A Week of Wandering: The Night Train

After we returned from Füssen, M. and I wandered about Munich in search of the Hofbräuhaus, which is not far from Marienplatz but tucked away in the irregular tangle of streets beyond the Neues and Altes Rathaus. I wasn't too enthusiastic, as I have a probably unfair dislike of beer culture as the pursuit of drinking one's self stupid and useless (though M. later told me that the important element is not so much the inebriety as the socializing), but figured that the Hofbräuhaus was an important sight anyway. When we entered, there was a sea of people roaring away on the wooden benches, beer glasses in hand, in the warm, dim light. The atmosphere was a stifling compound of steaming breath, beer, and a whiff of sauerkraut. An agitated waitress in her obligatory dirndl was stalking along with a tray of beers, and in patches the floor was sticky with the spilt liquid. There was room upon room, we walked through and found few empty spots (I wasn't keen on staying anyway), and then we were out in the pure, fresh city air again.

So we bent our steps to the Viktualienmarkt, and found another beer garden, where there was apparently a greater proportion of natives. It was a nice atmosphere, cool and dark and intimate with the sheltering trees. After much discussion, we ordered a fine beer, a glass of mineral water, two pretzels, and a dessert. I only had a sip of the beer, but it was excellent, from the dark amber colour to the flavour and the lack of a metallic aftertaste. The dessert was 6.80 Euros, and thereby quite expensive like the other menu items, but it was fully justified by the quality. It was apple rings fried in beer batter, accompanied by a scoop of light ice cream (which unfortunately had a hint of fridge flavour, but seemed to have been made in the restaurant itself with yoghurt or Quark), a berry sauce that was very good and natural, and a garnish of a blackberry, raspberry, mint leaf, and sprig of red currants.

When it was time to pay the waitress, I was conflicted. She had been impatient with us and had taken an unnecessarily long time to come with the bill, reminding me of the dreadfully humiliating time five years ago when Mama and I went to a restaurant near Museum Island and the people essentially refused to serve us. On the other hand, her service was not sneering or sloppy. She was brisk, competent, and friendly, and only quite busy and quite sure that she would not be getting any decent tip from us. So I gave her a generous tip (given that the bill was ca. 15 Euros, it still wasn't much), hoping also that it would encourage her to give another chance to the next tourists who order the cheapest items on the menu; it worked, I think, because she was grateful and clearly felt bad for having been short with us.

* * *

It was late, but I was then determined to catch the night train to Düsseldorf in order to attend my grandfather's funeral. I could have taken a train at 6:15 a.m. the next day, but we had no alarm clock and it would have been cutting it quite close, time-wise. So we returned to the hostel, which was a fairly long trip; I packed up; and then we hurried off to the Hauptbahnhof, running part of the way. I should have arrived too late, but the 10:42 p.m. train was delayed. Still, we had to hurry along the train to the back half, and then an official told us that I could buy reservations in the restaurant car in the back of the train. M., who was extremely nice and helpful throughout, then waved goodbye, and I set off in the train.

Then the purgatory began. The train was crowded; the people were generally the type who would lounge about an empty city square or bar at 3 a.m; it was dark; I was tired and malnourished and worried about obtaining a reservation. I tried to make my way through to the restaurant car, but after three or so cars where the narrow passage was crammed with people, I gave up, also as I had no idea where precisely the restaurant car was. Instead I decided to occupy an empty compartment in the sleeper car, keeping the curtains open and waiting for the conductor there. When the conductor came along, he was highly annoyed to find that I had apparently just marched into a compartment that didn't belong to me. I explained as briefly as I could, so his face cleared up a bit; then I zipped up my handbag and took up my bag, ready to set off to the restaurant car (which, he informed me, was in the very back). But then I was annoyed, and humiliated, when he popped his head back in, apparently to check that I was actually leaving, as if I were a delinquent. As he was still checking the tickets in the rest of the car, he would have been able to tell if I left or not anyway. Hopefully he was seeing if he could help me, instead.

On the way to the restaurant car, I stepped aside into a niche to let someone pass through the door unhindered. As the man passed me, he looked at me and said, with quiet venom, "I would have held the door open, even for you." The only explanations I can think of for saying something so mean is that I may have unwittingly given him a baleful glare, though I was only tired, and that he has had bad experiences with women. Anyway, I was in emotional shock after that, and then tried very hard not to cry when I reached the restaurant car.

The nice lady at the bar directed me to the conductor, a few cars down. So I went off again, still lugging my duffel bag, but before I reached the conductor, I passed two people who asked the passengers in one compartment to show their passports, saying that they were the police. I'd completely forgotten that this train crossed the border to Amsterdam, and the supposed policemen were not only plainclothes but criminal types if I ever saw them, so I suspected something, stopped and asked them if they had their badges with them. They were surprisingly polite considering, and asked me rhetorically if I was the one who was being asked to show her documentation, implying that it was none of my business. But I felt that it was, persisted (hopefully not irritatingly), and one of them said that the other had shown his badge, so it was all right. So I was finally (mostly) convinced, said, "Good, sorry," and continued, feeling dreadfully for having made such an error.

Then I bought my reservation, and the conductor said that I could choose whichever empty seat I wanted in the front of the car (but I chose one that was reserved after all, and had to move again). Then I cried as quietly as I could, certain that the people around me thought of me as a stupid "Heulsuse," and wondering what awful thing I had done or was going to do to deserve what I'd gone through. But I tried to get to sleep as soon as possible. The lights were off, the blinds were closed and I didn't feel free to open mine because another passenger (who had lifted the back of his chair for me, so at least that was something) was trying to sleep at the same window right in front of me, so I had no idea which stations were coming up. There were no announcements. I went to sleep, then woke up again every time the train slowed down and stopped. At length there was music to announce upcoming stations, which was a hip-hop tune with the sound of clapping hands and cymbals. At the time I thought it was funny, but now I fear I will have bad associations with hip-hop for the rest of my life. Five glorious hours later, Düsseldorf came up, I got out, checked the train schedule, went to the washroom, bought food, and then got into the train for Kevelaer.

When I reached Kevelaer, I had forgotten how to get to the right house, so I went to the Basilica square and then orientated myself from there. At the church of St. Antonius, I made a short stop to tie up my hair again, when a trio of schoolchildren walking through the square shouted out "Hey lady, you're ugly!" and so on and so forth, oddly enough in English. I had my back to them, so I had no way of knowing if they were referring to me or not, and I certainly wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of turning around and letting them know I heard them, if they were. But the gratuitous meanness of it, more than the silly words, really got to me, and also reminded me of my bad experiences at school; so I was, more than ever, an emotional wreck by the time that I got to the house. I had no more sleep, but showered, and poured out my woes, which did make me feel better. Still, I haven't even gotten over it yet; it reminds me of the few lines of Dante's Inferno that I know, in which the traveller speaks of the dark, wild forest which he encounters in his journey, "Che nel pensier rinova la paura."*

* (Taken out of its grammatical context) = "Which in the thought renews the fear."

A Week of Wandering: Füssen

In the morning of our third day in Munich, M. and I took the train to Füssen, a Bavarian hilltop town on the banks of the Lech River. We walked up to the Hohes Schloss, a cheerful white castle which was built in the Middle Ages and then heavily rebuilt beginning in 1486. It did not awe me much and the trompe-l'oeil paintings of cornerstones and bay windows – their glass panes ringed as they so often are in Bavaria – did not trompe l'oeil* very much either. What charmed my imagination was a nearby portion of grey ruined wall and inbuilt grotto, which were embedded into the slope, but whose date of provenance was, however, 1876. *(fool the eye)

The town itself is very friendly – no stares of hostile apathy – and the tourist hordes had either not quite arrived yet, or they tend to bypass the town. I loved the surroundings: firs, fresh air, leafy trees, grassy fields out of a Swiss cough candy advertisement (purple-flowering spearmint and clover, yellow arnica, tender dandelion leaves, lady's mantle, plantains, etc.) and little mountains. We went to a quiet corner, passed the bench that was labelled "private property" and sat down on another to eat lunch. A fountain splashed away in front of us, a lawn reposed in the shade, and from a vine-sheltered backyard we heard the subdued clinking and conversation of people having a peaceful lunch, too. It strikes me that the sole element missing from this glowing description is a circle of rabbits dancing a minuet; but the scene truly was idyllic, all the more as it was not too glaringly so.

Then we walked off to the village of Hohenschwangau, for three or four kilometres, though we could have taken the bus, too. Our trip was not too steep, it was sunny, and cheerful pedestrians and cyclists passed us on our way up. The Lech River is a milky aquamarine tint, which lends a toxically artificial appearance; but as there is no black dead zone above the waterline, and we spotted bubbles that a fish made on its surface, the colour is presumably due to glacial pristineness and not to mining waste.

