

Being "offline" is perhaps not the best excuse, but in few minutes I am connected to the internet these days is spent searching for references for the final academic papers for this semester.

Hopefully this internet deficit problem will be remedied soon!

Drinking hours

One consequence of having been socialised in Britain (where until a couple of years ago, it was almost impossible to buy a drink after 11pm, and where most pubs still shut at that time) is a deeply ingrained feeling that it's somehow strange to go out for a drink much after 10pm. I suspect that this is unimaginable to anyone who grew up under more relaxed drinking laws. But despite having been in Berlin for more than six months, it still seems slightly strange to meet someone in the pub after midnight, yet more so to leave around 1 with no sign that things are going to close any time soon.

In like a lion

It was the first Saturday in March. I was lying, semi-conscious, in bed around 10:30 when the doorbell rang. I grabbed a hair elastic to hide my bed head, and threw on the hot pink robe I got for Christmas and answered the door to find my neighbour, Jogi, and his son of 1.5 years, Edgar, standing in the landing. He asked if Cliff, my German flatmate of dog-elimination fame, was home, to which I explained no, and also that Katja, my Danish flatmate, was gone for the month and that I was having a lazy morning, hence the bathrobe.

The reason for his visit? To find out more about Cliff's iPod, but considering his absence, I volunteered to help him by showing my model, and invited them in. Aside from looking like I was still missing some beauty sleep the timing was perfect. It had taken me five months of living in this flat and the collective abandonment of my flatmates, for me to really move in to my room. In their absence I had decided it was time, finally, to hang some art and photos and put up the floating shelf stashed in the corner only to discover that the stonewalls made the task near impossible for my one-woman venture and that power tools were required. So I had planned to head up the one flight between our flats that very day, albeit not in my bathrobe, to see if Jogi might have one I could borrow. Him turning up on at my door was pure synchronicity.

We talked a little iPod talk, chatted a bit about my limited German, Edgar’s burgeoning vocabulary and being “all alone in a strange country where I don’t understand the language” to paraphrase my neighbour. By the end of the visit Edgar had found my blue, toy model of a Dodge Charger, aptly repeating “auto” several times, lost his bouncy ball to the cave under my bed, and I had been invited to dinner with Jogi and his family. Oh and we’d both gotten what we were after- a power drill for me, and enough iPod info for Jogi to justify joining the iPod generation.

The neighbourly visit also got me going for the day. After twice braving the gale forces winds (remember the amateur video of an attempted place landing at the airport here in Hamburg that made the rounds on most major media last week) on foot, once for a trip to the Max Bahr, a D-I-Y building market like Home Depot, and once for a run around the Barmfelder See, baking a batch of Scor cupcakes and finishing my “home improvement” tasks, I knocked one my neighbour’s door to a friendly welcome and a privileged peek into the life of one family in Hamburg.

I left several hours later, knowing my neighbours a little better and with an invitation to join them at the alpine club’s wall climbing facility the next day where Chyenne, the 10-year old daughter and I would be partnered up, communicating to each other through broken attempts at a foreign language. There’s nothing quite like having a 10-year-old you can’t fully communicate with responsible for your safety when you’re scaling a 10 meter wall for the first time. Even more nerve wracking, though, was leaning back and repelling for the first time, with a 10-year-old securing me decent to solid ground. She also seemed a little wary of me being her safety and rightly so considering I was an authentic first timer. Naturally she could climb me under the table, but fun was had and I’m officially invited to join them every Thursday for their weekly wall scaling activities.

The original prospects for a quite month alone in the flat have turned into a storm of activity all started by a mid-morning visit from my neighbour. In like a lion, indeed.

Just a moment of your time

On my way home from the university's hochsport club I had a brief flash of Canada.
Getting off the u-bahn at my stop, was guy carrying a hockey stick. Like a real, ice hockey stick.
It's literally been years since I've seen anyone with a hockey stick. The closest thing to it would be when I went to see an indoor hockey match where our home team, the Harvestehuder Warriors, beat Hannover. But it wasn't quite the same.
So, one more time. A hockey stick! Imagine.

Migration and media: conversation with a migration economist

Germany may not be his permanent home, but after living here for seven years, Manh-Cuong Vu is obviously at home here, and he’s not planning to leave any time soon.

When Vu, a PhD candidate in economics living in Hamburg, first had plans to leave Vietnam, he imagined going to Australia or the UK, like so many other people from Asia do.

“[My sister] was talking to me about life in Germany and how good it way to study here,” he says. His sister, a Berlin resident, immigrated to Germany some 20 years ago and convinced Vu to choose Germany over the other countries.

“German education is regarded as very good in my home country, and I was very curious about Germany and German people.”

With a population of around 81,100, Vietnamese immigrants only make up fraction of Europe’s second most populous nation’s 82 million plus population. According to the German Statistical Yearbook for 2007, complied by the federal statistics office, that is 0.4 per cent less than last year.

While there are many kinds of Vietnamese immigrants in Germany, there have been two main immigration waves. Many of the Vietnamese immigrants in Germany came as refugees, or boat people, during or shortly after the Vietnamese war and settled in Western Germany. The second group of immigrants were recruited to the former Eastern German State (GDR) as workers through an agreement between the reunified Vietnamese government and the GDR. Through this agreement, the Vietnamese became the largest Asian community in Germany.

Vu moved to Berlin in January of 1999. Trying to prepare himself for the move to a new country with a drastically different language, he took German classes, parallel to his university studies in Vietnam. The classes weren’t very intensive and after a year he felt the progress was little so upon arriving in Germany he spent the first six months just learning German to prepare for university life in his new city.

“It was very positive for me,” Vu says of his initial experiences in the country. “What you heard about Germany and German people was biased by prejudice, but most of my experience was positive.”

“Germans are normally not very easy to talk to at the first moment, but once you get into the conversation, after a while, you can have a chance to build a long and good relationship.”

That experience was different, he says, when he spent two years in France as a part of a university exchange between his home university in Berlin and Ecole Nationale de la Statistique et de l’Administration Economique in Paris.

“In France you could get into conversation more easily than elsewhere. In most cases, you have the feeling to be welcome immediately, but after a while it can emerge as nothing,” he says, also noting the national mindset towards foreigners was quite different in the two countries. “There are some kind of people [in Germany] who are afraid of foreign people for different reasons but what I actually realized is in France, this kind of racism is in some way deeper.”

Vu says the media in Germany are varied when it comes to their reporting of minority and migrant groups inside the country.

“Of course each kind of newspaper has some of bias or perspective it supports. In Süddeutsche Zeitung it is very left-liberal in comparison to Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Bild or Die Welt, just for an example. I tried to read all kind of newspapers for the time I’ve been living here but the newspaper I read the most is Süddeutsche, it’s the most quality newspaper here in Germany I think.”

Vu says there are quite a lot of reports about immigrants in the news, in fact almost every day there is mention of something. Mostly though, he says the reports are not overly negative and take into account other perspectives. Some topics, though, get more attention than others.

“There is a lot of reporting on that there are so many immigrants in Germany and this kind of discussion of whether they take jobs, or there is an increase of crime because of it.”

But that frame isn’t applied to all groups. Vu says it’s particularly the Turkish population that is talked about this way in the press- a discussion that is mirrored in national discourse as well.

But certain immigrant groups get much more attention in the press than others. The newspapers don’t report much about the South-East Asian population in Germany, according to Vu. “It’s mostly Turks that are foreigners, and other ethnic immigrant groups are normally not taken into account.”

This isn’t only limited to the media. A recent research report on immigrant populations and their media use in Germany fails to even identify a population from South-East Asia. Breaking immigrant groups into Turkish, Polish, Italian, Greek and Serb/Kroat, the report breaks down access and use of television, newspapers, and Internet among those migrant populations. Migranten und Medien 2007 (Migrants and the Media 2007), was commissioned by the ARD/ZDF Media Commission. ARD is the organization under which television broadcasting is organized across Germany’s 16 states.

According to Vu, there are some community newsletter-type pamphlets in the Vietnamese community here in Germany, particularly in Berlin. The newsletters contain mostly community information and reports, but Vu says that most of the Vietnamese population gets its news from newspapers from “home” that are imported into Germany. Also, the online editions of Vietnamese papers have made it easier to access news.

As a research assistant at the Chair of International Economics at Universität Hamburg, member of the Hamburg Institute of International Economics Migration Research Group, and immigrant himself, Vu studies migration patterns in Europe. The discussion of immigrants’ impact on national workforces is of particular interest to him.

Nationally, he says there are many illegal immigrants, or irregular as he describes them, in the domestic workforce. One the one hand he says, everyone knows this happens and it is overlooked because the labour force is needed, but on the other hand there is a lot of political talk about fighting against illegal work in Germany.

Vu says that there is a need for foreign workers in Germany to help sustain the economy, which ranks between the world’s fifth and seventh largest depending on the measures.

He says the question for the country is how to motivate irregular immigrants to become involved in certain sectors with a lack of national workforce, such as the care sector, by regularizing them and offering the education they need to participate.

“There has always existed irregular migration,” he says. “The question is how to manage this. These people should have a good life and not be taken advantage of. It is a situation that both countries can benefit from; the receiving country can profit from it and the sending country also can.”

This specialty research area combining both economics and migration studies is one of the reasons he’s been in Germany, but not the only.

“As an economist it’s very interesting to see how Germany can be such a big economy and famous in the world,” says Vu. “But the reason why I’m here in Germany at this moment is more about the people I meet here and the social community that is here.”

Piece of Meat

Its 10am on a Saturday morning and in his enclosure at Berlin zoo, Knut is warming up for his day long show.

After polishing off his breakfast, he yawns and reaches for his favorite toy, a old frayed brown sack. Making sure he is facing towards the outside of his enclosure, he throws the sack in the air and catches it, chews on it, rolls on his back then dives off the rock into the murky moat, where he spends the next half hour turning somersaults and trying to scale up the Perspex wall that separates the moat from the viewing area. In light of last year’s zoo escapes (San Francisco and Rotterdam) this is slightly disconcerting, but he seems playful enough, and it could easily pass as part of the performance.

But any show is incomplete without an audience, and apart from the odd chuckle and click of the lens, Knut’s show lacks the response it seems he is trying to achieve.

The paltry turnout consists of a little boy, his dad, and yours truly.

“Is that Knut?” I overhear the little boy asking his father.

He is holding a bedraggled looking Knut cuddly toy, (sold in their millions last year), that unsurprisingly, thanks to the law of time and nature, doesn’t resemble Knut in the slightest anymore. His father probably couldn’t bear the thought of taking his son to queue at 8am outside the gates 6 months ago, in order to catch a glimpse of Knut frolicking with his trainer Mathias, or posing for Vogue cover photos taken by celebrity photographer Annie Leibowitz.

So instead this little boy is confronted with a huge, muddy polar bear. It’s understandable that he is slightly confused and even disappointed.

But imagine how Knut feels. First he is violently rejected by his polar bear mummy and instead raised by a guitar-playing, Elvis-singing human, who goes by the name of Thomas Dörflein. He becomes more and more attached to his daily frolics with his new daddy, and just as their double act is reaching perfection, Thomas is banned from the enclosure because Knut presents too much of a risk to him. To top having to deal with losing a parent twice, as he transforms from a fluffy little teddy bear into 100 kilos of rugged carnivore, Knut’s fans start losing interest.

Unsurprisingly, all this confusion seems to be giving Knut an identity crisis. According to Peter Arras, a leading German zoologist, Knut is a “psychopath”, a “problem bear.”

"He howls and cries if there's no one out there to show off to [you can hear him from the zoo entrance], and as soon as spectators come, he calms down and starts performing. It's like a circus." (Source: Spiegel Online)

This has led to comparisons to Britney Spears, who appears to be the ringleader of her own media circus. Her recent behaviour includes shaving her head, stealing underwear from an adult store and refusing to give her two children back to ex-husband Kevin Federline. Some say her early rise to stardom and the media's insatiable appetite for any news related to her public melt-down, are the leading causes of her fall from starlet to train wreck.

As Mr Arras puts it: “He's [Knut] suffering all the problems of celebrity. Narcissism has become normal for Knut. He's like Britney Spears - he needs people around him in order to function. (…) He thinks that's normal. He's been brought up to think normal life for a polar bear is doing tricks while hundreds of spectators clap and cheer."

But unlike Britney, Knut won’t be able to cash in on his downfall by releasing a new single. Her latest is called Piece of Me, which is full of unsubtle references to the media frenzy surrounding her, such as the ingenious: "I’m Mrs. Lifestyles of the rich and famous; I’m Mrs. 'Oh my God that Britney’s Shameless'"; ad infinitum.

Meanwhile, back at the zoo, Knut continues to perform persistently and somewhat tragically for his audience of three. I know whom I feel sorrier for.

With blind eyes

This entry is a little off topic. Or a lot if you consider it has nothing to do with Germany. Or maybe it does.

It has to do with things that we don't see in Europe; rather, choose not to see in Europe- or in much of the world for that matter.

It is a photo essay by a colleague from the hospital of a refugee camp in Algeria where the Saharawi people have been living for more than 30 years, caught between countries, international intergovernmental agencies like the UN and EU... living in limbo, many for their entire lives.

We fill the international news holes in our papers with stories from other places, there isn’t room for everything, so some places, some people get left out. We don’t see this one. Or choose not to see it, perhaps. Stories from this conflict don’t interest us.

Please choose to see it. Click on photo essay to see the slide show.

To find out more about the Saharawi read Stones in a Minefield.

Standing on a street corner...

Me (in the little pink hat) in the Sternschanze reading the writing on the wall

A closer look

News?

I was going to write something about the smoking ban, but since Faith beat me to it, my reflections on that issue will have to wait for a bit.

I don't use the U-bahn often, as I tend to find that cycling is quicker. But it was dark and drizzling as my seminar finished today, and the FU is miles away from anywhere, so I ended up getting home using a combination of the U3 and U7.

One feature they have is the 'Berliner Fenster', or Berlin Windows, TV screens mounted in most of the carriages. They mostly carry advertising and selections of news headlines, presumably paid-for by the newspapers and broadcasters whose logos adorn them.

Apparently, two of today's most pressing news stories (and there weren't that many: the screens got through the entire loop at least 3 times during my relatively short journey, and it includes sport, finance and weather as well as 'news') were the rivetting announcements that a polar bear cub in Nürnberg can now walk, and that the asparagus harvest (which I thought didn't happen for several months) is under threat from the rain.

Admittedly, these two items came from a selection sponsored by B.Z., the trashy Berlin gutter-tabloid owned by the deeply reactionary Axel Springer AG, that has the sole accolade of being not quite as trashy as the national Bild. But nonetheless, was there really nothing more important to say?

Street Cred

Despite not being a militant anti-smoker I can appreciate the advantages of the smoking ban recently implemented here in Germany. Since January the 1st, I have been pleased to escape the routine torture of having smoke blown in my face at every possible opportunity.

Before the law was passed, many a Sunday breakfast in Kreuzberg was tainted by the token freelance fashion designer (or victim) nursing a 3 hour old latte at the next table whilst typing on their Ibook and continuously smoking Gauloise reds into your scrambled eggs. These are a breed unto themselves, and have been spreading fast in recent years due to the advent of wireless internet and Berlin’s stagnant economy in which full time jobs are hard to come by.

Of course there used to be other smoke blowing culprits but personally I found these the most offensive and socially unaware. Perhaps it is because they were so concentrated on their designing/emailing/bidding on eBay, that they regularly failed to notice their coughing neighbours.

Most of us would agree that this type of smoking is inherently anti-social and that therefore the smoking ban itself, by liberating us from passive smoking in public places, is for the greater good of society. I beg to differ. There has always (at least in my lifetime) been a societal rift between smokers and non-smokers: the crevice, however, has just turned into a canyon.

American readers will remember, albeit in the distant past, the feeling of being abandoned in a restaurant or café whilst the smokers in the group huddle together outside, sharing a quick joke, momentarily united by their addiction. In the meantime, as a non-smoker, you are left inside with the underage and pregnant; your conversation with your neighbour temporarily suspended while you try to strike up a rapport with a grumpy non-smoker whose partner has just broken their new year’s resolution.

Images of schooldays flood back – when the “cool” kids used to disappear behind the wall/bike shed/tree to smoke cigarettes and talk about exciting things like who had a crush on who and who was having a party at the weekend; whilst non smokers had to keep watch for squealers and distract the teacher on break duty by talking to them about homework assignments.

I am not saying smoking is cool. However, the ratio of smokers to non-smokers here is still relatively high, which means that when you go out for a meal or a drink, the people on the street often outnumber those left inside. I’m sure it won’t last: it won’t be long before they are ostracized into giving up as has happened in the US or, since last July, the UK.

In the meantime the non-smokers are faced with either being stuck alone inside or taking up “social” smoking to keep up with the word on the street. I wouldn’t recommend the latter.

Constructing the German experience

There is not absolute truth; truth is ‘that experience which we do not doubt anymore… at this particular moment in time,’ said Bernhard Pörksen, author of Wahrheit ist die Erfindung eines Lügners (Truth is the Invention of a Liar), to my Journalism and Power class, last Tuesday, January 16. For two hours we engaged in discussions and considerations of the extent to which we can understand reality, truth, and experience from a (social) constructivist viewpoint.

“At first I thought, if I loose the idea of absolute truth, is it worth getting out of bed?”

Recounting his first encounter with constructivism, Pörksen told us about how he “fell in love” with the theory that refuses the idea that there is an absolute truth.

Simply put, constructivism bases it’s epistemology in the way ‘truth’ is constructed in societies and, to quote from wikipedia because I couldn’t come up with a simpler explanation, that ‘humans construct meaning from current knowledge structures.’

Allow me to consider this constructivist approach for the remainder for this entry. So, our personal experiences are essential to how we construct the reality. Reality, or the truth as we see it, is a product of our own experience.

There is something to be said or timing. The “multilogue” with Pörsken about constructivism came about a week after I had decided that since this blog was supposed to be about Outsiders’ insights on living in Germany, perhaps I should seek out other ‘outsiders’ here in Hamburg and talk to them about their experiences.

On January 14 I met with a PhD candidate in the economic faculty at the university to gain some insight on migrant populations, one of his focus areas, and their use of the media. I’m planning to share parts of the more personal discussion we had about his experiences in Germany in a later entry, but let’s return to constructivism.

Perhaps it was mere coincidence that later that week I would participate in a two-hour discussion about the way our experiences inform our perception of reality. It seemed to somehow justify my feelings that I should talk to other people about what they experience in Germnay, because I feel ill equipped to make generalizations based on my personal experience. That could also be because my ‘nomadic’ lifestyle has made me uncomfortable generalizing about whole countries based on my encounter. Whatever the case, the constructivist approach seems fantastically applicable to my current situation.

During our discussion with Pörksen my countrymate, classmate, roommate and confidant of the highest accord, asked about the role journalists have in society, according to constructivism, not least because she’s been working with constructivism as a way to explain relationship between power and journalism.

The reply was something like this: Journalists are experiencing constructivism by experiencing the way we think we experience the truth. Journalists describe experiences through a certain model or frames which they already have, be it through the medium the work with or the actual media they work for. What journalists do is make sense of experiences of the world according to this framework. If we see the same sort of ‘truth’ portrayed by the media, we can view it as a form of control over the experienced truth.

“There isn’t a problem with having similar reality experiences in the press. The problem happen when one’s own experiences of reality is vastly different than the experiences reported in the press,” said Pörksen.

In those cases, we have to ask ourselves about which experiences have more worth, how our personal experiences correlate, whether we like other experiences and can live with those versions of the truth. Essentially, this is what we do with differing ideologies, cultural, and political viewpoints. The question then becomes how we deal with realities we don’t like.

This is where blogs have an interesting role. Pörksen suggested that we increasingly have an awareness that there are different truths. Our faith that reality is purely represented in the media is falling away; we are suspicious of “the truth” we are sometimes confronted with in the media (be it news media, entertainment media or otherwise).

“All those crazy people on the internet,” referring to bloggers, are experiencing constructivism. They (we) are constructing realities. User-generated content on the web is actively deconstructing the dominant media reality and realizing a “multiverse” rather than a “universe”.

