mein Berliner Leben

Locked up on every available permanent object and whizzing through the streets, bicycles are everywhere in Amsterdam in colors more diverse than what a M&M factory could offer.  At all hours of the day and night I heard the whizzing turning of bike wheels.  Upon first arriving in Amsterdam, I was incredibly intimidated by them.  It seemed that the bikers clearly ruled in the battle of pedestrians versus bicycles.  Loud rings or mere chance alerted straying tourists (guilty!) to get out of the clearly marked bike lane. 

Taking the plunge and hopping on a bike was the best decision I made during my stay in Amsterdam.  Biking here was exhilarating, scary, and fun.  I was able to cover so much of the city—I crossed countless canals, wandered through lush parks filled with sunbathers and picnickers, and held my own on the busy main streets amongst buses and cars.  It was fascinating to participate in this almost strictly regulated activity filled with may norms and etiquette.  So after initially dodging bicyclists at every other step as a pedestrian, it was fun to be on the other side.  Plus I got a kick out of using my sharp bike bell that I did not hesitate to use whatsoever. 

NYU organized a trip to Krakow, Poland, coincidently on the weekend of the funeral of the Polish president Lech Kaczynski and his wife. The service was held in the church at the main square in old city center of Krakow, a five minute walk away from where our hotel was. On the morning of the service I could hear the church bells from my hotel room. I followed their toll to a steady procession of mourners, patriots, and curious bystanders— masses of people circled the outside barricade around the main square. Everyone walked in a clockwise direction as they looked for entry into the heavily guarded square. Women were dressed in their finest black mourning clothes; some clutched handkerchiefs. Teenagers wore black skirts with red leggings underneath. Young men wearing jeans and red t-shirts walked alongside older men wearing suits and carrying large Polish flags adorned with a black ribbon. Little girls in poufy dresses held their mothers hands and waved small Polish flags.

The procession drove by when I was sitting at an outdoor café. A long horn type signal sounded and the busy pathway in front of me came to a standstill. People moving froze and people sitting, including myself and the other café patrons, stood to face the sound. Even the frazzled waitress paused in her hustling to search out the origin of the sound. We stood there in the silence of the sound for about a minute until it faded away. It was hauntingly beautiful to observe the Polish people mourn yet it was also inspiring to see their patriotism.

Zagreb: I traveled on my own by plane to the Zagreb airport early Saturday morning.  After guessing about how much money to take out from the ATM, (I had no clue what the exchange rate was at the time), I found the hostel almost too easily despite a series of transfers.  I led myself on a lengthy wander of the old city center.  I barely managed to buy singe apple in the marketplace as I tried to explain to the merchant that I was looking for an eating apple and just a single apple, not a single kilo of apples.  Tables from restaurants spread out on the sidewalks and took over the roads; their occupants pursued intense people watching.  I climbed a seemingly endless staircase that led me to a truly satisfactory and breathtaking view of the rest of the city.  I took a nap on a park bench while I waited for my friends to arrive. 

Budapest: I spoke more German than English here and was surprised by the prevalence of French.  I did not have enough sensory capacity to take in all that was Budapest.  The Pest side of the city was crowded and filled with fascinating window shop displays and alleys leading to overgrown courtyards.  The Buda side perched atop a considerable hill that overlooked the Danube and Pest.  It was adorned with old stone walls and historically significant buildings.  I soaked in the famous thermal baths underneath elaborate mosaics and let my travel blisters heal. 

Vienna:  Simply a lovely city that was so pretty that I wanted to dance down the streets and laze about in their green parks that were off limits to pedestrians.  I had my best Wiener Schnitzel experience for just 6.20 euro.  There was so much deliciously fried Schnitzel drizzled in lemon juice and too little room in my stomach to accommodate my drooling appetite. 

I was transported to my image of a Mediterranean European city on a day trip to Leipzig.  Famous for its history of musicians and status as a trade center, Leipzig delighted me with its quaintness that had been left mostly untouched by WWII.  I was also stunned by the number of street musicians: traditional Russian singers, two young girls playing recorders, guitars, accordions.  I infrequently see or hear street musicians in my dear Berlin.  The occasional music playing peddler on the U-bahn invokes little appreciation so it was refreshing to see a variety of citizens filling the air with their melodies. 

I sat with my tea and apple strudel at an outdoor table of a restaurant, watching the people walk by and staying warm with the outdoor heater.  All around me there were beautiful stone buildings with large delicate baroque style windows and archways leading to colorful courtyards.  The setting was such a stark contrast to that in Berlin. 

I toured the Führer Bunker, or Hitler’s main bunker that he had constructed for the purpose of sheltering, or at least giving the allusion of it, privileged German citizens during the many air raids of Berlin. It had been completely closed off and untouched until 1997 when the transportation company, which owned the train station under which the bunker was built, proposed that it be put to use in a beneficial way. Two years later it was officially preserved as a historical site and it was opened to the public to explore its dark and eerie depths.

