Beautiful British Columbia: Our September 2024 Holiday, Part One

It's been a long time since I did a post that is indulgent to read, so while I am recovering from the flu, I will try to describe the family holiday to Canada.

First I should explain that my mother did not come along, in line with her long-held conviction that she's done enough trans-Atlantic travel.

***

THE FLIGHT from Berlin to Frankfurt was not so exciting, except insofar as a police escort led black diplomatic vehicles (one of which bore the flag of India) onto the tarmac before we boarded the airplane.

Flying from Frankfurt to Vancouver, I watched the 2011 German film Der ganz große Traum over the shoulder of a pixie-haired woman, Gi.'s seat mate, who seemed to be a Canadian schoolteacher. And I received my vegetarian dinner with great ceremony, before everyone else's lunches rolled down the aisles.

I was happy with the dinner. But I began to feel nauseated soon afterward, which I hypothesized might be the consequence of eating the whole mini-tub of vegan margarine with my bread roll instead of just taking half. So I could not face the tempting-looking vegetarian breakfast when it landed on my tray a few hours later, with a vegetarian moussaka and a mango-flavored fruit bar. J. kindly ate it for me.

The film was a rather ham handed critique of early 20th century educational philosophy and Prussianism. Daniel Brühl plays the hero: an independent-minded, idealistic young teacher who liberates his pupils by teaching them soccer. 

I was convinced the film was scripted by a man: one of the scenes has the mother of a pupil accidentally walking in on Brühl's character naked; besides the implausibility of the scene as written, I'd argue that the filmmakers frame this as a 'God's gift to women' serendipity, rather than as an awkward-for-everyone thing as it would be in real life. (Maybe I was reading the film too subjectively; besides I was reading the subtitles instead of listening to the original audio. But I'd argue it doesn't matter if someone is conventionally good-looking or not – it's sexiest to respect other people's boundaries.)

I also enjoy the irony of soccer being celebrated as a vehicle of social progress, since of course it's often linked to reactionary politics now.

It was a longish flight at 9 hours 51 minutes, 10+ kilometres in altitude.

It was a sunny day and I wrote in my notes that over Greenland there was "some clear visibility." But since I had a middle seat, it didn't make that much of a difference.

*

WE LANDED in Vancouver in the early afternoon. Canadian customs were not as gruelling as expected, but like everything else it's highly automated now and required finding and operating the correct stripped-down analogue of a telephone booth.

We found our luggage too, as advertisements for American voter registration and Canadian for-profit universities played on the screens above the conveyor belts.

Then we headed out of the Arrivals terminal, across the familiar interior drop-off lane where taxis etc. throng past and a security-vested crossing guard wrangles traffic, to find our rental car. It was a bright white, spacious, four-door minivan. And it was parked at the back of a parkade on the airport grounds, right below a small lot with Royal Canadian Mounted Police cars, flagpoles, and nearby a Japanese hot dog stand. (We would come to regret the 'bright white' part.)

Exit tollbooths at Vancouver International Airport's parking lots. Behind it,
the dark blue banners show Indigenous art.
All rights reserved (as for all other photos).

Inside the airport itself, it is much as it ever was, indoor waterfall at the passport controls and all. But at the exit, a new building was being put up, and signs acknowledged that the airport partly stands on Musqueam territory.

The banners were the first sign I saw that many Canadians are reconsidering the history of colonialism since the Kamloops Residential School graveyard news broke in 2021.

Taxi cab and skyscrapers, somewhere around Vancouver.

As we entered dense Vancouver traffic, new real estate loomed everywhere without rhyme or reason.

Greyish? bluish? in the hazy, moist Vancouver air, skyscrapers and white bridges rose at diverse parts of the metropolis (I couldn't tell apart Delta, Surrey, Richmond, ...) north of the highway.

Even at the highway: Our minivan pulled alongside a plot or two of undeveloped land with dense forest and perhaps a white bindweed flower tumbling alongside the asphalt; then, at the next street intersection, we saw rezoning and land development posters on its fence.

It was clear that, like in Berlin, the pressure on the housing market is intense.

Long freight trains, wagons patterned in Gauguin colours, and industrial yards with neatly stacked shipping containers for rebuilding, testified to the economic power of British Columbia's Lower Mainland.

It was frankly a relief to turn off those highways, landing in a remoter, more agricultural stretch as we left Vancouver to the west.

We began to approach Hope along river floodplains funneled by the dark mountains: their crests formed the dramatic curved shape of a roller coaster track.

WE REACHED THE FRINGE OF MOTELS, a weatherboarded white church steeple, and fast food restaurants on the south side of Hope, and turned into the specific Inn where we'd be staying. It was straight out of a rural American film, and I was delighted:

A two-level, wrap-around, white-and-blue painted pair of buildings, a narrow ridge of roof protecting the balcony. An office with a fluorescent OPEN sign. Red geraniums, a few garbage bins, surrounding a parking lot. In the parking lot, amongst other vehicles, there was a dusty white pick-up truck with a buggy whip. Hydrangeas, boulders, and gravel decorated the parking lot where it met the Old Hope-Princeton Highway.

A lawn chair plus white plastic tub was placed beside each motel room door, for the cigarette smokers, whose ashes wouldn't do harm dropping into the sand at the bottoms of the tubs. A mountain rose steeply behind the motel.

It was warm enough to sit outdoors. A lady in her forties or fifties was alternately observing the scene, smoking, and bowing over her smartphone in her chair.

She helped us figure out how to use the electronic room keys, when we had trouble slotting them in the key readers. 'Don't keep them in your pocket with your smart phone,' she suggested. 'It'll demagnetize them.' She also asked me later if I was 'taking care of the boys,' and confided that she was on her way back home to Vancouver Island.

LATER my brother Gi. and I went shopping at the Save On Foods across the highway. – It's a grocery chain owned by one of Canada's billionaires. More to the point, it's open later than some other shops.

There I got ginger ale, orange juice boxes for my morning iron pill routine, mandarin oranges, a Ritter Sport hazelnut chocolate square, and a four-pack of blueberry muffins. The bakery section had closed already, but there was still plenty to look at, starting with the Halloween/Thanksgiving-themed floral arrangements with chrysanthemums etc. outside the entrance.

It was fun to 'get the lay of the land': the organization of the aisles, which brands were in stock, and what the prices were. Much like Roman military camps, British Columbia grocery chain stores seem to have pretty much the same layout, regardless of which chain they are.

THE SUNSET was abrupt, because of the mountains' "tall slopes blotting out evening sunlight" (my notes).

After dark, the brothers and I walked over to the A&W. We ordered burgers, onion rings, fries, and soft drinks, and ate them outdoors on the wire tables beside the hallway. It was quiet, only the occasional passerby drifting quietly along the sidewalk. Even the trucks on the highway came by rarely. 

I WAS RELIEVED to have been given a cozy room (queen-size bed, widescreen TV, desk, nightstand, and rectangular window plus lacy curtain) that connected at the back of a larger room where my uncle and one of my brothers each had a bed.

The thought of sleeping alone in a motel room, alongside a highway with lots of strangers passing by, was not terribly appealing once I saw what it would be like. I was pretty safe; but many women and girls have gone missing along B.C.'s highways. Given the remoteness and lack of surveillance, I could understand how.

Influenza Ex Machina

The switch away from summer daylight saving time has happened: so after a grey day with low cloud cover, a long, prematurely dark afternoon has followed.

That said, things are not so grim for me personally:

I began to feel ill on the weekend. I slept most of the day on Sunday, and since then I've written to my professors and asked for time off this week. Today I toddled outdoors for the first time due to a shopping errand: it was not so bad except that I was drained and still felt in the throes of a moderate common cold – an improvement on the baroque flu symptoms (e.g. nausea) of earlier. So climbing onto a bicycle and heading to university would have been a bad idea. An attempt to catch up on homework was not too successful either; it was exhausting.

To pass the time I'm reading romance novels, doing household chores as energy permits, following the news, and watching a bit of Netflix. (Documentaries, with e.g. Greek subtitles to practice the language.)

It might not sound like fun, but it's a luxurious contrast to...: the first two weeks of the university semester were much more demanding and uncomfortable than I expected. I've warmed to the 'forced socialization' aspect that I complained about in my earlier blog post, simply because many fellow students really are quite friendly and do open up. But 8:15 and 8:30 a.m. classes do strain my health. It's clear I'm not seventeen years old any more, or even twenty-eight. On the other hand the intellectual stimulation has been healthy; so has the feeling, after a long and demoralizing phase of doing journalistic work that nobody publishes, that someone (the university bureaucracy) has finally pointed a finger at me again and said 'You Can Do This.'

In the meantime I'm still thinking of working on my 20th century research project or finally writing at length about the journey to Canada. But the same rule of thumb applies: don't overdo it.

Greek Reading and a Recycling Yard Journey

Waking up for an 8:30 a.m. class on a Tuesday has turned into a far less gruesome prospect, by comparison, now that I am also waking up for an 8:15 a.m. class on Mondays. So I arrived at the university this morning, only around 3 minutes late, in good spirits.

The previous professor had left the chalkboard written upon, although the Greek professor is allergic to chalk dust – a simple misunderstanding in her eyes that was easy to fix, but an awkward beginning to the day nonetheless. And three windows gaped open and let in the triumphant roar of lawn maintenance machinery shortly after class began: the first two windows were easy to close, but the last one would not budge.

Nonetheless we forged ahead and began reading a 20th century children's story together.

I'd already copied out a little over half of the story by hand, and annotated the vocabulary, last year. Fortunately I rediscovered the notebook I'd used, read it through again to refresh my memory yesterday, and felt superbly prepared this morning.

A beautiful wine-coloured golden light poured over the turn-of-the-century buildings and the trees, on the way to and from university: yellow leaves rustling down in the breeze like gold flakes in a river, while the sky was a faint autumnal blue.