Hohenschwangau's village is now a cluster of immodestly large Teutonic buildings, inns or shops; it overlooks the Alpensee, and is overlooked by the yellow castle of Hohenschwangau, which was built by the father of the Ludwig who was responsible for Schloss Neuschwanstein. We stood in line for an estimated forty minutes to buy tickets, which cost 9 Euros for Neuschwanstein, and would have cost 17 Euros if we had wanted to enter both castles. There are English, French, Spanish tours, and if you do not join one, you may not enter. Fortunately for them, the pleasingly diverse tourist crowd did largely seem to be American, British, German, or Spanish. But a little girl, or the paterfamilias, in the family behind us, remarked unenthusiastically that this was like [waiting in line at] Universal Studios. When we had paid, we went out and discovered that our tickets were for a tour at ca. 5:30, which in turn was ca. 30 minutes after the last train directly for München left from Füssen station. (Which reminds me that one beautiful thing about living in Berlin is that the train schedules don't have asterisks and daggers and fine print all over because the trains run so differently on holidays, Sundays, Saturdays, Fridays . . . every second Monday after a full moon . . . and so on and so forth, ad absurdum.)

So we sold our tickets to a nice Spanish couple, and then, after I had purchased ice cream and eaten it, we ascended the path to Hohenschwangau. It has a delightful courtyard with a swan fountain, oleanders, a potted lemon tree and apricot trees, lavender, a lion fountain, plane trees, etc., in an homage to the beauties of Italy. Winding along into another courtyard, we found an unpromising concrete basin that was filled with fresh, pure, and cold water. We inquired after its salubrity at the gift shop, then indulged in the luxury of washing our hands and, in M.'s case, filling up her water bottle. Schloss Neuschwanstein loomed quietly from its hill. I think it much maligned now; at least on a mildly cloudy day, it was not the hectic technicolour experience I had expected. Its proportions, too, are modest given the towering mountain, where sparse firs straggle up the rounded peak and dried-up waterfalls run down the heights, in the background.

Slowly we walked back down to the Alpensee, in which one is permitted to swim. One of the tiny beaches was crowded with people, and a black-footed swan and fish were tranquilly flocking near the humans. We pulled off our socks and shoes, hung our socks to air, and then waded out into the limpid water. It was a beautiful experience, at least for me – so cool, and the feet felt wonderful after it. Putting on the socks and shoes again was no torment, either; my socks were not wet with perspiration as I had expected, but cuddly and warm and dry.

Then we went to the bus station, waited for the bus, rode back to Füssen train station, and then took the train back to Munich. Along the way we had the opportunity to admire more of the squat, comfortable Bavarian houses, armed with red roof tiles, solar panels, satellite dishes, and every other modern convenience. I did enjoy, too, seeing farmers wielding pitchforks to rake up the cut grasses on their fields, instead of threshing through the field with hay-baling machines. There were terraces, fields with horses or cows, cornfields, gardens bright with calendula and sunflowers, balconies overflowing with pink and red geraniums or petunias, stacks of firewood, woods with firs and maples and birches and meagre pines that resembled paintbrushes, mountain ash trees full of red berries, a striped blue and white maypole, etc., so the route painted a hearty picture of rural German life, straight out of a children's book. Then there were apartment buildings in the middle of nowhere and factories and an apparent gravel pit.

A Week of Wandering: Munich

Here is a thorough account of M.'s and my journeyings, which will fall into this schedule (estimated times):

August 19th, 10:15 p.m. - August 21st, 8:52 a.m.: Munich
August 21st, 10:55 a.m. - 3:45 p.m. - Füssen
August 21st, 5:50 p.m. - 10:45 p.m. - Munich
August 22nd, 8:30 a.m. - August 23rd, 1:30 p.m.: Kevelaer
August 23rd, 3:30 p.m. - 6:30 p.m.: Nürnberg
August 23rd, 8:00 p.m. - August 25th, 9:41 a.m.: Würzburg
August 25th, 9:41 a.m. - 2:30 p.m.: Rothenburg ob der Tauber
August 25th, 10:13 p.m.: Back in Berlin!

Our arrival in Munich I have described, I believe, sufficiently. After my internet session, which was expensive at 1 Euro for 20 minutes, we locked our bags to the metal double bed, took our purses, and went off for a walk on our own account. Though the M— C— Hostel is nominally on the Landsberger Straße, it is really on the Bayerstraße, a broad unhappy wasteland of clean large buildings leading down to the Hauptbahnhof and the joyous bustle at the square with the great modern fountain and flowers and light brown façade of the Osram building. There are two tram lines running down the centre, patched road to either side, but the sidewalks are a trifle too narrow, if one factors in pedestrians, and cyclists speeding past each other in opposite directions as half of them are apparently too lazy to ride along their rightful side of the street. Across from us there were two tall brick buildings which were presumably from the late 19th century: an Augustiner beer house, which has a nice but expensive air, and a beer distillery, with a large brick smokestack. The distillery emanates a disagreeable yeasty odour that filled our room.

As we walked down the street, we saw signs for Bavaria's state congress ("Landtag") elections. The represented political parties were the CSU, Green Party, and the Ökologisch-Demokratische Partei, and the posters for the last two were spattered with brown liquid or torn up the next time we walked past. Street construction workers were laying a new strip of asphalt along the edge of the road, which made for an unpleasant interlude in the promenade, near the long-stretching European Patent Office with its bridge over the street. Then we turned right toward turquoise church spires that we spotted over the apartment buildings, to find St. Paul's, a nice Neogothic church (built 1897-1906) that was unremarkable but most satisfactory, with its generous sprinkling of gargoyles, a demonic bull sculpture that jutted out above a doorway in companionship with a grinning sheep, a flying buttress or two, knobbly arches over the doorways, and the golden weathervanes that perched on the spires' peaks.

Turning back, we returned to the hostel to find that the free guided tour of the city would start shortly. If we started at the hostel, however, we would have had to take the bus, and we were determined to avoid this. I was particularly determined, as I had spent 249 Euros on my train pass, and had arrived in Munich as the proud but anxious possessor of only a 10 Euro bill and small change. For some reason (presumably because I have a weekly withdrawal limit, which I had reached), the EC automated teller machines would not allow me to withdraw any more money after I took out 50 Euros at the Munich Hauptbahnhof on the day of our arrival.

* * *

So we walked up the Bayerstraße, through the cheerful fountain square, along the Neuhauser Straße with its gate and its fruit vendor stands and its upscale shops, to the uproar that is Marienplatz. By the time we saw the Platz, I had a most favourable impression of Munich. There were many people, not only tourists but also natives, strolling about the streets, so it was alive; these people were well-dressed and often had a relaxed and intelligent air; the flowers and older buildings were beautiful; the streets and sidewalks were reasonably well tended; and I liked the trams. When we reached Marienplatz, I liked the Neues Rathaus very much, though the Glockenspiel and its cutesy figures dancing around to the chiming tune of the Marseillaise and who knows what else are not quite my cup of tea. The edifice is intricate, impressive, and venerably aged, has a suitable air of mystery in its interior courtyards and otherwise, and I love the banks of pink flowers that lend life and vigour. Earlier on I was trying to explain the visible difference between Gothic and Neogothic (a subject I admittedly don't know much about) to M., and one difference that came to mind is that Neogothic buildings are often simplified or adhere to familiar patterns to avoid the strain of imagining and executing more fanciful and original designs. But this criticism cannot be levelled at the Neues Rathaus, even if it was built in the first decade of the 20th century.

* * *

In the middle of the square there is, of course, the Mariensäule, built after Munich was spared by the Swedish army during the Thirty Years' War, from 1638. It is a red stone pillar, whose base is defended by four armed bronze cherubs who are trampling on a basilisk (=plague), a snake (=heresy=Protestantism), a dragon (=famine), and a lion (=warfare), and whose tip is graced by the golden statue of Mary. There were three or four young people in red T-shirts standing there, surrounded by a flock of tourists. One of the people bellowed out in an Aussie or Kiwi accent that we should get our free tickets from him, which M. and I promptly did. At length we were given an introduction to the tour, herded into the courtyard of the Neues Rathaus, half-voluntarily crowded together to pose for a group photo (I was concealed behind a tall person, and quite content to leave it that way), and then divided into groups. Then we wandered off and saw a fair list of the major sites in Munich, with the sole glaring omissions of St. Lukas, the Michaelskirche, the Nymphenburg Palace, and the Alte and Neue Pinakothek.

The tour itself was quite friendly and conscientiously thought through. The jokes (in-jokes that are intended to give one the sense of being initiated into special knowledge, mildly amusing anecdotes, or puns) and the information were carefully scripted and popularized; and this information was designed to enlighten people who know nothing about Germany, except for the concepts of Berlin and Hitler and sauerkraut. But that is a question of taste and not of quality. As for the other people in the group, they were mostly Australian, Irish, Canadian, Brazilian, Portuguese, or German.

The Frauenkirche did not impress me much. The "Devil's Footstep" in the entrance of the church is a tame imprint of a human shoe (surely the devil has cloven hooves?) with a little smear coming off the heel, as I've seen often enough in asphalt or in cement if someone has walked on it too soon. — I'm a terrible grouch, I know. (c: — The Altes Rathaus and St. Peter did not impress me much either, though we entered neither, so maybe I would have felt differently about them if I had. Beside the Altes Rathaus there is a statue of Juliet, which was donated by the city of Verona, and the legend goes that those who place flowers in her arms will find love; at this point in the tour I was skeptical again, and thought what a convenient thing it is that there are so many lucky sculptures in places which just happen to want to attract tourists.