So what’s my role in all of this, I’ve been asking myself for the last week. My responsibility as a journalist once I’m finished with this Master’s program is perhaps to be aware of how I present reality in my work.

My responsibility as a blogger right now is similar. How do I present my reality as just that: ‘my reality’ and not ‘the reality’? Perhaps I knew the answer to that before I even started spending so much time with constructivism as a theory… I need to look outside of myself and talk to others and when I write, I have to keep that question in mind. Obviously, you also have a responsibility; that is to remember that I’m only presenting my reality and that yours (or others’) might not be the same.

On that note, I look forward to sharing bits and pieces of conversations with people who are also outsiders in Germany in the next few entries.

With that in mind, I want to share one last thing Pörksen said to us. “Take your experience seriously, it’s the only thing you have.”
*
PS: It’s also nearing the end of the semester in the German university system which means that my reality right now is I’m spending the better part of the next month in front of my computer, with a stack of books and journal articles on either side and trying to formulate final essays for five different classes. So I hope you understand if the intervals of entries isn’t always so regular.

Home, Sweet Habichtstraße Station

Habichtstraße Station on the U2 line. After two weeks of Christmas holidays in Denmark, I'm looking forward to coming "home" to Hamburg.

Welcome to 2008

At 1:27 in the afternoon of January 1 the sound of church bells ringing jarred me awake. It was the first morning, well afternoon, of the new year and the church across the street seemed to have sent their bell-clanger to work. The ringing went on for minutes, which is far from welcome when you were the last one standing at the party the night before and finished your last drink, a dry martini, around six in the morning.

When finally the bells stopped there was a break about 18 minutes before they started again, rang for several minutes, stopped and started again. Meanwhile, folks who seemed to have fireworks left over and no headaches were out and about shooting off the last of their cache while they still could.

I was comforted when reading Josh’s post that fireworks are the norm in Hamburg and that he was surprised by the fact that they get shot off on streets all over the place with seemingly no concern for others. I had the same reaction to my first New Year’s Eve in Copenhagen three years ago and while I’m getting used to it now, it’s still mildly disconcerting to hear a random firework being shot off somewhere in the distance in the days leading up to the new year, mostly because that’s what imagine gunfire to sound like.

Unlike the past two years here where I’ve spent New Year’s eve with a few families entertaining their children, because I’m the “fun adult” as I’ve been informed, and putting my skills from the days I moonlighted as a bartender to work once the kids were tucked in, this year through an invite from the girlfriend of a friend’s roommate, I crashed a completely adult party.

I met a bunch of interesting people from a piano player who designs websites to pay the bills, an oncology doctor who flipped me the bird when I asked if it was unethical for him to smoke as he lit one up, a random flock of Australians passing though town, and among others, an autodidactic actress who is studying to be a sign language translator.

I saw champagne bottle after champagne bottle decapitated with a saber, which is a fancy Danish way of opening a bottle of bubbly. I’m partial to popping the cork the traditional way myself, mostly of fear for taking my thumb off along with the top of the bottle but it is rather festive and amusing to see champagne flowing from a freshly slashed bottle. I wonder, is this a custom anywhere else in the world?

Unlike the Canadian, and I assume American, tradition of kissing someone at midnight, that didn’t seem to be the case at our party. We did sing Være velkommen Herren’s År, a traditional Danish song welcoming the new year, of which I know less than half of the words coincidentally also equal to my proficiency with Auld Lang Syne.

After the first song of the year, and definitely not the only or last, everyone rushes out onto to the street to see the random display of fireworks coming from every street corner. I missed this part, talking instead to my best friend who called from Canada to say hi. In the hour after the clock strikes 12, there’s also a deal of sms-ing, sending out New Year’s greeting to everyone in the address book.

The rest of the night and into the wee hours of the morning were spent dancing, talking, laughing, singing and carrying on, as I’m sure is the norm for most places celebrating the Gregorian calendar year. And if the party was any indication of what the rest of the year is going to be like, I'm looking forward to it.

On that note I want to wish you all a very happy 2008. For me its back to the grind again next Tuesday but it’s not all fun and games until then. There is serious work to be done before classes resume.

Oh, and I want to wish my dad and step-mom a belated very Happy Anniversary, they got married just after the stroke of midnight ushering in the new millennium.

Bürgerkrieg

I'm just about recovered (which is more than can be said for my body-clock) from the Silvester (New Year's Eve) party we threw in our flat. Nothing huge -- about forty people, at a guess -- but with quite a lot of food (for which we got lots of praise, which is always lovely), and generally very friendly.

I'm not one to make a huge fuss about the arbitrary change of digit at the end of the date, but it's as good an excuse for a party as any. And we certainly enjoyed ourselves. It was also a pleasure not to have to join arms and sing Auld Lang Syne at the stroke of midnight (although if I'm honest, it's been about ten years since I was somewhere where that happened).

Instead, I got to experience a different tradition. There have been a few fireworks going off most evenings for the last few days (indeed, a lover and I set off three in Treptower Park a couple of nights ago), but on the 31st it was something else. At about half past five we schlepped a few cases of wine and beer up to the flat, and a bunch of teenagers were already setting of firecrackers. These got more and more frequent until midnight when we couldn't see the street for the smoke.

There's something that scares me about fireworks being let off on the street, but here it seems normal. (I hate to think how many people are injured each year from fireworks at new year.) Indeed, in Britain, December 31 doesn't seem as big a time for fireworks as it does here -- perhaps that's because people have already had their fill on November 5th, when we commiserate a failed attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

They continued most of the night. The group of kids on the street having discovered that if they shot rockets into the passageway it made much more noise because there was a chamber for the explosion to resound in. And from our balcony, I was glad that most of the kids were on our side of the street. And even then, I was relieved to get back inside for a drink.

And now there's a kitchen to continue clearing up, and a floor to be washed.

So this is Christmas...

It’s that time of year again. For my family the Christmas officially starts tomorrow with Lille JuleAften… the night before Christmas (Eve).

I’m catching a bus tomorrow morning that will take me up to Northern Jutland where I transfer to regional bus which takes me to Blokhus, where the family summer house is. Together with one of my three cousins and her family and my Aunt and Uncle we’ll start the traditions that go with this time of the year here in Denmark. Rice pudding (risengrød) for dinner tomorrow, wine, Christmas beer, walks along the beach, the big Christmas Eve dinner (Julefrokost), reading the Christmas liturgy, dancing around the Christmas tree and inevitably a few disagreement on how the whole show should be run, and perhaps a trip to the community swimming pool.

It’s probably like that most places across Denmark give or take a few family and local traditions. Our family is splitting up and assembling in different places at different times, some crossing paths with each other, other missing each other completely for the five Christmas period: Lille Jule Aften (little Christmas Eve), Jule Aften (Christmas Eve), and then Første, Anden and Trejde Jule Dag (First, Second, and Third Christmas Day).

Until the immediate Christmas stretch is over and we head into New Year’s Eve preparations, I’m offline. No internet access at the summer house means disconnecting from the e-world and reconnecting with the “real” world. Should be a blast.

On that note and as I sign off line for the next five days, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, Glædelig Jul. And if you celebrate a different holiday this time of year… then Happy Hanukah, Crazy Kwanzaa or whatever else you celebrate.

Please stand on the right?

There's an old joke to the effect that the slowest thing on four legs is two Brits outside a door. But two people standing on the BVG escalators seem to give them a pretty good run for their money.

On the tube, London Transport seem to ensure that it's impossible to use an escalator without passing several 'please stand on the right' signs. Most commonly they're mounted on triangular prisms to the side of the stairway. And anyone blocking the path of a commuter in a rush gets short shrift.

In Berlin, on the other hand, it's not uncommon to see blocks of six or more people standing together such that it's impossible to pass. Which is particularly irritating when the train I'm hoping to catch is already on the platform and about to leave. Even more so when the subsequent trains are delayed, which in turn means the difference between just catching and just missing the connecting train to go to the FU. And yet more so when I subsequently arrive two minutes after the office I need to get to has closed, which means I can't collect two letters that have arrived for me until the new year.

Additional gripes:

offices that close at 3pm (this wouldn't be quite so irritating if it weren't for the fact that I'm usually only at the FU twice a week, and for seminars that start at 4 and 6pm).
(British) banks who insist on sending letters to a departmental address, despite
1. my having written to them twice to inform them of my home address, and that I would much rather receive post there;
2. the fact that they seem perfectly capable of sending correspondence related to my current account to my home address, but not my credit-card statement.

Time for coffee and cake to calm down. And to appreciate the fact that the Mensa here does both significantly better than their equivalents at pretty much every British university I've visited.

You've got to live here to get it

Please don’t confuse the two week absence with disinterest or a lack of motivation. It’s just life has been busy since last I posted.

Flying above a floor of clouds en route to Hamburg, their texture reminds me of the Icelandic River in Manitoba frozen in the depths of winter and covered in several feet of fresh snow. A long time ago we used to spend hours clearing the snow with shovels to make a skating rink, or at least my brothers did. In more recent years I think the town has started to use a little plow to do it.

Memories of a white Christmas, several feet of snow and the plug dangling from under the family car’s hood (not because it’s electric, but to make sure the car will start again the next morning after the -20 temperatures) haunt me again this year, with the Christmas holidays threatening to be rather dry and brown. Flying up here in the afternoon sunlight reminds me though that beyond the seemingly endless grey skies of late, the sun is actually shining. I just can’t always see it.

Since my last entry I’ve covered a great deal of ground, mentally and physically. I’ve been back in Copenhagen twice, once by train, which drives right onto the ferry in Puttgarden) and now by plane.

Last Wednesday my Master’s class of 20 international students from 10 different countries took a field trip to Berlin. A Brazilian and I danced atop the Reichstag, a fellow Dane and I shared an antipasto place and a San Pellegrino at an Italian café, and an Indian and I indulged in a beer on the train ride home. I met at least two people who can send SMSes directly to Chancellor Merkel, and got an outsider’s insight to the journalism culture in Germany, or at least in Berlin at the Bundespressekonferenz, from a foreign correspondent for an Irish daily.

Two Fridays ago my mind and heart traveled 6655 km’s home to Winnipeg at a Weakerthans concert on the Grosse Freiheit, the first street of the old Danish Altona district of Hamburg. Transported back by lyrics referring to Confusion Corner, St. Vital and the Golden Boy, I remembered, as an old Canadian beer commercial used to advertise, “You’ve got to live here to get it.” In this case, although my German flat mate, an avid music buff and my date for the evening, thought the concert was great, I was into it on a whole different level. I guess you had to have lived there to get it.

Speaking of “you’ve got to live here to get it”, that’s how I’m starting to feel about Germany, and Hamburg more particularly. Old preconceptions are being erased by new insights, ideas and experiences.

On that note, I leave you with a quick recap of the last two weeks:
• Enjoyed the view of the Baltic Sea from a ferry window
• Screamed “I hate Winnipeg” at exactly the right moment to be heard in a concert hall full of people intoxicated by music and spirits
• Not seen the fireworks at the Hamburger Dom, though not for lack of not trying
• Been put on spin-cycle at the Press and Information of the German Federal Government
• Enjoyed a hot chocolate while overlooking the Øresund channel between Denmark and Sweden
• Baked my Grandmother’s Christmas cookies with my “niece” and “nephew” to the sounds of Danish children’s music
• Stood behind the podium where Chancellor Merkel has given a press conference earlier
• Visited my favourite coffee shops in both Copenhagen and Hamburg
• Bought a new cook book

reinfeiern

'Feierst du rein?' asked the friend of my flatmate's at her birthday party last night. Yes, she was. Someone then asked me how one translates reinfeiern into English. The short answer is that one doesn't.

It literally means to 'celebrate in'. That is, to have a party the evening before one's birthday, to as it were welcome in the birthday itself. As far as I'm aware, English doesn't have such a concept. Which isn't to say that English-speaking birthdays have to be celebrated on the day itself -- in my experience, birthday parties tend to take place during the days around people's birthdays, often arranged to take place conveniently at a weekend, often within a few days, but occasionally at a few months before or after the birthday.

The closest English gets to such a phrase is at new year. Which one might 'bring in', or 'ring in', or 'see in'. Which fits with the fact that new year is the one festival I can think of that is celebrated in Britain the evening before.

Here that's not the case. Last night I was invited to an evening meal at a queer house-project 'am Weihnachten'. I don't celebrate Christmas, but I'm sufficiently familiar with the calender of those who do to know that that (outside the Orthodox Church) meant December 25. Or at least, I thought it did.

It turns out that Christmas celebrations in Germany tend to take place on December 24. On the day, that is, that I still refer to as Christmas Eve when I let the effects of my socialisation get the better of me. It seems to be the 24th that people are expected to spend with their families. In contrast, on the few recent occasions that I have visited my parents in late December, I've spent the 24th out with friends, with a family meal taking place on the 25th. Almost invariably at lunchtime.

I wonder, then: is the untranslatable concept a mark of a cultural difference in the way people celebrate? Are there other festivals that are celebrated the day before the 'official' day of celebration? And how much does this vary within and between cultures?

Potsdamer Platz

Berlin winter?

I'd been told to expect cold winters. Although Berlin is at roughly the same latitude as Cambridge, its location is meant to give it more of a continental climate, with colder winters and hotter summers. And in any case, Cambridge isn't exactly renowned for being pleasant in the winter, since the flat land for miles around leaves it exposed to chilling winds.

So, prepared for the worst, I brought with me a thick sheepskin coat and various thermal layers. But having wandered onto our balcony wearing not much more than a thin sweater and a sleeveless jacket, it's still remarkably mild. That said, 'still' is perhaps somewhat inaccurate, since we did have some fairly cold (at least by my standards) periods in October and November. But so far it's all been remarkably tolerable.

I'm told that last year Berlin (where winter temperatures are said often to be below -20°c) hardly had a winter, by its standards. Is climate-change slowly having an effect? Or do I just have to wait a bit longer for the coldest times?

Mealtimes

I'd hoped that my first post would be particularly thought-provoking, or witty, or at least interestingly observant. But I'm afraid it's this instead.

In the archive where I spend most of my working week -- or to be more accurate, where I intend/ought to spend most of my working week -- on Wednesday I bumped into someone I'd met at a conference in Britain a year and a half or so ago.

We quietly (there were other people working in the reading room) exchanged pleasantries, and he suggested we meet for lunch. At 1.

The time wouldn't be particularly merkwürdig, were it not for the fact that it reminded me of something that struck me shortly after I arrived in Berlin. After a few days working in the archive, one of the very friendly archivists invited me to join them at the nearby mensa (cafeteria) for lunch. At 12.30. They tend to return by 1.15 or so, and then have coffee at 3, before finishing work at 5.

A conversation with a friend of mine confirmed that these are the usual intervals between which the the working day is divided, people in some offices also having a coffee-based (second?) breakfast at some point before 10. But it still struck me as slightly strange.

Left to my own devices, my habit, when I'm not working at home (in which case I've always got a pot of tea beside me, and eat if and when I feel hungry) would be to break for coffee at around 11, lunch at 1, and a cup of tea and perhaps some cake at around 4. This is of course at least in part a result of my socialisation -- in Cambridge, the morning's lectures finish at 1, and there's almost no teaching scheduled between 1 and 2. And supervisions taking place between 4 and 5 would almost invariably involve the offer of a cup of tea.

Not a huge difference. And certainly not one that is difficult to live with. But for the past week I've been back on the 'British' timetable, which seems to fit better with the rhythms to which my body-clock is accustomed. I'm not a Berliner yet.

Landungsbrüken Station

Top: Landungsbrüken U and S-Bahn station, entrance from the ferry docks.
Bottom: Metal and tile on the U-Bahn platform richtung Barmbek.

Josh Robinson

After six years, Josh still hasn't managed to leave higher education, but since August has at least managed to escape Cambridge. Living in Berlin, he divides his time between archives and libraries, radical politics, smoke-filled cafés and alternative parties.

Communicative Impairment

There’s a sort of ignorant bliss in moving to a country where you don’t speak the language. Often prone to eavesdropping on the conversations around me in cafés, on trains or to the chatter of people passing on the sidewalk, I’m turned out of the world around me.

Of course, ignorance isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

The first incident reminding me of the frustration that comes with lacking the communications skills I need here in Germany was in the neighbourhood Schlecker, a sort of drugstore with out the drug counter, where I was picking up a new bottle of shampoo. When I first came in the lady at the counter made some sort of remark about the weather and I smiled and headed down the aisle. Then at the checkout she seemed to be talking about my coat, a knee length bright green raincoat with a polka dot-swan print. I guessed what she was saying was good from the smile on her face, so I responded in my best German: Entschuldigung, Ich kan keine Deutsche. Ich komme aus Dänemark, and then in my not-so-best German, Das Jacke komme aus Kopenhagen.

I’m sure this is far from grammatically correct, but she seemed to understand what I was trying to say, and said: Dänemark, mange tak! (Which is Danish for thank-you.) Then I pulled out the other German sentence in my repertoire that I have perfected: Danke Shön, Tschüß!

I’ve mastered these relatively simple exchanges, saying I don’t speak German, apologizing, or greeting people in stores, and my bi-weekly German course is helping me take baby steps in remedying my communication impairment, but it only gets me so far.

The bliss stops in social situations more complex than simple exchanges at the checkout of shops. I’ve joined the “Campus Club” at the Hamburg University Sports’ Centre. It gives me access to a variety of different classes, from step aerobics to capoiera, and activities like football and table tennis.

Considering that my German isn’t advanced enough for me to attend something terribly complicated, I’ve been having my butt kicked by a series of enthusiastic German fitness instructors leading toning and Pilates classes.

At the first “body workout” class I attended I secretly thanked my mom and the Jane Fonda workout takes she used to do when I was little. I used to think they were silly by apparently passive exposure to them has paid off. Despite not understanding a word coming out of the instructor’s mouth, I fell into and easy march, then side-step, step-touch, lunges and squats all while moving my arms in different patterns hardly missing a beat.

But life in Germany is more complicated than mastering the motor coordination of aerobics classes. And being able to tune out of conversations around me is probably healthy to a certain extent, but at the same time I’m operating at a distance from the world around me; removed from the ordinary exposure to people that gives a glimpse into a culture around me.

Rathaus Station

This photo of the Rathaus U-Bahn station is the first in a series of photos I have been taking at U and S-Bahn stations in Hamburg.

Hamburgers and Their Hot Dogs

Hamburgers are unusually fond of their dogs. I’ve never lived in a city where there were so many dogs.

The last time I was in place where I noticed so many dogs was Fort Collins, Colorado. And even then it was only at the Earth Day celebration where one of the city parks was overrun with happy people and their happy dogs enjoying a sunny Earth Day concert and the environmental awareness activities.

Dogs go everywhere here; in grocery stores, in U and S trains, and university buildings. And I even see dogs in clothing stores and cafés. The majority of these dogs that go everywhere are the small type. But every once in a while I’ll see a Shepard or other larger dog happily following their owner into some shop.

Seeing people with dogs makes me happy. I’ve grown up with dogs. Bagel, Kitty, and Pepper are among the dogs I’ve counted as family members alongside my human siblings. We grew up and played together everywhere from a compound in Jos where we had free reign of a sizable fenced-in lot to the backyards of a small Canadian prairie town.

Four years ago I lived with two dogs. When my roommate and I would take Sam and Chutney for walks or to play in the snowdrifts of winter it seemed like we were among a small minority enjoying the urban landscape with our leashed friends as companions.

Back in Fredericton, I didn’t notice dogs the same way I do here in Hamburg. There I only noticed dogs around civil twilight* when people aired their four-legged companions after work or perhaps out for a weekend walk. Here I notice dogs all the time. I meet them in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings, on my way to and from the gym or school or the town.

However, where there are dogs, inevitably there is dog poop. For every time I see someone practice the old stoop and scoop method, I’m sure there is at least one who pretends that their dog is female, and it was just pee. And, the former dog owner in me sympathizes, but only a little.

I think my three siblings and I would have taken any other chore growing up to get out of poop-scooping the lawn (well besides cleaning the bathrooms, perhaps. The whole plastic bag glove isn’t the most pleasant part of dog ownership, but a part none-the-less.