Afterward, I took the U-Bahn to drop off rags and an old/malfunctioning(?) Intel Pentium processor at the recycling depot. The orange dumpsters at the recycling yard harmonized bombastically with the autumn colours. But the sight palled because the depot was temporarily closed: two flatbed trucks, with pincers that fit into loops on the metal holders and lifted them, were edging forwards and backwards gingerly in the enclosure, switching out the dumpsters and containers. Bitte haben Sie Geduld ('please be patient') said the sign on the locked orange gates.

A long queue of pedestrians, cars, and soon a cyclist had formed at the gates, Fast bis zum Krematorium! ('almost to the cemetery') as a woman who had been waiting for over an hour commented.

A little drama was had.

It was almost as good as a play to wait, as blue-and-white Hertha BSC flags waved at us from inside the recycling yard.

A random assortment of people brought a random assortment of unwanted items: wicker chairs, IKEA dresser drawers without the dresser, a faux-bronze floor lamp, roughly a cubic metre of broad-leaf hedge trimmings, a pair of holey socks, an unglamorous grey wall-to-wall carpet roll that was taller than the man who carried it, ...

We exchanged amused or irate glances — I'd been through the process before and had only had to wait 15 minutes or so, so I chose to be amused. A few of us indulged in more obvious drama and swapped gossip.

Then the dreaded Containerwechsel was done.

An orange-suited recycling expert courageously ventured closer, and unlocked the gates for us. We squeezed in through the gateway rather like a reluctant marshmallow through a narrow tube. Then, one heave of an item into a dumpster at a time, good humour was restored and our physical burdens vanished.

"Es is' jeden Tag det Gleiche," a woman had murmured to her companion while passing us on the sidewalk.

(And now I need to go off, to do more Spanish homework.)

Third Time's the Charm? Returning to University

It's been an intense first week of classes. Of course I'm grateful to have gotten into university – after passing the second part of the latest exam, I was told that the registration was completed lickety-split the next evening.

What I'd forgotten, though, is how much first-year classes are not for shy people. In the upper semesters it's, I'll generalize, taken for granted that everyone will be absorbed in their own subject matter and have taken on a smaller group of friends with whom they have a proven, specific rapport. But in many of my seminars this year, we're being smushed together like platonic Barbie and Ken dolls, told to socialize and form groups amongst each other, and I hate it. It's not that I don't like the other students; but that doesn't mean we necessarily have a good chemistry when it comes to teaching each other, completing a task together, or otherwise mutually bringing out good academic qualities. I'm still used to the experience of having classmates be indifferent or unhappy about being paired up with me in group projects, from school, and I can't say that reawakened trauma and awkward social interactions are a wellspring of academic genius. And I don't know why adults think that everyone who is, say, 18 years old, has so much in common that the whole class is soul twins.

Anyway, the week started with Romance-language literature, Greek, and a Spanish language class.

In the Spanish-language class, the professor was friendly and strict and thoroughly fed up at the same time, looking at tables practically bulging with students and whipping us through our paces. (The classes are overfilled, and he had a cold so that his voice was hoarse.) He set us the topic of journalism. He seemed pretty annoyed when a student innocently mentioned a celebrity magazine as an example of that journalistic genre, interjecting that maybe we should use Der Spiegel as an example instead. He mildly blew his top when someone also innocently said 'There are the ...' as 'Hay los...'; 'If it's a definite article like el, la, or los, you should use the verb 'existir,' not 'hay'.' I on the other hand wept on the inside when a fellow student said 'There is no need to be too informed' and one or two students proudly claimed that they got their news from social media...

(Which also made me rant internally about people saying that they are 'not political,' without realizing that their attitudes about everything from poverty through immigration to whether or not to adopt a climate-friendly clothes closet are quite deliberately instilled and stoked by political actors. If they don't live in a cave and shun human contact, their words and actions are in fact furthering someone's political agenda. It's important to learn about political science and history so that these hidden strings – that sounds too conspiracy-theorist, but I can't think of a better term off the top of my head – are revealed.)

Since I haven't spoken Spanish regularly since around 2002, the fellow students came across as linguistic geniuses to me when it came to their prompt and snappy replies to the teacher. It was only as I heard one trivial grammatical mistake after another, including adjectives not declined to the correct gender, that I began to feel like I fit in.

We had homework assigned for the class, which I have not quite finished yet and it's haunting me like a disgruntled spirit.

Then more Greek, where I translated German into English for the benefit of a fellow student, and I wept internally because I'd spent hundreds of Euros and over 11 hours of exam-writing to prove that I knew German... when the university uses English a lot anyway.

Last evening there was some excitement, if mainly online, because a group of 20 (police figures) or over 40 (university press release figures) broke into the university president's offices. Apparently computers were damaged and at least one red triangle (associated with the militant group Hamas) was spray-painted somewhere. The police were called. The president of the university appeared on the evening news.

I still think that the university's media strategy is totally out of touch with the opinions of students and I've gotten the sense many professors. Thinking that the best way to honour the survivors of the Holocaust is to pretend that 40,000 Palestinians are still alive in the Gaza Strip and there's nothing to worry about, is not just useless but also totally beneath our intelligence. It has nothing to do with ethics, just with a shallow notion of public relations. It just makes us look like hypocritical idiots. Besides to me it's part and parcel of a socio-religious/racist construct whereby 'Arabs' are inherently 'fanatics.'

(I guess with Lebanon it's the case that Syria and other countries have been pulling the strings of its political system from the outside through violent means for decades or centuries anyway, but also given the severe economic situation that's already created deep hardships, I'm still frankly shocked that the invasion of Lebanon isn't raising more eyebrows. Maybe it's easier to grasp the cost if one has known a Lebanese person; one of my former colleagues mentioned that he brought along medication every time he travelled to the country – because the stocks in the country are so low or the prices are too high, I've forgotten which.)

Besides it's unfair to reduce Israel and its people to a military campaign. Why can't we espouse Israeli literature, show the spectrum of opinions and interests in that country in their full diversity, instead of throwing ourselves behind a Netanyahu policy? By contrast, I really like that somebody put a literary calendar page with a photo of the Israeli author David Grossman on a door in the humanities building at the university: it always reminds me of the dissidents, and of the complexity of nationalities and experiences.

Anyway, there was a protest this afternoon 'for Jewish life and the right of Israel to exist'... One of my professors told the lecture hall that she'd be fine if we skip class to attend it. By the time I passed, it was 15 people holding Israeli flags near the biggest cafeteria, as two police officers who looked relaxed stood beside them. As I've mentioned in the past, insofar as I have a Jewish family history I do not identify myself one iota with the waving of Israeli flags in the context where it's an endorsement of killing Palestinian and Lebanese civilians, so the 'for Jewish life' part... Did the protestors look fanatic, though? – No, they were just quietly chatting.

Do I wish that students who are pro-Palestinian activists would concentrate more fully on raising funds for medical care, or on giving a platform to moderate speakers from Palestinian territories, Palestinian refugee camps, Israel, or Lebanon, to become more informed without attempting to instrumentalize these speakers for propaganda? – Yes.

Anyway, I still have homework to do, and shopping, cleaning, and food to prepare for friends on the weekend. But after walking through the autumn leaves at Dahlem under a sunny sky, writing all of this, and already making sure I have no homework for the last class I had today, I feel a little less disgruntled.

Passing the German Gauntlet

In more recent news, the latest Swiftian acrobatics to secure a spot as a full-time university student have been fulfilled: Last night I really tried to go to sleep by midnight, but ended up tossing and turning past 1:30 a.m. Waking up later than intended, after 7:30 a.m., was a less painful process than feared. But because of the prescribed 1 hour fast after taking my iron supplement, I went to the spoken German exam unfed.

Stirrings in the U-Bahn of teenage and twenty-something passengers proved that a few students have already begun the university semester one way or the other. But the vast halls of the Rost-/Silber-/Holzlaube building were largely empty.

Much more easily than when I was a fledgling student in 2011, I found the correct rooms (for the exam).

Half an hour early, it took a while for signs and chairs appear at the rooms. But the examiners were as friendly as I remembered them being during the written exam; the applicant who was taking the exam in the time slot after me was outright charming.

After being given a topic and 20 minutes to prepare, I was ushered into a second room, clutching my sheet of notes. Then I gave a presentation to two ladies from the German language centre – a presentation that I vaguely suspect extended beyond the 5 requested minutes.

Their eyes glazed over now and then, because really how many new and striking things could one say about the topic? But they perked up other times, and even laughed once or twice. I didn't stumble over my words as I do at other times where accurate German is asked for. The sense that the examiners wanted us to feel at ease and show our skills, rather than feel terrified and hide our knowledge, was reassuring.

And at the end the examiners both looked highly relieved at being able to pass an applicant with flying colours. They told me that I have a DSH level 3: the highest one.

(My journalistic experiments of the past year admittedly have made me feel like I've been cheating when I write exams. Formulating clearly formatted texts or speeches about random topics, after a brief period of preparation, is basically all I've been trying to do since early 2023. Even if it has rarely if ever been a success.)

Let's see if the registration works and I can really, genuinely study in 1 week!

*

After that excellent news, the question was whether to eat lunch on campus, or to go straight home; I went straight home.

Around 5 p.m., the sleep deprivation sank in and I felt my eyes begin to hollow out. But I'd promised to appear at choir practice at 7:15 p.m.

The air felt warm and muggy. But of course rain was falling by the time I walked home from practice!

That said, I have been relieved when returning from the travels in Canada to find that the tree leaves haven't all withered away in our absence. Last time I think there was a nihilistic before and after, which appeared to justify my previous Fear of Missing Out on interesting occurrences in Berlin. It also just felt morbid.

Bouldering and Canada

It's been my birthday today. It began at a local bouldering gym, where my siblings go every Saturday or Sunday. The past weeks I haven't gone because it's important to get enough sleep, and waking up before 9 a.m. didn't fit into my sleep schedule.

But, albeit an hour late, this morning I ambled in with the climbing shoes that T. kindly bought for me.