I have encountered many instances in Berlin, where relics of WWII are just being dealt with and exposed. In 1994 a WWII cookie dropped without detonation by the British in Friedrichshain exploded when a crew was fixing a water pipe bust. The incident brought to light the fact that there was a massive collection of forgotten and hidden ammunition laying under the reconstructed city.

It’s slightly intimidating to walk through the main foyer of the Ministry of Finance, which was the Ministry of Aviation under the Third Reich, and know that Hermann Goering walked this very way as he went about his business as the commander of the German air force. Beliners, government officials, and Germans in general struggle in dealing with the ghosts of the Third Reich. To this day the urge to destroy painful memories versus the fear of ignorance are thrown back and forth among architects, city planners, and the public without an undisputed resolution.

My shock at how current WWII is here in Berlin may be attributed to the lack of war that has taken place at my home in America. When I walk around Berlin, there are so many visible and invisible reminders of what previously took place at certain locations that it is impossible to ignore history. I do not know how to reckon with these ghosts and Berlin, as I learn more and more about this city, my feelings are not at all clearer.

Jay walking is not acceptable here.  Tourists and young Germans will disobey the friendly red Ampelmännchen (pedestrian walk signal) created by the GDR that is still around today but it is a frowned upon behavior.  I witnessed an older woman yelling at a young man who had ran across the street when it was red.  She could have been saying anything but the hand gestures and lack of other interaction between them led me to believe that he committed a faux paus. 

I directly experienced the strength of German law on the U-Bahn.  The Berlin public transportation system is based on the assumption that you will purchase the appropriate ticket for your journey; there are no turnstiles or checkpoints (except for the buses, upon which boarding you have to show your ticket).  There are, however, plain-clothed BVG officials randomly verifying that passengers are paying. 

I have already been asked to show my ticket several times.  The officials work in pairs so that each will board the same car at opposite ends and work towards the middle.  They display a small ID and I usually notice them when I hear my fellow passengers rustling around for their tickets.  They move quickly and thoroughly, returning to the passengers without the correct ticket after they have checked everyone’s in the car.

I was riding on the S-Bahn on Saturday when BVG officials came into the car.  I did not realize that my monthly ticket had expired the day before.  I held out my ticket like everyone else and the official mentioned that my ticket was no longer valid but then continued on to the next person.  I thought I was being given leeway until her partner returned with a handheld ticket machine.  Since I was with other people and the monthly pass allows for one guest on the weekends, I tried to explain to the official that I was on someone else’s ticket.  It was too late.  I had to hand over my license and watch sorrowfully as he punched in my data and printed out my €40 fine.  I was travelling with a fluent German speaker who had taken on my case with the official but he wouldn’t listen to any of it.  The lesson that I learned from that was to never hesitate a moment before explaining how I was legally riding the train.  There are no exceptions to the BVG rules and no amount of foreigner’s confusion or excuses will stop an official from writing out a ticket.  I guess I will be heading to the BVG headquarters this week…

(Supposedly, if you don’t have any ID on you at the time, the officials will escort you to the police station.  I’m not exactly sure how accurate this is but escorting will happen.)

The best way for me to practice my German is to visit the Turkish Market that is a ten minute walk away from my apartment.  There, I get lost among other shoppers, mostly Turkish women, inspecting the quality of the produce and comparing prices.  There is an incredible quantity of goods being sold.  A stall selling children’s clothing is in between a stall selling huge loaves of fresh bread and a stall selling small plastic bags of every kind of spice in existence.  There are long tables of roles of fabric in every imaginable color, pattern, and weight that are attended to by men holding meter sticks, ready to measure out the next order.  Turkish women sniff the fresh herbs and point out the freshest to each other.  

There is fresh produce piled everywhere.  Heads of cabbages at least a foot in diameter.  Exotic fruits that have long complicated names in German.  Behind each stall there are tall stacks of cartons holding additional produce and when a certain item needs replenshing, a strong man dumps an entire carton onto the table, making me jump everytime to make sure that no precious clementines fall on the ground, but they are always precise and never need my help. 

There is a constant chant of men yelling out their best offers on clementines, avocados, tomatoes, and more.  If I lingered too long in front of a stall I was offered a sample of melon, sausage, or whatever I happened to be standing in front of as well as being repeatedly told the quality and cheap price that I was being offered.  The flurry of activity is everywhere; each stall has potential customers inspecting goods, chatting with merchants, pointing to a particularly type of cheese.  In the aisle women compare their selections and pull children along.

My favorite buys so far are green Turkish olives that I eat as if they were potato chips, Catalan chorizo that I bought from a stall whose owner gave me a discount for buying the last bit of it, a kilogram of spinach for €2.99 (which is a lot of spinach even when it shrinks down when cooked!). 