Unfortunately I didn’t have to go far to find this little nugget. Admittedly I felt a little foolish stooping down in the dusk to photograph a pile of excrement, but it had to be done. Perhaps for the sake of my roommate (the one from Düsseldorf) who, admittedly a little inebriated, stepped in a pile of poop on the way from downtown about a month ago.

Not realizing at the time, it was first when he came to the next day and saw his shoes beside the bed that he noticed it. The three of us spent a few days brainstorming how he should deal with cleaning the soiled shoes. Clearly this wasn’t one of those times when you could just wipe it off in the nearest clump of grass and cleaning them in the sinks was unthinkable. At last two of us came up with the idea he should clean them in the sink in our basement laundry room. Whether he did it or not, I’m not sure.

A lesson well learned, I now look twice when straying off main pathways and taking shortcuts across grassy areas- a small adjustment for enjoying a city full of dog lovers. And with this enjoyment, I’m still marvelling that they really go almost everywhere with their humans. Even to the mall.

Top Right: Waiting for the U1 at Hallerstrasse
First Left: Hanging out at Europa Passage downtown
Second Left: A nugget on the path near my home
Bottom: Bussja checks out a fellow shopper at Europa Passage
*Civil twilight is borrowed from a song with the same title by The Weakerthans

Cold November Rain

It doesn’t smell much like fall on my near daily commute to school. A fact that surprises me. The leaves on the trees in our neighbourhood have turned from green to gold and now litter the sidewalk and congregate at the point where the road meets the sidewalk.

But it feels like fall- and in this past week- fall in Northern Europe. That cold, comfortless rain has started to fall. As my flatmate from Düsseldorf said about a week ago while puddle dodging on the way to the U-Bahn stop near our flat, there’s nothing romantic about the rain in northern Europe. Although he was recalling a trip to Ireland where it rained constants and the locals insisted that it just wouldn’t be Ireland without the rain, I couldn’t stop thinking about it in relation the overcast skies of Hamburg recently.

I'm not particularly fond of rainy weather, but at least I’m prepared for it compared to the majority of my classmate coming from India, Brazil and similar hot climates. I have the spent the last three years in Copenhagen acclimatizing to the November rain. And having spent the previous many years in various Canadian cities at first I was thankful for the +5-10 °C instead of the –5-10 °C typical for mid- November.

The small central-Canadian town that my father lives in, has an average of only 6mm of rain for the entire month of November, and instead gets about 21.3 cm of snow. And their average daily temperature is –6 °C (Calculated from 1971 to 2000 by Environment Canada). Although the last time I checked the weather at “home” the temperatures have been on par with what we’ve been coping with here.

Meanwhile in Hamburg, the average precipitation in November over the last 30 years is 71.1 mm and the average temperature is 5.1°C. And so far this year, I can attest to the fact that most of it has been rain and not snow (Wetter.com).

In Denmark, the average precipitation in November is about 75mm of rain, and the Danish Meteorological Institute doesn’t distinguish whether it is rain or snow, but I’ll venture to say it’s because if it does snow, it melts before it hits the ground. Meanwhile, the average temperature hovers around 4.7°C (DMI).

Back in Hamburg, my recollection of the weather this month has been almost exclusively of overcast skies and drizzle. Last Sunday my classmates who are early risers reported snow in the morning and on the way home from class on Wednesday it started hailing while I waited for the U2 in Barmbeck. The two days last week that brought sunshine were of course days when I had to be indoors the whole time and by the time I had time to enjoy the blue skies they had turned a dull grey again.

Perhaps this seems like I’m complaining about the weather. And when my Brazilian classmate tells me last time he talked to his parents they were drinking caipirinhas on the beach in +35°C a twinge of jealousy runs through me as I curse the weather and wish for bluer skies. But really I’m not complaining. Maybe there really is something at least a little romantic about the rain in northern Europe- like escaping the rain in a cozy little café and wrapping your hands around a mug of hot chocolate.

Internet is like Germany

Source: Mark Poster (2001) in Debating Civil Society: On the Fear for Civic Decline and Hope for the Internet Alternative, by Peter Ester and Henk Vinken, International Sociology, vol. 18, no. 4.)

Paper lanterns and marching bands

I was walking from a nail salon on the outskirts of downtown Bonn, my french manicure still tacky and already damaged when I heard the sound of children singing. Turning a corner, I found a group of children singing traditional Martinstag songs on the steps of the Rathaus (town hall), to a small audience. I watched for a few minutes before wandering aimless into the walking quarter of the former German capital.

A half hour later the sound of drums and horns playing a rendition of Oh When the Saints, filled the Münsterplatz, an open square in the centre of the city flanked by the Dom Cathedral and shop-lined streets in every direction. On closer inspection, the music was coming from one of the bands accompanying a school group on the annual Sankt Martin parade, the first I had ever seen.

Elementary, and perhaps middle-school-aged children marched through the streets accompanied from various bangs, the clang of the cathedral’s bells and all manner of family. Most children carried handmade paper lanterns on sticks or dangling from poles and some covered in clear garbage sacks, probably the 20liter variety, to protect the paper from the drizzle. I watched several school groups go past before ducking into a nearby café to escape the rain and refuel on a double espresso.

With still two and a half hours before my train from Bonn left, I wandered the streets again to find a place to eat. Met by more music- a quartet playing the Pink Panther theme under an awning, a small group singing and a stray accordion player, I settled at a window table for one to eat before taking the four and a half hour train ride back home to Hamburg.

Sankt Martin’s Background: November 11 was names St. Martin’s Day in many western European countries. Dedicated to the French bishop Martin de Tours who founded the first Abbey. Martin is known for giving his cloak to a beggar while he was serving in an army of the Roman Empire. That night he apparently had a vision of Jesus which led him to be baptized and join the church. Another legendary tale of Martin involves him hiding among a flock of geese in his hometown to avoid being named Bishop. He is one of the most recognizable saints of Catholicism. Present day Sankt Martin’s parades and celebration are not all equally religiously driven. The story of him hiding among the geese has lead to the tradition of eating a roasted goose (or duck) on November 11.
Martinstag links:
Martinstag (German)
Mortensaften (Danish)
Feast of Saint Martin (English)

Miriam Christensen

Miriam Christensen completed Erasmus Mundus Master’s program in journalism and media at the Universität Hamburg. Born in the Plateau state of Nigeria, she spent eight years there before her parents relocated to Denmark, her father's native country, and then later to Canada, her mother's home country. She has travelled extensively in North America and Western Europe and is constantly planning her next trip. Torn simultaneously by wanderlust and wanting roots, she moved (back) to Copenhagen, Denmark in 2005 and since then has lived in Amsterdam and Hamburg. In the winter of 2010, Miriam moved to Ethiopia to work for an NGO. You can follow her adventures at Diaries from Dire Dawa. And, if given the opportunity she will drink entirely too much coffee, black, and eat entirely too much chocolate, dark.

Does Slow and Steady win the Race?

One of the first things that struck me upon entering a German lecture theatre last year, was how much the age profile differed to that of other universities I had visited or studied at in the past.

In the UK “Freshers’ Week” lives up to its name: thousands of fresh-faced students swarm the streets of university towns on organized pub crawls, “bonding” over several hundred bottles of alco-pops. Here in Germany the beginning of the new semester passes relatively uneventfully, as for many it’s their seventh, eighth or even twelfth.

And these aren’t all PHD students. I recently spoke to a student who is pushing 30 and in his twelfth semester, or sixth year, of his Cultural Studies "Diplom"(somewhere between a BA and an MA).

Low fees or none at all, an unwelcoming job-market, and little institutional pressure from universities have created a uniquely German phenomenon: the eternal student.

The average age of the German student in their first semester is 23, which is two years older than the new graduate in the UK, who, on average, completes his or her studies at the tender age of 21. This is down to the fact that a lot of German students take several years to complete their first semester; partly due to frequent course changes and partly because many choose to complete their mandatory military or civil service before commencing with their studies. Although things tend to speed up after the first semester, it is generally only from a crawl to a slow walking pace.

The eternal student will usually settle into their ecologically friendly WG and get themselves a "Studentenjob", to supplement "Bafög" payments and their weary parents’ financial support. These student jobs are easier to come by than would be expected in Germany’s current economic climate, as employers don’t have to pay such high social insurance costs when employing students and therefore often create jobs where only students need apply.

With no set curriculums the eternal student must choose their own courses and when timetable-clashes, the maze of red tape and aloof professors get too much, the module is put off until next term, when the same process repeats itself all over again. This does, however, give them the "Semesterferien" to mull over ideas for their final thesis whilst chilling on a South American beach, so not all is lost.

Not that I am against the eternal student per se. Their years of experience make for stimulating class discussion and they tend to be very pro-active and intellectually engaged. German seminars are practically devoid of the stereotypical English student, who is just passing through to pick up a 2:1 and then rush off to London to get a job in the City. The Germans have been known to compare the English university system to a "Lernfabrik", or “learning factory”, where graduates are churned out, one after the other, ready to work in corporate business without ever having really come to terms with academic theories. By taking things slower, the Germans come out with more lasting academic knowledge, whereas the English rush to the finishing line, leaving little time for any deep thinking. (Especially as most hold down several part-time jobs in order to survive).

But like it or not, the race is on and getting more competitive for the eternal student. Politicians have initiated a series of reforms, which are in the process of shaking up the German academic world. The switch to a European standard of staggered degrees such as Bachelor’s and Master’s, and the introduction of tuition fees and selection tests have the official goal of “strengthening research and teaching to better face the ever fiercer international competition and to reclaim Germany’s leading position.”

Unofficially, I imagine part of the motivation is to get all the eternal students to hurry up and finish their degrees and join the real world. Which with some luck, (and the help of Merkel’s economic reforms), will be able to cope with the influx of Joint Honours "Kulturmanagement" and Metaphysics graduates.

“Zusammen oder getrennt?”

Here is a situation I am sure we are all familiar with:

It is a friend’s Birthday and you are invited to join a group of people in a nice restaurant to celebrate. The conversation flows (as does the wine, beer, brandy and perhaps a bottle of champagne to mark the occasion). The cake goes down well, “that was definitely worth the extra twenty”, you think, “it’s only a euro/dollar/pound between all of us”.

Time flies, everyone is having a good time. However, as the evening winds down, a dark cloud looms on the horizon: The Bill. As soon as this bringer of doom arrives, the atmosphere at the table changes. All of a sudden the happy gang is divided into two camps: on the one side we have the happy go lucky, “lets order ten beers and three courses” boy vs., on the other side, the moderate “just a starter and a glass of tap water for me” girl.
(N.B. these characters are based on some people I had the pleasure of meeting recently.)

Both are, in my eyes, perpetrators of serious crimes. The first is completely drunk, and has no sympathy for starter-girl or anyone else sat at the table. This really wouldn’t matter if he could vaguely remember the amount of beers he has drunk/steaks he has eaten and just throw in a bit more than the rest of us, if nothing else then just to appease the second offender, starter-girl.

She quips: “Well, I’m not paying for the wine I only had half a glass, if I had known it was that expensive, I would have stuck to tap water.” Her glass was half full throughout the entire meal, but that’s only because someone kept topping it up whenever it fell below the half-full mark.

Personally I try not to get involved in either camp; if you are going out for a celebratory meal with a large group of people, you are likely to end up either paying for a bit more or a bit less than what you had. Just split it between whoever is there and get over it.

This simpler policy usually wins over in the end. Here in Germany, however, the bill splitting procedure is made slightly more complicated by the fact that it is common, (and not just amongst students), to pay separately in bars and restaurants. Instead of it being something that is sneered at, as it is in the UK or the States, the poor waitresses and waiters even have to offer it as option: “Zahlen Sie zusammen oder getrennt?” (Are you paying together or separately?)

I say poor because they can’t just print out separate bills for each member, but instead come around with the main bill and a pen, crossing out and adding up as they go around the table. This is fine if it’s a couple of elderly ladies having coffee and cake, but with large parties they not only have to exel at mental arithmetic, but also have to spend at least twenty minutes cashing up, whilst the party argues over the unaccounted twenty euros that nobody wants to own up to having spent.

When I first moved to Germany this splitting of bills down to the last cent appeared to be the epitome of penny-pinching. However, as time went on, I realized that it wasn’t down to the fact that German people are particularly parsimonious. Although tipping may not rival US standards, it is common to leave 10% here, even after just having drinks.

So why this insistence on paying separately? Is it the stereotypical 'German precision' showing itself? Or politeness/fairness towards fellow guests – in order to prevent them from footing the bill?
Perhaps the German readers can enlighten me.

In the meantime I will continue to try to promote the more relaxed attitude of just splitting it right down the middle, even if it means funding beer-boy’s steak habit now and again.

Clean, Big, Well-built and Cheap

Reading Joel’s last entry (see below), I wondered whether we are living in the same country. Maybe we aren’t.

One of the adverse effects of living in Kreuzberg, is that after a while, like a true Kreuzberger, you become so loathe to leave your “Kiez”, that the Wall might still be up for all you know. Tegel airport features regularly on the agenda, as it did during the Berlin Airlift of the 1940’s, except that instead of food parcels being dropped, I fly out regularly with presents of sausage and schnapps to distribute amongst my friends at home.

A trip off the Isle of Berlin and into to the depths of Deutschland is probably required before I add my two cents, but for those interested in a Brit’s take on living in Germany, here it is:

“Clean”. I am with you there Joel. I recently narrowly avoided getting sprayed by one of those orange sweeper trucks on my way home from a night out. It is incredible how, even after a wild street party/demo, you can wake up to clean pavements, (albeit with a few paving stones missing), despite having witnessed Armageddon outside your house the night before. In the UK, every Saturday morning spent within a 10 km radius of a city centre is tainted by the smell of vomit and beer wafting through the streets as a reminder of the alcohol fuelled mayhem that occurred during the night.

Maybe this is why I so often catch people here nonchalantly allowing their dogs to do their business on the pavement outside my front door, despite me fixing them with my evilest stare. Are they relying on the orange sweeper trucks to blast it away in the night?

I am inclined to agree on the subject of trains as well. On a recent trip to England I paid £50 (€80) for a journey of 200 km. Not a big difference in price? Well, you can't help feeling ripped off when the train is delayed by an hour, you can’t even get a seat, have to pay €7,50 for a bottle of water and then unexpectedly have to change 4 times thanks to some leaves having fallen on the tracks. London may be the home of double-decker buses, but double-decker trains? What a great invention.

Where I would beg to differ, however, is on the subject of size. Not just the size of the country, (Germany is more than twice the size of England), but the size of peoples’ apartments, roads and pavements. Where I am from it is a struggle to walk down some pavements alongside just one other person, unless you are either both a size zero or willing to risk your life falling into the (narrow) road. In Germany you can fit a couple of push-chairs, a gang of boys and a guy letting his dog use the pavement as a toilet alongside each other and STILL squeeze by on a bicycle.

I know I should be using the wonderfully wide bicycle lanes, which run alongside the wonderfully wide pavements, but traumatic experiences in England, (whose narrow roads can rarely support a bicycle lane), have put me off for life. I know tourists often accuse the UK of being small and “quaint”, but believe me, there is nothing quaint about getting pushed off the (narrow) road by a double-decker bus whilst cycling to work in the drizzling rain.

The size of peoples’ apartments may have less to do with the houses being bigger here, (although for me they are huge, compared to English terraced rows), and more to do with the fact that people get more for their money. Which brings me to my next point.

“Expensive” is not an adjective I would freely use when describing Germany to my friends. On average property prices in central Berlin currently cost €1,000 per square metre, as opposed to a whopping €7,000 in London or Paris. Ownership trends are very different here – only 43% of the population here own the accommodation they live in, as opposed to 71% in the UK.
Source: ESRC

This is thought to be due, in part, to low rents and the instability of the German economy over the last decade or so. Which suits me fine, as I wouldn’t even be able to afford a phonebox in central London for the amount I pay for my 1 bedroom apartment here.

Eating out is also incredibly cheap in Berlin– with hundreds of eateries vying for competition, it is still possible to get a meal and a drink for €5. Maybe not haute cuisine, but a decent falafel, pizza, or even sushi. You could probably just about afford a coke in McDonalds in Piccadilly for that. Luckily, the golden arches are not as widely spread in Berlin as in most European capital cities. The €1 kebab might be a health hazard, but if it keeps fast food chains at bay, I am all for it.

So until I venture out of Berlin I will continue to describe Germany as “clean, big, well-built, and cheap", if anyone should ask.

Spare the Spa

Much to my dismay, weeks filled with exams and work deadlines have passed since my last entry here, which described my trip to the mixed sauna. I don’t mean to flog a dead horse, but something that happened last week in terms of German FKK culture is definitely worth a mention.

To celebrate the end of a grueling first year at university with me, my aunt came over for the weekend. As you may recall, I am not the world’s best tour guide and as my aunt is a difficult to please, arthritic shopaholic, I was happy to come up with a day’s excursion to the Ku’damm shopping mile, followed by a healing soak in some salty water or a Thermal – Sole – Pool, as it technically known at the Thermen am Europa Center spa.

Expecting a posh, luxurious roof top paradise, (imagine the equivalent in London's or New York’s shopping district), we were surprised to find the entrance to the Thermen am Europa Center next to a Döner shop boasting “Berlins Best Kepap”, and opposite the “ Ku’damm Sex Kino”. At this point I started fretting a bit but ushered Auntie through the door and up to the fourth floor, where the spa was housed. The elevator,(large enough for three people), creaked all the way up and when we shuddered to a halt at the reception, I had no idea what to expect.

The décor was dated, but the room was clean and had a token grumpy Berliner on reception. She informed us we were NOT to use the plunge pools, Jacuzzis or saunas, as she clamped red bands tightly around our wrists to show that we were only paying for an hour’s swimming in the thermal pool. So far, so good.

Auntie, despite just having complained down the entire length of the Ku’damm, was in surprisingly good spirits and charged off from the changing rooms in search of a loo. This is where her first encounter with a naked German took place – in the form of a head-on collision with a “stark naked woman with piercings you know where”!

I explained the FKK thing to her- that it is normal in swimming pool changing rooms and toilets for people to wonder around naked, and on the way up the stairs to the Spa we had a chuckle about my mixed sauna experience.

But upon opening the door to the pool area, even I was shocked. There was not one one clothed body in the entire place – naked people lying on sun loungers with their legs akimbo, swimming, and even eating at the café. After her initial shock had subsided, I convinced Auntie to bend the rules a bit and take a dip in one of the plunge pools, despite our red band that might give us away as thermal pool swimmers only.

Looking around for someone wearing clothes, (surely for health and safety reasons staff would be dressed?), and not spotting anyone, we were about to descend the steps into the Jacuzzi when I heard a disapproving ripple from a bunch of naked old men on a bench behind us. This caused a woman in the pool to open her eyes and bark: “you can’t come in here!”. I thought she had spotted the red band and made noises about how it was just for a minute, and was it really her business we sneaking into the Jacuzzi anyway?

But it wasn’t the fact we hadn’t paid that bothered her: it was because we were wearing bathing suits. Apparently it is "unhygienic" and "anti-social" to boot. I could easily have got into a dispute regarding the hygiene issue, but at this point Auntie had had “quite enough naked old men for one day, thank you very much”, and we fled the place quick sharp. On the way out, we spotted the receptionist smoking a cigarette whilst preparing a coffee for someone who was waiting. The mind boggles.

Say It Loud: Prejudiced and Proud

Today’s "Berliner Zeitung" tells the story of club owner Thomas Gross, who cancelled a party at his trendy nightspot because Turkish guests came. His defense is that the party planner shouldn’t have tried to fool him: “[He] advertised it as an Indian party, but actually Turks came.” In other words, Turkish promoter Alkan Kama should have told Gross exactly the ethnicity of the planned attendees, so that Gross could use his particular prejudices to decide whether to allow the party to take place.