It was sunny, but cool breezes wafted through the air (~19°C or warmer) and at that hour of the morning, the shadows were deep. It was entertaining to watch what was going on in the streets on the way to the gym. A girl was crouching with a piece of chalk, writing 'Hofflohmarkt' (courtyard flea market) on the pavement under the direction of her mother. A marijuana plant in a street side planting was apparently long gone, but sunflowers and a flowering corn plant throve there. The hawthorn berries and rose hips are very red, another sign of autumn. And the black pen scrawls on a local political office were still there, after appearing in the Berlin evening news: they were apparently graffiti'd by a very drunk woman who was arrested after the deed.

My siblings were all taking a break, either to drink water or to replenish the chalk on their hands.

And after I switched out my shoes, we walked onto the springy mat area underneath the bouldering walls, and they began to tackle the courses one by one. Of the 8 levels of difficulty, my siblings have worked their way into levels 3 and 4. They can even hang like monkeys, on rough, pumice-like grips that are parallel to the floor, which is a level of arm strength far mightier than mine.

Then, at their urging, I climbed, at least partway, a few level 1 and 2 courses. The thin finger and hand calluses I once had have all peeled away because of not going to the gym regularly; so at times holding the grips felt like trying to open a stubborn jam jar long after the skin begins to hurt from the friction.

But aside from watching siblings, it is also fun to watch climbers who attempt the level 5 and 6 courses: madly leaping from one slippery hold to another, teetering in a precarious balance as they try to reach a hold that is just out of reach, etc.

By the end, the gym was crowded and — to be brutally frank, I am not fond of this practice — a host of people who didn't seem to be interested in climbing, rather in looking on, seemed to be sitting all along the benches with cubby holes ... blocking access to the spots where we had stored our belongings and wanted to change our shoes. A well-behaved dog, the size of a fox and very slender of limb, was lying on the ground beside the cubby holes. I wonder what it is like for the sensitive noses of dogs to be exposed to all the chalk, sweat, people smell, and above all foot odour of a climbing gym. The music, I guess, wouldn't bother them.

And a toddler, around two years old, and perhaps no longer knee-high to a grasshopper but certainly not much higher than my knees, was exploring the general area with small steps but staying well away from the climbing walls.

During a past visit to the gym, another mother had illustrated its bohemian vibe by sitting down cross-legged on the presumably dirty mat, near people tumbling off of walls, to breastfeed her baby. But although I was too Prussian to find it a great idea, I concluded 'to each their own' and forbore from staring.

Generally there's a mixture of languages spoken: German and English are common. But I've also heard French, Russian or Ukrainian, and possibly Chinese (if it was Cantonese, I'm not educated enough to know the difference), for example.

It's possible at this gym that former colleagues — especially data scientists — may pop by, and then we often hang out together for a while. A few of them watched the Olympics bouldering and lead climbing events, live, together. But today they weren't there.

What's also fascinating to me is the Crossfit gym beside the bouldering gym. Kettlebells, two huge black truck tires, bars hung high in the air, people lugging around medicine balls or other heavy items back and forth on the asphalt in the sunshine while appearing to be slowly dying on the inside, etc. ... It's not quite my sports philosophy, but there's satisfaction in seeing others (semi-voluntarily) perform feats that I would never intend to perform myself.

And, as an effete academic by inclination, in both gyms I very much enjoy watching the mixture of self-confident competence and preening in the true sports aficionados. And the siblings' 'Fachsimpeln' as they throw around bouldering terminology like 'flash' (to successfully climb a course from bottom to top at the first try), 'volume,' and 'dynamic' versus 'static' hold, is engrossing.

***

After that, my siblings stopped by a German-Turkish bakery for croissants, pumpkin seed buns, a pretzel stick, pain au chocolat, and Schrippen (regular bread buns). Unbeknownst to me, my brothers also bought a piece of regular brownie and a piece of walnut brownie in honour of my birthday. And we ate a late breakfast, and then our mother came back from babysitting.

Then we hung out for a few hours at home, two of my brothers playing the piano and cello: Schumann, Beethoven, Schubert, ...

In the late afternoon, Uncle Pu dropped by. Intensely busy the last few days, he had also contracted a cold. But he seemed in reasonably good spirits. After eating slender slices of the four-layer chocolate birthday cake – orange and apricot jam in the centre and a chocolate ganache at the top – that my two youngest brothers had baked together, we set off to a Chinese restaurant.

There we ate a generous meal with chopsticks, rotating a Lazy Susan full of dishes, and we drank mineral water and jasmine tea, and we chatted. The tables on the sidewalk were full of people. Inside it was less crowded, but so warm due to the 32°C weather that we were perspiring as we ate, and had to wipe our foreheads repeatedly. (Conditions in the kitchen itself may well have been worse!) But the waitstaff were friendly and seemed patient with the bustle and the heat.

Finally we went back home, too satiated and overheated to even think of eating more of the birthday cake – except for T., of whom we were in awe. We chatted about the upcoming holiday in Canada – in two days' time we are set to fly, then do a road trip along the interior of British Columbia, winding up staying in a hotel on Vancouver Island – and then T., Gi., and Uncle Pu took their leave.

After that, we started packing for the travel, in earnest.

I am looking forward to the cleaner air, the Douglas fir forests, the hills and the ocean, the exchange rate (I think 1 Euro = ~70 Canadian cents), the arbutus trees and the pumpkin patches, the Thanksgiving food and at least the sight of the Halloween candy on grocery store shelves... and hopefully seeing old friends, acquaintances, and family again.

But I was so exhausted in 2018, the last time we travelled to Canada, that this time I'm trying not to over schedule meetings, but to relax and try to make the most of the encounters we do have. Next time we can see anyone we miss this time.

In general I'm telling myself to relax and take it easy and go with the flow, instead of trying to control things. It will help me feel better ... but, above all, it will make me less of a nightmare to be around for my siblings.

A Summer Fairy Tale Writing Project

After yesterday's 5-hour German examination, another attempt to prove to the satisfaction of the University to which I have already been accepted that I can in fact write, speak, and read German at a student level, today has been less active.

It was 34°C hot yesterday, and today perhaps only 1 degree cooler, and I decided not to go out of doors at all.

*

For over a week I have been working on an old story, which I wrote out at great length on an old desktop computer that we don't use any more, in my twenties. It was a fairy tale vaguely set in a version of Italy. But I haven't seen it for ages, and I doubt I'd find it good if I did.

So I am writing it again, with new characters, character names, kingdoms, scenery, and plotlines.

Ideally I'd finish it, rather than getting lost in another meandering writing journey that ends up nowhere. These failures tend to diminish my confidence that I'd someday be able to complete a writing project that is important.

Either way, once or twice hours passed before I looked at the clock and saw that it is, say, 5 a.m.. It's also a luxury I can more or less afford before the university semester begins. Or, if the university admissions go to pot, before I commit myself to full-time work. That said, I still need to be careful to get enough sleep because of the lurking risk of anaemia.

*

One problem with the story is that I become too caught up in the details, or perhaps the wrong details. So it begins to read like a paragraph of a Wikipedia article has slipped into the text.

It's as if I were to write a pirate story like this:

As the sky grew mottled in bruised reds, greens, yellows and blues in the evening sun, and in the foreground of his galleon's deck the small craft that were at anchor in the remote Caribbean harbour began to turn into mere shadowy sketches of skinny masts and spindly jibs, Pirate Jack felt foreboding about the journey ahead. He looked up from the pipe that he was filling with twisted black tobacco, to yell at his cook.

"Are you certain that we have enough lard for this journey?" he asked skeptically.

"Aye, aye, captain!" the cook shouted back, optimistically. "Twenty-five barrels we have! It'll last us until we ship into Madeira."

"I seem to remember that when we were last on a journey of that length, we bought five pounds of inferior butter off a peasant in Portugal because our lard stock was insufficient. Shall we not buy another barrel?"

"Nay, it will be fine! That said, I have been looking at the flour and I've spotted many a weevil. We needn't toss all of this, but I'd say we get another 25 pounds."

"25 pounds of flour? Here? I think that will cost us 12 shillings and fivepence! What will the purser think?"

"Would ye rather be gnawing at mouldy carrots?"

"Speaking of mouldy carrots," Jack returned, conceding the argument, "are we carrying carrots or parsnips on this journey?" 

"Carrots! I don't never want to see another parsnip again." 

But at that point, an enraged navy officer ran pounding up the pier toward the ship, in riding boots and flying coattails, his wig bouncing behind him in the breeze. "I know you are that blackguard, Pirate Jack!" he bellowed, waving a musket frantically. "You shall never leave this island alive!"

Pirate Jack turned to his first mate. 'How many bullets do we have? If it's more than 157, which I hope it is, I will trouble you for two ounces of gunpowder, so that I can be rid of this fellow.'

And, recalling that the wind was gusting from the landward in a 53° south-southeasterly direction, he began to calculate the angle at which to hold his gun barrel so that he could best hit the minion of the law.

He laid his tobacco aside with a sigh, reaching for his notebook and pencil to do the math. 

Then he thanked his first mate as the latter brought him a pewter tin full of ammunition and a bag of gunpowder. A moment later, however, he realized that before loading his gun, he still needed to clean the barrel. 

The pirate shouted for his cabin boy. "Bring me a rag and gun-oil, lad! I must clean this pistol."

...And so on and so forth.

Errands in the Urban Desert, and the Democratic National Convention

It reached 33°C today, and opening the apartment building door to step onto street asphalt was rather like turning one's face into the air stream of a warm hair dryer.

While trees and shrubbery have been pleasingly green late into August this year, thanks to the abundant rainfall, the grass on the median was looking suddenly golden and scorched again.

I went shopping for vegetables and fruit (apples, a yellow squash, mini-cucumbers, and onions, all grown in Germany, as well as red tomatoes on the vine that are probably from France), chocolate and milk and quark, lemon sorbet and salted caramel ice cream, this evening.

Although the shop sells organic produce and is presumably ecologically conscientious, that doesn't prevent it from cranking up its air conditioning: to the point that as you pass through the sliding doors, you practically enter a Swedish ice hotel.

