Bryant Park, Silver Bears, and Bach

Today I woke up, reluctantly but effectively, after 10 a.m. Everyone was out of the house so I read an online book, dabbled at the blog post, and checked my e-mail and Facebook account. Regarding Facebook I had an internal debate one or two days ago whether to request people to be friends, but finally decided against it because I want to be completely sure that whoever stays in contact with me does so out of their own free will and not on humanitarian grounds.

Besides I've been visiting the Guardian and New York Times websites religiously and have even begun reading science articles as well as the arts and style and travel ones. During New York Fashion Week I flipped through two or three days' worth of slideshows; fur and grey, Suzie Bird and Chriselle Stubbs and Chantal Stafford-Abbott are apparently the big new trends. Of course I keep an eye out for a designer whom I especially like, but despite a leaning toward Donna Karan (to my surprise I also liked DKNY this season) and Carolina Herrera and even Marchesa despite its flaunting opulence, there is no one whom I'd pinpoint as a favourite. Now it's London Fashion Week, but my enthusiasm has ebbed.

Since the Olympics are being held in Vancouver and Whistler, and Vancouver is (despite the fact that I don't know it well and mostly because of my experience studying at UBC) officially one of my favourite places on earth, I should feel obliged to follow them faithfully. But I have altogether been steering clear of reading about or watching them. As for the Canadian angle, during school I was exposed to tonnes of patriotism, and didn't like it then and don't like it now. I can remember about Acadia and Louis Riel and the War Measures Act, recite the provinces and territories with their capital cities, speak in both official languages, name the Prime Minister and the Governor-General, and pick out Hollywood celebrities who were born north of the border; and at home when we're drinking a glass of wine or liqueur we toast the Queen from time to time; but that's about as far as I'm willing to go. One of the things that relieved me about moving to Berlin is that here nobody bothers to pretend that one country is superior to another, or agonizes about Our Place in the World.

The Berlinale is closer to home; we watched the closing ceremony on television, and Mama and Uncle Pu (who visited today) are better informed about it, but I missed the rest of it. I like the presentation of awards at the end of the festival. Other German award ceremonies like the Bambi or Golden Camera are stilted and longwinded and terribly awkward compared to the greased professionalism of the Oscars and Emmys, etc., besides which it seems as if the American actors/singers/etc. who receive prizes (Meg Ryan, Britney Spears, etc.) are selected by an undiscriminating 13-year-old who has lived in a cave on the moon for the past decade. But the closing ceremony of the Berlinale is not so pompous or heavy, I think also because the festival director Dieter Kosslick is pretty unpretentious, and it is more serious and international. One would have to wait a long time to hear Quechua, Romanian or Cantonese spoken at the Oscars, and it's nice when the audience isn't a begowned and bejewelled recreation of Fifth Avenue.

Anyway, I had a long piano session in the afternoon. There was plenty of Bach — Partita No. 4 and the Concerto in d minor in their entirety, and the toccata of Partita No. 6 — and Beethoven — last movement of the Tempest Sonata, the whole of the Sonata appassionata, and Mvts. 1 and 3 of the Moonlight Sonata —, but also Mozart's Concerto in G major, Händel's suite with the variations on the "Harmonious Blacksmith" (minus the part where the page is missing), Liszt's Liebestraum No. 3, Chopin waltzes Op. 64 No. 1 (i.e. Minute Waltz) and 2, Enrique Granados's Spanish Dance No. 6, and Schubert's impromptus Op. posth. 142 No. 2 and 3.

The Chopin and thornier Beethoven involved a good deal of fudged notes, but I've made a breakthrough on the Händel, the Schubert was less obscure and rushed than ordinary, and the Mozart was from time to time pleasingly friendly. Leaving Beethoven's later sonatas for months and months, and turning to other music, has resulted in a thoroughly beneficial, objective distance, though I realize that even now I haven't begun to plumb their possibilities. But what I'd really love to do at present is to improve my grasp of Bach, whom I regard as a devoted mountaineer might regard a cordillera of great dimensions and numerous challenges, which it requires much time and strength and perseverance to conquer, and even once conquered still hides unexpected facets, but which finally leaves one profoundly satisfied.