Unfortunately, this delusion of how society ought to work was not broken before the scheduled event, meaning that hundreds of Turkish and Turkish-German revelers waited on line outside the club two Saturdays ago. As the crowd began to snake down the block—one can just imagine Gross’ horror at the massing hordes!—the owner cancelled the party and told all to go home. Now, although some Berlin officials condemn the cancellation, others agree with Gross’ claim that Kama should have advised Gross of the exact ethnicity of the planned guests.

This event led me to muse over a big difference between German and American society—how vocal the average Joe is allowed to be with his individual biases. There’s plenty of racism in the United States. Heaps of it, in fact. But American politically correct culture has made it unacceptable for citizens wishing to be taken seriously by society at large to make racist statements in public. Business owners are not allowed to say that they want to refuse business to certain nationalities without prompt scorn and legal recriminations.

Gross justifies his bias by explaining that Turkish patrons had previously started late-night fights, leading him to avoid renting to this population. This might seem like fair reasoning to some, and clearly it seems fair to Gross, who publicly invokes it. But in the United States, this explanation wouldn’t fly in the open. Gross would have to find some other pretext for sending the patrons home—perhaps claiming the large number of guests violated fire code? Or that the party planner hadn’t paid in full?

What is interesting about this incident, then, is not Gross’ prejudices—as mentioned, prejudices are a dime a dozen stateside, too—or their outrageous result, even though the insult to these patrons is truly cause for disappointment. What makes the case notable is not the bias but rather its very open explication. It’s the fact that Gross feels perfectly okay publicly expressing his anti-Turkish preference.

Gross’ comments brought several questions to my mind. Is it merely a culture of political correctness that keeps blatant bias from popping up so openly in the United States, or is there a genuine cultural gulf between American and German cultures? That is, is the Gross incident just as likely to happen in the US, but be covered up with non-racist explanations, or is it simply less likely? Does America have a more open and tolerant civil society, or just a more muzzled one, aware that public prejudice is “not ok”? Finally, is the last question a moot point, because a culture of supposed equality and correctness eventually becomes a culture of actual equality over time? (After all, Americans think and believe differently now than they did before the Civil Rights Movement.)

In thinking about this, I recalled the local protest against a mosque being built in eastern Berlin by the Ahmadiyya Muslim Association. Try as I might, I never found a justification for the protests based on practical concerns—something about increased traffic in the neighborhood, or height restrictions. (A friend of mine told me the Muslim group had made publicly homophobic remarks, raising local hackles. But I can’t imagine the protests, which featured members of Germany’s extremely right-wing political scene, being waged in solidarity with Berlin’s gay population.)

However, I did read about how the American ambassador to Germany, William Timken, Jr., invited the Association’s leader, Abdul Basit Tariq, to speak at a ceremony commemorating the sixth anniversary of the September 11th terror attacks in Berlin last fall. Which brings me back to the above set of questions, and one more: are those questions about the relative acceptability of racism in two societies even helpful or useful to ask? Perhaps it’s more important to ask what positive, good work is being done to help people understand rather than hate each other. In the United States, despite the Supreme Court’s recent blow to affirmative action policies, educational and corporate institutions strive for diversity. In Berlin and Germany at large, there is now consensus that a tolerant society must not merely “tolerate” but also “integrate” its traditionally marginalized immigrants. The "Integration Summit" currently taking place in Berlin has forged a year-long plan that dedicates 750 million euros to languages classes and social programming. These efforts may help different groups of residents begin to understand each other. Here is hoping they are successful.

Eat Your Heart Out, Sodium Benzoate

My Hamburg-born next door neighbor recently visited San Francisco for three weeks. She shared plenty of impressions with me, but amongst musings on cafés and weather, one observation really stuck out: “The food is so processed in the US,” she complained. “It’s hard to get ingredients without preservatives added to them.” She cited an unsuccessful attempt to find jarred cherries without gelatin or sweeteners for a cake she wanted to bake.

Her cherry search encapsulates a problem getting more and more attention in American letters these days: our unhealthy eating culture. Ok, we all know about the film “Supersize Me,” evil McDonald’s, and the school lunch debate. Michael Moore’s “Sicko” is coming out, and it will probably tell us even more about how we eat the wrong things and fall ill.

But beyond documentary-making gadflies, writers from different walks of life are pausing to comment on the more subtle aspects of American food mentality. Novelist Barbara Kingsolver takes on the kitchen-damaging effects of our admiration of efficiency and speed, as well as addressing general ignorance about where the stuff we eat comes from, in her recently released “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.”

Meanwhile, science writer and New York Times Bestseller List regular Michael Pollan has made national consumption a personal crusade of late, turning his attention from the whimsical tales of agriCulture that won him praise in “Botany of Desire” to hard-hitting critique in a high-profile series in the New York Times Magazine. My cherry-starved neighbor would probably like one of the latest Pollan essays, a plea for us to stop looking at food as a collection of fats, proteins and vitamins, thereby viewing highly-processed, artificial stuff as “okay” so long as it proclaims “Low-Cal” or “NO TRANS-FAT!!!”

These attitudes influenced my own culinary culture shock on my latest visit home. To nurture my jet-lagged belly, I decided to prepare baba ghanouj, a Middle Eastern spread based on roasted eggplant and sesame paste, or tahini. The combination of Middle Eastern markets near my house in Berlin, as well as the German preference for fresh, non-processed ingredients, usually makes finding my raw ingredients and preparing the dish relatively simple.

But in New York, a gourmet’s paradise, I had trouble finding raw tahini. I skimmed the labels at my local specialty supermarket suspiciously: sodium benzoate? Potassium sorbate? May contain corn and/or soybean oil? What does “may” mean?! I “may” feel sick to my stomach after eating this? I just wanted the ground sesame seeds, luxuriating in their own oil. I finally found pure—but so pricey!--tahini at an organic food store, and would recommend looking in a Middle Eastern grocery store for a less expensive product.

Upon triumphantly returning to the apartment, I experienced a minor setback.

“Please,” my mother pleaded, “don’t use the oven. It’s too hot today.”

This was pretty reasonable, but disappointing. “Can I cook tomorrow if it’s cooler?” I
asked hopefully.

“Just use the microwave.”

“The microwave?!”

“Sure. Just Google, ‘How to Microwave Eggplant.’ It’s simple.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. You can use the microwave for lots of vegetables. It’s faster and a lot easier than cranking up that old thing.” She pointed with mild distaste to our rarely-used oven.

I followed her advice to the letter, and after a quick internet search, and a mere eight minutes turning round and round, my eggplants were cooked. It seemed too good to be true! What had happened to that extra half hour it usually takes? Had I been a fool all this time, using the quaintly anachronistic oven when I had a high-powder microwave at my disposal?

No, as it turned out. My father tasted the final product and said, “You eat this stuff plain?” Um, yes. My sister said, “It’s good. But it needs something. It’s a little bland, you know?”

At first, I was puzzled. My German friend Elise, who had never tasted baba ghanouj before, had dug in enthusiastically at my Berlin place, then watched while I wrote out the very simple recipe for her. (See below.) Somewhat older, Elise never tried baba ghanouj growing up in an era before the act of developing an international palate and experiencing “fusion” cuisine became trendy. My parents had also never tried baba ghanouj during their upbringing in the American Midwest. But, alas, I can’t really say they have now.

As I realized after contemplating the flawed dish, the time-saving technique was the culprit. The microwaved eggplant was tender but flavorless. It hadn’t browned and roasted the way eggplant does in an oven. Despite my parent’s conviction that a microwave could do the job just fine, I realized that the time-consuming method is needed for a really tasty spread. I had also used garlic powder, rather than cloves, since my mom didn’t have any fresh garlic in the house. The ersatz powder in the shaker, she assured me, was fine. But it wasn’t.

What’s the point? It’s not that after all this time in Germany, surrounded by different food attitudes, I’m beginning to see what all these cultural critics mean. It’s that I’m beginning to taste it. So save your tongue! Find the simple ingredients, and let the food take longer. Why not?

Easy (but Un-microwaveable) Baba Ganouj

2 lbs or 800 grams eggplant / Two medium-sized eggplants
3-4 tablespoons pure tahini (also spelled t’hina, tehina, etc.)
1-2 tablespoons freshly-squeezed lemon juice
½ clove garlic
Sprinkle cayenne or Aleppo pepper

1. Preheat oven to 375 F or 190 C.
2. Puncture each eggplant 5-6 times with a fork. Otherwise it will explode in the oven, leaving you with no baba ganouj at all. Lay on foil or baking paper if desired and place in oven on highest rack to broil. Broil for about 40 minutes, turning once, or until skin is tender and collapsed, easily pierced with a fork. (You can also roast the eggplant over a grill until it reaches this point, if preferred).
3. Remove and let cool for ten minutes, or handle very carefully with baking mitts, cutting off stems and halving lengthwise. Peel off skin, which should come free easily, with aid of knife.
4. Chop halves with a long-bladed knife into a rough puree, or use food processor after chopping if you really want it smooth.
5. Place in large bowl, mix in other ingredients to taste, and savor. Voilá!

Note: Baba Ganouj is all about hitting the right balance between smoky eggplant, tangy lemon, creamy tahini, and pungent garlic, so the ingredient proportions are flexible. It’s best to err on the side of less of each, then add more as desired, tasting as you mix. You can devour as you prepare, dipping into the bowl with fresh pita bread, (recommended!) or, if you are feeling fancy-pants, serve sprinkled with olive oil and toasted pine nuts and garnished with sprigs of fresh parsley.

Letting it All Hang Out

After a work out at my overpriced gym yesterday, I decided I really needed to make the most of the fact I had actually had got myself down there for once and decided to check out the “Spa-relaxation” facilities. Although, thanks to the scorching temperatures Berlin has enjoyed recently, I have woken up in my flat feeling like I was in a sauna every day for the last few weeks, I thought the real thing might be slightly more pleasant.

Wrapping a towel around me I strolled out of the ladies’ changing rooms and through the sign posted door into an area with saunas and steam baths galore. Opting for the sauna first, I opened the door and was quite taken aback by what I saw. A group of four men and one lone woman sat together, sweating away in silence. So far so good, what else would I expect to see in a sauna?

Well, I guess I just wasn’t quite prepared for the fact that they were all stark naked. I knew that it’s normal here to take all your clothes off in the sauna, but for some reason I hadn’t thought that we would be in mixed company. Then again, I could hardly back out now, that would just be rude, so I found a spot to sit and quietly blush in a very English fashion. (Luckily the heat makes you look red in the face anyway, so I don’t think anyone noticed).

Being English certainly has something to do with being body conscious: in women’s changing rooms in the UK the showers are partitioned off and women perform tricks under their towels that contortionists would be proud off in order to prevent others from spying them in their underwear, let alone naked. But then again, I personally had quite a liberal upbringing; my parents, when on remote beaches always stripped off as soon as they could, causing my teenage brothers and I to cringingly move 50 metres down the beach, pretending we didn’t know them. (Until of course we needed a sandwich and a drink).

Having got used to my parents’ occasional naturist tendencies, as I sat there in the sauna trying to look anywhere but at the men opposite me I tried to figure out why I was now feeling so awkward. I realized that I was feeling nervous that these men, pumped up hunks who probably sprinkle steroids on their cornflakes every morning, might be tempted to ogle us two lone women in there. However, when I dared lower my gaze from the ceiling, there was nothing of the sort going on. These men just stared at their knees, engaged in polite chit chat with their neighbours, and even averted their eyes in unison when the other very naked lady got up to leave. The mystery is obviously lost when you face each other in the sauna, wearing nothing but your Birthday suits.

Afterwards, when I got home, I did a bit of research on the subject, (very innocently I might add), and after googling FKK (Freie Körper Kultur), I found this interesting quote on a website promoting the naturist cause in Austria:

“Some people, particularly those with strong feelings against all bodily things, who were raised in an extremely conservative environment, connect FKK with sex or similar things. Nothing could be farther from the truth! Those who indeed do believe so and join an FKK community for such reasons will surely be disappointed very soon.”
Freie Menschen Graz -FKK in der Steiermark

I know this was on an Austrian website, and like Joel, I don’t like to generalize, but I do find the attitude towards nudity in Germany quite refreshing. The atmosphere in the FKK sauna was very relaxed, and more importantly, there was nothing sexual about it at all. This perhaps explains why women in Germany often shed their clothes in their lunch break in city parks, for a quick bout of all-over tanning. An Argentinean friend of mine exclaimed the other day: “But how come no men look at them?”. As I discovered yesterday, it is obviously something that is more widely spread than elsewhere in Europe, (or at least the UK), and therefore the men, (although I am sure there are exceptions), are used to it and know when to look away.

I’m a long way from stripping off in the park and I think I might plan my next trip to the sauna on the “ladies only” day, as I haven’t quite discarded my English prudishness yet, but I respect the fact that I could if I wanted, without being leered at by all the passing menfolk.

Taste-Testing Tale

The two latest developments in my life are an assignment from a local magazine to find the city’s best falafel—what my friends refer to as “the dream assignment”—and my partner on this mission, Junot Diaz. Technically an acclaimed author, Diaz has also been my U-Bahn companion during this falafel run, his careful prose mixing with many, many veggie-stuffed sandwiches. Under the influence, I decided to forgo my usual personal-can-be-political extrapolative essay and write a Berlin story for the story’s sake. It is about falafel but it is not, however, fiction.
----

“We’re not open yet,” he says, “We don’t open until twelve. But I’ll make it anyway.” He takes out a large bowl of spiced, ground chickpeas from under the counter. “It’s your lucky day!”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling back. “I’m looking for Berlin’s best falafel. I’ve heard it’s the best here.”

“This falafel is so good it will make you crazy.”

I laugh appreciatively. Public silliness in Germany is rare and must be relished. “I don’t know if I want to be crazy.”

“Crazy only in a good way.” He pauses from the task of shaping the greenish mix into mouthfuls and pours me a glass of tea, placing it on the counter. “This will make you crazy too. It’s very good tea to drink before eating.” I imagine it comes from one of those five-kilo packages scrawled with fancy-looking Arab letters, although all gracefully curving Arab letters look fancy to me, that I see stacked in heaps when shopping at the Turkish grocery store. It’s also the same tea that the man who runs the tele-internet café downstairs from my apartment drinks constantly out of a petite glass next to his ashtray. The same café where I went for forty days while waiting for my telephone and internet to be connected, the same inexpensive little glasses I ran out and bought at the same Turkish grocery store when I realized I had invited too many people over to celebrate my working phone and internet.

The falafel is cooking in the special metal pot with a rim around the edge for resting cooked falafel balls so they can cool and drain a bit of oil. Unlike some shopkeepers, who seem suspicious when I watch the process, as though I were looking for mistakes—did they put onions in when I said “ohne Zwiebeln, bitte”?—this guy doesn’t mind my attentiveness, is in fact eager to shoot the bull.

He looks at me while we wait for my lunch to be ready. “What other falafel have you tried?”

“That one over on Kastanienallee,” I say, pointing, “but it was only okay.”

“Which place?”

“The Lebanese place.” It had one of those cheap flag decals across the store front, the ones I love for their majestically spreading cedar, a tree I have read is mainly extinct in
the area since Biblical times.

“The Lebanese make good falafel but not as good as mine.”

“Where are you from?”

“Tunisia. You know where that is?” He doesn’t expect me to and grins when I say, “North Africa.”

Then he wants to know where I’m from but my answer doesn’t please him. “You’re an American?” he cries out in wounded surprise, genuinely disappointed. “But you look so nice.”

My smile hangs stiff from my cheeks and I force out a couple laughs. I see myself in the mirror behind his head, and behind my head a bulletin board and a flier with the word "Palestine" printed in bold. The rest of its text is obscured by overlapping sheets of paper, these covered in sloping Arabic script which frames my reflection.

He begins to methodically open a pita bread with his thumbs, careful not to rip the seam open too wide so sauce spills out later. “You have the worst president in the world. The most awful man in the world.”

“I know,” I say, removing a soda from the refrigerator case. “Do you know what day he got elected for the second time?”

“He’s awful.”

“Do you know what day?” I repeat.

“What?”

“My birthday! He was elected on my birthday! Man, how I cried!” It’s true, too. It was in Berlin, the first time I lived here, and because of the time difference I went to bed not knowing who would be president and woke up feeling betrayed. “I walked around crying! And everyone thought I was depressed about getting older.”

The tension in his smile goes away a bit. “Onions?” he asks. “White cabbage? Tomatoes?”

After I answer, he winds up the conversation again. “What are you doing in Berlin?” Perhaps he's thinking I fled Bush.

“I’m a journalist. And a student, sort-of.”

He ignores the second part. “A journalist! And an American!”

“Two hits?” I say with insistent cheer, unsure if “two hits” in German is equvialent to “two strikes” in English, and it occurs to me I haven’t seen a single baseball game since I got here.

“What do you write about? How bad the Arabs are?”

I watch him at the other end of the counter, wrapping white wax paper around the bottom of my pita, noting that he sprinkles mint above it, noting that he does not sprinkle cumin or allspice. “I write about food,” I say.

“Food?”

“Yes. What you eat, not the city,” I explain rather uselessly. “Essen” in German is both the word for food and the name of an industrial city in the West, but I'm pretty sure he knows which “Essen” I meant.

He hands me the finished sandwich, smiling again with all his teeth, saying, “Lots of Americans eat here.”

“Hmmm,” I answer, fumbling to pay him, but he says, “afterwards.” He puts my sandwich in a bowl, even gives me a fork, saying, “You won’t get a fork at the Lebanese place.”

I am ready to stop talking and start eating so I thank him and go outside to the wooden benches. Everyone was right, I think a minute later. It is damn good falafel.

We All Speak English, Lebowski

Language barriers: you expect them to be problematic when moving to a foreign country. What you don’t necessarily foresee, while poring over grammar books, memorizing irregular verbs, and reminding yourself that “sensibel” in German means the opposite of “sensible” in English (sensitive rather than rational), is that the lack of language barriers might be even more troublesome. Put more succinctly: how do you deal with the problem of everyone being just fluent enough in English to find you irritating?

For example, my friend Ted described riding the U-Bahn with a group and telling a story about something funny that happened back home. Like many Americans, he has the charming habit of talking at a volume that many Germans find a bit too loud. He told me that as he sat there on the U-Bahn, he got really involved in his anecdote, voice rising as the tale neared a dramatic climax.

“But right before I could finish telling the story,” Ted said, pausing for effect, “Right then, this woman turns to me and says, ‘You know, we all understand you. Everyone here speaks English, you know.’”

“What did you say to that?” I asked.

Ted smiled. “I said, ‘Well, good for you then, ‘cuz it’s a great story! You gotta hear the ending!’”

Ironically enough, he was telling me this anecdote on--you guessed it--the U-Bahn, and delivered the punch-line excitedly, loudly. Several people turned around. I think one man even shook his head. But, c’mon, that was a pretty good comeback, wasn’t it?

The U-Bahn seems to be a great place for not just linguistic bluster but also embarrassment. I remember joking around with a different friend, repeating a line from the Coen Brothers movie “The Big Lebowski” when black-clad Germans tell the eponymous anti-hero, “Vee ahr nihilists, Lebowski. Vee beleev in nah-ssing.” (“We are nihilists, Lebowski. We believe in nothing.”)

We repeated this a few times, chuckling at the American caricature of German-ness, until we realized the car around us had fallen silent. Oh right; everyone spoke English. They thought we were making fun of them, probably, rather than delighting in how the film we were quoting made fun of the cliché.

I imagined how I would feel if some German tourists got on the subway at Times Square in New York and started saying, “Howdy partner, I’m from Texas,” in a faux-Southwestern accent. I don’t think I would give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they were only laughing along with a German film that makes fun of how Germans see Americans (or quoting “Wayne’s World,” for that matter.)

Someone associated with the American Embassy here in Berlin recently told me off-the-record—that’s right, this blog doesn’t quite count as “the record,” thankfully--that Der Spiegel, the widely-read German weekly newsmagazine, frequently misreports the tone of meetings between American and German officials and portrays relations as more hostile than they actually are. We discussed possible causes, including the fact that “Things Still Going Just Fine” isn’t quite an attention-grabbing headline, and were left speculating that maybe Der Spiegel’s source had suffered second-language syndrome: you understand only enough to get the wrong impression.