Along the way I admired the dust on the huge windows of two long-abandoned businesses. Torn-up posters haven't been cleared away in months and have been joined by more posters for blockbuster music events: at the Berlin Philharmonic halls and elsewhere.

It feels like a failing of Berlin's or Germany's government that many shops lie empty as rents rise and e-commerce thrives, while affordable housing and dignified accommodations for vulnerable groups (including women's shelters) dwindle. There's an empty shop in our building, and the manager is concerned about losing the income: replacing the small 'to let' sign with a larger one, then replacing that large sign with an even larger one....

On the other hand, J. tells me – with the benefit of professional knowledge – that the official standards and requirements for residences are different and much higher than for office spaces.

Besides I cooked late lunch or early dinner: a "Huevos Hyacinth" recipe of cold cuts, tomatoes, egg, and cheese from The Pioneer Woman Cooks.

***

For reasons even I can't fully explain, I put myself through 15 hours or more of the Democratic National Convention, this past week. It started with wanting to know more about the mechanics of US politics, which I haven't closely followed in a while. It ended with a sleep deficit.

That said, many things felt worthwhile:

Hearing the Chicks sing the national anthem.

I enjoyed Democrats being less defensive about the 45th president, for example in the speeches of Barack and Michelle Obama.

Michelle Obama's no-nonsense demeanour made her speech stand out. I'd read the days before that Barack Obama had more or less pitched a fit in private to employees at the idea of Kamala Harris becoming the next president, but both she and her husband presented convincing endorsements.

I thought it was also interesting that other Democrats who spoke the following day made reference to the Obama's speeches. It left the impression that the pair are still considered as philosophical or strategic mentors in the Democratic Party.

I think an investigation and proper prosecution of Clinton's own misdeeds is overdue. (In a different speech, it was also a bit concerning in this – hopefully – less macho, misogynistic, and mafia-happy day and age to hear the grandson of JFK say that JFK was 'his hero.') But I did think it was interesting to hear Bill Clinton's perspective on Trump. ('He creates chaos, and then he sort of curates it, as if it were precious art,' was one quotation that I noted down.).

The perspectives of Republicans who want to vote for the Democratic Party in 2024 were interesting, too. ('John McCain’s Republican Party is gone, and we don’t owe a damn thing to what’s been left behind.’)

Kenan Thompson's bit, where the actor from Saturday Night Live said of the Heritage Foundation's capacious political programme Project 2025: 'Ever seen a document that can kill democracy and a small animal at the same time?'

The children of Tim Walz, and some of the speakers, did give the impression of having their feet on the ground and being genuinely decent, not just intimidatingly polished and elite.

J.B. Pritzker: The governor of Illinois made a few necessary points. (e.g. After working in an American company in recent years, I was relieved when Pritzker used his speech to say that African Americans and Latino Americans should not be derided as 'Diversity, Equity and Inclusion hires' for having the supposed 'audacity' of being successful while not being White.)

Pritzker's withering words about Trump stuck with me because they had the ring of truth:

'Everything he's achieved in his own life was by hurting someone else.'

Jadedly, I felt there was a lot of truth-fudging, hagiography and 'baloney' in the Convention. But there was also a bedrock of genuine, undeniable conviction: It is not possible for any properly informed citizen to re-elect the 45th President, if they care for the US.

Netflix Streaming, and Surfboards

It's been a while since I wrote the Spanish test for my university application: I wasn't entirely sure if I'd fail badly or thrillingly pass as I gracelessly stumbled on my way out of the examination room. In the listening comprehension section, for example, I could barely understand the speaker at the first pass. Then, in the writing section, I forgot to look at the last 2 questions. But the instructors who invigilated the exam were so friendly that I really hoped I'd have the chance to be taught by them.

Within three days, the result: I passed at the B1 level and could study Spanish as my major at the first year level instead of taking preparation classes.

It took a few days to file my registration paperwork (i.e. personal ID, the proofs of acceptance, a proof of past student registration, an overview of my student data, and proof that I'd completed a bank transfer of the €304.40 annual student fee). It was more stressful because the university application and registration platform is buggy. I suspect a lack of quality assurance testing beforehand.

So now I've relaxed my Spanish autodidact's programme.

*

But on Netflix I'm still watching LaLiga: Más Allá Del Gol, a documentary series about Spanish association soccer clubs.

Despite the Netflix production's approving lens, an obvious quid pro quo for the 'All Access' nature of the series, I suspect there are far more problems in association soccer than just the rabid soccer fans who write and shout mean things about players and coaches. I'm surprised there aren't daily Luis Rubiales scandals in the men's leagues as well.

Hopefully I'm reading too much into it. But the amount of times managers, staff, and random people who might not even know the athletes, just pat, embrace, and randomly touch the athletes – without asking or giving them time to decline – throughout the series, implies to me a massive disrespect of athletes' personal space, safety, and individual autonomy. It would be considered inappropriate in most workplaces.

I also feel less annoyed that a security officer and a press officer have treated me (as I thought) like a potential rabid groupie in the past for being in the wrong place at the wrong time/making an innocent request... With so many people of all genders projecting their own (thwarted) ambitions and dreams onto athletes, some kind of security is necessary. Even if this particular kind of security feels sexist to me.

Returning to internal industry problems, though: in the highly monetized, highly pressurized, highly competitive milieu that's shown in the documentary series, it doesn't look like there'd be accountability for misdeeds that do exist.

*

My favourite offering on Netflix that was originally shot in Spanish is still El Pepe, the documentary about Uruguay's former president.

It's a fabulous film not just for its interesting subject, although he certainly helps. It's also fabulous because of archival and newly filmed vignettes of Uruguay nowadays vs. during the dictatorship, the "local colour" of the fields around Pepe Mujica's home and his favourite music, and the rather hair-raising opinions of his former comrades. Like him, they are not terribly repentant about their militant past.

*

La Vocera was frustrating. I think it's not a Netflix production, just hosted there.

Filmed in celebration of an Indigenous woman who is elected to run for the presidency, by an organization representing the many different communities in Mexico. But it suffers very much from the director's not being remotely critical-minded, and apparently being hellbent on ingratiating herself with the people whom she was meeting.

It's true that it's important to hear Mayan and other Indigenous languages being spoken. It's important to hear of a political organization that weaves in Indigenous perspectives and approaches, and also takes an ecologically conscious perspective. It's the kind of subject where I'm probably being socially irresponsible by being pedantic.

But the election platform, as it is presented in the film, could hardly be more vague, with the barest handful of policy proposals.

Guerrilla fighters in balaclavas, at times hugging guns, appear in crowd scenes, organizational meetings, and at road checkpoints. The fighters are presented without comment, or any explanation of why this veiled and armed presence is appropriate in a democratic process. Women are amongst the fighters as well.... but I don't believe that women and non-binary people adopting the absurd extremes of hypermasculinity is progressive.

(But I found a relatively even-handed Wikipedia article: It does seem that this particular guerrilla group is in a state of truce with Mexico's government now, and is not particularly bloody.)

The absence of glossy Netflix-production photography, evident in the 1990s VHS colour palette, is understandable given the likely modest budget. Opulence would be a weird aesthetic choice for a portrait of grassroots activism and hard-working communities.

Yet (perhaps this is also because I can't read Spanish that quickly) I think that the long intertitle texts are a needless filmmaking choice. They make the film drier, and unflatteringly emphasize that the footage that has been gathered doesn't stand on its own legs as well as it should.

*

My other obsession lately has been watching surfing at the Olympics.

For one thing, I still feel a yearning for the ocean from time to time, after 'getting to know it' growing up in Canada.

For another, seeing film footage of Tahiti reminds me of visiting my father's cousin in Hawaii as a teenager, twenty years ago. I admittedly didn't pay much attention when he pointed out the waters off Haleiwa and probably the Pipeline while we were driving along the shore, as I wasn't especially interested in surfing at the time.

Now I even feel philosophical when two surfing competitors sit on their boards in their pink and blue wetsuits for a fairly inactive half hour, letting wave after wave pass by without riding hardly any. It's soothing ... since I'm not one of the surfers: a balm for the pressures of everyday life.

*

As for my anaemia, I still need coddling.

Many forms of exercise briefly seem OK and then tip over into exhaustion, dizziness, feelings of heaviness in the limbs, and tingling.

But doing half an hour of beginner's ballet or yoga per day, provided I eat nutritiously and sleep enough, seems to be OK, and even help me feel better and stronger. My limbs don't ache much afterward!

Last Day of the Summer Semester

This afternoon I had my last class of the university semester, which happened to be online because the professor lives in Greece. Three of us students/guest auditors had shown up, so it was a snug discussion about Greek history since the military dictatorship fell apart in 1974. It touched on the triumph of the Socialist party PASOK in the 1980s, the neoliberalism of Kostas Simitis in the 90s, and the debt crisis of the 2010s.

Normally I'd also have a language seminar on Friday mornings, on campus. But it was cancelled this week as the (retired) professor's grandchildren are in town for a visit.

It feels nice to wrap up the semester. I'm curious to know how my applications for bona fide study in the winter semester will turn out, also looking forward to travelling to Canada in September.

I've scheduled a Spanish language test to write on Tuesday morning at one of Berlin's universities, to see if I reach the B1 level. It makes me quite nervous, because if anyone asked me to self-assess I'd claim the A2 level at best.

It's also become clear to me that the programme of self-guided study that I've been doing to help with the test is too intense to keep up for long.

But a levelling self-test online turned out well: so there's reason to believe I might pass the university's test, too.

After watching the films Adú, El Pepe, and La Vocera on Netflix, I'm now watching the series LaLiga about Spanish association football. It's in some ways as dystopian as any of the scenes in the other films.

**

I've felt well enough to go on two shopping trips for dinner, despite the heat. But the menu was constructed around corn on the cob, and I couldn't find it at the three grocery stores that I visited even though it is grown in the Brandenburg region.

So we've eaten leftovers from yesterday instead, and ice cream.

Yesterday I'd boiled new potatoes that were both organic and grown in Germany, and served it with green onions and yoghurt, and bacon.

