Bookstores and Tourists: The Return

This afternoon T. and I embarked on another odyssey. The first destination was the Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek at the U-Bahn station Hallesches Tor. On the bridge that spans the Landwehrkanal at this station, there are groups of classical sculptures, and one of the figures looked as if he were driving a bicycle pump into another, which gave me food for thought as we waited to cross the street to the library. There were tons of people scattered about, trees and grass and shrubs, and in the middle of the scene rose the fairly inescapable bulk of the Gedenkbibliothek, whose greyish exterior, evoking a mosaic, I even rather liked for the nostalgic reason that the University of Victoria has buildings in that style. It was peculiarly easy to enter, though a lightly uniformed security guard or two was standing around, as we didn't have to wield our library cards at the entrance or anything; and the reading space itself is airy and bright.

T. immediately knew where to go, and I followed her to the languages section. One or two shelves further there is contemporary American literature, and I found lots of books and authors that I haven't read but have heard about. Mitch Albom's Five People You Meet in Heaven, for instance, and T.C. Boyle. Spurred by guilt at being so out of it, and by curiosity, I at length picked up Primary Colors, by "Anonymous" (i.e. Joel Klein), and read the first twelve or so pages. The memory of the film with John Travolta has grown dim, but I knew what it was about. Surprisingly, especially given how annoying I've found Mr. Klein's Time magazine articles, I didn't find the writing trashy or malicious. It described Bill Clinton beautifully well, and I thought the dialogue was spot on.

Sidenote: I think that, as Klein writes, Clinton can be quite genuine in feeling and expressing things. What does bother me is his immense selfishness — not his vanity in itself, which he recognizes and can (or could) keep in decent order — which was, I think, really the problem with his extramarital affairs; also, his tendency to compromise too much. (Obama has a naturally more rigid conscience, I think; he breaks more than he bends.) Otherwise his easy-goingness, intelligence, and accessibility have often made me think that I'd like to meet him, not at an official function but within his family circle or with close friends. Besides my impression that he's a good conversationalist, it's kind of nice to see someone who feels really, really important and basks in it, almost as openly and unselfconsciously as a child.

Anyway, T. ended up not borrowing any of the books, and instead returned three of the old ones at the counters in the foyer. So we reentered the U-Bahn, and set off for KaDeWe to search for green printer ink cartridges. There were flocks of people (in KaDeWe itself I overheard German, English and French), just as there were yesterday. As we entered from Wittenbergplatz, we saw two spiralling black staircases and an enormous black urn full of purple orchids, in a species of antechamber. It was evidently to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Elle in Germany. But the effect, though lavish, was funereal — a very odd choice for a birthday celebration — and it reminded me of the dark and macabrely elegant Edward Gorey pictures that the American TV channel PBS used to introduce its murder mystery evenings. As we went further up and in, I thought snobby thoughts, among them that KaDeWe is rather like a woman given to flaunting, since it presents make-up and jewellery on the ground floor. It's a rich, glossy and exclusive floor, and I think it's meant to keep The Poors in awe. Or maybe there's a kinder explanation.

Anyway, we continued to the fifth floor, didn't find the cartridges, but had the opportunity to overhear the Teutonic English of a Telekom saleswoman who was trying to explain something to two Israeli tourists. We browsed among the stationery looking for large-gridded paper, in vain. Then we were hungry and therefore I suggested that we go up to the sixth floor. T. hadn't been there yet, so we toured the meat counters, the snack shelves, passed by the wines, glimpsed cakes and pastries, lingered over the fish, and left again without buying anything. It was rather funny when we were at the beef and lamb counter, because T. pointed to the yellowish, bumpy, rubbery sheets of calf or cow stomach, and asked carefully, "Is that . . ." — she paused to find the word — "'tripe'?" Yes, I answered. The rabbits looked very pitiful, with their bloody little tails, and I was glad to move on. Later on there was an aquarium; the live, dusky black fish looked unhappy, and they were lined up at the glass as if yearning to be let out, while a handful of dusky black eels rested sluggishly at the bottom. In retrospect, of course, it reminds me of the Doctor Dolittle books, and their expositions on the feelings and trials of animals in the human world.

So we walked over the square, buying drinks that T. pronounced overpriced, and continuing on to a large computer supplies store, where we finally found the green printer ink cartridges. Then we returned to Wittenbergplatz, and took the U-Bahn to Ernst-Reuter-Platz. There we revisited Lehmann's, saw that there were three Malteser people outside it this time, and sank gratefully into the dark red armchairs on the first floor. But there was no dictionary, so we set off again for Zoologischer Garten, to Hugendubel. We rode or walked up the escalators and stairs to the floor with the language books, and T. found a Langenscheidt Japanese-German dictionary that, however, cost over 100 Euros. But there was a cute little one that she bought instead, for just under 11 Euros.

Outside again, under a troubled, cloudy, grey sky, T. bought a bratwurst in a bun at a stand right under the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. The seller was interesting, I thought, as his reddish nose suggested bibulous tendencies, but altogether he was nice and faintly sad. In front of us there was an obnoxious, sharp-faced woman in a tight denim-ish pantsuit, whose exotic make-up had the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but he wasn't too disturbed. I must say, though, that his ideas of hygiene are rudimentary, as, for instance, he laid down a bun, unprotected by a napkin, straight on the counter of his booth. (I'm uptight about these things.) Then T. ate the bratwurst, and I indulged in people-watching. Two Russian(?) women passed by, and I liked their faces; a group of punk(?) youths stood with their sharply curved black dog at a slender tree; a photographer saw them and took their picture; then there were fairly ordinary teenage girls, made-up and dressed in form-hugging jeans, tight synthetic tops, brown jackets, and scarves, who look exactly the same whether they are German, British, American or who knows which nationality.

There was also a diamond-shaped sign underneath a gingko tree. Curiously I went over to look at the inscription, and it turns out that it was a verse on the gingko by Goethe (his name was underneath; otherwise I wouldn't have known), with the addendum "Baumpate werden."* Then there was the Euro Cup 2008 store, bursting with flags in the ground floor of a tall, grim edifice that bore advertisements for Tagesspiegel; and an abandoned handbag huddled beside a lamppost. And soon T. was done and we went home.

* "Adopt a tree"