After these stalwart older buildings, we ambled along the rich shopping street of the Maximilianstraße, with its ridiculously expensive objects and reasonably nice buildings, then to the environs of the Theatinerkirche and the Residenz, the latter of which was unimpressive when we saw it because it was obscured on one side by a sheeting due to renovation. We also passed the Hofbräuhaus, where we were refreshed by a tasteless anecdote or two. The tour guide also broached newer history, extremely soberly, and he lowered his voice and wanted us to crowd closer to him whenever he mentioned the Nazi era. He pointed out the spot where Hitler was almost assassinated, and then the trail in brass(?) cobblestones that marks the route where people would walk in the 1930s and 40s to avoid having to give the Nazi salute at the spot, as well as a plaque on the wall of a building which, as a Jewish-owned department store, was destroyed on Kristallnacht. His thesis on Munich's attitude toward the Nazi years was that it prefers to quietly remember and to look forward, unlike Berlin, with its ostentatious Holocaust Memorial. I did not like the new Jewish Synagogue at all, not least because the colours and bleakness reminded me a good deal of Nazi architecture. When the tour guide explained that the rough blocks of tan-coloured stone at one end of the building are intended to represent the desert, I felt marginally fonder of it, but learning that the black superstructure is intended to represent the tent of Jacob still did nothing for me.

We stopped at the Viktualienmarkt, which I liked very much, with its flourishing range of pricy fresh fruit and vegetables, honey and wines. The tour guide company is hand-in-glove with Starbucks, so we were encouraged to enter it, but M. and I bought green grapes at the market instead. We finished the tour at the Hofgarten, where a violinist was standing in an echoing portico playing the "greatest hits" (Kreisler's "Liebesfreud," etc.) with much absorption and sincerity. I worried about how much to tip the tour guide; before we went on the tour, I had thought that it was free because the hostel was paying the guides, but it wasn't. The guide had mentioned earlier that his rent was 450 Euros per month, and at another point that he contributes a portion of his earnings to his tour guide company. As M. and I were the first to tip him, and at least a third of the rest of the group had no apparent intention of doing so, I was wondering how he can scrape together enough money to live. His aspect was dejected as he accepted the 3 Euros I gave him (I would have made it more if I hadn't wanted to give money to the violinist, too), and I felt guilty about it.

As for the violinist, I did give the money, and later when we returned to the Garten I quickly talked with him. He had a round pink face and beetling brows, a country- rather than city-dwelling aspect, and was presumably in his sixties. He had studied at a conservatory in Minsk, then played in a symphonic orchestra for years, and that now he teaches. When I had said that I had liked his playing, he offered one of his CDs; but I refused to buy any as nicely as I could, and felt guilty again, this time for giving the impression that I was admiring his music without being willing to go so far as parting with any money (I don't think he had seen me throw the coins into the violin case earlier).

We walked on to the Englischer Garten, which Papa and Mama had highly recommended, and found the park beautiful, but the prospect of a long walk was not enchanting to either M. or me, so we soon turned back toward the city. It was fun to watch the surfers in the mechanically created "whitewater" where the river water flows in near the Japanese tea house, though, and we liked the "temple" that overlooks the south of the park and the Frauenkirche. As we passed the art gallery, we also passed someone who looked like Günter Grass, at which point I was quite excited. But I always tell myself that, where famous people and lavish furnishings/buildings/etc. are concerned, the order of the day is nil admirari, unless the admiration is a genuine and spontaneous response to their worth and not their fame or pomp.

Then we went back to the hostel, quite tired, buying provisions at Galeria Kaufhof along the way. I ate and drank a little, showered, cried a little, and then went to sleep early.

Notes from the Wanderpfad, II

I arrived in Nürnberg in the afternoon, after a very agreeable train ride. When I got here, I went to the tourist information centre, and was told that there are two hostels in the town: the one on the Kaiserburg, where the Holy Roman Emperors once lived, and a backpacker's hotel near the train station. So I duly trekked up to the Kaiserburg, asked at the hostel and found that they had no one by that name, and duly took a tour of the battlements (which were impressively broad, but the red stone was so neatly flattened and squared that I feel sure that much of it has been rebuilt). Then I (and hundreds of other tourists, among them an amazingly large contingent of -- if I have my popular culture down properly -- aficionados of punk rock) decided to take a long winding tour down the streets, over the charming river (polluted as heck, of course, and twice because my orientation was a trifle off), past the churches and over the square (where fresh Lebkuchen are still to be sold), and then back down to the information centre, where Internet Explorer on the free computers still failed to load.

So now I'm in an internet café in the train station. But Google Mail is deeply incompatible with Mexx Solutions (more like Mexx Problems (c: ), so I could read my friend's bewildered emails (she has left Nürnberg for Würzburg, and may come back, or may not) but not send any reply to her. Maddening.

I have a great deal more to write about, but I don't want to take too long, so it will have to wait.

Notes from the Wanderpfad

Last night at around 10:15 my friend M. and I arrived in Munich. It was raining, we took a taxi, and sped down the street from the Hauptbahnhof to the Meininger City Hostel, where we checked in and then ascended the stairs to the fifth floor. Mentally I felt leached by the long train ride, but it took a long while to sleep after all, and I woke up again before 7 a.m. But I don't feel too bad, especially as I just ate breakfast, a poppy seed bun with strawberry and with raspberry jam, and a cup of strawberry tea. The place is full of schoolchildren and people of all other ages; M.'s and my roommates are two nice Korean girls. At around 10 a.m. we can set off for a free guided tour of the city centre, which is pretty exhaustive and moreover should be, considering that it will take three hours.

As for the train ride, it was beautiful. Until, I'd say, Leipzig, there were fields upon fields of tanned grasses, pine and birch woods, brick houses, and rows of wind generators and even, at one point, a little wooden windmill that sat in a backyard confined in a neat wooden fence. There were fields of corn, wheat of whose stalks the grains had been stripped, and sunflowers; shooting platforms; and, near towns, sunken gardening colonies. Ridges of forest rose in the distance, and at last the train tracks were enfolded in them, as we ran along into the valley of the Saale. This was, aside from the inevitable modern factory buildings, a landscape that strongly recalled the Germany of Romantic literature: apple trees, brown castles on hills, oak and beech and fir woods, the winding river which at times reminded me of a Rubens (?) landscape in the Gemäldegallerie, the towns full of houses roofed in red tiles and (later) shining black shingles, and the clock-faced spires rising from them in peaked bulbs or pyramids. The region of Jena struck me especially.

There is little internet time left to me, so I'll have to stop here. (c:

The City on a Monday

Yesterday evening my friend M. arrived, so today we went on two excursions: the first, an unglamorous one to Plus, where we bought dinner; the second, a long promenade through Winterfeldtplatz and Nollendorfplatz, to the Siegessäule ("Victory Column"), then along the Straße des 17. Juni to Brandenburger Tor. There were loungers in the seas of sidewalk tables and chairs in front of the cafés at Nollendorfplatz, but a modest quantity of people in general. The vicinity of the CDU headquarters, Malaysian embassy, etc., behind Potsdamer Platz was, as much as ever, a deserted playground of modern architecture and asphalt. Innovative buildings are, I find, like shiny new toys; they are exciting for a moment, and then they sit around unused and unnoticed for eternity, to be interesting again only if our instinct of cupidity is aroused.

A group of cyclists had gathered at the Großer Stern, and a friendly flock of tourists were loosely distributed around the base of the Siegessäule, but otherwise it was very quiet there. By the time we arrived at Brandenburger Tor, M.'s shoes were bothersome, and it was warmer than we found quite pleasant, so we wandered over to the Reichstag and kept our eye out for a bus station. The lineup for the Reichstag dome was incomprehensibly long as always, so we stayed outside.

As we left, a woman approached us, asked if we speak English, and, when I answered in the positive, handed me a card. I thought that there would be an address written on it, and that she wanted me to tell her the way. Instead it was a begging appeal, informing whichever tourist it may concern that she was Bosnian and had two children. Without taking the time to think it over, I gave her some change, upon which she put her hands together, bowed, and blessed me (which was a bit embarrassing, even as a routine form of thanks, especially as the grand sum I had given her was 2.20 Euros). A moment later, of course, the realization came that it was stupid of me because I needed change for the bus fare (but M. paid for me). Still, whether she has two children or genuinely needs the money or not, I didn't have the impression that the money is going to drugs. Besides, she interested me. She was likely a gypsy. Twice I've seen a gypsy (once at the Kleistpark colonnades, and once waiting for the bus at, I believe, the Staatsbibliothek), who greatly impressed me because his face was so marked with deep experience and character, and a dignified melancholy; he looked, too, as if he might travel through time as well lands, for he would have fit into the scene as easily in the 19th or even 17th century. It was the same with her. So I don't regret having given the money.

Before the tour, however, we passed through the Kleistpark and I saw that a door in the entrance of the Kammergericht was open. So we went in, to a little room at the left with an inactive baggage screener, where a security guard who generously tried to thaw out of his gruff boredom looked into our bags, handed us and an elderly man (who had happened to enter at the same time) roughly folded brochures and print-outs from Berlin.de about the Kammergericht. Then he waved us through the door into the great round hall where the staircase rises to the upper levels of the building.

