A Most Eventful Non-Event

Mama, T., J. and I have just returned from a trip to the Akademie der Wissenschaften building at the Gendarmenmarkt, where there was a series of events on the topic of the Israeli-Palestinian situation. When I agreed to come to a discussion between an Israeli and a Palestinian, I pictured in my mind a modest white-washed university lecture room, with perhaps a lonely overhead projector standing at the front, and a modest crowd of idealistic students (with the occasional combination of large woolly sweater and dreadlocked hair) and adults from the region under discussion and interested adults, similarly quietly clothed, from the general public. This is how such an evening would most likely have looked in Victoria, or even Vancouver.

Instead, as soon as we entered, there were formal tables in the lobby, with attendants correspondingly dressed behind them. And scattered on the staircase and in the rooms of the ground floor there were multitudes of very well dressed and meticulously made-up grown-ups, and students older than me. We were also slightly stressed because we felt that we had come late (a bus had been tardy, and then we had completely unnecessary trouble finding the right U-Bahn exit, route to the Akademie building, etc.). Anyway, I really hate the feeling that people who are there to serve others (for example, a waiter in a restaurant, or in this case the people in the lobby) are looking down on you. On the other hand, it amuses me when an important society person -- always, I think, a middle-aged woman in very formal clothing, bright red lipstick, short hair, and uncompromisingly tightly clipped eyebrows -- looks at me with an expression that disgustedly seems to say, "Oh, it's you." The disgust is always personalized. The more general animadversion, "It's one of those poorly dressed people," would, I think, be expressed by raising the eyebrows and then swiftly looking away. But a prolonged elevator look -- as I noticed a couple of times today -- indicates a more particular distaste. Perhaps the look of unsubtle amusement that I wear on these occasions is also not the most refined reaction. And I must admit that I always think with satisfaction of my illustrious ancestors, and the blue-ness of my blood, and my decent education, when this sort of thing happens.

Anyway, we finally found the Einsteinsaal (where the discussion was about to begin), having seen the friend who had invited us to the event along the way. The Saal was positively packed and very stuffy. After we had moved into the room I got to the open window as swiftly as I could without being noisy (we had, after all, been climbing at least three flights of stairs). Then we left again, Mama saying that it was really no use to stay. So we wandered around the building more. We discovered a "paternoster," which is a most delightful type of elevator composed of multiple boxes running in a conveyor-belt like arrangement, with no doors. It was funny seeing the different people coming by. J. and Mama stepped into one box; T. and I were supposed to go into the next, but T. "wimped out," so I went in alone. The box went down, then to the side, then up again to the ground floor. I got out there and waited in vain for the others. Then I decided to go up to look for the others. On the second floor, Mama, T., and J. were waiting. A dramatic reading of the parable of the rings from Lessing's Nathan der Weise taking place. I got out just before the paternoster was requisitioned for the reading.

We returned to the ground floor, where a poetry reading was taking place. The reader had a nice, ladylike voice, but I thought that what the reading was rather ludicrous. Earlier I heard the nonsensical line (in German), "Men are only threatened by fatal danger, but women are threatened . . .," in her gentle and plaintive tones, and at the end, I heard the following trite lines: "The . . . feather . . . is falling . . . out of my hand . . . . Even my . . . hate . . . is . . . dead. . . . I . . . am . . . dying. [Moment of sympathetic silence, followed by applause.]" Or something to that effect. But maybe I'm just callous, and maybe the poet whose work is being read is very sincere and famous, so that I would feel ashamed if I knew who it was. (c:

Anyway, soon after this we went out of the building, made a circuit around the Konzerthaus in the Gendarmenmarkt, and walked along to the Stadtmitte bus station. Several stars were visible, as well as the waxing moon, and we were crunching through the part-snow-part-ice on the sidewalks. We waited at the bus station a while and finally returned home.