A Snowy Day and Chinese

Last night I stayed up late hopping from one internet browser tab to the other, which is one of my favourite pastimes. On one of the tabs I watched a movie based on the Bleach animé series. The last animé film I watched properly is Kiki's Delivery Service, a reasonably nice though saccharine work set in a miscellaneous European city at a miscellaneous late 19th-century/early 20th-century point in time; it is remarkable for the historical research and detail that went into the drawing of it, and its peculiarly detached, peaceful atmosphere. The Bleach film is much more loosely sketched; but it is not as ethereal, nor does it pound the work ethic into the minds of its viewers or pretend that employers consistently reward effort. I went to sleep after 3:30 a.m., at which point it was already snowing, and the tiny flakes in the street lamps resembled motes drifting in a lake.

Then I had to wake up at around 11:30 (which is not so bad, come to think of it) as Gi. had to go out and so I was the doorman by the process of elimination. At around 2 p.m. I set off per U-Bahn to the environs of Ernst-Reuter-Platz, to register for one of the TU language courses. The roads are fairly clear, but the sidewalks are a wilderness, which I didn't much mind though they threaten to become slippery. It turns out that the university building is on the street where I went to my job interview for the Café Einstein in May 2007. I remembered the path reasonably well. The building itself is interesting as far as the interior is concerned — low ceilings, bare cement, scant lighting, and a front(?) entrance that is so awkwardly and uncomfortably arranged that it feels very much like a back entrance. No clocks, either, which would have been helpful as I came early (which was a little embarrassing).

So I read Around the World in Eighty Days in the original. Thus far I've only read it in an abridged English version, which cheerfully chops out Jules Verne's statistics (e.g. that the train between Oakland and Omaha goes ca. 20 miles per hour — wheeeee — counting stops) and descriptions of places. The scenes I'm at are pretty good. First there is the American election scrimmage, wherein the habiliments of Phileas Fogg and Fix are torn to shreds, and the former concludes a terse appointment for a duel. "Yankee!" exclaims Fogg to an apparent ringleader of the freelance pugilists. "Englishman!" retorts the ruffian. "What is your name?". — "Phileas Fogg. And yours?" — "Colonel Stamp W. Proctor." (That is one of the most convincing American names in the whole book, by the way. I have no idea what Verne was thinking when he came up with "Mandiboy.") And then they resolve that they shall meet again. Here the author smugly remarks that, though the English may abhor duelling in their own country, they are willing enough to duel abroad on Points of Honour. At which point I sighed, metaphorically speaking. Secondly, there is the scene where Passepartout attends a lecture on the history of the Mormons, delivered by a member of that faith who little heeds the rapid diminution of his audience. The orator winds up by impressively asking his remaining auditor to join the good fight. "No!" Passepartout boldly answers, as he leaves the car likewise.

At last I joined a line of students who were waiting in front of the language course office. One or two wanted to take German, and three of us wanted to take Chinese. As I didn't have to do a language proficiency test, given the unmitigated nature of my ignorance, it went quickly for me. A Chinese student explained what the courses were like and signed me up for a beginner's course that will last four weeks; the textbook and a CD will be provided at a cost of 10 Euros in the first class. Then I went into the adjoining room to pay with my debit card. As I am neither a student nor officially unemployed, and the course amounts to 60 hours (instead of 40 hours; I only saw this after signing up, but decided to go with it as the extra time should be extra helpful), the fee was 153 Euros. The French student who accepted the payment probably saw something of the shock which this sum prompted; his air was most sympathetic. But I do have considerable money, so the sympathy was nice but not necessary.

After that was over I went out of the building very pleased at having conceived and executed a whim that is not only pointful but also practicable. Outside it was still poetically snowing, the air was fresh, and I was in the mood to exert myself once more (and to pinch pennies), so I walked home along the Straße des 17. Juni and then southeast through Nollendorfplatz. It helped that the Siegessäule was already visible, looking closer than it is. I plodded along the university buildings, bemused and amused at the Brutalist buildings that were clad along one side in clunky tiered stone façades that looked like turn-of-the-century takes on neoclassicism. At the Ernst-Reuter-Haus I was much impressed, firstly by the immense arch (a species of glorified billboard for L'Oréal from which smiles the tremendously magnified visage of Eva Longoria) that spans the thoroughfare in honour of the Berlinale, secondly by the neobaroque colonnades of the Charlottenburg Gate (whose existence was previously unknown by me), where icicles dripped at the feet of a grandiose black statue of Friedrich I, and thirdly by the wide and stately though otherwise unremarkable Haus itself.

The Tiergarten was fairly deserted, as was the Siegessäule. The ribbed tracks of bicycles were frequent on the sidewalk, whereas the footsteps of pedestrians were partly filled in again. The evergreen shrubs were bowed down with burdens of snow that looked like weighty paws. Everywhere icicles were hanging from the cars. In the Kleistpark, the falling snow contrasting against the shadowy hemlocks reminded me again of Narnia. So the walk was very picturesque.