Sometimes, however, misunderstanding plays no role. People may understand me, but it doesn’t always work in my favor, such as when I commented to a fellow American waiting in line in the supermarket, “Yeah, Germans can be neurotic about being orderly at the check-out.” Needless to say, the woman swiping my items across the scanner forgot to wish me a nice day.

In summary, although learning a foreign language is often touted as a series of miscommunications, it is also a series of unintended communications—asides, comments, or internationally-understood gestures that offend the educated bystander. This ironic disadvantage to speaking the world’s lingua franca comes with a silver lining, however. The Berlin U-Bahns have taught me what even a childhood of bickering with my siblings couldn’t: to “halt’s maul,” or, in the language “everyone speaks,” to “shut up.”

That Exotic Thing Called "Clubbing"

You’ve probably never met someone like me before; that is, most people don’t pass up such an amazing opportunity when it hits them over the head. I live in Berlin, the current going-out capital of Europe and latest “it city” for big-name DJs, and I don’t go clubbing.

In winter, I had an excuse: cold + no sleep = sick. However, now that it’s hot enough to avoid riding the bus and the sun starts to rise at about 4am, it’s more like heat + no air conditioning = let’s party. Despite my love of slumber, I recently decided to see if I were missing anything. After all, everyone raves about how inexpensive, laidback, and fun going out in Berlin is—it had to be awesome, right?

A more nocturnal friend of mine and I conferred about what would be best.

I racked my brains, then asked, “Doesn’t that club Cookie have something on Tuesday?”

He was silent for a second, before smiling kindly and responding, “CookieS has a party, yeah.”

I pretended not to notice my mistake. “Ok, so when should we meet? 11?”

He smiled again, with a look of tender patience often seen on the faces of saints or day-care employees, and suggested that we meet at 1am. He wasn’t sure the club was even open as early as I’d suggested.

Pulling on a slinky, teeny top the following night, I wondered whether the bouncers at the club would nonetheless be able to pick me out as a faker. “Look at her yawning,” they would mutter, nudging each other with biceps bigger than my head. “She’s an amateur. We can’t have people falling asleep while DJ Coolest McCool spins. She’s out.”

Then I reminded myself that I was in Berlin, not New York, where I acquired a certain social phobia about fitting the right look when going out. However, New York-style elitism is as passé in Berlin as a bad outfit is back home. No need to worry.

Sure enough, we were soon inside Cookies’ new home, a converted movie theater, where a live band was mixing techno music while two men dressed in ghoulish black mimed robotic motions alongside. I couldn’t tell whether my internal monolog was naïve or snobbish when I realized that the deliberately mechanical moves reminded me of the way kids danced in sixth grade.

Then there was that moment where I felt like my parents, wondering to myself, “it’s the same thing over and over—how can anyone listen to this for hours on end?” (The answer, of course, is with lot and lots of drugs, but even sweltering temperatures can’t put that on my “To-do” list.)

However, the “when in Rome” thing to do was to jump along with the crowd, so although I favor salsa or reggae, I tried to equally enjoy the synthesized beats of a computer. There was a live horn player, to whom I was grateful for bringing a soulful touch to the evening.

After an hour of intense hopping about, I was parched and asked the bartender to put more ice in my glass. I may as well have said, “Gee, golly, this crowd sure makes one perspire! I don’t know how these kids do it!” but she gave me a pitying look and scooped some more in.

Eventually my buddy and I got tired and headed out, the taxi pulling up to my door under a lightening early morning sky. I was really, really proud of myself for being up late and called a friend in California just to chat, thereby interrupting a business dinner.

“I only answered because I know it’s like 5am over there,” my buddy explained. “I thought you might be in trouble or something.” Whoops! Occupational hazard of Berlin’s newest clubber!

To conclude: it was fun. The next day my bad ankle, the one I’ve sprained about 56 times, was pretty sore from all the jumping, and I realized that clubbing was like learning to skateboard: you have to incur a little pain if you want the fun.

But much like when I realized my 360 kickflip would never be reality, I knew it was time to move on from this electronica-at-sunrise business. The following Friday, I picked a live music bar with a latin-fusion band that came on stage at 11 and had a much better time. Admittedly, it’s not quite clubbing if you don’t begin well past the witching hour, take psychedelics, and go to a small-stage place rather than a cavernous ex-factory-movie-theater-bomb-shelter. At least not in Berlin.

But Berlin is also the city with an updated twist on the old saying--“When in Berlin, do as the Berliners do, which is whatever the hell they want.” Words to live by, irrespective of season.

Knut is not the only Berliner with a snout

Being spontaneous is difficult in German supermarkets. The absence of hand baskets always presents you with the following situation: after popping in for a loaf of bread on the way home, you spot a few other items that you need and that one loaf of bread turns into a loaf of bread, a jumbo pack of toilet rolls, (and while you’re in that aisle some scrubby washing-up sponges you have been meaning to buy for the last 3 weeks), some olive oil, (how about stocking up on pasta while I’m here) and on it goes until you stumble fully laden towards the check-out past the booze aisle, where you spot the bottle of wine you meant to buy for a friend’s dinner party that evening.

This is where things get complicated: as you can’t physically pick up another item but you also can’t turn up to the meal empty handed, only one alternative remains. To set down all of the above items, clamber back over the turnstile at the entrance, rummage in your bag for ten minutes looking for a one euro coin for the trolley, (by which time your previously collected items have been put back on their respective shelves), come back in, forget what you had collected before, thus rendering the trolley useless and you frustrated. After waiting in the queue for twenty minutes with a trolley with only one loaf of bread in it, you inevitably end up abandoning the whole trip out of sheer frustration and leaving the supermarket one euro poorer and having to go without toast the next morning.

On my last shopping trip I tried to overcome this problem by finding a cardboard box to deposit my goodies in, which I spotted in the hands of a shop assistant called Ute (her name badge told me so). When I politely asked Ute whether I could have the box from behind the leaning tower of food in my arms, she looked at me disgustedly and asked whether I would be taking it home with me, grumbling that: “it’s always the same, people like you use the boxes and then leave them at the checkout and then I have to clear them up, if you aren’t taking it home with you, you may as well just leave it here.”

Whereas six months ago, I would have started hyperventilating and then asked to speak to the manager, this time I just calmly took the box out of Ute’s hands, thanked her and carried on shopping, as she continued to mutter and swear at me under her breath from the biscuit aisle. This is because I have since witnessed dozens of these kinds of exchanges within the Berlin service industry, where service with a smile is hard to come by. Having worked in the catering industry for years, I find bars and cafes here the worst, where you are lucky to even get served sometimes, and when you do it is like they are doing you a favour they really resent doing, rather than just doing their job.

In fact, Berliners’ rudeness is so common for that it even has a name: the “Berliner Schnauze”(translated the "Berliner snout” or “gob”). According to the website Berlinisch für Touris, Zugereiste und Anfänger, a good introductory website for those interested in the Berliner dialect, the Berliner Schnauze is quoted as being “notorious” and “feared by not only Berliners, but also “Wessis” and outsiders too”.

Well, as the name of this blog suggests, I would fall into the outsider category and I have certainly feared it in the past. However, my extensive research has allowed me to create a mental dictionary to be able to translate and thus minimize the damage done by exchanges of the kind between Ute and I. “Wat willste” (What d’you want?) accompanied by a sneer translates into: “what can I do for you on this fine day”, and once you learn not to be too offended and develop a few wise quips to throw straight back at them, you should be able to survive in the big B.

Nice to Meet You. Maybe.

White Trash Fast Food: the name says it all. This Berlin restaurant aspires to serve the artery-clogging fare of Americana with a potty-mouthed flair—offering “F*ck You Fries”, for example--but quickly shows its hand by cooking with high-quality meat of the sort never found at a stateside fast food joint. The menu also glaringly omits fried Snickers bars. No matter; I wasn’t there to judge its heart attack-inducing authenticity but rather to celebrate a friend’s birthday, which quickly developed into a West German-bashing affair.

“You can’t make lasting friendships with 'Wessis',” asserted Tina. (No, her real name isn’t Tina, but it is one of those names popular in former East Germany that comically copycat American names like Missy or Ashley.)

“From my high school group of friends, the only one who hasn’t kept in touch is from West Germany,” Tina continued.

I set down my “Marquis de F*ck Burger” to question her. “Why do you think that is?”

Tina shook her head. “I don’t know. But in Thuringia, [her home state] people keep friendships for their whole lives. Of course, it’s the modern era, so people move around a lot, but East Germans will still be calling and writing decades later. West Germans, I don’t know. It’s like the friendship fades away.”

Just like White Trash Fast Food’s misgauged stereotype-trawling, this opinion struck me as a bit nutty. My three closest friends in Berlin are West Germans—they’re not from Berlin because, hey, most people here aren’t—and they nicely maintained our friendship during the two years between my first and second stays in Germany. Darmstadt, Hamburg, and a teeny town near Switzerland no one has heard of, and I have no complaints to lodge about their faithfulness as friends.

“That’s really interesting,” I said to Tina. “I wouldn’t have thought that.”

She nodded vigorously. “Especially the Swabians. They are the worst.”

Swabians, or in German “Schwaben,” live in Southwest Germany and have a distinct local culture. The nicest friend I ever made in Germany, who overlooked our initial language barrier with a wonderful sense of humor, was from this region.

Tina went on: “They talk really strangely. You can’t understand a word.”

I have to concede this point. Swabians speak with a heavy dialect that is as hard for northern Germans to understand as a thick Irish brogue is for anyone who grew up in the States. My friend can morph from speaking “Hochdeutsch,” the equivalent of Standard English, to a lyrical, unintelligible tongue when friends from home call her cell phone.

Accents aside, Tina’s avowed enthusiasm for the warmth of East Germans struck me as ironic, given the American stereotype about Germans being unfriendly. However, this is a stereotype I long ago realized was a total myth; as Joel mentions in his last post, it can’t hold water even on a small scale like office etiquette, which can be friendlier here than at home. However, almost all the Americans I’ve talked to believe Germans are unfriendly, or at least too unfriendly in relation to that which they are accustomed. Why?

One reason could be the difference Germans see between professional and personal relations. When at work, one’s duties are very carefully prescribed and priority is given to fulfilling the task well, not on pretending the customer is a close friend. Consequently, in any sort of commercial transaction American tourists are likely to experience in Germany, they may or may not receive a lot of smiles and warmth. The emphasis is on the service, not on the attitude. Whereas this poker-faced efficiency may make an American consumer used to our “customer service” ideal of hyper-friendly clerks blanch, it is a fact of life here. One doesn’t seek niceness from the bank teller or train ticket-taker.

These icy—to an American mind—interactions on the tourist circuit may influence the unfriendly stereotype. Another general answer comes from Tina’s example: people tend to have a few negative experiences and extrapolate outwards. Tina’s high school friend stopped writing to her, ergo West Germans aren’t loyal. (And here's hoping no one is assuming that because the “American-style” food at White Trash Fast Food is tasty, typical county fair eats in the States can’t be that bad.)

Previous expectations may also govern interpretation: from the way Tina was talking, it was pretty clear that the words “Wessi” and “Ossi” were thrown around a lot when she was growing up. (And mind you, she was only four when the Berlin Wall fell).

In short: to make up and believe in stereotypes is part of the human urge to explain why stuff happens the way it does. After all, if New Yorkers weren’t so neurotic and analytical, I would never have noticed any of this in the first place.

Myfest & My Admiration

As they did every year, the skeletal shells of burned-out cars dotted the streets and bashed-in windows marked looted storefronts. It would be weeks before Berlin’s Kreuzberg 36 neighborhood fully recovered from the annual May 1st riots, traditionally instigated by anti-capitalist protestors on the German “Day or Work.” But in 2003, residents sick of the hi-jinks and resulting war-zone atmosphere fought back creatively. Denouncing violence, they suggested using music as a medium to confront themes of labor and justice and organized a series of public sidewalk concerts in an effort keep the area peaceful. The event, dubbed Myfest to pun the German pronunciation for “Mai,” drastically reduced vandalism and mayhem and has been going strong ever since. Last Tuesday’s Myfest was no less impressive.

Rather than render it tame, the fair’s conservative take-back-the-streets impetus means that the organizers earnestly strive to keep visitors peacefully entertained, offering over twenty musical stages this year. This dance-fest, stretching from Kottbusser Tor to Oranienplatz to Heinrichplatz, also showcased what organizers refer to as “the neighborhood in all its diversity”: Turkish families sat behind makeshift börek stands (a doughy pastry stuffed with spinach, cheese, or both) alongside rainbow-headed teens sipping beer. Visitors could choose between sausages, pretzels, falafel or döner as they listened to indy-rock, techno, and Arabic-language tunes. While the feast provided fuel for the expected punks and alternative characters, angry revolutionaries inciting the crowd to uprising were conspicuously absent.

The tradition of civil disobedience and lawless abandon began on May 1st, 1987, when protests in the historically alternative and punky corner of West Berlin escalated into an enormous riot that forced police to retreat from the area for several hours. The aggressive mob then destroyed property and famously burned the Bolle supermarket right to the ground. Violence began this year only long after sun had set, when drunken visitors started a scuffle around 10p.m. by throwing beer bottles at cops. Although some were arrested, the net sum of vandalism and destruction was remarkably low compared to years past.

Despite this achievement, Myfest has inevitable detractors. They come mainly from the extreme Left scene and claim that the festival dilutes the Day of Work’s revolutionary potential. Resentment also stems from the changing face of the neighborhood, which, while managing to maintain its scruffy squatter settlements and ethnic variety, has nonetheless gentrified considerably since German unification. Some of the residents calling for an end to the riots are more mainstream in their attitudes and lifestyle than those who witnessed the original violence, leading to skepticism from old-line protestors and societal critics. Then again, the self-styled radicals who destroy local property are likely not those who must live alongside it, making their claims to the neighborhood even less valid.

The success of Myfest in quelling chaos makes me wonder if the United States has similar initiatives. The closest in spirit that I can think of is “Take Back the Night” activities, popular at college campuses nationwide, which address rape and sexual abuse towards women. However, their general theme (nighttime) is not quite the same as the specific (May 1st) focus of Myfest, which co-opts a competing tradition and declaws it. It does so without completely weakening the strength of the other tradition, either—exploration of labor themes was present in at least some of the music, and in contrast to most street fairs, this one lacks kiosks selling useless knick-knacks, artisans peddling wares, or tables of suspiciously marked-down name-brand items. Rather than allow itself to be suffused with the tempting commerce typical of warm-weather pedestrian celebrations, Myfest stuck to its goals of music (and food. And beer).

Myfest’s use of art to deal with a contentious subject and its genius of physically occupying traditional riot grounds with peaceful revelers has a lot of potential. Do you know of similar traditions in the US or elsewhere? Or have suggestions as to how these tenets could be implemented in conventionally violent events in other places? Post them here! Let’s take a page from Myfest’s book by calmly considering how to make things better.

Mayday!

A few years ago, I was what you could call a mild political activist. Although perhaps mild is the wrong adjective, unless you consider giving up your Saturdays to march through London for ten hours in the freezing cold a meek attempt to assert your right to freedom of speech. Not that it was every Saturday, but often enough for my friends and I to have various different chants to the tune of: “Build Me Up Buttercup” by The Foundations, which surprisingly lends itself perfectly as a good basis to invent new words to. The problem with having five different songs with the same tune is that the issues would inevitably become intertwined: for example the song we made up for the Anti -Student Fees demo would get mixed up with the Stop the War march remix, thus “Why do you want to kill, government baby, just to get their oil”, would turn into “Why do you want to kill, government baby, just to get our fees” and so on. Slightly problematic when standing outside number 10 Downing Street and wanting to be taken seriously.

I may have been strong enough to brave icy rain and bitter winds to try to make a difference but I was mild in the sense that I rarely took further action as the bills we demonstrated against slipped through parliament, and thus through our fingers. Loathe as I am to admit it, I went on these marches not only because I believed the causes were worthy, but also because I enjoyed the atmosphere of solidarity and team spirit which is created when thousands of people gather together with a common goal in mind. I couldn’t help feeling a sense of guilt when I realized this, whilst dancing to a Brazilian percussion group at the Climate Change march last year: Surely I shouldn’t be enjoying myself with such serious matters at stake?

Last Tuesday, however, my guilt feeling was assuaged after a day on the streets of Kreuzberg. The 1st of May, International Workers’ Day, is famous all over the world for it’s demonstrations and Berlin is no exception. All the streets in Kreuzberg are closed off and demonstrators are given the right of way for the day, albeit closely guarded by hoards of riot police. It all started off peacefully. After getting distracted by a stand selling delicious looking waffles and losing my friends in the process, I ended up being swept along in an anti-G8 march (the G8 summit is of course set to take place in Heiligendamm this year). As I hadn’t intended to take part in any demonstrations, I stepped aside and found a good vantage point from which to analyse the crowd. Old and young alike, on bikes, in wheelchairs, pushchairs: there was a wide demographic range in this march. Some looked like they were just there for the ride, others had banners and were chanting, but they all had something in common: everyone had a smile on their face and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

A few hours later, however, the peaceful atmosphere took a turn for the worse: the balaclava brigade came out in force, “riot tourists” who grace Berlin with their presence every year for Mayday, at worst setting cars alight, and at best throwing stones and bottles at policemen and anyone else who gets in their way. After witnessing some pretty hairy scenes involving tear gas and rocks, (although this year was supposedly the most peaceful Mayday for a long time), I decided that I would rather be a mild political activist than be an extreme, Nike-wearing, whilst simultaneously anti-capitalist slogan-chanting, “activist”.
Also, “kill the cops” doesn’t rhyme with “Build me Up Buttercup.”

Terrorism vs. America: What's Scarier to Germans?

“Let’s take our walk alongside the Reichstag,” I suggested to my friend Hanna, adding, “I understand if you’re a little uncomfortable, though, and would rather not.”

Hanna looked confused. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Did you see the warning in the papers about the increased terrorist threat?”

Hanna paused, looking doubtful. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

The conversation ended there, and our riverside walk through the shiny new government buildings of Berlin’s "Spreebogen" was blessedly uninterrupted by bombs or mayhem.

Perhaps it was a bit paranoid to expect that the “heightened threat situation” announced by the American Embassy in Berlin last Friday would extend to German government buildings. After all, the Embassy is now increasing security at facilities and Consulates because they feel that Americans in Germany are being targeted, not the country itself. The Washington Post reported that although the Embassy would not officially specify what triggered these latest precautions, anonymous sources confirmed increased activity among Islamic extremists within Germany.

Despite the announcement’s focus on Americans, I was still antsy near the Reichstag. Ever since experiencing the attacks on September 11th, 2001 in my native New York City, I feel nervous around huge symbolic structures, even if they aren’t explicitly (as reported by government representatives, anyway) a “target.” What surprised me about the conversation with Hanna, who is German, wasn’t that she hadn’t heard the news, but rather that she seemed completely unfazed when I explained the warning. She shrugged. “Whatever.”

Hanna’s attitude stands in stark contrast to that expressed by the man in small-town America in Michael Moore’s film “Fahrenheit 9/11” (2004), who expresses real fear that the terrorists are coming for him. When asked what he thinks they’ll target, he suggests the town’s Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart, an emblem of American corporate domination, was probably an unintentionally astute answer: the chain’s nearby superstore is probably the only building of global symbolism where he lives. Yet what is striking is not the significance of Wal-Mart but rather the real fear Moore has ferreted out of this average Joe. Not that he had to dig deep: evidence that people feel threatened is all around in the United States, from blustery patriotic ceremonies at sporting events, to the lyrics of new country songs, to the way people vote. That is, we don’t need Moore’s selective depiction to show us how wary many Americans are; the simple fact that George W. Bush’s reelection campaign preyed on the nation’s collective heeby-jeebies about the shadowy, omnipresent terrorism threat is proof enough for me that plenty of residents are plenty scared.

In contrast, after living altogether for just over a year in Germany and speaking with many people about terrorism, my impression is that many seem concerned but few are downright frightened. In fact, some have told me that it is the United States that makes the world more dangerous, not the terrorists. The magazine “Stern” released results of a questionnaire last month where Germans ranked Americans as more a threat to world peace than Iran.

