Live Out Loud

strange but true

2010-01-02T11:38:00.000-08:00

McCain/Palin bumperstickers...still

NO Government Healthcare lawn signs at uniformed DDS offices

Pink Juicy Couture velour track suits

Sarah Palin's book for sale at the airport

Shooting star at 430am

Friends with babies

Friends with wedding rings

Homophobia

Slavery

...merry christmas Alabama.

Love,

Christopher

tradition

2009-12-25T09:46:00.000-08:00

Ours is a steak dinner with baked potatoes on Christmas Eve.

My German grandmother arrives to house slippers and a glass of wine (this time she brought her jug) and my aunt brings her kids, a 2 liter of ginger ale, and shi-shi (whipped cream).

It's actually amazing to watch how things change each year. Like my 11 year old cousin who is developing a sense of humor or 17 year cousin who runs a social commentary on every word pronounced in the room. Then there are the things that don't change. Like my aunt's adorable limited taste or my grandmother's youthful face. All of them are beautifully articulated by a holiday that for us means the one time in the year when we all get together to confront and love our family.

This year's highlight was when we passed a candle and "The Night Before Christmas" around the room for a festive reading (a tradition that comes from my dad's Michigan family). My grandmother got the longest page in the book and when her thick German accent arrived at the words "the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow..." she absolutely lost it and couldn't get over the snow having breasts. We exchanged gifts and soon everyone was on their way and my sister and I watched our parents fall asleep in front of the fire and a hilarious videotape of our very own production of "A Charlie Brown Christmas."

Now my parents have to wake US up on Christmas morning so that we can dig through our stockings and unwrap gifts, throwing the wrapping paper at the frisky cat across the room.

A delicious breakfast around the dining room table and a trip to the movies is just about all there is to do in Huntsville, but that's alright because

family is the reason for the season.

back in switzerland

2009-12-20T13:25:00.000-08:00

I miss...

the way people enter a cafe

dilapidated buildings

crazy communists

the smell of burning objects from the squats

weeds in the sidewalk

German boys

German girls

Dönner Kebap

graffiti that's street art

street art that's graffiti

sun seeking party zombies

the TV tower in the violet hour

fashionable retailers struggling to survive

my bike's squeaky brakes in the snow

churchbells from both directions on the hour

the walk to the subway station

saying Entschuldigung and Tchüss

sour faces and shouting vendors at the Turkish Markt

the beautiful children

underkept parks, dogs, and drinking laws

overkept buses, trams, and trains

dancing until dawn

sleeping until noon

Hefeweizen

smoking bars with soul music and angry trannies

recycling my bottles to pay for my groceries

being terrified of getting checked on the train

Weinachtsmarkt

being mistaken for a Deutsch-speaking German

giving tours

Frau Thietz

finding myself alone on a bridge

finding myself alone on a street

finding myself.

the brothel

2009-12-19T06:51:00.000-08:00

across the street

three men emerge from the wide door

two turn left

and one escapes behind a wheel

the only taste left of this life

lies behind a door with a bell

a sound that announces

the arrival of innocence

stolen

by the choice to indulge

in a fantasy between walls

and empty of eyes and hands and feet

snow

2009-12-18T03:22:00.000-08:00

Winter has come to Berlin.

Waking up in the morning to the white glow of falling snow and laced bare trees is an absolute dream. The city is almost silent with its muffling layer of frosting as if the cold flakes powered down the roar of a city that cannot resist reveling in the bitter winter. Women's faces--old and young--are alight before the magical production of the drifting ice blossoms. Hatted inhabitants stick out their tongues for a taste of the strange sugar, and dogs emerge from the subway ahead of their owners to forge the storm and the biting air.

Outside, two children--rosy and golden--amaze in the white field while mothers with youngers look on and bounce to the beat of their own childish hearts--too near and too quick to forget. Boots caps and mittens are all that stand between us and our frozen drops, and the steam emerging from our warm lips twists and turns in the drafts, searching for someone to inhale it in a long kiss. Falling fast and small, the whole earth is covered like the thin surface of a delicious desert, waiting to be cracked and devoured.

a final visit

2009-12-13T10:15:00.000-08:00

on the dock by the swan

feet dangle over frigid river currents

an island adrift

amid smokestacks and umbrellas

darkens under skeletal branches

as the sun nears the ground

rusted memories are sunk here

and covered in a thin layer of fog

waiting for a day of revival

that will never arrive

across the water

lovers stroll

colors matching their breakfasts

and childhoods

and the church stands silent

its bells poised for the hour

when another passing

brings music to my ears

and silence to the air

four shoes with soiled laces

crossed

waiting for the wind

swing on the hinge

and stretch over the Spree

submerged in cold

soon to step in another place

carried by the wheels of clouds

leaving only a reflection in the ripples

of a Saturday afternoon

anti anti

2009-12-08T04:00:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, a group of students from Köln (Cologne) visited us. We stayed in their city a month ago and the combined trips are part of a program to initiate a dialogue between these German students and us, the Americans. I wasn't able to participate in most of the weekend's activities, but on the final day I attended a lecture on anti-Americanism alongside these Köln University peers.