The Kammergericht is in the Neobaroque style, built 1909, but the flattened romanesque arches, heavy piers, and the white vaults that ran around the hall on the ground level strongly suggest an ancient church or abbey. A wooden announcement board that was once used by the Allied Control Centre stands to the left. The balusters of the staircase, which runs grandly down, facing the door, are quite evidently "neo," however, being oddly square and slanted. Underneath the staircase there is a delightful pair of little arches that mysteriously leads into the hall behind. We went to the window, protected by a wrought-iron(?) railing, and looked out into the courtyard, which is a square of black asphalt, preternaturally void of any greenery but fitted out with a lone trash can (largely intended to receive cigarette butts), around which rise white stucco walls full of windows and pebbly designs (e.g. a triangle with an eye in it!). On the upper floors we found flourishes in plaster, ornate wooden doors, and brass or gilded chandeliers with white bulbs, and halls lined with black tiles. It was all pretty quiet and empty, though a handful of employees did pass through when we were there.

So one unifying element in our trip was probably the silence and emptiness, which is only to be expected on a Monday when everyone is inside at work, but which is saddening. I read somewhere that the population of Berlin was once 4.9 million (but I think that 4.5 million is the right figure) and now it is 3.4 million. In any case, I wish that the empty spaces in the city core of Berlin had not all been claimed by office buildings and government buildings — which are great nutshells for tiny kernels to rattle in, and inaccessible to the vast majority of mortals — or grandiose architectural experiments. I think they should be filled with tasteful and liveable upscale apartment buildings. But, on the other hand, I like the generous proportions in Berlin; and the sad loneliness, which not everyone may agree exists anyway, does have its dignified charm.

The Fourth Plinth, and Other Tales

My latest project is a book review blog, The Lighthouse at Alexandria. It is my job now, and it is at least a part-time job as far as the time and effort spent in reading the books, finding links, and writing the reviews themselves are concerned. So that has kept me busy for the past three days. (c: On Saturdays the plan is to review my favourite articles among the ones that have appeared in newspapers and magazines over the past week. Last evening I started exploring, but so many articles were delightful that I decided to do a riff on the New York Times bestseller lists there, and write about the articles here, instead.

One of my minor obsessions is the Fourth Plinth, which is a stone block at the corner of London's Trafalgar Square whereupon a statue of William IV was supposed to be raised but never was, and which is now host to a rotating exhibition of contemporary art. That I am obsessed with it is odd considering that not all of the art on it is exactly to my taste. I did like the effects of Bill Woodrow's "Regardless of History," a tangle of bronze tree with a book engulfed in the roots and a man's head crushed underneath, and Thomas Schütte's "Hotel for the Birds," a colourful, strong, and bright statement in layered red, yellow and blue glass amid the gloomy grey.

Lately there was a competition for a new design. None of the finalists truly thrilled me, but I did like Tracey Emin's meerkats. They remind me of people standing on the end of a sinking boat. That is not cheerful but thoughtful and mournful, and still it's nice, as the meerkats are standing there together, unmoved. I like meerkats in themselves, too — their dignity and agility, their ability to kill snakes, and their quiet vigilance as they stand guard at the entrances of their burrows. Yinka Shonibare's ship in a bottle (I am very fond of wooden sailing ships, whether they are four inches high and in a bottle, or forty yards high and on the sea) is attractive, too. But Antony Gormley's concept, the upturned transparent collar and the idea of having one member of the public standing on top of the plinth at a time, does not speak to me. Probably my likes and dislikes are boringly conservative, but everyone has their own sensitivities, and I guess that it's fine.

The Guardian has written extensively on this weighty matter. In January there was a nice article on Mr. Schütte and his design. On August 8th there was an amusing blog about the rumour that Boris Johnson has backed down from his intention to change the use of the plinth, as he was informed that it's "being kept warm" for an equestrian statue of Elizabeth II, "to be commissioned after her death." It must be unnerving to know that a whole industry is waiting to blossom upon one's demise. But in a way it's funny, too. Generally I support the idea of an open plinth, where the art changes. It is a fine source of income for the artist community, and it also freshens a historical square with a nice breeze of modernity, and if one of the artworks is truly dreadful one has the consolation of knowing that it will be replaced. On the other hand, I hope that less well-established artists are actively encouraged to submit their ideas, too.

* * *

The most delightful articles were about architecture, a field that greatly interests me but that I know very little.

As J. will go to Barcelona in September, I was especially interested in a photo gallery of Antoni Gaudí's Sagrada Familia church. In one sentence, I'd describe it as a crown of spires, intricate and fanciful, with a futuristic, extraterrestrial vibe. Among the photos, there is an excellently observed one that depicts a bird's-eye view of a spiralling interior staircase; it exactly resembles the cross-section of a snail's shell and the broad steps even look like the shell segments. I like the church, but there are many aspects of it I don't like. First of all, it is outlandish and disproportionate to everything around it. Secondly, it is a paean to a very beautiful and complex aesthetic; despite countless details which it takes from ecclesiastical architecture, I think it is scarcely religious, except in this artistic sense. Thirdly, it is tremendously expensive and complicated, and it is an exponent of a personal whim and not an outreach to the community. So I think, but I may be wrong.

THEN there was a photo series on observatories. I took these notes:

1. Kielder observatory: Ikea ("karg" setting)
2. Telescope: Star Wars ship gun
3. Greenwich observatory: hill
4. Jaipur observatory: paper cut-outs
5. Very Large Array: Very Stupid Name (also, moon-flowers)
6. WM Keck observatory, Hawaii
7. Parkes observatory: black latticed fan with a windmill base

The note on the Greenwich observatory is meant to remind me that our aunt L. took T. and me to see it when we were in London. I stayed at the foot of the hill, reading Jane Austen's Love and Freindship, but L. and T. courageously strove up the steep slope to the observatory itself. What fascinated me about the hill is its visual effect. As the people who streamed up and down the slopes were so high and far away, and tiny, I had the odd feeling of seeing a miniature world laid out before me. It now reminds me of an old New England embroidery or painting, of people flocking up a hill that is its own little ideal realm. And that reminds me of the famous passage in the 1630 sermon of the Puritan John Winthrop:

For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us. So that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken, and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a story and a by-word through the world.

By "moon-flowers" I mean that there are enormous white satellite dishes that are reposing in isolation on a darkened field, and pointing expectantly toward the sky, as sunflowers point expectantly toward the sun. As for the Hawaiian observatory, I wrote no notes because I wanted to check if it is among the ones on top of Mauna Kea. It is, so I can proudly say that I have seen it in person (though at a distance which made it seem infinitesimal), gleaming on the vast mound beyond the red lunar landscape of Mauna Kea's flanks.

THEN there was a droll article on the "Cheesegrater" (thus nicknamed for its tapering rectangular shape), a 235-metre-tall, 47-floor building, which is to stand beside the Gherkin in London. Sadly its date of completion has been moved ahead into 2012 due to the financial situation. The "Shard" finds itself in a like predicament. Two of the finest passages in the article:

The previous building at 122 Leadenhall Street, a 1960s office block, is being destroyed from the ground up around its central concrete core. For some time it resembled an ice-lolly, but now the floors have gone and only the "stick" remains on the site.

and

A sign pinned to the barriers that prevent office workers and shoppers from toppling into the huge hole left by the excavation promised "57,000 square metres of the highest quality office space".

A Farewell To Opa

On August 7th, my grandfather died after going into a decline due to old age. He was ninety-six years old, barely a week short of his birthday.

My siblings and I didn't know him very well, as we visited Kevelaer whenever we flew to Germany, but this was a rare occasion. Still, he was a presence in our house, not only through the cards that Oma sent us for Christmas and Easter, but also through photos and his memoirs and his art. For a long time we've had three stained-glass panes that he made, all three bearing Biblical motifs like the dove and flames of Pentecost, and a gouache(?) prototype for a fourth pane depicting Russian onion domes. I quite impartially like these very much, because they are not at all kitschy, the tints are very beautiful, and there is a harmony and depth to them. They are traditional but distinctive; and the relative simplicity of the lines and shapes reconcile their old-fashioned elements to modernity. But (as art was his profession) he also worked in many other media: pencil sketches, bronze and majolica sculpture, mosaics, sgraffito, etc.

As for his life, he was born in a German enclave in Belgium, and experienced World War I there. When the next war broke out, he was with the German army in Russia, and had a predictably disagreeable time where his conscience and religious upbringing were in constant conflict with his environment. Even after the war was officially over, he was interned in a Russian prisoner of war camp for years. Back in Germany, he settled in Kevelaer and worked as an artist, eventually marrying my grandmother and raising twelve children (all boys, except for my mother) with her. He lived and wrought peacefully in the small-town atmosphere of Kevelaer, though he also corresponded with and hosted people from abroad. The town itself is also constantly stirred by the passage of domestic and foreign pilgrims; they come to the basilica and chapel in honour of Mary's appearance in the dreams of a merchant, and his subsequent building of a chapel dedicated to her, in the 17th century.

There is a good assembly of his works at a website that Uncle B. set up for Opa, here. (The girl with the tousled hair in the photos is Mama. (c: )

A Hermit's Meditations

[N.B.: I don't honestly expect anyone to wade through all of this.]

Normally I don't much like talking about "My Future," firstly because the fear of it and the conviction of being a failure has hounded me since Grade 10, and secondly because I'd rather do something than discuss what I might do, only to look indolent and vacillating if I never do it after all. But at present the plan is to find an internship at a magazine or newspaper, write freelance articles (e.g. travel articles on Berlin) and short stories and poems, and in the meantime be as up-to-date as possible by reading newspapers and magazines and blogs. I've conveniently decided to postpone the job-hunt until my friend M. comes to Germany on August 17th, because I want to be free to traipse around Berlin and elsewhere with her. Then I want to take my place in the grown-up world — if I were male, I would say "give up my childhood and become a Man."