In a recent conversation, a German businessman followed up his “US is danger number one” assertion by telling me how peaceful and charming life seemed in Tehran when he was there on business.

“Of course it’s peaceful!” I snapped. “All the terrorists live in Hamburg!”

My answer wasn’t intended to correct his perception of Iranian society, about which I know virtually nothing, but rather to shake him out of his smug position of immunity. He seemed to believe both that American fears of terrorism were delusional and also that should terrorism exist, his enlightened viewpoint would exempt him from its scope.

My point isn’t to advocate that Germans sit around nail-biting or eyeing the local discount store with angst. I am glad Hanna doesn’t have to live with daily anxiety and that I don’t get a sense of trigger-happy self-defense from German society. Fear, especially lots of fear channeled into aggression, is no good. But nor is flippancy. We don’t completely understand “how terrorism works,” but no one has the right to act superior vis-à-vis the target status of other nations. I would like to ask those who see America as a threat to world peace how they feel about a recent Deutsche Welle report, wherein German government officials stated that the nation’s involvement in NATO-led forces in Afghanistan may make it a potential target. Is the German military is making Germany less safe? Or are they making Germany safer by trying to maintain a peaceful Afghanistan?

As well, how do these survey respondents feel about the unexploded suitcase bombs discovered on trains in western Germany last summer? Are those the fault of meddling, aggressive-delusional-paranoid Americans as well? The choices of the Bush administration have not always been well-advised, but instead of blaming the United States for that state of the world, it would be wiser to take collective responsibility. I hope that some German citizens stop viewing the United States as a threat but rather as an ally.

"Pudding" for pudding

How far do you have to travel to eat Sauerkraut? Thanks to the fact that Berlin eateries are as multicultural as the city’s inhabitants, (or possibly because I rarely venture outside Kreuzberg, where Sauerkraut does not feature heavily on the menu), I ended up having my first true German culinary experience approx 3,000 km south of Berlin.

Unless you count the soggy salami sandwich courtesy of yet another cheap airline, I was sure I had left German cuisine behind upon embarking the airplane at Tegel airport four weeks ago, on my way to Portugal for my Easter holiday. After this extremely disappointing excuse for a sarnie, complimented by a hyperactive child kicking the back of my seat solidly for the entire flight, I was more than happy to wave goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Müller kicking up a fuss over a missing strap on their golf hold-all at the luggage reclaim desk, and head out into the bright Algarvian sunshine.

I was going to stay with an old friend and her German husband who have been living in Portugal for the last two years. All the way to their house, I imagined the typical Portuguese meals we might be having for the next few weeks: grilled fish, salad, followed by some homemade almond cake....? As I pulled up outside, however, I smelt a very familiar smell, not that of grilled fish, but rather grilled cheese and onions, not unlike the only "German" restaurant I do sometimes frequent, the "Spätzle Express" on the corner of my street. After all the hugs and kisses of our initial greeting, I was served up a huge plate piled full of "Kässpätzle", not the grilled fish I had imagined, but my favorite type of Spätzle nonetheless. For pudding, Michael, also known as the "resident East-German", who was lives at the bottom of my friends’ garden in a caravan, whipped up a bowl of "Pudding", the chocolate custard/jelly desert that I often look at here in the supermarket, but rarely buy. And this was only a taste of what was to come.

Every morning I was presented with a wonderful spread of cold meats, cheese, boiled eggs, bread (not toast!): the classic German Frühstück. We had "Saure Eier" for dinner one evening, a GDR specialty which consists of poached eggs and capers, and then another night the infamous Sauerkraut, something I had never dared eat before, but felt obliged to try as not to offend my hosts. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised.

Although I was enjoying delving into German cuisine, I decided it was time to have some Portuguese treats and on a camping trip to the beach with a friend, took all the ingredients needed for a typical Portuguese "churrasco", or barbeque. Not long after lighting the fire to get the coals ready for our feast, a man with long hair and sporting a beard that would have made Father Christmas proud, appeared out of thin air carrying a tray of something covered with a tea towel. Bearing in mind we were miles from nowhere on a remote beach, I was slightly surprised, but curious to see what he had to offer. He unveiled his tray and it turned out to be full of "Mohnkuchen", a type of poppy-seed cake, another typical German specialty. After chatting to him for a while it turned out he was German but had lived in Portugal for years, and supplemented his income by baking and selling his cakes to campers on the beaches in the summer. At this point I gave up my search for the pure Portuguese meal, and settled for an international mix of grilled "Dourada", followed by a slice of delicious "Mohnkuchen". Heaven.

A Note from the Proud Owner of Four Trash Cans

Home Depot is going to put a green label on some of its products! Corporate America is starting to care about the environment! This is, in a word, AMAZING! Or so one might think: the home furnishing chain’s new initiative is one of the highest-trafficking headlines in the United States, number eight on the New York Times’ “Most Emailed” list at the time of writing. Americans (and readers of American-themed news) are getting pretty excited about the corporation’s efforts to promote “energy conservation, sustainable forestry, and clean water.” Moreover, Thomas Friedman’s plea for the US to wake up to the power of environmentally-savvy domestic and foreign policy, “The Power of Green,” is number one on that list!

But this kind of thinking isn’t news at all in Germany. The idea that Earth is a delicate place we mustn’t destroy, with limited resources we mustn’t abuse, is not a novelty but rather a national value. Two examples are the country’s staunchly anti-nuclear stance and its insistence on recycling everything.

The extensiveness of the latter is hard for the unacquainted to fathom without some description. Imagine sitting down for a snack in your apartment after an afternoon of running errands. Your (preferably organic, pesticide-free) banana peel can be placed in the “organic” container lined with biodegradable brown paper. That newspaper you read while snacking, which, since you are in Germany, will have insistently doomsday headlines about global warming, can go into “paper” when you’re finished wringing your hands. If you decide to relax and watch a movie, don’t forget to save the flimsy plastic wrapper your shiny new DVD of “An Inconvenient Truth” comes sheathed in—it goes in the “packaging” container.

Finally, if you made the foolishly wasteful mistake of forgetting the cloth bag you usually bring when shopping and paid fifteen cents for a grocery bag, you can place this emblem of your wanton consumerism in your “bag” container. Simply scrunch it into “die Tüte Tüte,” as my first roommate referred to the extra-large plastic bag housing our other, smaller, plastic bags. Because even polyethylenes and other bio-scourges deserve a second chance.

And those fruit flies swarming around the building’s organic waste depository aren’t going anywhere anytime soon: Berlin recently voted to extend the incredibly costly program of city-wide organic trash pick-up. The delicacies associated with the transport of rotting, insect-filled garbage make it much more expensive per household than other sorts, but those calling the shots think it is worth it. In contrast, my hometown of New York has a sort of on-again, off-again recycling program, depending on the city budget.

If all this seems excessive, maybe that’s because it’s annoying. We tend to dismiss things that require behavioral change as annoying and unnecessary until we agree with the principles behind their use. Take sunblock: it doesn’t irritate me at all because I see it as a useful tool that helps me stay healthy. However, my father, who grew up uninhibitedly soaking up UVA/UVB rays, considers the pineapple-scented cream a major inconvenience. Unconvinced of its importance, he continues to see it as a nuisance to his beach vacation.

This is not to say that I’m a beacon of forward thinking. All this thorough recycling thoroughly irritated me before I realized it wasn’t such a bad idea. However, the bundle of environmentally-friendly policies that fall under the title “green” still fails to convince large numbers of Americans—including our willfully ignorant president—of its own importance, perhaps because it would require that we willingly change our behavior and re-assess our values. Moreover, as Friedman points out, people think of green policies as wishy-washy and weak-sounding. “Green” has an image problem that even Paris Hilton’s PR people couldn’t fix.

Or does it? If Germany is any example, earth-healthy policies can become societal norms. Perhaps journalists and politicians can take up the call and gently herd us towards environmental enlightenment, changing one mind at a time. Here is hoping that by 2009, Home Depot’s plan to have the green label on 12% of its products isn’t a source of pride from having so many items meet the standard, but rather a source of embarrassment from having so few.

A Tale of Two Cities

Berlin is sprawling, scruffy, and bankrupt, with high unemployment and much barren, un-built space left over from World War Two-era bombardment. In contrast, Vienna, where I spent Easter weekend, is compact, neat, and full of palaces accumulated during the five centuries it spent as capital of the Holy Roman Empire.

When Berlin was a backwater trading town outside the borders of Christendom, Vienna sat at its head, commanding the wealth of the Western world. The city’s riches have been nicely preserved and it is packed with tourists marveling over Habsburg castles, Mozart monuments and ornately decorated coffee houses. The disasters of the twentieth century must have affected this place, but you will be hard-pressed to find signs of them.

This beauty may be enthralling, but it is also boring. For all the grandeur here, history stays strangely fossilized, making contemporary life a bit less lively. One of the biggest stories last week in the local Wiener Zeitung was about a meter maid, and the wacky excuses she got when giving out traffic tickets. Essays about different Kaisers still make front page of the features sections, and the public is still entranced with the moody, beautiful Empress Elizabeth, or “Sisi,” cohort of last great ruler Franz Josef I. As our very own Deutsche Welle reported recently, her cult of popularity has now extended to an all-arms search for her mysteriously unaccounted-for wedding dress.

In contrast to parking tickets and an imperial dress, the themes current in Berlin show feisty engagement with recent history. Last year, Berliners engaged in a name-calling match about how to commemorate the Berlin Wall; the terms Ossi and Wessi were brought out of the politically correct closet and bantied about again.

More recently, citizens got up in arms about the lefty local government’s suggestions to remember the 1848 failed democratic revolution. Residents have also protested indignantly against the new Scientology center as well as the new mosque.

The most important Palace in Berlin is the Communist-era Palace of the Republic, which the Senate is busy ripping down, to great outcry from former Eastern residents. And just down the block from me, investors who want to turn a WWII bunker into townhouses are meeting loud resistance from members of the old squatter scene, who refuse to countenance the costs such a transformation would incur on the neighborhood. In short, Berliners are constantly bickering about how to shape a city swaddled in its own difficult history—and this makes it a fascinating place to live.

It also means the Berlin lacks the Old World charm that a city like Vienna exudes in spades. Pittsburgh-born Liz Groch, 21, has visited both capitals, and chose to settle in the South, enrolling in Vienna’s elite Diplomatic Academy.

She explains, “When I went to Berlin, I was really surprised that you could turn the corner in relatively built-up areas and still discover huge vacant lots. Also, the hostel I stayed in was surrounded by broken glass and the street was deserted, even though it was near the center.”

And although Liz admits that Vienna’s centuries of privilege can give it a snooty feel, “especially since all the Viennese I know are strict adherents to traditional formality and social presentation, which can make the city seem like it is in love with itself,” she prefers its orderly lifestyle to Berlin’s socially ramshackle vibe. “When I went clubbing, I was surrounded by plenty of adults. I’m just not as comfortable in a place where people as old as my parents are out partying with me.”

Apparently, a lot of people feel the way Liz does. The number of Germans living in Austria’s capital has risen 78% since 2001, reported Die Presse on Monday. The high quality of life, tied for third in the world in Mercer Consulting’s latest survey, pulls them in. And I must admit, the beautifully-kept parks were charming, alongside all the royal residences that, in the modern era, discreetly converted to government buildings or art museums. It was quite lovely to view masterpieces hanging in the lavish settings of titled families who once collected them, then indulge in a decadent slice of Sachertorte in an equally fancy café.

But too many sweets can give you a toothache. Like Empress Sisi herself, I grew restless surrounded by Vienna’s stately prettiness and craved an escape. After three days, I was eager to head back to Berlin, the capital that lacks attractive charm but abounds with passionate arguments. You can be sure none of them are about old bridal wear.

The Art of an Opening

People stood chatting in clusters, swilling glasses of Riesling and having a mighty fine time. They greeted one another with two or even three kisses, exclaiming in English, German, Italian, and Japanese. Some stood aside, taking pictures or messaging their friends. In fact, the only thing not happening was art spectatorship. No one seemed particularly concerned with the works we were ostensibly there to see.

“It’s always like that at an opening,” one of the artists, Wilken Skurk, told me. He was showing new iron and glass sculptures, heavy shapes with a likable heft that stood out in the crowded room. “But I saw you looking at my art. So you’re the exception.”

“I’m the one with no friends to talk to,” I corrected him. We laughed. Ah, the wonderful world of galleries in Berlin!

Apart from the schmoozing and boozing, the Berlin gallery world little resembles more socially closed scenes in cities like New York. Here, you can actually talk to the artist without needing to be famous, a dealer, or both. The city’s surplus of talent, created largely over the last decade by low rents that draw artists like light bulbs attract moths, means that there are always plenty of people who aren’t famous enough—yet—to have better things to do than actually discuss their art with onlookers.

The resultant ambience is relaxed, open, and, like the expensive grocery stores nearby, very organic. The latter quality also stems from the particular pull Berlin’s Bermuda Triangle of New Art exerts on passersby—the few streets most heavily lined with galleries in northern Mitte may be hosting several events in one night, revelers spilling out onto the street, wine in hand. Openings grow quite naturally from passing foot traffic as people wander in curiously, and “invitation only” is about as common as “no smoking.”

So who needs bar-hopping when you have the Auguststrasse? On a mild Friday night I went to the opening of ve:tro at Galerie Rossella Junck, where I chatted with Mr. Skurk, as well as two others just down the block. At each event, the anything-goes atmosphere was quite nice. Doubtless, the terrier accompanying one gentleman through ve:tro enjoyed it. So did the woman who set down her wine glass on a pedestal alongside the work on display.

In all seriousness though, this is the ideal way to view art--as objects that exists up close next to us, right in the middle of our messy lives, not as silent, sterile things in museum. Contemporary art of the sort tempting pedestrians into the Triangle’s openings also has the advantage of not swimming in its own context; we all know what we’re supposed to think of Pollock, but what of Skurk? Even when the artist apes a particular style, or the gallery is aggressive in pushing descriptions or explanations to visitors, judgment cannot be fully wrested from the viewer, and, lest we forget, consumer.

Perhaps this is why galleries are so much fun—they have a financial motivation to entertain, while museums charge us for the service of appropriate cultural edification. However, to summarize the evening by saying that one walks out the Pergamon feeling educated and out of Rossella Junck feeling merely tipsy is to do the scene a disservice: where else can you view something new and interesting (in most cases, anyway), then turn and discuss it with the creator?

If you are lucky enough to be aesthetically inclined, or have artistic friends, you can do this in your living room. The rest of us, though, need another outlet, and here is where galleries perform such a vital function, in making art something that engages rather than something that passively fills a prescribed intellectual role. In its accessibility, sprawling expanse—there are many, many more galleries beyond the high-density zone described above---and energetic creativity, the Berlin art world fulfills this function to the hilt.

Gallery openings listed http://www.kunstmagazinberlin.de/kalender/kalender.shtml

Too Offensive or Too Boring? Picturing 9/11

Picture the most tasteless, offensive paper-selling strategy, one that would make William Randolph Hearst blush. Now multiply that by ten to get an idea of the low to which Berlin’s illustrated dailies sunk with Thursday’s front-page picture of the city’s iconic TV Tower sprouting a billowing grey cloud, a-la the burning World Trade Center towers. Parroting the instantly iconic “smoking skyscraper” image plastered across the front page of every newspaper in the world on September 12th, 2007, the Berliner Kurier as well as B Z and yes, Bild, reached a new nadir in taste.

The picture stems from a made-for-tv movie--it is not related in the faintest to reality. It’s entertainment. But then again, the same could be said of the “newspapers” that printed it. Perhaps it is pointless to accost tabloids for using sensationalism. There are no standards for trash; if there were, it would be journalism. The other illustrated dailies, that is, papers of non-tabloid status with pretensions to real reporting, didn’t even register the TV show.

But I’m still offended. Maybe the tabloid editors didn’t get the memo, but this was a tragedy in which thousands of people died, and one responsible for the eventual deaths of many more as it ignited American foreign policy to pursue an aggressive, imperialist code of invade-and-occupy. Call me touchy, but trying to get rich off of the event’s terror-inducing memory is utterly crude, especially for tabloids that haven’t slightest pretense of using the attention bought by the stunt to say anything of substance.

(And c’mon, wasn’t anyone bludgeoned in their sleep last night in Berlin? Didn’t someone see Jesus in their morning coffee? For these papers, there is always plenty of front page news to go around.)

My fellow correspondent Joel recently wrote about his affection for the German custom of gathering daily at the newspaper kiosk to discuss the news over a morning cigarette. I wonder what they said on Thursday: “Looks like an interesting movie,” or “What tacky commercialism” or possibly “Where are the soccer scores?” Perhaps the image didn’t even register very much, bombarded and desensitized as readers are by the classic September 11th picture it is copying.

I do know what the newspaper sellers had to say about it. The young man who sold me my Berliner Kurier shook his head. “It’s exaggerated and misleading,” he criticized as he handed me my change. “You can’t even tell it’s about a TV show at first.”

When I bought my second (yet nearly identical) newspaper at a nearby kiosk, the salesman decried the excessive press given to the baby polar bear at the Berlin Zoo.

“Two weeks of the same crap,” he sighed. “You know how much money the zoo is making off of this?” And he quoted an exact figure. He is certainly following the news closely, yet this crass image didn’t even catch his radar. He’s probably seen it too many times before.

And this could be the irony of the whole tasteless endeavour: the tabloids would like to bank off the well-known nature of the first image to sell the second, re-inducing a mix of horror and curiosity, but it is precisely this well-known nature that renders readers apathetic at second glace.

Or maybe the irony, like the devil, lies in the details: the film is being produced by Wiedemann & Berg , the same team that turned out “The Lives of Others” [Das Leben der Anderen], a high-brow work that won best foreign film at the Academy Awards. This seems to indicate that the latest work, “The Inferno: Flames over Berlin,” will rise above its vulgar debut on the front pages when broadcast in May. Or not. Either way, we can always look forward to the next day’s news for more entertainment.

Do You Really Want A Shorter Fringe?

I have always felt slightly apprehensive about going to the hairdressers. It dates back to when I was about seven years old, and my Mum asked my Dad to take me to have my haircut one Saturday afternoon. Not one for vanity and probably slightly intimidated by going into a hairdresser's full of women, he took me to the local barber's shop. Once at the "The Golden Shears", an old man called Adrian gave me what is best described as a "bowl-cut", complimented by a fringe that was so short it stood straight out from my forehead. It may have ruined my street-cred at school, but at least he didn't expect me to talk to him.

For me, the worst thing about going to the hairdressers is the inane chatter that comes free with the haircut. Don't get me wrong, I like chatting as much as the next person, but I would rather sit in silence than have a contrived conversation about where I am going on my next holiday. (I have also tried the deep and meaningful approach -- believe me, it doesn't usually go down well, better to stick to the holiday subject.)

However, needs must and I gave in and I finally went to the hairdresser here last week. I happened to be walking around in Mitte, Berlin's ‘hippest' Viertel, when I saw a sign advertising haircuts for ten euros a piece. It looked like a nice place: full of people, funky music blasting out and nothing like the Golden Shears -- probably the only place left in the UK where you might find a haircut for the equivalent of ten euros.

Where was the catch? The catch was that you couldn't make an appointment and instead took a ticket with a number on, like the ones you get at the meat counter in the supermarket, and waited your turn. This suited me fine, as I got to sit and people-watch, whilst flicking through trashy gossip magazines. It's a guilty pleasure that makes a trip to the dentist/doctor/hairdresser just about bearable.

Twenty minutes later I was called up and, preparing myself for the excruciating chat, took a seat in the swivel chair, while a girl with a face full of piercings and arms covered in tattoos fastened the backwards jacket thing around my neck. She asked me what I wanted and I explained I wanted a trim and perhaps some shorter bits at the front.

My exact words: "Ich glaube, ich möchte es vorne etwas kürzer haben."

Her exact words: "Du glaubst du möchtest, oder du willst, was solls' denn jetzt sein?"