**

As for politics, I'm a little less convinced that the 45th president will win back the presidency again.

But as an EU citizen I already felt well insulated from his idiosyncratic practice of leadership the last time.

In any case my vague theory is that the pendulum of stupidity is quite unstoppable; it will swing back to rationality eventually, and I'm looking forward to when it does. Perhaps we'll have another, perhaps more successful President Jimmy Carter in the next 10 years, preferably without the subsequent Ronald Reagan.

As for the vice-presidential candidate: If people genuinely want someone who was in the U.S. Senate for 1 or 2 years, seemingly has little if any other real political experience, and seems to be a homophobe as well as an anti-abortionist, to be 'one heartbeat away from the presidency' as Vice President, that's their problem.

(I'm also enjoying the ridiculous quotation on his Wikipedia, said not years ago but this month, that the UK is the "first truly Islamist country with nuclear weapons." There are more ridiculous quotations on a wide spectrum of issues, but I won't go on...)

**

The swallows are chirping through the warm evening sky, voices are echoing from the restaurant below, and tires are rushing over the asphalt outside. I think I'll wrap up the business part of the day and take it easy soon.

A Quiet Monday

This morning I rolled out of bed before 8 a.m. again, a little worried that I'd feel sick later in the day because of a lack of sleep. (Last night I'd stayed up until past 1 a.m., reading the thriller Bad Cree, which is set in northern Alberta — Treaty 8 territory —, which I'd bought in paper form after seeing a television discussion of it on Canada Reads in March.)

But on the whole I've felt cheerful enough.

Waking up early was also justified: the painters rang the doorbell well before 9 a.m. They replaced window frames in Ge.'s bedroom and took out the windows of the pantry. To protect the pantry's floor, shelves, and contents from rainfall, they taped speckled grey painters' felt into the aperture. (Unfortunately, a wind has blown through the courtyard steadily since then, and dismantled their construction.)

Afterward, the wiry experienced painter came into the corner room to report on progress. It was his very last day of work!

We'd worried over the past weeks that we were the ones who'd 'broken' him to the point of retirement: he has vocally complained about being left to take care of the 40 window panes in our apartment largely on his own.

But he complimented us a bit diffidently this morning, saying that we'd been relaxed tenants to work with. 'They're not all like that!'

Mama told him that she wished him the best for his next phase. He looked a bit tentative and thoughtful.

Ge. later explained this enigmatic reaction: he'd heard that rather than retiring directly, the painter had found a new position instead.

I was kind of agog to hear what other tenants had been like...

***

In the meantime I read an old newspaper and finished Bad Cree. After the 1 hour fast after taking my morning iron pill, I ate a bowl of muesli with cocoa powder.

And since then I've finished listening to a non-fiction book about Burma/Myanmar, chatted with Ge. (Mama set off for university fairly early), listened to a short Greek news report about a politician who's been jailed in Albania for a while, and begun the Spanish language practice programme for today by writing out a conjugation table for the irregular verb ser.

My next fast read experiment, since I have at least 20 books in progress and it's a little much, will hopefully be Jennifer Croft's translation of Olga Tokarczuk's Flights. 

It's 28°C and sunny, but/and I've decided not to go outdoors until tomorrow. Yesterday was exhausting and, as mentioned, I didn't get the full quota of sleep.

Helping Hands of Friends, and Thundershowers

Yesterday I met up with friends from the former work team. We ate ice cream together: strawberry mascarpone and peanut ice cream for me (admittedly with the medical thought that the strawberry flavour likely had lemon juice with Vitamin C, and the emergency room doctor had advised eating nuts for iron). Then we had a round of coffee and sparkling water. The temperature was over 30°C, at least at first, but I didn't feel dizzy except mildly, when standing for a longer time; and it was nice.

Then, later on, it turns out that the paper bag a friend was carrying (despite her having injured her foot herself, and still recovering) was full of things for me to eat that have iron in them, and that the group had organized this together. I was deeply touched by the gesture.

And it's helped me out a lot since then.

I hadn't felt up to grocery-shopping again but didn't want to be a nuisance by asking my brothers. I was beginning to worry about running out of fruit juice to take with my iron pill in the morning, as we were down to one banana: so the net of oranges was one of the most welcome sights I could imagine.

Besides, I'd run out of fresh ideas for fresh food with iron in it: there's only so many times I can eat spinach, pistachios, and my makeshift lentil recipes over the course of weeks without their beginning to feel like medicine.

Many of the things I had no idea were a good source of iron before: hempseed in a bar of white chocolate, amaranth to add to my usual breakfast cereal, dried apricots, pumpkin seeds that I've just been snacking on in front of the computer, etc.

Anyway, I feel very lucky.

*

Today the painters came by again, to switch out another group of wooden frames that they're repainting — badly needed since we've lived here for over 15 years and had never had the frames repainted before.

There's an elder painter, tattooed and wiry, who's still in his 50s but has to retire because of a bad shoulder and feeling overworked. And a younger one, who didn't say too much today: per his colleague, he was tired and just wanted to go back to sleep.

Because of the weather forecast, they left outer windows in place for now.

And indeed, later, a thunderstorm brewed.

Now it's raining again from a slate-grey sky. I'm hoping it'll reduce the temperatures back down. The temperatures were over 30 again earlier today in parts of Berlin, I think. Then they plunged to 22. And they climbed again. Needless to say, I'm not a big fan of the heat.

Tales of the Not-So-Imaginary Invalid

I've ridden a medical roller coaster of sorts since my last post:

On Saturday I made the interesting choice to take a slow, but two-hour-long, walk to the allotment gardens, since I was feeling better. It was 29°C weather, so warm although still enjoyable, and I was quite happy about finding dried sage and rosemary that a gardener had thoughtfully placed in their fence basket for visitors to take.

At home I was rummaging in the pantry for a container to hold the sage. Then I nudged a glass water bottle.

Whether it was the fall, or the high pressure of the carbon dioxide gas as well as the hot weather, or both, I don't know. But it burst apart at the top, and left a gash in my leg.

I was eager to leave the pantry. But as I stepped back, my foot landed on a few glass shards; fortunately they were convex. Water was splashed everywhere, and I began leaving bloody footprints. And I lost most of my sang-froid.

The gash became longer as my muscles pulled on the skin, and the edges were no longer meeting. I felt like I was going to vomit and started pouring with sweat. My two youngest brothers were nearby and came to help.

Ge. gave me a glass of water, and I felt better. And at least the blood clotted rapidly; blood loss wouldn't have been any concern at all, in fact, if I hadn't already had anaemia.

We disinfected and bandaged the gash. But we didn't have the sterile strips that could have held the edges of it so that it would heal together. Going to the general practitioner wasn't an option, either: they aren't open on Saturdays. Going to the emergency room felt like overkill, and impossible given that walking around so much would split open the cut further. I awkwardly kept the leg elevated as well as I could to immobilize it, for hours...

To 'fast forward,' I asked the doctor about the injury on Tuesday.

She took a look, rinsed it, reapplied iodine salve, and re-bandaged it. I'll have a definite scar because we didn't have the tools to match up the edges of the cut, and she'd have been happier if I'd had an up-to-date tetanus shot. But it's healing.

My battered state began to suggest Oscar Wilde's line in The Importance of Being Earnest: 'To lose one parent may be accounted a misfortune, but to lose two begins to look like carelessness.' I always thought it was brutal in the original context, but as a metaphor for my ailments it's not too callous.

***

Tuesday evening was the next anaemia drama.

I'd been back and forth more than I'd really planned, because the pharmacy had to order in the iron capsules that my doctor had prescribed, so it was two trips.

I was running late to choir practice and walked rather quickly, i.e. my usual pace when not ill, to get there. At the end, of course, I went up four flights of stairs to the correct room. But ... during our warm-up, I began to feel that something was off. I couldn't get much breath, and I stopped singing and start clutching the back of the chair in front of me just in case I started fainting.

At the end, the choirmaster said that we could take a break if we needed, and that he hoped he wasn't pushing us too hard. We started learning our songs. Then we were asked to try singing one standing up. For the first time in all our rehearsals, I kept sitting: when I'd begun to stand, I noticed that my legs felt too noodly to bear my weight.

The lady beside me asked if I was OK, because apparently I looked extremely pale. She offered to open more windows. (But a few were already open, so there was no need.)

After taking it easy during our practice intermission, I fortunately recovered throughout the second half of the practice. Then I went home again extremely carefully and slowly.

It was, at least, a relief to figure out why my vague headachy symptoms before the bicycle accident had been stronger during choir practice: holding my breath while singing a phrase, makes less oxygen available to my blood cells.

And of course the choir ladies were very kind. But from a personal health perspective it was generally perturbing.

*

The next day I was more or less swimming in a jelly-like pool of wooziness. Standing up from a chair made me woozy. Walking briskly from my room to the kitchen made me woozy. Playing a faster Beethoven piece at the piano made me woozy. I saw stars twice when I made a sudden movement.

It was probably also the same yesterday: the two days are melting together. Only today do I feel fitter.

*

It's not like I can't enjoy some of the drama retroactively. Also, it's a valuable if small insight into the coping strategies that elderly people or people with disabilities develop all the time.

But I'm beginning to feel a little defeated.

I dreaded the federal job agency video call today a little bit because I have so little energy.

It feels like I can't make any plans to look for work because what if I faint on the way there, or can't face any other minor physical demands? Fortunately I'm not being paid anything by the job agency right now, so the obligation is lower. But remote work is beginning to look like a more realistic option.

I've been putting off plans with friends because I can't face the logistics of making sure I'm presentably dressed and not taking a nap or floating in a haze the whole time. I think most, but not all, are convinced that I'm not giving empty excuses.

The feeling of being sick extends to sleeping.

It has often been deep, rather like the kind you have after a very long walk.

But one evening I also 'woke up' out of a doze because I felt like a weight was pressing on my chest and I couldn't breathe. I talked myself through it, telling myself that this could be a panic attack symptom rather than a physiological symptom. Right or wrong, it worked, and then I was able to sleep.

