Stadtmitte, Anglomania, and Dinner

Today I woke up at around noon, after dreaming that I had to write an entrance exam for History at the FU. Many of the questions were irrelevant to the field, and I didn't know the answer to any. I attempted to answer two or three questions out of ten; nearly everyone else quickly finished their exam and filed out of the classroom, while I sat there and despairingly wondered what the time limit was. This is the first dream of the sort I've ever had, which is why I mention it.

Soon after waking up, I went on an impromptu trip to the Gendarmenmarkt with my sketchbook. I sketch very badly, but I assume that I should learn to do it better -- and I have always liked the old-fashioned practice of capturing interesting buildings and scenes on paper rather than on celluloid.

Descending into the subterranean world of the U-Bahn was not pleasant; as one hurries down the stairs (usually adorned with the coagulated spill of an indeterminate dark liquid), one is often greeted with a billowing warm atmosphere laden with the fruity odour of sewage or something like it, with a heavy hint of gasoline. At least I didn't catch a wrong train, so I reached the Stadtmitte station without incident. I expected to see the Mohrenstraße, which runs along one side of the Gendarmenmarkt, right away, but I managed to reach the Markt just as well by following the Friedrichstraße to the Markgrafenstraße(?). So I approached the square by way of the temporary beer garden beside the Deutscher Dom. The open portals of the Dom beckoned, but I've become stingy in the past year and decided not to risk an entrance fee. The square itself was not too crowded; there was an impressive mass of grey-lined cloud over the Französischer Dom, which served as an emblem of the rainy aspect of the weather, and this aspect was probably what kept the tourist numbers moderate.

I climbed the steps of the Konzerthaus, where a blue carpet ran up the middle. I don't know what sort of message a blue carpet is supposed to send. "You are moderately invited," perhaps. Or, "This way for serenity of mind." But I see the reason for having a carpet there, because it helps relieve the dauntingly high appearance of the stairs. Then I quickly sat down and decided to sketch the sculptures in the centre of the square, beginning with the ornate iron railing around it. It was a slow and painful process, involving a sad travesty of the laws of proportion. But the "people-watching" was good. There were at least three tour groups that passed over the square during my session. The first was an enthusiastic tour guide whose appearance reminded me from afar of Cecilia Bartoli, and who, inter alia, recited an anecdote about Paganini to a group of interested students. She called Paganini a "Star-Geiger," at which I internally shuddered.

I do wish that English words were loved wisely, and not too well, in Germany. All my snobbish instincts are called forth by the endless "star," "power," "management," "timing," etc., and the disservice done to the English language by borrowing so overwhelmingly from the pedestrian or business-related portion of its vocabulary, and using it in pedestrian or business-related contexts. For some reason I'm deeply prejudiced against big business, especially in the German context; it seems to me to be a compound of mercenary spirit, mumbo-jumbo about "teamwörk," and endless sucking up to everything anglo. Besides, I've spoken English for sixteen years, and, much as I love it, it is, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, not more "cool" or more expressive than any other language. That said, I don't mind at all when Germans speak English with English-speaking people, or when they use individual words for a reason other than the desire to show off, be "cool," and/or be modern.

Anyway, to return to the Gendarmenmarkt, there was another tour group where the guide had a British accent. It's so nice to hear English spoken again. There were also two tourist buses that rolled by. As I drew, sparrows and pigeons hopped around me (the pigeons fortunately kept a greater distance). After I had given up trying to depict the iron railing and marble sculpture base, had passed by the sitting sculptures entirely, but had finished the figure that stands in the centre of the sculptures, I packed up and started home. I passed the Hanns Eisler music academy, and picked up a black booklet with gaudily dramatic photos of a theatre presentation, which contains in it the events of the coming season. Then I found Stadtmitte again (via the Mohrenstraße this time) without a problem.

But as I passed down a long tunnel to the U6 platforms, there was a cluster of young people trying to get others to subscribe to the Berliner Zeitung (I had already encountered this desperate species twice before). One of them put out his arm against the wall, so that I effectively couldn't pass, displaying rather more effrontery than the other two vendors. Eying the copy of the paper in his arm, I said that I already have a subscription (well, my parents do, but it's basically the same thing). "To the Berliner Zeitung?" "Yes." "Are you satisfied with it?" With the pleasant consciousness that I was about to be permitted to continue on my way, I no longer felt so victimized and uncomfortable, so I smiled a little as I answered, "Yes." And then I went on, not entirely without further irritation because another of the students asked me something that I couldn't hear. I guess that, when I have lived in the city longer, I will develop a "Noli me tangere et noli me parlare" air, or a dry and ready wit, that will more rapidly extricate me from such situations.

After I came home, I browsed the Guardian, New York Times, New Yorker, and Globe and Mail websites, reading an article or more in each. I also checked up a cooking blog (I prefer cooking in the imagination these days), the Sartorialist blog, and the Writer's Almanac. The online reading was short today, because I wisely resolved three days ago to restrict my Project Gutenberg time to four hours per day. That may still seem like a long time, but it means that I must spend well over eight hours per day with more meaningful pursuits. The day before yesterday the self-discipline required was astonishingly minimal, but yesterday the effort was considerable. Today, in local time, has thus far consisted of only two hours and thirty-five minutes (or so the computer tells me), so there has been no effort at all.

Anyway, I also cooked dinner with Ge.'s help. It was a sadly heterogeneous meal of eggs with anchovies, canned green olives with lemon paste, spaetzle, homemade plum cake, and hot chocolate. The making of the plum cake was moderately exciting because I forgot to put in the sugar until the dough was kneaded and put into a bowl to rise. I wondered why the dough looked excessively grey and bubbly, then I had a "eureka" moment as I spotted the pre-measured sugar on the table. So I kneaded in the sugar post hoc, and it was magical how quickly the dough became smooth, resilient and healthily beige. The rolling of the dough was also "interesting." The handle of the rolling-pin is a nuisance when the dough is on a cookie sheet with raised edges, and there was no plain round jar available, so I ended up using a mug for the task. The only part of the meal that I cooked in an orthodox manner was the eggs; I once read in a New York Times article that the eggs should be cooked in water that is at a simmer and not at a rolling boil, so I tried it this time with good results. The shell separated from the egg beautifully.