Straight to the point, no beating around the bush with this one: did I think I would like short bits or did I want them? With no time to dither, I said I did want them. She nodded and that was the last time we exchanged words until she had finished, and had booted me out the chair towards the hairdryers and styling products. (For ten euros you can hardly expect a blow dry too).

It was the best haircut I have had for a long time, not only because she did a fast and professional job, but because for the first time, I got to sit in silence in the hairdresser's without feeling awkward, free to read trashy magazines and day-dream. Bliss.

The Suffering of “Others”

The Stasi has been getting a lot of press lately, thanks to Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s Academy Award-winning film "The Lives of Others." The film, originally released in Germany last spring as Das Leben der Anderen, examines the life of a couple in mid-80s East Germany under the surveillance of the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit (Stasi or MfS for short). It has been hailed by not only movie critics but also respected public figures such as dissident songwriter and Stasi surveillance victim Wolf Biermann for its creepily authentic portrayal of life under the dictatorship and its emotional poignancy.

Savvy Hollywood culture hawks are even discussing an American re-make in English.

The horrified-yet-fascinated viewers driving up ticket sales in the States, however, have the luxury of leaving their discomfort in the movie seat and returning to a thankfully removed existence.

Yet here in Berlin, this past is not quite so buried. The film’s 2006 springtime release coincided with a public meeting led by Siegfried Rataizik, in which former Stasi employees accused their victims of lying.

Rataizik is the previous director of Hohenschönhausen, the Stasi’s secret jail complex nestled in an otherwise unremarkable neighborhood of slab-concrete socialist housing. Here the psychological torture so neatly showcased in The Lives of Others’ opening scenes was carried out, aided by sleep deprivation and solitary confinement, among other tactics.

Today the jail is a memorial site accessible only through guided tours led by former prisoners, and it is these guides that Rataizik accused of inaccurately framing the jail as a “cabinet of horrors,” while the then-Culture Senator Thomas Flierl stood by, lamely citing each side’s right to “have its say.”

Despite Flierl’s conviction that we ought to listen to the delusions of bitter Stasi pensioners, I decided to favor the prisoners’ perspective and visit the jail myself. Fittingly, the day I chose to tour the complex’s courtyards and cell-lined, concrete hallways was one of the coldest all winter. A few Germans, some French teenagers, and I stamped our feet and shivered while trying to listen politely to the gruesome descriptions of prisoner treatment.

I was happy to get home that day and cook dinner, then settle on the sofa and watch a comedy on television. It was easy to push the ugly, unpleasant images out of my mind, and view the experience later with intellectual distance.

This is a luxury unavailable to most victims. Some, like Anatol Rosenbaum, suffer long-term health problems; at a recent memoir reading he entreated listeners not to stand too close to him, fearing what his failing immune system could contract. He explained he believes contact with radioactive substances while in custody at Hohenschönhausen has brought on the rare form of blood cancer that has so debilitated him.

Outside the packed hall in which Mr. Rosenbaum gave his talk, an agitated man handed out fliers in protest of recent federal attempts to limit the compensation given to retirement-age Stasi victims, pointing out many receive less money than Stasi ex-employees.

Indeed, fate is cruel these days. A brochure for the BStU, the office charged to sort out the left-behind Stasi paperwork, plainly states “most [of the criminals] got off scot-free.” In grand irony, Stasi head Erich Mielke was briefly imprisoned in Hohenschönhausen in the early 1990s, but was transferred after he complained about terrible conditions. (He was later convicted of murders that took place before German division.)

Some think the relatively low level of prosecution stems from early concerns to keep the fragile re-united Germany together as one state, and by now, most crimes have exceeded the statue of limitations.

Even the BStU employs 52 former Stasi co-workers, a scandalous conflict of interests nonetheless set in stone by pension laws relating to their length of employment. (They were originally hired, argues the first BStU director, because their skills were needed to sort out the labyrinthine documentation and 180 kilometers of files.)

At first, the more I learned about Stasi abuses, the perpetrators’ relative lack of consequences, and the victims’ continued suffering, the more foreign it seemed to me. Here was a society struggling with a recent tyrannical, horrific past -- not something I could relate to, having grown up in the United States in the prosperous and peaceful Clinton era.

Until I began reading the news a little more closely. Sleep deprivation, solitary confinement, psychological torment -- this was familiar territory. But it wasn’t a prisoner discussing the past or a museum placard cataloging previous horrors: It was the media expose of contemporary torture the American government is carrying out in Guantanamo Bay -- to say nothing of the secret prisons located worldwide -- against terror suspects.

Every time I saw a headline about Rumsfeld alternately justifying torture or denying its existence, my heart dropped from disappointment with my government. What is the substantive difference between the denials of Rumsfeld or Rataizik?, I asked myself.

Despite last week’s nationwide anti-war protests, concurrent with the four-year anniversary of the invasion of Iraq, massive anti-torture protests have not been a feature of the American political scene. Perhaps this is because we see the lives of torture suspects as the lives of others. If Berlin is any example, the wounds of this attitude will be festering for a long time to come.

The Berlin Fringe Scene

Last Friday night, I ended up in an electro club surrounded by the cream of the crop of the underground Berlin music scene.

Not that I was aware of this, but as I stood heavily criticizing "the poser" pouncing around on stage, my friends in the know pointed out that he was actually the guitarist from Mia, a famous German "electro punk" band.

He was contorting his face so unrecognizably, that even if I had known who he was, I don’t think I would have recognized him. He had on the "so now" 80s get up, mixed with a touch of heroin chic: Scruffy converse all-stars, skintight navy blue jeans, a white shirt and black tie, nicely complimented by his greasy hair, which hung sweatily in his eyes, and of course the obligatory cigarette dangling from his mouth.

People weren’t dancing initially, which was either because they were too cool, or perhaps because the music was a bit clunky and not easy to dance to unless you had robotic limbs. However, when the second band did an electro cover of Sinead O’Connor’s 80s classic “Nothing Compares 2 U,” the crowd went wild, singing along and swaying happily. Total 80’s overload.

I couldn’t help thinking “what is wrong with us all?”

There we were, a crowd full of skinny jeans tucked into pointy boots, t-shirts with bat wings and leggings wearing 20-somethings reliving a decade of fashion which should have been packed into bin liners along with our "blankies" and baby clothes and bid farewell outside a charity shop (or flea market) on January 1, 1990.

For years we all laughed heartily at the pictures of our parents sporting the very clothes that have slowly but surely been creeping back into our wardrobes, one by one, over the last few seasons. And quite rightly so -- the 80s were a dire decade for fashion and just because a few supermodels have strutted down the catwalk wearing pointy ankle boots and shoulder pads doesn’t mean we all have to take on the fad.

Or does it?

I have a theory that, for the generation of 80s children, the decade’s fashion revival reminds us of our childhood and that’s why we have embraced every last legwarmer and stripy top.

Looking back down memory lane with our rose-tinted glasses, we remember dancing to Depeche Mode or Cindy Lauper with BFG’s, (Big Friendly Grown-ups), at our parents’ parties. Or being completely in awe of Kylie, in her days of frizzy perms and high-waist, drainpipe jeans.

To us, 80s clothes are like the "blankies" of our twenties, familiar and comforting.

That’s not to say there hasn’t been a resistance, just like the advent of mobile phones which had us divided into two camps in the 90’s; those who thought they were just for show-offs, and those who liked showing off with them.

I was in the former camp for a long time, until one day I buckled and joined the "other side." The 80s revival has presented a similar dilemma for me, since having arrived in Berlin.

Although I haven’t yet acquired a short fringe and a pair of leggings, I have to admit that despite my protesting, I have finally given in and can now be seen wandering the streets of Kreuzberg sporting Robin Hood boots and almost skinny jeans. Oh dear.

The "Zen" of Berlin

The January opening of a Church of Scientology center in Berlin has caused a stir of local concern about the “brainwashing” sect’s street-corner proselytizing. Meanwhile, the construction of a new mosque in Pankow has riled up residents and right-wing politicians.

Yet alarmist fears and prejudiced indignation don’t interest me as much as another aspect of Berlin’s religion-related happenings: The large Buddhist community I have discovered here.

Buddhism has become part of Western Leitkultur, from labeling a laid-back attitude as “Zen,” as in, “I wish I could be a little more Zen about my work,” to the smiling, seated Buddha statuettes sold as trendy centerpieces, to Richard Gere’s “Free Tibet” campaigns with the Dalai Lama. From slang to home furnishings to Hollywood, Buddhism pops up.

I didn’t come to Germany to discover what lies beneath this superficial web of associations; rather, the interest arose when I got here, causing me to wonder whether Berlin was the right place to learn more. The enormous, friendly, group of individuals I have since met has definitively proven that, although Germans are allegedly less religious than ever, many have discovered a sort of non-dogma they can live by.

In contrast to Christianity and Judaism, the two religions with the historically largest followings in Germany, Buddhism isn’t necessarily a faith-based system.

It has a tradition of teachers who exhort their listeners to “try it out” before agreeing, and many major principles sound more like common sense than mysticism, which may be part of its appeal in Europe’s “God is dead” era. For example, the ideal of mindfulness, for which many adherents strive, simply describes the state of being fully present in the moment.

A recent magazine article about fun diversions for Berliners suggested dabbling in mindfulness, only to conclude that being aware of your surroundings and the nice Altbau architecture on the bike ride home was less efficient than mentally planning dinner.

Yet mindfulness isn’t about inefficiency -- it’s about the power of non-fragmented attention to wake up to the surroundings.

One morning, having forgotten as I usually do to turn off the heat in my apartment -- not something I’m used to from growing up with building-wide controlled heating in New York -- I ran back in to turn the knob and missed the impeccably punctual bus by about ten seconds.

I began fuming, but instead of going with it, I tried to be mindful, taking a deep breath and thinking, “Hello, fuming. What else is there in this minute alongside you?”

To Al Gore’s probable horror, I noticed it was an unseasonably warm and beautiful day. Missing the bus was a great chance to walk to the next stop and enjoy the weather. In other words, I paid a little attention to what was going on parallel to my own bundle of nerves and felt rewarded.

Mindfulness isn’t going to turn me into a completely “Zen” individual any time soon, especially since living abroad seems to be a continual adaptation process, not one that eventually slows. But by increasing self-awareness, it is a useful tool for better responding to the occasional frustration of living as a foreigner, such as not remembering how to express certain ideas in German or suffering through the lines at the Ausländerbehörde (public office for foreigners).

Now if I could just figure out how to respond mindfully to those scientology solicitors accosting passers-by outside of KaDeWe…

Manpower -- The Only Way to the Top?

Yesterday was March the 8th, International Woman’s Day. I was my home from having dinner with a friend when I came across a police car with flashing lights blocking off a busy street in Kreuzberg, where I live. An accident was my first thought, until I spotted a riot van, and group of 20 women staging a demonstration, surrounded by an even smaller bunch of, mostly male, onlookers. I, too, thought I would stop and have a look to see what exactly they were protesting against, although assuming it would be quite obvious, given it was Woman’s Day and their banners all had the female symbol painted on them.

Stepping closer, however, I noticed the slogan in big letters across the main fabric banner, which said: “Wir geben die Macht nicht auf!” which translates as “we won’t give up power.” This I didn’t quite understand -- “we want more power” would have made more sense, surely? Is there a power struggle at the top that I am not aware of?

Germany does have a female chancellor and good equal opportunity initiatives in the realm of business, but as far as I understand, the problems in equality are often glossed over by reports in the media that show rising figures of women in employment, rather than illustrating the difference in salaries between men and woman working in the same jobs. In Germany, women still earn 22 percent less than their male counterparts in the same positions.

Woman in high level management positions are also harder to find and when women do reach the top, it is usually through major sacrifices. I am not just talking about sacrifices in their family and home lives, but rather sacrifices in their very "being," to put it philosophically.

A prime example of this is a newspaper article I read recently about women taking the male hormone testosterone in order to be able to be more aggressive and "manly" in the workplace to be able to keep hold of their positions of power.

One woman admitted that she knew the drug was having harmful physical side effects, but stated it was the only way she could receive the desired recognition she felt she needed to survive in a male working environment.

Hegel, one of the founding fathers of social theory, states that all desires are based on a desire for recognition, and it is only through this experience of recognition that we can become socially viable human beings. However, in the above case and many others, this recognition is based on being "manly" or having "masculine traits." The norm is thus set by homogeneity, excluding not just for women, but also for anyone who falls outside the "manly" category.

Until we can find a formula for success in business which is non-gender specific, women should not be concerned with "giving up power," but pointing out that power can achieved through embracing the differences between men and women as positive attributes and a viable alternative to the current ideal.

Memory, One Piece at a Time

You can "stumble" anytime and anywhere in Berlin. Whether stepping out to pick up a carton of milk or on the way home from work, you’re bound to notice the "stumbling-stones" (Stolpersteine), small brass-capped squares laid flush with Berlin’s stone sidewalks.

One stumbles psychologically, not literally, for inscribed into their surface is the name, and -- as far as is known -- the dates of birth, deportation, and death of a former Jewish inhabitant of the dwelling alongside the stone. The brainchild of artist Gunter Demnig, the miniature memorials must be privately sponsored at a cost of roughly 95 euros ($125) and have caught on as an effective way to personalize the enormity of the Holocaust.

After "stumbling" dozens of times over Berlin’s roughly 900 miniature memorials, I became eager to talk to individuals who funded the stones, which are created and inlaid by the artist himself. A phone call to my neighborhood’s stumbling-stone coordination center puts me in touch with a local couple. I am set to meet sponsors of the latest memory trend.

Richard and Elke Hoffmann* greet me at one of Berlin’s thousand cheap Italian restaurants, chosen so we could talk at length without worrying someone else will be waiting for our table. The conversation quickly turns from vodka penne to Vergangenheitsbewältigung, or "coming to terms with the past."

Mr. Hoffmann believes in the controversial "collective guilt" theory popularized after a 1981 speech by Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin. The theory holds that all Germans as an entire people are guilty for the crimes of Nazi Germany.

A prevailing counter to the "collective guilt" theory runs that German society is not collectively guilty but rather collectively responsible; as witnesses to the terrible history and heirs to its consequences, they can help ensure it does not happen again. While Mr. Hoffmann agrees with this responsibility, he nonetheless sees the nation as categorically culpable, a feeling that informed his desire to sponsor a stumbling-stone.

"With this stone, I’m accepting a small piece of the guilt of our people. The guilt that I inherited. I take on this guilt in recognition of the terrible crimes we have committed," he explains to me slowly and carefully, as though describing a logical proof.

Mrs. Hoffmann expands on their reasons, bringing up an incident from their 1974 trip to Israel, when they stopped in a bakery for a snack.

"I wanted to buy a pastry and the woman behind the counter had blue numbers tattooed here." Mrs. Hoffmann points to her arm. "When she heard us speaking German she just gasped and then couldn’t breathe. She froze, completely transported by horrible memories."

This encounter with a concentration camp survivor stayed with Mrs. Hoffmann for decades. "I had to face what my people did," she says. "And for me, the stumbling-stone is a way of dealing with this. It’s a small gesture of humanity towards the victims."

The Hoffmanns’ stumbling-stone commemorates an elderly woman deported to Theresienstadt and killed in October 1942. It lies not far from our restaurant, where the woman resided at the time of deportation.

"We came upon them the same way you did," explains Mr. Hoffmann. "We noticed them here and there throughout the city, and at some point we thought, ‘that’s something we’d like to do. We’d like to sponsor a stone.’"

They were able to turn their desire into action when Mrs. Hoffmann read a newspaper article with information about the local office that coordinates with the artist. She called to inquire, and ten months later, the stone was set.

The Hoffmanns would like to do more. After reading about the former Jewish neighborhood in Venice, where the term "ghetto" originated, the idea of laying a stumbling-stone there appealed to them.

Mrs. Hoffmann takes out a travel guide and opens to a map depicting Giudecca Island, former home of the Giudei, or Jews. The cartographic neutrality of the land mass, shaped like a bread crust lying in a soup of Venetian canals, does not betray the cramped conditions under which Jews once lived.

"I have to research myself if there were Jews living there at the time of the Second World War, and if they got deported, as well as finding the names and dates," says Mrs. Hoffmann.

"We’re not sure if everything is recorded, either," Mr. Hoffmann adds. "Germans like to write everything down, but other countries might not have." He is referring to the astoundingly precise German documentation of their crimes, right down to careful inventories of homes from which Jews were deported.

Despite this tactical obstacle, the Hoffmanns believe strongly that in what they are doing, stating emphatically that only by remembering can one avoid repeating past mistakes. When asked how they would advise someone planning to sponsor a stone, their message is clear, "Be sure you know why you are doing it."

Interested in sponsoring a stumbling-stone where you live? Many (German and Austrian) cities have coordination centers; call the mayor’s office or district office (Bezirksamt) to inquire.

*Names have been changed at the request of the sponsors, who want more people to know about the stumbling-stones yet prefer not to receive undue attention for simply doing what they consider the right thing.

Rational Disdain For Distant Relatives

Walking down Friedrichstrasse the other day, I saw a poster proclaiming, “Bush isn’t an American! He’s an idiot!"

"Gee, thanks," I thought, for implying that the two concepts are mutually exclusive. Many people throughout the world have become more inclined to see "American" and “idiot” as intimately linked. The British tabloid Daily Mirror famously asked in a front-page headline on November 4, 2004: "How can 59,054,087 People Be So Dumb?"

Of course, the Friedrichstrasse sign also implied that those who chose Bush were idiots, but the basic notion of divorcing a hated leader from a larger population is common here in Germany. Perhaps this is based on their particular history and its larger-than-life villain, but regardless of the reason, it is a fairness I have come to highly appreciate.

The even-handed, rational German approach to forming political opinion certainly doesn’t mean that people are uncritical. There is hefty, biting criticism of America here. But it is measured, justified, and rarely leveled in the mainstream press for aesthetic trendiness or out of the sort of emotional infancy on hand at The Daily Mirror.

The Mirror’s emotional outburst irks because it makes Americans "the other," when in reality the relationship between the United States and Europe is much closer than Mirror editors may be comfortable admitting.

As historians from Eric Foner to Reinhold Wagnleitner have pointed out, America is none other than a continuation of post-Enlightenment European trends of individual freedom, capitalistic enterprise, etc. left to ripen in modernity without the tempering and derailing influence of continually destructive domestic wars.

Supported by copious Alexis de Tocqueville quotes, commentators from all spectrums also like to point out how little the American character has changed in the last two hundred years, becoming merely an enhanced caricature of itself. In other words, we remain the transplanted Europeans we once were.

The European creation of America was quite clear to me this weekend in Hamburg, where I learned about local shipping company HAPAG’s advertisements for the land of freedom and opportunity. Through trained representatives, the corporation spread glorious images to the poorer farming areas of southern Germany as well as to Eastern Europe so that emigrants would decide to make the trip on their ships.

If that’s not crass "American" commercialism, I don’t know what is. And we mustn’t forget that colonially ambitious British monarchs actively worked to convince their subjects that a fresh, young land lay open for exploitation just across the Atlantic. No wonder Americans feel so entitled to rule the world -- they were promised it long ago, when they were still Europeans.

I had a very European moment of not understanding the US the other day when I wondered aloud how Bush found so much support from middle America in the last election (I, too am susceptible to Mirror-like astonishment at times).

A friend from the Midwest responded by explaining that Kerry embodied the arrogance of coastal people like me, a born-and-raised New Yorker, and that it was difficult for people to vote for someone who condescended to them. In order to help me understand this mindset, he entreated me to remember moments when Europeans acted as though they were more "civilized" than Americans.

Even if I agreed with some of what Jacques Chirac said, my friend asked, would I vote for him for president?

But if Europeans are busy disapproving of America, and coastal Americans are busy disapproving of central ones, who are those "heartland" inhabitants looking down on? Those who look down on them, of course -- and this is the mirror image of European resentment of American cultural hegemony, the resentment of a perceived encroachment of values.

It might not sell ship tickets, but disdain and resentment are common factors on both sides of the Atlantic. Thank goodness, however, that knee-jerk anti-Americanism -- so trendy in other regions -- barely has a toehold in mainstream German society. I get to enjoy living in a place where the resentment and disdain are backed up by carefully-weighed arguments.