And I already hate taking the iron capsules. Each capsule is tiny and sticky, and the first day it was hard to tell if I'd swallowed it down. I do feel mildly nauseated after taking it, as warned. And I have to wait a full hour before eating breakfast. The doctor said that the full effect of taking the iron supplements will only be detectible after 3 months...

And I'm still not sure how to balance exercise with being respectful of my anaemia. My solution for now is to cut down my exercise from at least 30 minutes medium-intensity exercise (or 1-hour low intensity, like a walk) 6 days per week, to an upper limit of 20 minutes and 50 minutes respectively. And I've been doing arm instead of full-body exercises to help my cut leg heal properly.

And this is the kind of thing that I feel ideally I should be figuring out on my own, not something to share with others. But if it's so large a part of my day right now, keeping things to myself is very isolating.

On the positive side, I have sent off a second university application. Besides it's still a consolation to have so much time for reading and studying. Even if I haven't attended protests there are a few that pass under the apartment window and besides I've been watching discussion panels from the Aspen Festival Ideas, as well as following the UK elections and an episode of PBS NewsHour. And watching disappointing Euro Cup matches!

Greek and Spanish Studies, and Sunlight

Sunlight and rain have mixed again today, as well as humid heat that discouraged me from going out much in the late afternoon.

My only commitment today, as a seminar on-campus was cancelled for this week, was a video lecture on modern Greek history, at 4:15 p.m.

I was originally supposed to pick up a prescription at the doctor's office, but it was closed for the afternoon due to quarterly bookkeeping, so instead I went grocery shopping.

For dinner I made a tabbouleh variant from chopped tomato, parsley, dill, and Persian cucumber, with pistachios as a garnish; fried halloumi-like cheese and falafel balls from the deep freezer; roasted cauliflower, new potatoes, carrots, and eggplant; arranged hummus from the local Turkish supermarket's deli section on a plate; and made tzatziki. For dessert, we had dates and date-stuffed pastries, as well as pistachios and blueberries.

*

Late last evening I researched back-up plans in case the Free University doesn't accept me this winter semester.

One finding: it would make sense to refresh my Spanish grammar.

For example, I had forgotten how to construct the preterite and the imperfect verb tenses, which is a problem even for the A1 level. Another complication: in high school we were taught Latin American grammar. Not Castilian.

It's true I've kept up with Spanish since high school and expanded my vocabulary enough to be able to read books without a dictionary, and understand some speakers at the United Nations almost 100%. But it hasn't been enough to be able to understand idiomatic spoken Spanish, for example, or to speak fluently at all.

So I set up a language learning checklist that I intend to work through every day except Sundays and maybe Saturdays: "Easy Spanish" videos on YouTube, exercises from the old textbooks in the home library, 10 pages per day of a Spanish novel (Fortunata y Jacinta), at least 10 minutes per day of a Netflix film that was originally in Spanish (Adú, which admittedly also has a lot of French and English), and writing out whole conjugation tables for verbs with help from Wiktionary.

It's a little intense; I'm not certain I can keep it up.

*

My classmates and I were given reading for the Greek history course, too, so I also read a little bit for that and started typing up a timeline so I can keep dates, places, events, and actors straight.

But unless I decide to study Greek grammar over the weekend (it's not just in Spanish that I need to learn verb tables!) that's the end of my commitments until Monday.

*

Healthwise, I don't feel 100% back to normal. My Eeyore side has been moping wistfully at a few metaphorical fences, and I feel very angsty if I don't get enough sleep and risk suddenly running out of energy later in the day. But it is a relief that, aside from persistent iron deficiency in the blood test, my medical check-up from Thursday resulted in values that were – in the words of a lady at the doctor's office – "super."

Four Days After Falling Off the Bicycle: Taking Stock

Last evening I watched the Germany vs. Scotland opening game of the Euro Cup on my desktop computer, fast-forwarding a bit as I'd only started watching in the 2nd half and live-streamed videos are usually cut off after a while.

In my layperson's view, the Scottish team were not as hopeless as people were saying. For example: they didn't visibly give up as other teams do when the score reaches, say, 3-0.

Cars honked happily in the street outside the apartment building after the full time was played, and above all a few quieter firecrackers or warning pistol shots went off.

In some ways things are getting better for me after the accident. Even my constant headaches went away briefly yesterday, and if I adjust my pillow arrangement exactly right I don't have as stiff of a neck. A 15-minute walk turned out to be invigorating.

And I definitely no longer have a cogent reason not to do Greek homework! Yesterday I read a few pages in the textbook and paid close attention to the weekly video lecture.

But of course I'm still pretty flustered. When my youngest brothers kindly accompanied me yesterday evening on an odyssey to the scene of my accident, it was sobering to realize that unless my brain has retrospectively adjusted my memories of cycling along the blocks between Fasanenstraße and Bleibtreustraße, there was already something off before I fell with the bicycle. The bicycle itself – which we also picked up – is mildly discombobulated, at the handlebar and in the chain and in the alignment of the seat; the brothers and I agreed that it should go to the repair shop for a close look and adjustment before I ride it again.

Receiving an email from the federal job agency inviting me to a video call on July 5th was also a bit startling yesterday, because I didn't remotely feel up to it even if the appointment itself is further away.

Anyway, the best thing to do seems to be to pick up my usual routine, become a little more independent again, and just let things happen as they happen.

My Traffic Accident: A Stream of Semi-consciousness

It's a sombre way to phrase things, and as a usually healthy 38-year-old it doesn't make much sense to dramatize, but this week I have had to face up to my own mortality far more sharply than before.

On Tuesday I was feeling a little ashamed of myself because I went to the dentist's office for persistent headaches and weird feelings of percolating liquid and alternating coolness/warmth also in the ears that I thought might be connected to a tooth infection I used to have. They couldn't find anything and were able to rule out a reinfection at the exact location because of the lack of redness, fever, or pain when pressure was applied. Going to a Hausarzt, they agreed, was a good idea; and consulting an otolaryngologist after that. But after conferring with the surgeon who'd originally vanquished the infection, and who's still on maternity leave, they called me back for a thorough x-ray.

Little Miss Hypochondriac then went out for lunch with Uncle Pu, who was visiting Berlin. I did feel a bit limp and like a poor conversationalist, which in retrospect sounds like another symptom.

Then, in the evening, the dress rehearsal of the choir was supposed to happen. I carefully plotted out my route to circumvent road blocks due to the Ukraine recovery conference, and set off on my bicycle.

I do remember perfectly well turning from the Fasanenstraße into the Kantstraße. Then a construction fence coming up on the sidewalk so that the bicycle path was re-drawn a bit to the left, no cars nearby, my trying to overtake a cyclist who was going at a relaxed pace, and then I thought someone behind me trying to overtake us both.

The next thing: floating to the ground. My brains feeling as if they'd been shaken violently, like raw eggs in a frying pan. A bruised feeling at my cheek, slight trickling feeling as if of blood at my nose. The concerned faces of two white-haired men in their 50s or 60s, one behind me and the other in front. A woman in the doorway of a restaurant, a sidewalk table, a turquoise plastic chair in square form. My picking up my bicycle right away and moving to the sidewalk. Someone pulling out the chair and advising me to sit down. Stinging palms on my hands, but no bad scrapes. Taking out my smartphone, switching to the selfie camera, and checking if I had any visible signs of damage on my face that might require medical attention. (None; and definitely no blood.)

One or both of the cyclists said sorry, although the one behind me said 'Sorry, although I didn't cause the accident.' And I apologized as well because I hadn't given a hand signal before beginning to overtake.

I was determined to wait for 2 minutes to see if I felt weird afterward, but didn't want to take too long because I would run late to the choir rehearsal. For some reason I didn't fully realize then the implication that seeing the people around me as if in a kind of round frame with faded edges was a sign of something bad. The word 'concussion' didn't come to mind either.

After the 2 minutes were up, I went back on the bicycle. And after the point where I must have reached the construction fence a few seconds later, there's a bit of a haze. I remember seeing the green trees, a traffic light, and a lady wanting to cross at Savignyplatz, but am not sure now if this was before or after my accident.

I remember a grey blur, maybe seeing a clock and wondering what time it was, thinking of the Suárezstraße but knowing it was further away, and kind of feeling as if I were going west when I wanted to go east.

(In retrospect I feel that I put many lives at risk, as it's not clear if I was fully aware of traffic lights or cars or anything aside from buildings and intersections; and feel badly about it.)

Then I felt that my having foggily wondered whether it was already the choir concert or just the dress rehearsal, was a bad sign. Maybe I felt unsteady. I got off my bicycle, wheeled it to a stand and locked it there, and noted with relief that a restaurant was open and that the waiters could see me and react if something was wrong.

I didn't remember the bicycle accident directly, aside from the sense that it was unsafe to remain on the bicycle. I just remembered going to the dentist and worrying that the headaches would lead to brain damage if the cause wasn't found. And the memory of my father and his stroke returned very strongly. So I thought that whatever caused the headaches had worsened.

I thought that I was lastingly mentally incapacitated. In a space of I don't know how many minutes, I kind of said goodbye to my career, my independence, any romantic relationship; and said hello to potential decades of my family needing to provide health care for me. I wondered how elderly people who reach this point can find the strength to face it.

Then I wanted to do the best I could with the thought power at hand. I looked at the street names at the intersection. Going to the choir rehearsal was no longer an option, as seeing the names didn't orientate me. Going home was best. I went to the doorway of the restaurant and told the waiter behind the reception that I thought I'd had a stroke, guessing correctly that he'd speak English, and asked if I could sit down. And I texted to my mother, using the street names and the restaurant name, if someone could come and get me.

Ge. also texted me. We agreed that it would be better to call an ambulance. I checked again, I think, if my bicycle was locked: I could no longer remember doing so, but was kind of impressed by my common sense of a few minutes ago.

When I went into the restaurant while I made the call, the waiters were very kind. They ushered me to a chair. They brought me a glass of water, which I sipped only sparingly, as I remembered that I'd been advised not to give my father anything to eat or drink if he came to after he had his stroke.