Also, as I'm not going to university, I need to pursue my general education, and in any case I need to work on my music. The gaps in knowledge are evident enough — the sciences, information technology, politics, economics, psychology, philosophy, music theory, German and French literature, etc. — and I could stand to learn another language or two. So I'll have to read and I'll hopefully audit a few courses, too. My daydreams change, and I use them mostly as encouragement and not so much as definite aims, but my most cherished present one is to find an internship in New York.

Nevertheless I am happy with my life the way it is. The benefit of the grim slog of school — the guilt about not doing my homework, the isolation, etc. — is that, even though I've had my crises, I know I've had it far worse. What I ask of life is to have my self-respect, to be able to unfold freely in character and mind, to be around people whom I trust, to have food and shelter, and to be at ease with myself and the world around me. Now I have it.

* * *

Besides, though I tend to disapprove of everyone else's religion unless it's a peaceful and beneficial one, and I don't feel guilty for having small respect for the Pope, I have found a faith that greatly comforts me. The central tenet is that, as long as I honestly strive to do right in little things as well as big ones, everything will turn out well, and even if it doesn't I won't have to reproach myself for much. Even as a tiny Munchkin I was already analyzing the motives for what I said and did, and seeing clearly enough where my shortcomings were, making concerted efforts to grow into a better person, and being prodded by a pretty active conscience; so the most difficult part is the trust.

As for going wrong, I don't fear it so much, because my idea of atonement is to freely recognize the misdeed, feel genuinely sorry and do one's best not to repeat it. Shortcomings shouldn't be hidden and repressed, but brought to light and dissolved through analysis or diverted into harmless channels. I don't believe in punishment, either. Instead I believe that any act in bad faith has unhappy consequences attached to it, which do not wait to pounce on a sinner down the road (I deeply dislike this concept) but are immediate. To use an illustration, if life is a stream that runs to the sea, the misdeed is an obstacle that fleetingly redirects it into a different course, though the stream will eventually reach the sea like any other. Also, I am convinced that the only sins are actions where other people are harmed, or offenses against one's own integrity. Lastly, I don't believe that there are "good" people and "bad" people, except in the extremely rare cases where people have no moral code at all; treating other people as lepers, on any pretext whatsoever, is only a reflection on one's flawed self.

I'll freely admit that the problem of evil, and the question of what it is, is one I haven't been able to properly explain to myself. I don't doubt that it exists. Still, one of the nice things about humans is that, in us, evil tends to take a banal concrete form, which is easy enough to spot and counteract. Our personalities are rarely monolithic or powerful enough to be demonic, though I suppose that we can become temporarily demonic e.g. as part of a mob. But at times I have felt evil as an abstract atmosphere, where one must be careful not to be infected; still, the infection is that of superstition and fear and loneliness, and not of any dramatic journey to the "dark side." And the best antidotes to superstition and fear and loneliness are common sense, the right kind of strength, and a belief that there is goodness in the world.

Beyond this I see no point in minute theological discussions. The Bible and the thoughts of others are helpful guides, but I don't feel called upon to believe every detail. As far as God, the Trinity, the saints, etc. go, I incline to think, as Alexander Pope put it in the full couplet of his famous quotation: "Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; / The proper study of mankind is man." Nor do I believe that one can arrive at the absolute truth; one should investigate, weigh ideas, draw one's own conclusions, but keep in mind that there can always be flaws in one's observations and logic.

Above all, I believe that one's thoughts and deeds should have as their end the welfare of one's fellow human beings. Though I tend to the less harsh, Hippocrates-like belief that living without harming anyone else is already an accomplishment, I sympathize with the quotation, which Dr. Johnson included in his Rambler, to the effect that "no life is pleasing to God that is not useful to man." This doesn't mean arbitrating the fates of other people, but helping them to help themselves when needed, letting them find their own good in their own way, and treating them with respect. As Mama has often remarked à propos of the "Golden Rule," a problem is that what is good and useful for one person can be bad and worse than useless for another, so one cannot thrust benevolent intentions on others.

As far as one's self is concerned, I think one has a responsibility, too; one is a person like any other, with the same rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Denying an elementary respect and care to one's self is as iniquitous as denying it to someone else. It also defeats one's purpose because if one treats one's self poorly, one tends to treat others poorly too. For example, when I despise myself, it makes me self-centred, torpid and uncommunicative, so that I am quite the opposite of a ray of sunshine to the people with whom I come into contact.

Self-sacrifice can too often be like mercy in reverse, I think, blighting him who gives and him who takes. When I was ten or so, I was much taken by the tales of martyrs, and thought about the concept a good deal. But I felt that I couldn't bear, for example, to die for someone else if he or she didn't know about it and didn't remember me gratefully after I'm gone. In the course of time, however, I've come to believe that martyrdom is admirable only if it is veritably beneficial. Also, I've thought about the feelings of the beneficiary. It is probably a terrible burden to know that someone has literally or figuratively crippled himself, even condemned himself to death, on one's behalf. It is an almost tyrannous claim on one's gratitude. For the benefactor, too, I think it would be somehow embarrassing. So now I find it much kinder to leave the beneficiary in ignorance, and to see one's reward in the knowledge that one has done some good. And if a significant sacrifice is prompted not by generosity but by the urge to self-annihilation, I find it positively criminal.

Lastly, as for the rewards of virtue, I think that they are being at peace with, and being able to respect, one's self. Also, I think that good deeds govern the direction of our lives much as bad ones do; but they guide them into happier and more tranquil courses, so that we are content with our existence and ready to leave the world when we do.

My Moment of Brilliance

Woohoo! T. phoned with the language institute in the Kantstraße where she and I wrote our Test DaF exams, which are a gauge of our proficiency in German, and she found out that I aced it! I received 5/5 in every category. As far as the spoken component goes, I don't think I deserved the 5, but otherwise, like Mrs. Bennet, I "quarrel with no compliments." Even on the written component, I stayed well within my vocabulary and the essay-writing skills instilled by two years of university flowed back to my pen; so, though I'm by no means perfect there, I did achieve what the Test DaF requires, which is to be comprehensible though not perhaps impeccable.

As I remarked to Papa and Mama, this is the first successful thing I've done in a long time. The closest thing I can remember at UBC is the 87% on my (as I now find, largely factually incorrect, but still entertaining) Romanticism History essay, and the two "A"s my professor gave me for my English 220 essays. That was in early 2006. Then there was T.'s and my (undeserved) 100% in Spanish 11. Though I am of the general opinion that perfection is boring, this does not mean that I haven't often wished to approach it more nearly in the academic realm.

Anyway, having enjoyed my moment of jubilation, I will admit that there may be a mistake, which would come out when T. and I pick up the certificate later today. Then I'd post a correction, but if there isn't any, it's all true. (c:

P.S.: In the interests of full disclosure, I'll add that I didn't study for the test. I went in expecting to do really well or really badly (tending toward the latter). I'm not proud of this — at all. But I don't feel entirely guilty, because I have read a fair amount of German on my own initiative over the years, from Otfried Preußler through Grimms Märchen to Der arme Spielmann, as well as the Tagesschau website.

A Stroll in Mansfield Park

A few nights ago, I finally finished a German translation of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. It was my favourite book when I was ten or eleven; probably I understood it better than Austen's other books because one doesn't lose as much if one reads it with no understanding of irony. Besides, I would picture the scenes as I read: the stairs where Edmund comforts Fanny as a little girl, the mansion of Mansfield Park, the shrubbery, Sotherton and the "ha-ha" (I still don't know what that means), and then the chaotic house in Portsmouth and the seaside. Though much of the action takes place indoors, certainly not all of it does, and one could profitably illustrate the book with a bountiful range of decorous English landscape (or seascape) paintings.

Now what strikes me most is the incredible nuance with which Jane Austen depicts a sensitive character with whom she doesn't seem to have much in common. Of course this nuance is precisely the quality that is commonly identified with the author, but she probably surpasses herself here. I recognize a good deal of my own hypersensitive feelings, especially with regard to the twinges of pain, the tiredness and the constant undermining caused by the perfectly horrid character of Mrs. Norris, who, to use a Harry Potter analogy, is a cross between Dolores Umbridge and a Dementor. There is a truth she brings out well, which is that supposedly good people of even a petty level of villainy can make life a living hell for others. The Portsmouth scenes are also excellent, about the depressing effect of one's surroundings if they are shabby and disorganized.

I've never subscribed to the view that Fanny is merely a "passive victim" or weak. She comes out much better than anyone else in the book, because, though she may not be innately more gifted or intelligent than those around her, she simply uses what she has better. She refuses to be blinded to the world around her, and she is steadfast in adhering to her principles, unlike any of the other characters. "Peer pressure" is a force that, I'd say, ninety-nine people out of a hundred can't resist, so she is definitely not weak. What I dislike in her is the hard judgmental streak, which comes out even before she returns home and finds her mother a "slattern," etc., and which (I think) reflects an underlying humourlessness of the author herself. If one looks at Jane Austen's villains, they firmly meet retribution; in Mansfield Park, she is abominably prim when she writes, first of Henry Crawford and Maria Bertram, and then of Mrs. Norris and Maria, that they are "their mutual punishment."

