Bereft of a Bathroom, and Other Tales

Today is a windy, sunny, cloudy day; the restlessness of the weather is reflected in my restlessness and that of everyone else in my family.

Our bathroom is being changed so that it is more safe and comfortable, and a smaller bathroom is being added right beside it. The smell of the dust from the drilled walls always reminds me of my many visits to the dentist -- the big light shining into my face, the dentist wielding his implements to my right, and the cloth fish mobile in soothing cold colours dangling to my left. There are many events in my life that I would prefer to revisit instead. And the sink is gone, the toilet (which we, of course, can only use when the plumbers have their lunch break or are gone for the day) must be flushed by means of water from a bucket, and the bathtub is gone. But I rather look forward to improvising a shower; I have a good idea for that already . . . By the way, the long-term bothersome thing about the bathroom is that the house ordered its old and peculiar but fully functional lock replaced with a modern handle -- that has no lock at all. The logic is obscure to me. But T. and I jointly invented the device of hanging a washcloth outside if someone is in the bathroom, so that no one else will wander in. The point is, it's all very unsettling.

This morning, at any rate, we were all in a bad mood. No access to the toilet, teeth unbrushed, underarms uncleansed, etc. And we've also been using the bathroom as our changing room, since the curtains aren't up yet in our large windows. T., the most pathetic case of all, slept in and, when she had woken up, moped on the bed, not at all talkative. I was trying to stay cheery by playing the piano a little and reading the historian Felix Gilbert's memoirs, entitled A European Past. Then I did some shopping, and we had lunch in the living room, which cheered up everyone except Mama. I admit the purchases were rather horrifying -- grapes that could not be rinsed yet, a box of After Eight, peach rings, marmalade, and Waldmeister-jello, to which assortment J. added licorice allsorts, licorice snails, Nutella and chips. To be fair, I bought healthy stuff too: milk, quark (which is like sour cream), and pear juice. Mama had asked for the marmalade too.

Then I asked Papa if he would drive me to Dahlem sometime (the Freie Uni in particular). Since J. and I walked there a few days ago I've become very fond of it. It's particularly quiet since the classes are no longer in session, and there are so many trees, and the campus reminds me of UBC. I wanted to get books relevant to comparative literature there too. Anyway, Papa suggested we go nearly right away, and J. also wanted to come along. This time Papa took us to the building where he had worked as a Physics student; it's a complicatedly large, low modern building, not pretty but not outright ugly either, with many windows and well-lit hallways. First we went to the washrooms. Papa said that the washrooms had originally been forgotten when the building was constructed, so that rows of closets had to be converted into them. After that, Papa showed us where his office had been, told us that a circus had once been on the overgrown field past the parking lot, looked to see which professors he still knew (quite a few), and pointed out the big tank where he had always taken liquid nitrogen from.

After stepping back out onto the cobblestone sidewalk and peeking into the Völkerkundemuseum we continued walking to the bookstore Schleicher's. There Papa bought Boccaccio's Decameron and Eric Nolte's book about the Weimar Republic for me, and several books for himself (including a biography of the philosopher Schelling). The lady at the cash register looked very pleased.

Since then I've been shopping again for drinks, and I've played a lot of piano, which went well. Speaking of the piano, I checked yesterday what the prerequisites are for studying music at the Universität der Künste are, and it seems I might meet them. The main entry requirement is an excellent result on the entrance exams, which are outlined in detail on the website, and seem feasible. I'll try to find a teacher, and see whether it would be worthwhile to try to get in. It's exciting to imagine becoming a good pianist, but on the other hand I don't like the idea that I will no longer be playing the piano purely for the pleasure of it. Another thing is that I might be too nervous. Finally, I think that I have to learn to play a second instrument too, and that would entail a phenomenal amount of work. I still need to research the option of going to college, then a university.

Anyway, back to the restlessness. I'm not sure what to do after I finish this blog post. Yesterday evening I solemnly promised to myself that I won't read any romantic books any more. I tend to read them because they put me in a good mood, but I'm in a good mood anyway, and I'm ashamed of reading them, so dispensing with them isn't that bad. So now I will range far and wide in the field of non-fiction. I'm still reading about Madame de Pompadour, yesterday evening I read short stories in The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, and of course there are the memoirs of Felix Gilbert and of my grandfather (I've been working more on the translation).