The apartment building I live in was tagged recently with a modestly sized “squat the world”.  I’ve seen this phrase throughout the city’s graffiti, including on the buildig across the street from my apartment where there are apparently actual people squatting.  Oh, and next door to that is a brothel.

I went on a school-led day trip to Potsdam, a suburb outside of West Berlin.  Among the visits to the palace and the site of the Potsdam conference, I ate at a traditional pub-like German restuarant in the Dutch quarter.  I had Goulash with potatoes and cabbage and boy was it yummy, although a little too salty, (I’ve noticed a higher salt content in the food here…).  At the end of the meal, our waiter came over with a money purse and each person in the party paid for their meal seperately.  It made it easier to pay individually.  Since tipping is such a different concept here, I had to ask for a specific amount back.  So while I owed €8 and paid with €10 bill, I just asked for €1 back.  Apparently this is the appropriate time to tip and not after the bill has been settled.

Another case of an abandoned-looking baby in a stroller! I was on the S-Bahn this time and there a stroller with a very awake baby parked by itself by the door but there was no obvious mother at its side.  After four stops a woman came from another section of the train about twenty feet away and cooed at the baby and remained stationed there as long as I remained on the train.  I supposed her to be the mother but it made me anxious to see this unclaimed baby.  (The newer trains are completely open for the whole lenght of it, making the front of the train visible all the way from the back)

My first trip to the laundromat (fresh clothes at last!) and no instructions in English.  A kind German woman put me on the right track in terms of starting the machines, etc.  However, the illustrations there did inform me that while bicycles, smoking, alcohol, pets, or color dyes were not permitted, video recording was allowed. 

Not enough room to parallel park? Cars here will simply pull into a spot at an angle so that the front of the car partially blocks the sidewalk. 

There are Dunkin Donuts everywhere here.  I have seen two Starbucks in Berlin but I have lost track of the number of good ole Dunkin Donuts.  They’re in the U-Bahn stations (metro) and next to traditional cafes.  They have different flavored donuts as well, such as plum and ginger apricot.  I’ve been told by a fellow American that their coffee is also stronger than the American version.  

I had my first Schwarma.  It is a Middle-Eastern pita sandwich consisting of shaved lamb, a yogurt based sauce, chili sauce, cabbage, lettuce, and tomato (although for me it was “Nein tomaten, bitte”).   I am unaccustomed to the taste of lamb so it did taste off to me.  I did go to the restaurant known for their Schwarma and falafel (oh dear falafel, I do enjoy thee terribly!) but perhaps it is an acquired taste.

I ventured over to Western Berlin and walked along Kurfürstenstr., a wide promenade like road that looks slightly Parisian.  There were the ritzy shops of Fifth Ave and Champs Elysées in addition to German designers.  I saw no graffiti along this one famous street and I was also disappointed to see new buildings fashioned to look old with rustic bay windows and stoic columns.  The glittery signs, posh cars, and modern glassy architecture made me feel that I was in a different city from Mitte Berlin (middle) to which I had gotten accustomed.  

I have been attempting to speak in Germlish (English with as much German as possible!), especially when I interact with Germans.  The universally common topic of weather is especially intense this winter since Berlin is experiencing the coldest temperatures and highest snowfall in 30 years.  The German then asked me if I had seen the great snow in Washington D.C.  It has become an international story!

In German schools, students knock on their desks to say farewell to their teachers at the end of class or after a presentation in class.  

Some random thoughts:

The same layer of ice has coated the sidewalks of Berlin since New Years Day.  Only now, after a series of temporary warm spells  (that are soon replaced by even colder ones) and continued attempts to chip away the ice, has the trash from New Years Eve festivities been exposed.   The ice has become a huge problem for the city with an average of 100 people visiting the hospitals per day with a broken bone.  It seems Berlin is adamant about holding out on staying salt free but that’s a large hospital bill.  At least all Germans are insured.

Solution to the puffy unflattering down jacket problem: wear a belt at the waist over the jacket, preferably in bright radical colors and adorned with sequins.

Minimal napkin use.  I haven’t seen unending stacks available at cafes and my falafel sandwich comes with a single thin napkin that is inadequate for the downpour of tzatziki sauce.  I suppose Americans are just sloppy?

Tram drivers sometimes wave!  Instead of looking gloomy and grumpy as they frequently do in the NYC subway, most drivers, including those on the S-Bahn and U-Bahn, are often seen smiling during my first week here.  This could be related to the fact that there is a large and unobstructed window through which the drivers can see as opposed to a narrow and dirty window on the NYC trains.  The mice in the subway are also very cute and tiny like the mouse from Ratatouille.  

The first floor is understood as something different here.  While on the main floor of a building, I asked six people for directions to the service center and each person told me it was on the first floor.  For a while I thought their English was the problem but eventually realized it was a problem with my cultural translation.