So I had more sympathy with the Crawfords for a while than with Edmund Bertram or even Fanny. Edmund is altogether a pitifully weak character. He is friendly enough, and when I was eleven I only saw that; but now his principles seem to me to be more a passive rigidity, even prejudices, than anything finer or more spontaneous. The way he talks to Fanny is also dreadfully patronizing. I'm guessing that in real life Fanny would have the upper hand of things once they were married, and also that he'd have to treat her as an intellectual equal, instead of continuing to be her "preceptor." It is unfair to expect a husband to be an outright superior to his wife, instead of an equal partner or even a mild inferior, but he shouldn't assume superiority if he hasn't any. In Sense and Sensibility, for instance, Edward Ferrars openly sees that Elinor is superior and he bows with a good grace to the feminine yoke; besides, he faces Mrs. Ferrars with splendid courage when she disowns him for his engagement with Lucy Steele. So I prefer him to Edmund.

But I do still love many things about Jane Austen: her fluent style, decisiveness and incisiveness in reading character (except where I find it too harsh), sympathy for her heroines, sense that there is a "rightness" in the world, refinement, emphasis on intelligence and self-knowledge, etc. I think she fits squarely into the Enlightenment tradition (though not into the tradition of the artificial, saccharine sensibility that passed as fiction) because she dissects feelings so clearly and emphasizes self-control, self-analysis, and rationality so persistently. For many years I've found other writers more congenial — Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, Leo Tolstoy (in War and Peace), and Thomas Hardy — but there is no denying that she has had a permanent influence on me, and that, whenever I lose the feeling of Austen-saturation, I enjoy her as much as ever.

Sonata in B Flat Major, Andante

Here is the second movement of Schubert's Sonata in B flat major, which I recorded in March. Altogether it doesn't live up to my highest conception of the music; and, like anything else I produce, whether it's a music film or photo or story, I find it terrible or admirable depending on the mood. Unfortunately, as I used a digital camera, the sound quality is also objectively deficient. Finally, for some reason the recording broke off before the piece was finished, so it's a fragment. But, all that aside, it's my best YouTube film, so up it goes. (c:

Obama in Berlin, Part I

Today the grand Obama speech took place at the Siegessäule. Ever since I heard that he would speak here, I had decided to attend. So, at around 3:15 I set off, hoping to see everything being set up, the press getting into position, etc. I came up the Hofjägerallee, one of the streets that runs out like a ray from the Säule, and saw about 23 police vans and two long black buses parked along the other side in an impressive stationary cavalcade. The street was blocked off at the roundabout that encircles the Säule, so I became one in a steady trickle of people (and pairs of policemen, with or without a sniffer dog) who made their way along a humble forest path to the entrance on the Straße des 17. Juni. The Brandenburger Tor was to the right, the Column to the left, and a modest crowd of (I'm randomly guessing) two hundred had already spread itself out, sitting or standing, at the fence where orange-shirted people stood watch.

I hadn't been seated for five minutes when the loudspeaker came on; a mildly annoyed male voice announced that we could enter, slowly, by the gates. He added that if we did not get through, which was unlikely, we could see everything on the large screens, and (in a possible touch of Berliner irony) that the sound would be audible even at Brandenburger Tor. The admonition to go slowly was redundant where I was, since our movement, crowded as we were, was the opposite of rapid. Then we had to turn to the right or left to go through security. White pavilions had been set up at the sidewalks. Each contained two grey screening portals, a long table, and two or more orange-shirted security people. An orange bin stood in front, apparently to receive water bottles, which plunked in steadily. The waiting period took forever, and then the portal or who knows what failed at the tent where I was at, and we all had to go to the end of another line.

As I waited for the security checks, I took notes on the scene. People were using their digital cameras or even videocameras to scan the crowd; some called friends; more stood around and talked. Energetic individuals strode up and down through the masses shouting, "Are you American?", "Are you an American citizen?", etc., to find eligible voters who still had to register. The people around me were divided between German and American, with Australians thrown in for good measure, but the Americans appeared to me to preponderate. The overwhelming majority of the people regardless of nationality were, I think, male students; it was like being at university again. They dropped references to Taft, Reagan, and Ross Perot, and were quite well-informed.

One photographer created a photo opportunity by grouping a trio of girls, smiling, in line with the Siegessäule; then he borrowed the Obama pin from a tall supporter (who adamantly though cheerfully refused to be part of the picture) and the girls held it out toward the camera and did their best to grin for him. Others complained about the sluggishness of the line's pace. A helicopter flew overhead. Glaciers formed and melted. I noted that someone was wearing a navy-blue T-shirt bearing the logo, "Global Tsunami of Change," and also noted that this was a trifle insensitive. Music played. Someone remarked solemnly, about the long wait, "In the end, it's always worth it; it's always worth it."

Then I reached the pavilion, emptied my purse and laid it as well as my raincoat on the table, and passed through the portal. The orange-shirted person who stood in the back didn't have to double-check me with the handheld scanner, as I didn't beep. Nor did I have to turn on a digital camera to show that it works. Nor did the suited man who was standing behind him stop me (I surmised that he was U.S. Secret Service, and admittedly thought "cool!"; anyway, at least he and the colleague standing nearby looked jovial). So it was quick and easy.

At length, then, I joined the mostly sitting and rarely standing crowd in the area closest to the Siegessäule. The pavilions with refreshments were to the left, beside a black music stage; the column towered to the front; at its right corner a podium had been set up on a platform; obliquely opposite the podium, a statue of a Prussian war minister rose in his weathered bronze grandeur; and beside him there were the press bleachers. Then the long waiting began. But in the bleachers I did see Christiane Amanpour from CNN, in white shirt and short wavy dark brown hair and (I think) sunglasses. She looked nice and relaxed, talked with someone over the side of the bleacher and gazed out over the crowd. Later on I also saw a brown-suited individual whom I believe to have been (the, in my view, irritating) Richard Quest. Internally I squealed with excitement. I also looked for a Canadian news anchor, or a recognizable German one, but didn't spot any. On the podium itself there was a coming and going. But throughout it there stood a Secret Service man, in a black suit and white shirt and blue tie, the sun pouring forth behind him, flashing on his sunglasses, and lingeringly illumining the white earplug cord at his neck, as the blue sky faded ever more, smudgy long clouds softened the solar glare, and a tranquil sunset was underway.

As for my fellow hoi polloi on the ground, there was a friendly group of students from Michigan State University who had a game of cards and a genial exchange of jokes, a girl who (politely thanking me for moving aside to give her room) stretched out for a nap beneath the Zitty issue whose front cover features Obama, three newspaper-readers, a girlfriend and boyfriend who insisted on smooching even after we'd stood up and were packed like sardines (why?!), a young man wrapped in the American flag, and a pervading atmosphere of sweat. Some smoked cigarettes, too, or marijuana – someone observed, "You wouldn't find that at a McCain rally" – or listened to the music. It was so lovely to hear American English again, by the way. Then there were the "entitled pushy idiots!!!" (according to my notes) who insisted on shoving through the crowd and nearly bowled me over someone's backpack. Three people behind me talked about the TV series "24" and pictured crazy thriller scenarios that could be taking place right now, and talked about explosives ("that's always good," I sarcastically wrote in my notes) in plants (the person mentioned the "yucca palms" in front of the podium, so there was a botanical detail cleared up). Altogether, after we stood up, I became very well acquainted with those around me, if having them nudging my back and arms and making bored or friendly eye contact, for an hour or two, is any criterion.

Then a helicopter began descending, and we were wondering if Barack Obama was making a grand entrance in it, perchance even bailing out of it in an enormous red-white-and-blue parachute. But he wasn't. A person fainted in the crowd behind us, and left a ca. five-foot long gap in the crowd, fringed with the worried/interested faces of the people around the casualty. They shouted and waved for a paramedic, and after a very long time one came. I was wondering whether to help, but First Aid learned in Grade 8 seemed an insufficient qualification.

Obama in Berlin, Part II

Finally, after a false alarm or two, a loudspeaker announced Barack Obama, and he came out. Everyone (even the tall people) rose and stood on tip-toe, brandishing their cell phones and digital cameras, so I saw nothing. But I clapped.

The speech began, and I was disappointed. It sounded too rehearsed, too brief, and (to borrow from the Guardian reporter who live-blogged the event) too platitudinous. In hindsight, reading Obama's speech in transcript, I may have done the part about Berlin a disservice. But there were terrible lines, full of the personification and metaphors I'd expect of Bush: "flame of freedom," "retreat would have allowed Communism to march across America," "dry up the well of extremism," etc. And he retreaded, horribly retreaded, everything I never want to hear again, about fighting terrorism, Taliban and al Qaeda, "needing" German soldiers in Afghanistan, stopping Iran's nuclear ambitions, etc. – even Communism on the march. [It's not that I object to stopping terrorism, it's just that, de facto, it is a tiny problem in the world compared to war, human rights abuses, and poverty. It should be dealt with quietly and competently within the bounds of the law, not made into a major political issue that feeds into paranoia and a disproportionate concern with one's own real or putative welfare.] Besides, I didn't think there was much original or clever analysis.