Shop ‘Til You Bop

Personally, I have never been a great fan of flea markets/car boot sales/second hand shops.

Although rooting around in other peoples’ old stuff can be voyeuristically satisfying, I have never quite understood the attraction of then buying it. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not because I think I am above it -- far from it. But having spent a large part of my life moving countries every few years I have become extremely materialistically streamlined, dust-gathering knick-knacks not featuring heavily on my packing lists. Especially as I am usually limited by the excess luggage allowance on the infamous orange airline, which at five euros a kilo, generally makes you leave the kitchen sink behind.

However, despite my reliance on the above mentioned mode of transport, I am quite ecologically aware, and becoming increasingly economically aware, so this week I thought it was about time I hit the German flea markets to see what recycled bargains there might be on offer.

Flea markets are an integral part of German culture, a far cry from the English car boot sale, which generally consists of a myriad of stalls offering plastic Star Wars figures, broken toasters and a million lighters for a pound. Often located in a multi-storey car park, unless you are a hardcore bargain hunter, these aren’t generally the nicest places to spend your precious Sunday morning.

I didn’t have to worry about losing a lie-in for my first German flea-market, however, as it started at 8 pm and took place in a local nightclub in Kreuzberg, better known for thrashing heavy metal concerts than Nachtflohmärkte.

Despite the lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke and old beer, the transformation from club to marketplace was remarkable. Rows of tables lined the dance floor, covered in the obligatory other people’s old stuff: clothes, books, DVD’s and an assortment of (possibly broken) electrical equipment. The stage had tables and chairs set up on it, where people sat around chatting, discussing their purchases over a beer or three from the bar, whilst the DJ booth was occupied by a smiley man playing reggae music.

About half way through the evening, a man in a white coat introduced himself on stage as Doctor Hartz, offering free advice and a Sprechstunde to those affected by the Hartz IV reforms currently changing the welfare system here in Germany. A bizarre, but somehow befitting touch.

I’m not sure whether it was the reggae (shopping malls should really cotton onto that and ditch the muzak), or the bottle of Berliner Pilsner, but my friend and I had a great time sifting through other peoples’ old stuff and found some real gems in the piles. A few one euro DVDs and some equally inexpensive classic German novels later, I left a converted bargain hunter.

Two’s Company, But Three (Million) is Barely a Crowd

Berliners love a crowd. In a city with an annually shrinking population, which at 3.4 million is half a million smaller than it was in the 1920s, it can be hard to find a nice clustering of fellow residents, especially since the population is spread over a huge land mass bigger than Munich, Frankfurt and Stuttgart combined.

Locals will profess that they love the "Ruhe" and quiet, village-like atmosphere of residential districts, but their secret yearning for a taste of the urban flavor of denser metropolises like London or Frankfurt emerges every so often during municipal events. Berliners turn out en masse for packed public events, from Christmas markets to marathons and, most recently, for last Sunday’s "Fasching" parade.

As anyone who has been in Germany for this event knows, "Fasching" is old German for “Silly Wig Day;” it is also called "Karneval," which non-fellow-travelers will recognize as the world wide tradition of debauchery before Lent.

Although more popular in Catholic areas of the country, Fasching/ Karneval has officially been celebrated here in the capital as well since 2004, partially due to the influence of thousands of civil servants from the Rhineland area who moved post-Reunification with their government offices from Bonn to the united "Hauptstadt."

While the biggest festivities traditionally take place on Carnival Monday, Berlin’s Sunday parade nonetheless provided ample opportunity for inhabitants to demonstrate their inner yearning for urban crowding (and affection for rainbow-Afro wigs).

Thousands lined up in the Western half of the city, along Ku’damm, around Zoo, and on the Tauentzienstrasse, watching floats go by and scrambling for candy being tossed down from the floats.

Yet, despite the population’s best efforts to cluster themselves, the parade still felt a bit sparse, especially in comparison to the throngs your correspondent has witnessed in Cologne.

Katharina Stump, 15, was watching the parade with her parents and younger sister, and commented, “There’s not enough people here to fill up the street, really. And too much space between each float. It gets a little boring.”

Her father agreed: “They stretched the parade too long this year [in contrast to previous parades with a shorter route on Unter den Linden].” As a native Berliner, however, he had to concede, “But it’s only been a few years and the organizers are still learning. Next year it’ll improve.”

A more successful experiment in urban herding was perhaps the "Grüne Woche" [Green Week], which took place in mid-January. At Messe Berlin, a massive convention hall not far from the Olympic grounds, international presenters from the food, nutrition, green building, and energy sectors displayed their wares, showing off not only technological advances but also the basic science behind growing the things we eat. Countries from around the world presided over booths offering meals and free samples, from Indian spiced tea to Russian sausage.

At ten in the morning on a Tuesday, the S-Bahn train to the Messe was packed, with large swarms of people making their way to what was essentially a combination feast/trade show, an opportunity to pig out in a somewhat ecologically enlightened fashion.

Inside, the zoo-like atmosphere was literally enhanced by livestock pens in the agriculture pavilion, and the event’s density reached an uncomfortably immobilizing crush by midday. No one seemed to mind though; what a thrill to finally be surrounded by people, something that almost never happens on a typical Berlin sidewalk!

On streets throughout the city, just about everyone was sporting the green bag used by supermarket chain LIDL to give out free apple juice. That German habit of saving and re-using plastic bags revealed that literally all of Berlin had gone to the Messe.

This is not to suggest that a cramped, teeming city is the inner wish of those living in Berlin's sprawling and occasionally deserted "Bezirke." Rather, it is precisely the thinly-settled spaciousness that makes crowded events so fun here.

Unaccustomed to being packed in, Berliners experience an extra-cozy feeling when electing to join the celebratory mass. Crowds are comforting rather than unsettling because an empty side street is never more than five minutes away. This is Berlin’s luxury: Every member of the mob can walk the relievingly lonely route home.

Falafels At Three AM

Thanks to a certain orange airline’s creation of a new route between Bristol and Berlin, I have had a constant flow of visitors since arriving here in September last year. Despite their reservations about contributing to climate change, (amazing how that 1, 99 euro fare can change the hardiest eco-warriors into European jetsetters), and the odd phobia of flying, I have been impressed to see how many have made it out for a weekend in the "Hauptstadt."

Aware that most of them weren’t just coming to spend time with me, (seeing as I only used to see some of them about once every six months when I lived in England), the pre-visit panic sets in nearly every Thursday.

What will they want to see? Are they arty or historical types? Will they get to see enough before the weekend’s over? The list goes on.

Friday around lunchtime I go out and buy a Zitty or Tipp (Berlin’s answer to Timeout), and spend hours working out an elaborate plan, which features a well-balanced mélange of cultural activities, sightseeing and a taste of Berlin’s famous nightlife.

My plans, however never quite make it to fruition; the ratio of nightlife to sightseeing always seems to end up slightly uneven, thanks to Berlin’s 24-hour licensing law, which really does mean you can stay out all night, unlike in the UK, where it has translated into a handful of pubs staying open till 12 am.

This means that by the time all my guests have surfaced and showered and had cups of tea, I usually abandon the original plans and present them with the whistle-stop sightseeing tour: get the U-Bahn to Potsdamer Platz, walk from there to the Brandenburg Gate and the Reichstag, before walking down Unter den Linden and back to Kreuzberg for some nice food.

Nobody ever really seems to mind, as although the statuesque Brandenburg Gate and the impressive parliament building elicit a few "oohs" and "aahs" from my guests, (especially at sunset, which is the earliest we have got there this winter), the real excitement is usually expressed elsewhere.

The public transport, (“look, it actually comes when it says it will on the timetable”), creates quite a stir among the English guests but most interesting of all, is the reaction to the gastronomic delights of Berlin. I’ll be showing someone along the remains of the Wall, and sure enough: “Oh look, there’s that great falafel place we went to at three in the morning,” or my friend who I took to the Reichstag who spent 20 minutes taking photos of a Bratwurst stand next to it.

Blasphemous though it may seem, I can relate to this attitude, which is probably why all my friends are foodies. I always remember holidays by remembering what was on the menu and have spent lots of happy hours foraging in foreign supermarkets. This week, my boyfriend is in town, and I am making sure we aren’t doing anything too cultured: just a tour of Berlin’s finest eateries and the odd long walk round some sights to work up an appetite.

Beirut Express: You Are Germany

All I had in the refrigerator was a jar of strawberry jelly and an old pepper, puckering under in its glossy red skin. Amidst moving into a new apartment in Berlin, I had neglected to go grocery shopping. It was time to head out into the winter morning for some food, but the little vegetable "Laden" on the corner was closed, as was the larger supermarket a block away. Panic began to set in as it struck me: It was Sunday and nearly all the stores in Germany were closed.

Returning home and mentally drawing up strawberry-pepper recipes, I happened to glance into a small sliver of a storefront called Beirut-Express. A nearby tabletop was strewn with fresh mint and the proprietor soon emerged from behind the counter to continue sorting it. Seeing me, he came to the entrance and opened up early for a hungry girl. Soon I was enjoying a warm "shawarma" and talking to him about our neighborhood.

The closest I’ve ever been to Lebanon is Israel, where I peered across the disputed border at the little white villages nestled in distant hills. Even there, Lebanon seemed far away, yet I like to think the taste of the country is familiar to me, thanks to the owners of Beirut Express. Eating at their place, I discovered that they were local figures and their cuisine pulled in loyal regulars. Their son worked there too, and he helped acquaint me with our "kiez," doling out tips as he carefully dribbled swirls of tahini on my sandwich.

When I moved out of the city, I stopped by the shop to tell the family how much I had enjoyed living nearby and they made me promise to visit again next time I was in town.

I recently returned to Berlin and moved to another part of Kreuzberg a couple kilometers away. It took fewer than 48 hours to locate a comparably delicious locale, whose owner, a German citizen with Lebanese roots, is equally hospitable. After 40 years in Berlin, he tells me stories about how the city has changed.

Despite the moments of neighborliness in Kreuzberg, residents of the bordering "Bezirk" Neukölln recently elected two members of the right-wing extremist National Democratic Party (NPD) to the neighborhood parliament. Like Kreuzberg, Neukölln is widely settled by Middle Eastern and particularly Turkish immigrants, so it's especially unsettling that NPD-member Thomas Vierk says he no longer feels like he's in Germany when he walks down the street. Apparently, the local voters who chose him agree.

Yet Germany is striving to combat prejudices against a certain segment of the citizenry. The old view of “Germanness” as a trait inherited through blood is being done away with through revised citizenship laws that allow those without German parents to become citizens more easily.

Publicly-funded poster advertisements for the Berlin soccer team emphasize solidarity over discrimination, showing players with several skin-tones who explain, “We are all white and blue,” the team’s colors.

A 2005 nation-wide public relations campaign that aimed to cheer up the population with uplifting commercials also worked on hammering home the message of “Germanness” linked to citizenship rather than ancestry. A notably diverse cast of residents with various ethnic backgrounds promised, “You are Germany.”

Living in Berlin has shown me that these ads aren’t just lip-service to the idea of a globalization-era, ethnically-diverse population. Rather, the city truly is full of proud Germans of different backgrounds eager to share their home with newcomers and foreigners, including hungry newbies still getting used to shopping-free Sundays and a new society. That they do so in the midst of prejudice targeting them as unwanted foreigners only makes their good will more impressive.

Perhaps the government’s efforts to combat xenophobia will truly have come to fruition the day Mr. Vierk stops by Beirut Express for a "shawarma" of his own.

I’m Not Wearing Prada, But That’s OK

Friday, February 10, 9:30 pm. On its second day, the 57th Berlinale Film Festival is in full swing. The stars are striding up the red carpet at the swanky Berlinale Palast at Potsdamer Platz, the place to be. Here in this plush cinema the competition category films will be premiered and judged by an impressive, star-studded jury.

In the somewhat less glamorous setting of my new second home, the gym, I watch these scenes unfolding on the TV whilst pounding away on the treadmill. My friend Claudia, who is cycling furiously on the neighboring machine, breathlessly tells me about how she has managed to get her hands on some rare tickets to the opening of Korean director Park Chan-wook’s new film "I’m a Cyborg, But That's OK.” Happy for her (albeit slightly envious), I wish her a nice evening and set off home, plotting how I could get my hands on some tickets. There are two ways to do this, seemingly:

1) Be "connected," i.e. know and be prepared to beg someone who works at the festival and might have a few spare tickets. (Although I’m sure that, as well as a surplus of tickets, they probably also have a surplus of friends from Feb. 8 to 18 every year).

2) Or, alternatively, the "uncool" way, which is to stand in line at the box office with the common people and see what isn’t sold out by the time you get to the front of the queue. This, however, can have dangerous consequences. The combination of a), disappointment at finding all the films you wanted to see are sold out and b), not wanting to go home empty handed after having waited in the queue for two hours can lead to ending up with tickets for films you weren’t really planning on watching, for example one about a pubescent girl with a vagina dentata (don’t ask).

Luckily for me, on this occasion I am saved from either of the above, as halfway home I get a phone call which changes the course of my evening dramatically. A friend who, unbeknownst to me, is working at the festival (he had kept that one quiet!) has a spare ticket for the premiere of “I’m a Cyborg, But That’s OK,” which is starting in 20 minutes and do I want to come?

I hesitate for a moment, as I’m not exactly dressed to kill in my jog bottoms and scruffy trainers, not to mention the fact that I am carrying a Lidl's plastic shopping bag full of sweaty gym clothes. (Not too classy I know, but the leech effect of the gym membership on my wallet has prevented me from shopping elsewhere.)

However, it would be a crime to turn down a ticket to a film premiere, so I jump in a taxi stopped at some traffic lights and tell the driver to "take me to the Berlinale Palast!" This feels quite satisfying, although I think I spot a disparaging glance at my plastic bag. I race (at least trainers are better for running up the red carpet) past the crowds of screaming Korean girls and equally non-plussed Germans outside the cinema, find my friend, and we take our seats just as the host comes on stage to introduce the film.

It’s a good film, a surreal but refreshing love story between a schizophrenic girl who thinks she is a cyborg and a boy who thinks he can steal souls, set in a Korean psychiatric hospital. The atmosphere in the cinema is exhilarating, and when the actors come on stage at the end, the Korean fan base in the front row goes wild.

And the good thing about not wearing Prada, (or is it the Lidl’s logo clashing with the red velvet of the Berlinale Palast?), is that a surprised Claudia instantly spots me amongst a sea of elegantly dressed people and we all get to go for a drink and discuss the film afterwards.

February Is the New January

I recently decided that January is the worst time to change your life by putting into action all those resolutions that you so hastily made whilst gulping down champagne and puffing on your last cigarette (ever!) at 3 a.m. on New Year's Eve.

It's cold, dark and gloomy, you are broke and you have to go back to work or study after the festive period. Telling yourself you have to start doing something -- or even worse, refrain from doing something -- for the rest of the year, or even for the rest of your life, has got to be just about the most high pressure demand you could make of yourself during a time when small vices may be just what you need to help your get through the most depressing month of the year.

Having just struggled into February myself, I decided it might finally be time to put my good intentions into action, and, just as all my friends were being struck by self-loathing from having given up giving up, I headed off to my local gym to sign my life away with a ridiculously expensive membership, which will probably help me loose weight just by virtue of the fact I won't be able to afford to eat anymore, let alone go out drinking with my friends on the weekends.

Overwhelmed and slightly intimidated by the mass of machines and fit-looking people loitering around them, I decided to break myself in gently and enrolled in a beginners' aerobics class that evening.

I had been to a few of these in England and found it was a fun way to get fit: An overzealous (usually female) teacher leaping around at the front of the class to frantic pop music, while a sweaty bunch of us (also usually female) try to mimic her but end up in giggles because one or the other had tripped over themselves whilst doing the grapevine.

How wrong was I to assume that this class would be the same? Very wrong indeed, as it turned out.

For starters, it was composed of about 40 percent men, including the teacher, who was wearing some seriously tight, fluorescent orange hot pants. I turned to my neighbor who was a middle-aged man with glasses, a polo shirt tucked into his jeans (in a gym?) and a very serious look on his face.

I mistook his frown for nerves and gave him a "don't worry, I'll show you the ropes" kind of smile, which didn't go down too well, if the following 50 minutes were anything to go by. Twice he told me off for "dancing in his space," which was surprising since I wouldn't have referred to what we were doing, or what I was attempting to do, as dancing.

Nevertheless, I respectfully heeded his warning and "danced" backwards into a very angry woman who scolded me for not taking the whole thing seriously enough. At this point I lost control and burst out laughing, initially at the absurdity of it all, then at the sight of myself in the mirror, from the vantage point of the new position I had been banished to.

Red-faced, "dancing" out of time, but having a great time, I decided if I could put up with my classmates' venom this could just be the perfect way to banish those winter blues.

An Annoying Ripple in Modern Convenience

Last week something incredible happened: Deutsche Telekom, the monopoly that owns all of Germany's phone lines, publicly apologized to its customers for its terrible service -- a difficult-to-reach customer service center as well as ridiculous lines at their branch offices were among the grievances for which Telekom asked forgiveness.

I am not a Telekom customer, but the apology gave me some meager satisfaction, despite its transparency as a corporate ploy to keep customers from leaving. More than two million threw in the towel in 2006, and Telekom is behind my 40-day wait for a telephone and Internet.

Some would call the word "monopoly" to describe Telekom unfair, since in fact competitors exist. However, these competitors have to rent lines from Telekom, making the firm de facto controller of all German communications technology outside of cellular phones. It was from one of these quasi-competitors that I decided to buy Internet and phone upon arriving in Germany in September.

Telekom's minimum service contracts, from one to two years for especially well-priced packages, were impractical for my planned 10-month stay. The provider I chose, in turn, had to wait for Telekom to give the "okay" to rent the line, a process which mysteriously took 40 days. The apartment was already equipped for Internet and phone, so the problem wasn't technological, but rather bureaucratic.

To punish its competitors, Telekom pursues a policy of marked inefficiency in renting the lines. So for nearly six weeks, a time period crucial for maintaining contact with home after arriving in a new country, I had no source of communication behind my front door.

My family and friends were incredulous.

"But it's Germany," they would say in conversations conducted from phone booths in tele-cafes. "It's a first-world country."

I fed the same line to an employee of the company from which I had ordered Internet, claiming: "This isn't India! It shouldn't take over a month!"

He sighed wearily and said, "I know. But we are waiting for Telekom."

A later conversation disproved my prejudice: a friend in India informed me her Internet was set up in under two weeks.

Germany is progressive: It is staunchly anti-nuclear, led the push to fight global warming and create the Kyoto Protocol, and each household has at least three different wastebaskets for recycling. For all the haughty American talk about Germany's "bloated welfare state," it is this system that has prevented urban ghettos from arising, in contrast to the United States, where poor social conditions cripple segments of the population.

And yes, the infamous efficiency and punctuality do exist and improve quality of life. Take Berlin's public transportation as an example: Traversing a landmass 10 times the size of Manhattan takes half the time.

So why this hiccough? Why this ripple in modern convenience? One thing is for sure: no one is happy with the situation. A distressed friend told me: "Please don't dislike Germany because of this! It's not a German thing; it's a Telekom thing. Everyone wants them to change."

Chancellor Angela Merkel's government has a lot on its plate, including economic reform and establishing working relationships with Bush and Putin. But one hopes that an initiative to remove Telekom's virtual monopoly will somehow work its way into this schedule. After all, Germany is a world power, and it might be embarrassing if Bush and Putin knew how long it takes to get a telephone set up.

Arden Pennell

Arden Pennell grew up in New York City and went to university in California and Germany, where she studied art and environmental history. She currently lives in Berlin, dividing her time between writing, cooking, and walks through the history-laden streets.

Faith Dennis

Faith Dennis was born in Redhill, England in 1981 and moved to Portugal at the age of 8, where she went to a German school for five years before returning to England to continue her education in Bristol. She has lived and traveled in several European and South American countries and has always enjoyed documenting her travels by means of writing and photography. She is currently studying for an M.A in Interdisciplinary Latin American Studies at Berlin's Freie Universität.