1789, Cooking, and an Evening Promenade

Today I woke up at quarter to twelve. I had intended to wake up earlier, but I began to sleep really deeply at perhaps nine and couldn't stop until I did. This profound slumber is, I believe, the result of the nice warm temperature of the late morning. Yesterday evening I finished the last book by Edward P. Roe that is available at gutenberg.org, and it made me feel ready to wean myself from the exciting but pointless world of the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century popular novel. From now on I intend to spend my evenings over non-virtual books, periodicals, perhaps drawing or sewing, and music.

At perhaps twelve I set off down the street to the bank, and thence to the fish shop. At least four other customers were waiting, but the two men behind the counter were working concentratedly and yet not hastily. The men scraped the scales off fishes, disembowelled them, and beheaded them, then ranged the gleaming grey unfortunates onto white butcher's paper, rolled them up, weighed them, and put them in striped blue and white plastic bags. Then, of course, one of the men accepted money and paid out the change. One or two people who were waiting for the bus outside peered in through the windows. I also spent some time looking at the array of fish in the counter, some deeply embedded in ice, from salmon steaks to sardines (fresh, of course), mackerel and trout, mussels and octopus and calamari, bonito, and prawns. Above the counter the German, scientific, and Turkish names of the fish were given, so I looked at those too.

After the fish shop I crossed the road to the big grocery store. The fruit looked particularly tempting, so I bought pears and clementines (with leaves attached) and bananas and grapes on impulse -- as well as a box of more or less authentic Turkish cotton candy, which, it turns out, tastes rather floury (for the highly logical reason that there is flour in it). I had forgotten to bring along the shopping basket, so it took a long time to pack everything up. Further down the street I bought lemons and flatbread at another store. Then I went home, though after a while I did go to Plus across the street again.

So, after the shopping whirlwind, I spent a quiet quarter of an hour with the Propyläen Weltgeschichte. I am now reading about the formation of the National Assembly; the Tennis Court Oath has already taken place, and Mirabeau has declared his and the assembly's defiance of the King to the point of the point of a soldier's lance. Louis XVI, as far as I understand goaded to the step by fearful courtiers, has stationed troops around Versailles (from distant regions, so that they are more trustworthy), and given a negative answer to an appeal from the National Assembly that they be withdrawn. I decided while reading this that I would really like to write a historical novel about an aristocratic delegate to the Meeting of the Three Estates, and his family. I don't know whether the delegate should be a sympathizer with the National Assembly or not. Either way, he and his family would end up fleeing to England. I'm already wondering what books would be in fashion at the time, and what philosophical questions, and how far an aristocrat would share the ideals of John Locke or Jean-Jacques Rousseau, for instance.

Anyway, after my short studies, I wandered into the kitchen and prepared to do the dishes. Somehow I cut my finger in the process, so I stopped washing the dishes and asked others to do it instead. To my surprise, Gi. and Ge. did wash the dishes, and T. dried them. I carefully set the table, using the appropriate white and blue soup plates with the fish motif. Then I prepared tomatoes, a cucumber salad, quark with dill and green onions, and boiled potatoes, with Ge.'s help. Papa made the salmon steaks. All of this wasn't quite done when Mama came home from work, but I think that she enjoyed the anticipation (and perhaps the fact that it's the weekend made her happy anyway). At the last moment I tried to make "Zitronenschaum" (lemon foam), which was a signal failure despite the fact that I had not "improvised" it.

Finally, having eaten a generous amount and feeling quite content, I was ready to go on a bike trip to the Viktoriapark in Kreuzberg, which contains in it the peak of the hill from which the area Kreuzberg takes its name. Gi. and Ge. were willing to come along, so (after some preparations) we set off, with Ge. striding at the front (on foot), and Gi. and me following on Gi.'s and J.'s bikes respectively. It's good that I didn't go alone, because I would have very confidently gone the wrong way. It was turning dark already. When we reached the bridge on the Monumentenstrasse the view was arresting. Below the bridge run many railroad tracks, bordered and interspersed by a lake of light leafy trees that are now yellow and light green and orange. A bank runs up the other side, and apartment buildings, generally white, with dark red tile roofs, cluster along it. Looking down the tracks in the middle of the bridge I saw the glowing white dome (which resembles a tent, or, in my opinion, a flattened badminton birdie) of the Sony Centre, as well as a clump of surrounding buildings, and the isolated grey spire of the Radiofunkturm to the right.

By the time we had reached the top of Kreuzberg it was already quite dark. The horizon glowed orange as dark-grey stratocumulus clouds moved across it. The crescent moon was unusually bright. In a nearly perfect 360-degree view we saw the lights of the city, including Potsdamer Platz and the revolving spotlight of Tempelhof Airport, contrasting with the solid bluish-black of the buildings. There was the occasional gust of wind. As we returned home the sounds of the wind and of the cars passing in the distance were a perpetual subconscious undercurrent. Ge.'s shoes plodded firmly on the pavement. Occasionally the wind swept the leaves, still dimly visible because of their bright yellow colour, up from the pavement, or whirled it along the side. The buildings were in half-shadow, but many windows were lit, so it was cheerful. There were few neon signs along the way, so there was something very classic and picturesque about the scene. Perhaps ten people passed us, some with the air of preparing for an evening out in a leisurely way and others giving the impression that they were hurrying home. A photographer was adjusting his tripod on the bridge. There was something pleasantly chaotic and fleeting about the trip (perhaps the swiftness of the falling of night contributed to it), and it was agreeable especially because it was still early and because therefore the darkness did not seem menacing.

Tomorrow I might go out with my or Gi.'s camera and take photos before the leaves disappear from the trees. Even the foliage of the oaks in front of our apartment is wonderful: intensely yellow with rich reddish-brown edges. Autumn is, after all, my favourite time of year.