As for the crowd, it appeared to be moderately skeptical. We were not in a frenzy of enthusiasm, but favourably inclined, with some reservations. What unexpectedly met with a roar of approval was Obama's remark about Zimbabwe. What met with even stronger approval was his unequivocal support of nuclear disarmament. That was incredibly surprising and a high point of his speech, I thought; the kind of firm and reasonable stance one would hope of him as President. I also liked his amicable reference to Russia, which was surprising, too. When, however, he talked about Afghanistan and its drugs being sold in our streets, I felt that the reaction of those around me was, "Is that supposed to be a bad thing?" A few also laughed derisively when he said, "I know my country has not perfected itself."

But for a while I was distracted, because behind me there was a group of environmental activists who wanted to perform some action. I suspected at first that they wanted to burst onto the stage and disrupt the speech, so I asked, with a displeased mien, what they were planning to do. But it turns out that they were only holding up T-shirts that spelled out, "Stop CO2." So they waveringly sat on the shoulders of people and hoisted the shirts in the air. Possibly they had the order wrong; at any rate, one nearby person asked another what the message was, and he, having looked over his shoulder, replied, "Stop U2." Hilarious! So the activists were friendly after all; one held onto my shoulder as she rose into the air, and another later asked pardon for the shirt that was drooping onto my head. No security people came to haul them off to jail, either. Still, I am sick and tired of the global warming stuff, was annoyed by the World Wildlife Fund T-shirts saying, "I want you to tackle climate change" that part of the audience wore, and think (as I said above) that war, human rights, and poverty are the truly important issues.

When the speech had ended, one or two people expressed disappointment that it had been so short. I felt the same way; I had expected not to hear a word through bad acoustics, but the acoustics were superb, so I heard clearly, and I found the speech itself accessible. We very, very slowly flocked through the gap in the fence, only to have to practically crawl along a good portion of the Straße des 17. Juni, as the announcer told us again to walk slowly and that the gates were wide open, and we internally laughed at the bitter, bitter irony. Then I was free to walk home.

But before I reached the gap in the fence, I heard as one person, bearing a beige banner that I couldn't read, was asked about Obama. He said, more or less, "I love the guy, but I want him to be himself and not some centrist that he thinks people want him to be." Exactly. Honestly, until two or three months ago I hadn't expected Obama to do so much pandering; the double Israeli-American flag pin at his AIPAC speech baffled me. I find him quite intelligent and able to think for himself, pleasingly capable of being natural and unselfconscious, and a good (though not great) speaker and interviewee. But I only hope that, when (and if, but McCain's sad petulance and overall air of defeat indicate that this may not be an issue) he is President, the transparent and worrisome sops to the prejudiced will stop.

War Elephant

A poem set at an indeterminate past time in India, which I unfortunately mostly know only from colonialist sources: Kipling's tales, Around the World in Eighty Days, etc. So I guess I'm mostly recycling stereotypes, which may explain why it was hard to make it less pompous and more natural. There were some factual errors (e.g. "tamarisk" instead of "tamarind") but I've hopefully weeded them out. Inspired by a poem by T., and written June 23rd, 2008.

In the rhythm of an unseen war drum
the feet fall on the rich black soil
and their deep and full reverberations
echo amid the cavernous void where tree-trunks wind
and jagged vines sweep in between them
in the shadows of the glossy leaves
which rise in unfathomed masses to the sun,
stir heavily and vastly as the sea in summer storms.

Fauna haunt its shadows in untold numbers:
snakes twine thoughtfully along cool grey bark
or undulate furtively through the leaf-strewn mire;
monkeys wheel and blot out gaps of sky
scattered far above, like stray high windows
in an ancient and far-reaching fortress
letting through remote and starry glimpses of freedom,
clambering along their infinite woody perches
and holding their tails erect in graceful curl;
brilliant birds in a lightly sprawling congress,
glaucous and crimson and golden,
twirling in the airs or singing in the tamarind
or pecking with scimitar-beaks at a tiny feast.

Over the jungle burns the fierce white orb:
the force that desiccates the red soils
and steals the brightness in grass and leaf;
leaves nothing, only the bone-like beige of death,
out in the mercilessly open plains.

It is bound for this realm that the procession
tramples and pounds and jingles and slashes
a path through the strange peace of jungle.
A juggernaut has come and the forest is under its wheels:
men clad in bright tints of peacock and marigold and rose
turbans wound tightly, plumes nodding lightly,
embroidered and bedizened with rich motifs and jewels,
swords in their scabbards in glittering polish,
— in a pomp weirdly fit for a day of the dead.

Grimly they march, and the elephants' plodding
is the beat to the battle, the tolling of the bell,
at once a foreboding and an admission
of inevitability. Their leader, of choice;
the followers, by the force that precipitates water
over the fall and leads it to thunderous destruction
at its rocky foot, embowered in ferocious wilderness.

One mountainous charger after another,
swaying a great grey hide and the howdah above,
irritating trappings of the alien mask and armour,
drooping tusks, swinging heavily side to side
in an aimless, blundering brandishing,
and eye passive in the graven wrinkles
ruminating in a fatalist stupor,
ears flapping limply as the sails on a crippled mast;
the blunt round feet, so mighty and so helpless,
sink ungently in the dark-crushed leaves, the shattered twigs,
and the earth to which their invincible bulk
may yet be forced to bow and return.

A Long Disquisition Upon (Classical) Music

Today I went on a quest for new YouTube clips, and I found them in plenty. Above is the Adagio of Haydn's Cello Concerto No. 1 in C major, as played by Jacqueline du Pré. It's one of the pieces I grew up hearing, so I am especially fond of it. I think that listening to so much music when I was little, impressionable and sensitive to atmosphere, really did deepen and beautify my life. It wasn't only our records and tapes that I liked, but also Papa's live music. The Mozart, Schubert, and Beethoven piano sonatas that he often played (I'm guessing when he wanted to relax) when we were little made me feel sheltered and content.

Besides, particularly in those sonatas Papa doesn't superimpose anything on the music, but lets it come out naturally. The way one plays does say something about one's character, and if one is vain, bored, unsympathetic, emotionally shallow, or who knows what, it'll come out, and most likely get in the way of the music. So if the playing is unimpeded by these things, limpid as a mountain brook and even indicative of goodness of character, it is extremely nice to hear apart from its musical loveliness.

I think that Schubert's Sonata in B flat major is one of the most demanding pieces in this respect. If one is superficial, pompous, insincere, harsh, etc., — or, I guess, if Schubert simply isn't one's cup of tea — it is terribly evident. As it's my favourite piece, I probably hugely overidealize it, but I think that it is the epitome of modest sincerity, sympathy, depth, and nobility. The first movement reminds me of a church (me and many other people; the stately chords and moderate tempo may be responsible for that). In the second movement the minor chords seem to me like the rending of heartstrings, corrosive in its sadness, followed by a low melody of consolation. Depending on my mood, I feel a corresponding ache when I play it; and for a year or two it was my sanctum sanctorum, which I would only play if I felt that I'd do so in the right spirit. It's similar with the second movement of the previous sonata (A major). In this case it is apparently not wrong to believe that Schubert was thinking of his approaching death as he composed the music, and I often think of him as I play, and admire how he seems to have reached a form of tranquillity.

One thing I like in Glenn Gould's music, by the way, is how his personality played a role. The hint of pedantry, the love of experimentation, the way he was intrigued by the music, intermittent impatience, etc., come out quite transparently. Even where I do not agree with his interpretation, it is invariably interesting, and I always think that it was a station on his way to understanding the piece. In this respect, too, he was refreshingly modest; he didn't pretend that his version was the be-all and end-all. I think he was a genius, too, in the way he found quirky and authentic atmospheres in his music (as he could not have, had he superimposed too much on it). His later Goldberg Variations recordings, to me, have medieval touches despite the modern sound, whereas his Mozart is the essence of classicism, etc. Of course I wasn't alive during the Middle Ages or the Enlightenment; but I think one can intuit the Zeitgeist, and that Gould did this perfectly.

Anyway, another discovery was the "Jewel Song" from Faust (which is familiar from the Tintin comics) as sung by Nellie Melba at the Metropolitan Opera in a year that must be long distant, as the sound quality is pretty terrible. But then I came across the same soprano singing "Ave Maria" from Otello at her farewell concert, Covent Garden, 1926. There the sound quality is excellent, and her timbre comes across well. Besides, I reencountered the ancient recordings of Brahms's voice on wax cylinder, and of Joseph Joachim playing Hungarian Dances No. 1 and 2.

From there I came across Arturo Toscanini's recording of the Tannhäuser overture. I'm not well versed in Wagner, and what I do know mostly comes from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. So as I listened my mind was mostly occupied with visions of a gangly grey rabbit striding about sporting two golden braids and a Viking helmet, and Elmer Fudd solemnly intoning, "Kill the wabbit!" Very highbrow cultural references, I'm sure. (c: Anyway, I liked Toscanini's conducting. The entire orchestra is one surge of music, flowing with the moods as naturally and nearly as easily as a solo instrument, and at times it appears to be on the brink of unmanageable power. This was largely the case in Brahms's Piano Concerto No. 1, in a 1935 recording where Vladimir Horowitz was the soloist. It isn't kitschy either, I think. Only the Wagner, though I think it had intelligence and profundity, was close to a cliché. The scenic effects that the composer pioneered are still common today (e.g. flute solo for a tranquil forest setting; well, someone else probably came up with that, but it's the kind of effect I mean), and the romantic lavishness of Toscanini's interpretation is typical of the scores for black-and-white Hollywood films.