They went to doublecheck that my bicycle was really properly locked up. When I made the call to emergency services, they gently took the phone from me when I'd trotted over to the awning to read the restaurant name, to make sure the dispatcher knew the exact address.

In case I lost more lucidity before the ambulance came, I started to write down what I remembered (going to the dentist, having headaches, wanting to go to choir practice) into my reporter's notebook. I still hadn't fully remembered the bicycle accident, nor did I remember going out to lunch. But I did remember the streets being blocked off due to the Ukraine conference.

Anyway, for the next three hours I was checked by paramedics, brought by ambulance to the hospital because I felt it would be safer (no sirens or speed needed), and then kept in a triage room with an IV drip while my blood sample was analyzed and I was briefly fetched out for a CT scan. It turned out in the blood tests that I had anaemia. A few indicators were off, but most telling apparently was that my hemoglobin was at 5.2 units, when the expected range goes from 7.1 to 9.9. But the CT scan was clear.

The doctors and nurses were friendly, I think also especially after I'd asked if I could reassure my family about my condition. Two of them patted the bed near my shoulder to encourage me, and another smiled as she ushered me over to the room for the CT.

The time glided smoothly, because I was still in a haze and I was piecing together the memories that were coming back. My hands were still stinging, and small bruises on my legs reminded me of the bicycle accident. A bruised feeling on my cheek reminded me later that I had actually fallen with my helmeted head onto the pavement. Then I remembered the faces of the other cyclists, etc.

When not trying to puzzle that out, I was freaking out a little bit when the IV drip bag emptied and I wondered if I was going to get an air bubble in my bloodstream, before repeatedly telling myself that there would be safety mechanisms to prevent it.

I also tried not to stare at new admissions to the emergency room. But every time the chime of "Oranges and Lemons"(?) sounded at the entrance, I was anxious that someone terribly injured and distraught would be ferried in. Patient privacy was pretty much non-existent, and when I'd been admitted it was also quite weird to hear my own case summarized in loud tones.

There was a drunk person, a repeat visitor, who had downed 2 bottles of wine. One or two other cases: people who came in on their own steam, with a concerned family member or partner, who were really unhappy and stressed as they answered the question: 'So, what happened to you today?'

I was so relieved when I heard someone come in who drawled, 'I had a joint of marijuana and now everything is very slow.' I wouldn't have wanted to be in their shoes... but it sounded like they'd be perfectly fine later. I shamelessly followed every detail. And I struggled to keep from giggling at moments, for example when the doctor told the patient, 'I'm afraid there's no antidote for weed.'

Through the doorway I watched as they gradually seemed to get better.

The doctor chatted about the lab results as he got them, relieved to have gotten an explanation for my bicycle accident. He also riffed enthusiastically on nutritional counter-measures against anaemia: this was what I asked about when he wanted to know if I had any questions.

He emphasized that it must be found out what's causing the anaemia, for example if it's internal bleeding. If I stayed in the hospital for two days, I could get a gastroscopy and a colonoscopy. Or I could go home, and then arrange these procedures with a Hausarzt. (It's also necessary to do more extensive blood tests.) I begged to go home.

Hindsight is 20/20: when I called the doctor's practice I've been to twice before, the receptionist made an appointment for next Thursday. As the emergency room doctor had written 'urgent' (dringend) in my notes, I am wondering if I'm being a bit negligent by not finding a speedier alternative.

Anyway, the taxi driver who brought me home listened to RBB24 on his radio. But he interrupted it now and then to ask whether I had to go back to the hospital or whether I was home free. I asked him about what it's like picking up people from the hospital. He agreed with the suggestion that sometimes it is sad. Then I asked about Euro Cup traffic, and he explained how hooligans have been detained at borders so the games will be safer, although he still expects drama. He complained about the cost of the BER airport.

Finally I was dropped off near home, and I trotted to the apartment under his watchful eyes. (He was worried I might keel over again.) It was so good to be home again, and give and receive hugs from the family.

For the past 2 days, I've been eating carefully and incorporating iron where I can, while Ge. has bought more meat and berries. My calcium values were also a little low, so more cheese is on the menu. Because the IV drip seemed to help me feel better, I've also been drinking glasses of water with a pinch of salt, half teaspoon of sugar, and a few drops of lemon juice to hopefully make a more isotonic refreshment.

And I am obsessing about wanting to recover my bicycle, retrace my accident to see if any more memories return and where it took place exactly, and visit the restaurant where I found a safe harbour as my concussion(?) cleared up to thank the waiters and waitress.

*

But I am also scared, thinking dramatic thoughts, and evaluating everything I say or do after I say or do it in terms of cognitive functionality. I feel a bit too addled to do Greek homework, although somehow doing journalistic stuff is OK. The headaches are persisting. Now I know there's something serious going on, but not what's causing it. So I'm also exploring the idea that this might be the end of the road for me. Two weeks ago I'd never have believed this: but I don't find the thought so awful. Not because I want to die, and not because I want family and friends to have a horrible time. But just because I have suddenly realized that my ambitions in life are smaller than I thought, and to have loved people and loved the world, and to receive love in return, is already enough. The answer to the existentialist question of 'What do you do, if it doesn't matter what you do?' is a little simpler than I expected, since unlike a Sartre character no broader political ripple effect hangs on it for me. And I don't mind making way for another generation, to try again and do better.

The Tale of the Machiavellian Doner

For the past three nights in a row I've traipsed out to a nearby bridge with an excellent view down railway tracks to the north, to try to see the Northern Lights, after seeing dramatic photos from Brandenburg where other skygazers have sighted the phenomenon induced by strong recent solar flares.

My brother Ge. came along only the first time, making sarcastic comments at intervals. (His presence was still welcome, however, and I thought his comments were funny.) J. was more sanguine and has come along every night – but he has also held me to a strict time limit of 5 minutes' waiting and been generally skeptical.

The result: we've seen a few airplanes, the crescent moon, the Big Dipper, the Fernsehturm, and a cloud veil. But altogether I feel that the enterprise was always a little doomed, like Linus of the Charlie Brown comics waiting for the Great Pumpkin to arrive on Halloween.

*

For Greek class I still probably need to catch up on more pages of an early 20th century text we're reading. It consumed a few hours this morning and will likely consume a few more. I naughtily skipped the lesson itself again.

There was a dentist's check-up today, too.

We likely won't be seeing each other again until mid-August! A few headaches in the past day or two are likely due to sitting out in the sun too long. But if they persist it might be necessary to make an appointment earlier after all, to check if there's something wrong tooth-wise.

Thanks to my brief stints in the waiting room, I also finished reading a small, hardbound volume of Greek myths and legends that a friend gave me for my birthday last autumn.

*

Journalistically speaking, I'm taking things easy today because of my recent sun exposure and because choir practice is also scheduled for the evening.

But I will likely research Ethiopian politics or history more: I have contacted a professor in Berlin and I will be having a conversation with him the day after tomorrow. He will also let me drop in on his seminar on Friday!

Yesterday evening I made a first inquiry about renting a co-working space, so that I can have a journalistic 'office.'

*

On Sunday I went on a tour of the neighbourhood with 16 other people – a Member of the European Parliament, an MEP candidate, a member of Berlin's legislative assembly, and a Berlin state secretary amongst them. It had been advertised through a poster on my apartment building's front door.

It's a while ago, but made for a few anecdotes.

The tour's aim, aside from endearing the Social Democratic Party to voters, was to make the EU more accessible by pointing out buildings and programmes that are linked to European Union initiatives or specifically to funding: a community centre, a school, etc.

A friendly rapport was established from the outset. For example, an older lady held onto my shoulder as she hopped up to sit on a railing alongside me.

I did feel as if the MEP struggled to patiently mingle amongst the Little People in an occupation that didn't require her to juggle three different dimensions at once. As she held ad hoc speeches, she regally ignored the anxious mien of the Berlin legislator who (despite her foot being in a cast) had put the main legwork into running the tour and was timekeeping.

That the MEP had fixed principles in the policy she wanted to achieve, was clear; she was also intelligent enough to thank her extremely hardworking Berlin colleague at the end. But her demeanour emphasized to me that one doesn't get ahead in political life without making devil's bargains at the expense of everyday kindness.

Although I also had a faint impression that she approved of me ... perhaps because I made no motions to speak to her. As I'm usually the one who feels snubbed in these situations, it was a welcome reprieve; I don't want to be ungrateful.

It also sank in for me as we began passing posters with her face on them, how epically weird it is for political figures to navigate the world as a political figure.

The state secretary kept almost completely silent behind his sunglasses. He only broke the silence twice to describe 1. a brick building, 2. a European children's soccer tournament. (Which I'd already been planning to attend as a spectator.) His partner joined the tour, and he briefly lit up at that.

It was a delightfully comedic tour in less subtle ways, too.

Above all: a fellow 'civilian' perhaps in his forties had been loudly advocating for his pet artistic projects. He asserted that any politician who disagreed with him was a selfish incompetent, and engaged the MEP in a lengthy exchange that showed no signs of stopping. He left in a huff part-way. A grandmotherly lady had politely walked up to him, looked him in the eye, and said that he could hold his own guided tour if he wanted to keep speaking all the time. (Without disliking the troublemaker at all, I was still agog with admiration for the woman.)

In the tour, I may have been the only person under 40 by the end who didn't seem to be an SPD party member or staffer, and who was a dual citizen. I was wondering if whoever distributed the tour posters had really distributed them randomly, or taken a look at the names beside the doorbells to see which buildings had more 'German' ones. Based on later evidence when I wandered around the neighbourhood and looked to see if posters had only been selectively placed, I presume the former.

Either way, given our demographic it was a shock when we were treated to döners at a reduced price at the end. Perhaps this is stereotyping, in which case I apologize.

*

The döner bonanza was the SPD's initiative to endear itself in the neighbourhood: the 3€ vouchers were being handed out to any passersby who engaged with the election info stand. It did lead to more interest than the Linke party's traditional stand on the opposite side of the street.