Altogether I very much like that, as in literature and architecture and so many other fields, there is so much to explore and discover in the musical repertoire. At times it's depressing because I feel like an ignoramus, but on the other hand it's relieving to know that I'll be surrounded by wealth and plenty, in the shape of new songs, buildings, books, etc., as long as I live. Besides, as long as I keep growing, I'll find new interpretations and nuances in them, even if it takes a while for a fresh perspective to emerge.

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"

A Pugilistic Priest

Normally I find dreams tiresome, and among my own I prefer the action-adventure ones where I run away from tidal waves or volcanic eruptions, so I am just posting this one because of its compellingness:

In my dream last night, I was a priest standing at the podium, on the stage of a darkened auditorium. I addressed the people in words I don't remember. But then a group of men came up onto the stage, and the foremost one showed a chart of numbers and signs that I had scribbled on my arm with a pen, and shouted that I was involved in something occult. I calmly explained that they were the numbers of the divisions, or rather troops, in the French army during the Revolution, and that the second two columns of the chart recorded the casualties. The accuser wasn't convinced, and he then persisted in poking his handgun into my back. I trembled a little, and he laughed and said that this was odd considering what I had preached about not being afraid of death and what lies beyond it. So I pulled myself together and patiently repeated my explanation. The other person sneered again, and then I decided to put an end to his threats by punching him in the eye. It instantly bruised. He kept on, so I punched him again and gave him another black eye, though internally worrying that this wasn't in keeping with my clerical position. Then he fell and looked quite seriously injured.

The setting had changed into the "little house" back at our home in Victoria, so I lifted the motionless body, nudged open the screen door with my foot, and carried him down to the "big house" for medical attention. A soldier was at the door and another was patrolling the verandah. They assumed that I was up to something violent, they shot me, and I died. But my perspective immediately changed into that of the priest's disembodied spirit, and I was outside the window as an autopsy was done, only seeing the tray with bits of the priest's internal organs on it, and not my body or even the forensics experts themselves. It turned out that I had taken up a manipulated handgun, placed within reach by the "bad" person, and that in using it I had somehow poisoned myself anyway.

Anyway, in dissecting the dream, I see that I dreamt of the chart because of the charts in the kanji book that T. bought yesterday, the French Revolution aspect was suggested because of the research I've done on it for my story, and the autopsy scene could come out of any of the crime shows that I used to watch fairly often. What interested me about this dream was the oddity of having a priest in his fifties or older as my dream-avatar, the seriousness and the detail, and because it seemed unusually intelligent (not my forté!) and meaningful. The evident lesson is that I shouldn't turn to anger and violence to resolve a conflict, and that vengeance does not improve anything and easily recoils on the one who indulges in it. (The manipulated handgun incident is, in hindsight, a glaringly obvious metaphor.) Of course these are not remotely novel thoughts; but, not having a choleric temperament, I've rarely been in the situation where such considerations were relevant.

Bookstores and Tourists

T. was in the mood to buy a Japanese textbook, so after conscientious internet and telephone research, she set off with J. and me. From the Bülowstraße station we went along the U2 line (which, of course, has nothing to do with the rock band) to Ernst-Reuter-Platz. It was crowded and stifling and odorous, but oddly enough I didn't mind this time. Nearby, on the Hardenbergstraße, there is Lehmann's, a spacious white bookstore. So we crossed over the street at the building pertaining to the faculty for church music at the Universität der Künste; I find the reddish hue of the building's stone delightful, and the little oriel window at the corner equally so, but the runish Art Nouveau script below that window was over the top and as a whole the building wasn't organic enough.

At the street corner, there were two people from the Maltese Order (a Catholic medical charity that is run by a Freemason-ish hierarchy culminating in a Grand Master). T. went on ahead, J. and I paused, and I decided to at least listen and find out what they wanted, volunteers or money. It was money. This, more or less, was the scintillating conversation:

Maltese person: (After briefly informing me about a learning centre in Berlin-Neukölln, she suggestively opens her binder at the donation forms.) " . . . so we'd like to have donations."
Me: "Unfortunately I don't have a large income." (Silently, to myself: "Why did you say 'not a large income'? You have no income at all! There's no need to qualify it.")
M.P.: "I don't either, but I still give 6 Euros a month." (She has mentioned this before.) "Even if you are a student, or low income, it's still feasible."
Me: "Well, once I get real work, I'll think about it." (I try not to sound as if I were implying "in a million years.")
M.P.: "Too bad then."
(Exchange of small smiles, and we go our separate ways.)

As for Lehmann's, the ground floor is full of round tables (cookbooks and travel, paperback fiction, hardback fiction, coffee table books, touristy/Berlin books), shelves running around the walls (poetry, novels, biographies), and a slender mezzanine. Jeffrey Archer's latest novel was there, Don DeLillo's Falling Man, Alice Sebold, etc. – and on a magazine I saw the smiling visage of Margaret Atwood. The selection looked better than that of the UBC Bookstore, except for the latest English bestsellers, which the Bookstore covers much more thoroughly. T. went directly up to the first floor, where the language books are – a decent assortment, and some in English. (c: She picked out a helpful Japanese textbook, whereas I was lured by a Russian basic vocabulary learning kit (a flashcard set, four audio CDs, and posters), which cost 34.90 Euros. I duly forked over the money at the cash register downstairs, and didn't feel guilty about it; I'm convinced I'll actually use it.

Then we took the U2 again to Hubendubel. We got out at Wittenbergplatz, whereas the bookstore itself is at the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. So we walked down the Tauentzienstraße for a while before we discovered it. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists, and it seriously annoyed me for the reason that I wanted to stride along at a reasonable pace whereas they were idling along in snail fashion. J. and I waited in front of the bookstore, under a plane tree. It was truly a beautiful angle from which to see the church, framed in the winding bulk of the branches, the translucent green spikes of the leaves, and the drooping globes of seeds. J. and I spent a long time admiring the great arches and the details in the bell tower, and discoursing of flying buttresses and the like. Against the dark Gothic-style opening of the tower one could also see the flocking tiny drops of rain, which looked like snow.

I also looked at the faces of the people walking in and out of the bookstore, hopefully not staring; I tried to catch a sympathetic one, but though few of them were outright unsympathetic there wasn't one that truly interested me. What I was looking for, I suppose, was a combination of individuality, intelligence, friendliness, or dignity. Anyway, one of the dramatic highlights was a woman, whose worn face and clothing spoke of the 70s, wheeling herself to the road and hailing a taxi going in the opposite direction which did not stop for her; thereafter she went into a phone booth and called for one. There was a woman with a softened Danish face who reminded me of my fifth-grade teacher, but she had a shrewish expression in her eyes that my mild teacher did not have. Later on a middle-aged American came lumbering out and called, presumably to his wife, "Hey! Want to go have a coffee? I've got a Euro." Then there were suits who stood in the entrance of the store, waiting for the rain to end, making cell phone calls, and at length disappointedly taking a plunge into the elements after all. All of this was hugely banal, I suppose, but I liked it.

After T. came out again, she and J. went off into the U-Bahn, whereas I decided to walk home. I had walked home from Wittenbergplatz once before, after taking a curious peep at the dresses in KaDeWe (which I found too unsubtle). Also, I had once ridden there and back on a bicycle, when a man (who reminds me vaguely of Günther Beckstein, a Bavarian politician whose face resembles that of an evil gnome, as his beady eyes gleam mirthlessly like coals and his ears are large and pointy) walking along the – incidentally almost deserted – sidewalk kindly remarked, "Another stupid fat cow riding on the sidewalk!" A moment afterward, though, there was a look on his face, which I've now deciphered as indicating that he felt that he'd made a gaffe. So, at any rate, the route was familiar, vide engraved in my memory. Soon I passed the Kleistpark, where the construction fencing has been removed. The lawns to the left and right and centre of the colonnades are blindingly green, the mighty fences guard the entrance, red roses cluster in the long beds, and behind that one can see, quite unimpeded, the grand façade of the Kammergericht and the trees that embower the park.

And now I'm home again, with wet socks and a raincoat dripping away on the hook, but happy that I went out. I've made up my mind to begin venturing out into the world, now that I am no longer as sensitive and insecure as I was when I first came here, and this was a good start.

The Fate of My Poems

Today I received a reply from the New Yorker about my poems, which, though it wasn't an acceptance, was nice because I hadn't expected to hear back from them at all. My first rejection! I'll just go and sob quietly in a corner . . .

Here is the quatrain-like text:

We regret that we are unable
to use the enclosed material.
Thank you for giving us the
opportunity to consider it.

The Editors

I'm not surprised, and I'm not wounded because I know my poems are good – perhaps not extremely good, but good enough that I am not at all ashamed to read them now. Besides, though the poems that are published in the New Yorker are usually admirable, I suspect that I would choose to publish different submissions. It is a matter of taste, if one has so many contributions and the wide majority are (presumably) excellent.

What would have been nice, though, is to know if they think, based on those poems, that I might come up with a poem that they would like to publish. Or if I seriously need to work on my writing, or if my style would simply fit better into another publication. But I never expected any detailed response, as I don't think that the editors have the time to provide one.

In any case, this isn't very noble, but I will always be amused to know that my verse was rejected, whereas they did accept a poem in which the writer opines that grief is like a purple monkey.