In the end I was the only one to take advantage of the offer from the tour group. (I did pay full price for the döner, though, for the sake of journalistic integrity.)

The SPD staffers and politicians were mostly clustered at an information stand, beside a nearby Commerzbank. There a videographer or news cameraman partook of the frenzy, and a police van stood stolidly beside it. The police officers who watched at the margins were deployed for good reason: the recent attacks on political figures and staff. But when I passed them, their faces suggested saints undergoing a particularly boring medieval punishment.

The politician who had had the döner inspiration (it's a reference to something involving Olaf Scholz, but I haven't bothered to research it) popped over to make sure that everyone in the queue at the döner shop had a ticket. He didn't seem to take it amiss that many of his eager audience weren't of voting age yet.

A few mothers of the children looked like they couldn't believe their luck – they could stay within budget, while also giving the children a treat that they were begging for. And they were certainly of voting age. So perhaps his strategy still worked.

One child was queueing all alone behind me. He looked pitiably bored. I told him he could go in front of me, which he gratefully did. I regretted this gesture of compassion eventually, however: three little friends materialized out of nowhere, thronged beside him in the queue, and ordered ... not just food, but also drinks.

The men working in the döner shop were spooning out 6 or so different sauces upon customer request, cheese, and diverse salads; keeping the döner meat skewer in action; engaging the cash register; taking people's orders; and checking that the döner buns and the vegetarian döner patties were toasting properly.

It was a sunny day; the men must have been warm.

I could practically see the thought bubbles where they were fantasizing about having two more employees.

So I don't know if they benefited in every sense from the political gimmick. But they were efficient and made the best of things. They were also kind and courtly to the children who took longer to order.

When I had ordered and paid, I wandered off with a well-stuffed döner, and sat in a nearby courtyard to eat it. It was a satisfying meal, toasty warm, and a fitting reward for a long day's semi-work.

(A reward I had also picked up on the walking tour was a vegetarian cookbook from precisely the period I am researching – 1900 to 1929. It was propped on a windowsill of a residential apartment building for anyone to take.)

I reflected that I have learned more about my neighbourhood. Also  – contrasting this adventure with reading dry documents about the European Supply Chain Directive in the past year – I've never enjoyed researching European politics more.

Glimpses of Maytime Protests in Berlin

Yesterday (Friday) morning I went off after a minimalistic indulgent breakfast of vanilla ice cream and rhubarb compôte, to the Unter den Linden area to observe a protest outside the Foreign Ministry.

The protest was about the situation in Ethiopia again. The slogans that the crowd chanted were very vague, and the event would be lasting another 4 hours, so I settled on the steps of the Friedrichswerdersche Church to absorb the atmosphere etc. before deciding if I'd introduce myself, ask more specifically why the protest was happening, and take photos.

Tiny ants were scrabbling over the stone steps, and tourists speaking German or French went in and out of the church through one door, which was ajar, or looked at the elaborate bas-relief scenes on the door that wasn't ajar.

At least 7 police officers were standing around in lighter summer uniform: a big contingent considering that there were only around 20 protestors. One or two more officers were on guard as always at the ministry entrance.

I began reading a book that I've bought to do background research on Ethiopia's history, and rather unwisely kept sitting on the church steps although it was squarely in the sun. (At least I had sunblock along and was using it.)

After a while I heard a putt-putting sound. 5 police motorcyclists came rolling up just to where I was, and parked in formation. Their senior officer stepped off his bike and began to tell the others his plans of where to conduct the protest march later, so in between focusing on passages in the book my ears were twitching. I have a fascination for security protocol and tactics, so I was hoping to overhear things.

The motorbicycles would have made a striking foreground for a photo, if I found the right angle, focus, etc. But since I hadn't introduced myself to the protestors and didn't want to 'creep' on the police, I didn't even attempt it.

After a while I changed my position, took 2 photos of the crowd from a distance for record-keeping purposes, and then decided to leave. I was worried that it was unprofessional not to wade in and ask questions. But I didn't want to risk again becoming a mouthpiece for ethnonationalist propaganda about a situation I'm not terribly well informed in.

In general, not just with Ethiopia by any means, I worry about covering protests where I have the feeling that protestors think that fighting and war are glorious, and that a few deaths, rapes, or tortures inflicted on the other side either 'didn't happen' or are just the eggs in the proverbial omelette. I don't think this helps anybody or makes the world a better place, and there are other protests that just feel more helpful.

I've tried to give the benefit of the doubt once or twice, because it isn't always easy to 'prove' my impression — only to find corroborating evidence later that suggested that I could have just followed my instincts.

***

On Tuesday there was a hubbub at the Free University.

I'd skipped a morning Greek class because I would have been 1 hour late, and instead was trying to catch up on all of the homework for it, as well as meditating what to do journalistically that day.

Then the local news website ran a story saying that police were dissolving a pro-Palestinian protest camp there.

Two different accounts (maybe both are true) exist: 1. that the university administration had right away ordered the police to dissolve it; 2. that the university administration and police wanted it dissolved because anti-Semitic words and phrases had been spoken.

It's old news to me but maybe not to everyone that the Berlin police has been dealing with potential anti-Semitic speech at protests about Israel and Palestine by banning specific phrases.

e.g. "From the river to the sea." A debated phrase and theoretically could be used in a peaceful if rather impractical sense. But police take the more pessimistic view and presume that usually it means that the person who uses the phrase would like to see Israeli citizens displaced by violence from the area around the Jordan River.

One shouldn't say anything that means that Israel isn't allowed to exist as a nation-state.

Flag-burning is out.

And there are a few other things that, if protest organizers do their job, are clearly listed at the beginning of an event.

I don't know if 'F*k Israel' has been banned, but I've definitely heard it in two protests (on and off campus) recently. At the first protest, the demonstrators were also saying 'F*k Germany' while, based on their fluent German language skills, being German citizens or at least residents; so I didn't see it as especially hateful, just rude, in that context.

Generally a protest can be shut down when these words are spoken, but sometimes individual people are just removed from the protest and everyone else can continue.

In my personal point of view, and I have to stress that when I'm in journalistic mode I don't take a stance on this, there is nothing wrong with applying a few rules here.

I think it's nonsense to say that words aren't deeds, when protestors use written messages and chants as tools to transmit their message. (Either words have power or they don't!)

Admittedly maybe one shouldn't only be applying rules in the framework of pro-Palestinian protests.

*

Last year I observed a Nakba protest where one speaker said amongst other things that the 'land was soaked with the blood of martyrs' and that Palestinians 'would be ready for the next Intifada.'

She was very young and, to be clear, this was before the Hamas massacres in October.

But I didn't like how her words trivialized, not just the deaths of Israeli civilians, and Israeli soldiers who after all are often conscripts, in past intifadas; but equally the Palestinian lives that had been taken away, and the grief of their families, without achieving lasting justice and quality of life for Palestinians.

I wasn't impressed by the Jewish demonstrators who'd organized the event, either, for being silent about it.

That said, I'm becoming an old lady. Not everyone has been around long enough to remember the regular tragic news reports about buses full of dozens of unarmed people being blown up, etc., as well as the other bloodshed during the second intifada.

*

Anyway, I cycled to campus to observe the situation. The camp itself had I think already been disbanded.

Because fire alarms were ringing in all parts of the building complex (the Rost-, Silber- and Holzlaube) around it, I decided to obey the law and not to try to enter it to get a good photo of the courtyard.

As police and firefighters were roaming the building, apparently nudging a few students to leave who'd decided to ignore the alarms and keep working, I felt this was a good decision in the end although it wasn't very satisfying from a photographic standpoint. Later there were rumours in a newspaper that alarms were triggered by pepper spray, but otherwise everyone assumed as I did that the alarms had been released on purpose.

Pro-Palestinian and pro-Israeli protestors were roaring away near the Thielallee (the Berliner Zeitung reported that the protestors were more mad at police than at each other). They were just being told to disband per police megaphone as I left.

More students sat/strolled near the building/leaving after doing quiet study indoors. Blue-and-black-uniformed maintenance men stood outside the Habelschwerdter Allee entrance. Firefighters emerged after their unenviable voyage through the labyrinth of Rost-/Silber-/Holzlaube corridors. Everyone looked at ease.

Of course, the students were likely feeling blissful because their classes were cancelled. But I also wondered if there was widespread sympathy for protests against the high death toll in the Gaza Strip. (If I were a proper journalist, of course I'd have asked.)

I was also kind of relieved that universities were becoming a locus of public discourse and protest again. Because when I studied at the Freie Uni, before Instagram activism became a thing, it seemed as if nobody were really engaged in social or political issues at all, just neutrally pursuing their academic careers.

At 7 p.m., the university president released a statement talking of dire damage to 40 fire alarms.

Either the building maintenance staff, who seemed to be I'll add wholly unacknowledged and unthanked for it, had done a vast clean-up job; or he was telling fibs.

Because: the next day I had a class, also walked around a few more hallways on Wednesday, and didn't see any damage whatsoever.

Anyway, all of the above has to be read with a pinch of salt. I made one or two mistakes in my assessment of the situation before, and this is just a 'best guess' portrait.

What's galling is that I'm quite happy to be caught up in trivialities like these (also like just having scruples about how to report on deaths in Ethiopia, instead of doing the reporting) and to ignore the essentials. When in the Gaza Strip the deaths continue, an elderly hostage has died, and the famine and the destruction of homes seemingly has no end.

*

While it means that the concert I'll be attending soon at the Barenboim-Said Academy won't count as balancing my pro-Palestinian and pro-Israeli reporting after all, as many Israelis would likely interpret the academy as a one-sided pro-Palestinian institution, it was a relief to read what Michael Barenboim told RBB in an interview about the protest.

"[...] ich sehe nicht gerne, dass einfach massenhaft unschuldige Menschen umgebracht werden, auf dieser industriellen Skala schon gar nicht." ('I don't like seeing that innocent people are just being killed en masse, even less so on this industrial scale.')