Our speaker was Ruth Hatlapa, who was introduced by one of our faculty and first spoke about a program she is currently involved with that combats anti-Semitism today in the Berlin neighborhood of Kreuzberg (where I live). She told us that today Jews are still attacked on the street or in the metro often with bystanders doing nothing to intervene. She spoke about Germany as a country of migrants--despite the fact that many Germans do NOT see their country this way--and described the obvious differences of a migrant to the holocaust versus a German. Apparently "Jew" is the most common curse word in the school system here, and accordingly, her program has been working with school children, especially of a migrant background, through education and activity based programming for seven years to help combat anti-Semitism.

At the conclusion of her brief talk about her current community work, she was met with fierce defensiveness and outright disagreement from the German students among us. They claimed that they had never heard of anti-Semitism in Germany today and asked if it was then only a problem in Berlin. They had not seen this information in the newspapers or on the TV and quickly dissolved her argument by claiming that German's were also discriminated against because German cars were burned in the streets. American students responded by calling everyone's attention to the fact that whether we are aware of these horrible acts of violence or hate, they do exist, as Hatlapa had just spent 20 minutes describing them to us. Some NYU students shared their own experiences such as being accused of being Jewish and laughed at on the subway in Belrin, despite having a Catholic-Hispanic background. I myself brought up becoming a target as a homosexual in Berlin on one occasion. I think nothing of this because I know that people who target me (whether in Berlin, Alabama, or New York) are nothing more than ignorant, uneducated people who are unfortunate to not have people opening their eyes to the importance of recognizing anything outside of themselves. I also questioned the ability of some of these German students to do the same thing.

While this became a topic of debate, our speaker went on to give her presentation on anti-Americanism. This is her dissertation--a work still in progress--and as she is German herself, I did not particularly feel that there was any justifiable bias for or against America, only a recognition of a particular phenomenon and what effect it is having on world relations.

Hatlapa recognizes that America is not homogenous, but she defines "Anti-Americanism" as against what America "is" (as opposed to "criticism" which is against what America does). Because of the over exaggeration of criticisms, often times Europeans (particularly Germans in her study) associate American public acts with the American people. They see war as an expression of American imperialistic habits. Thus they see our country and her people as "Barbaric" and "inauthentic." We are the most dangerous nation against the promotion of world peace. Americanism is becoming "The European language" the speaking of which is more and more considered "progressive."

A large shift has occurred with the changing of leadership in America as well. George W. Bush had a 12% approval rating in Germany and when he appeared to speak in Berlin in 2002, he was met with 20,000 protestors. Obama's German approval rating is 92% and he was cheered on by over 200,000 supporters when he spoke in Berlin in 2008. Many European's associate Obama's positive traits--more secular politics and progressivity for example--as European and therefor see him more as a European than as an American. They see his America as declining and weaker and would sooner invite him into their dining room than most of "those Americans."

As we politely applauded Hatlapa's lecture--which was full of more information, figures, and humor--not surprisingly, the first comment came from a German student and went something like this:

"That's all very interesting, but I'm sorry I don't agree with you. I think that's all just wrong."

Immediately the tension returned to the room and a fierce dialogue commenced in which German students wanted to know which newspapers and online sources she used for her facts and American students provided examples of their own anti-American experiences during this or past trips to Europe.

We all know that America is not homogenous, but until many Europeans meet an educated American and have a real conversation with them, they are quick to point many of the fingers Hatlapa described; often, even after this crucial conversation, they will consider you "different from Americans." I know, I've had this conversation more than once with people from more than one country. But then, I'm guilty of being anti-American as well. I admit that. I often roll my eyes at our Wal-Mart culture, democracy obsession, and football mania. I cite repeatedly that there is New York and then there is America. And in some regards, this is absolutely true. But I can't disqualify my country and contribute to this Anti-Americanism that only lessens our chances of connecting to anyone different from ourselves.

I think it is disappointing and ignorant of the German students--who we got to be friends with over our two weekends together--to react so violently to what they apparently considered an attack, but what was really just a prompt for discussion and self assessment. I'm provoked by the ideas of anti-Americanism and the often tense dynamics of American-European relations, especially in young people, but instead of denying what is obviously in the air, I have taken this opportunity to examine the way I think, have more critical conversations with the people in this city, and--most importantly--to learn more.

from the records, I miss him

2009-12-06T00:23:00.000-08:00

17 Oktober 2009

Matthew has been here for almost five days now. He gets it and makes me get that I get it. He has been surprised by how romantic this city is and helped me realize how well I am doing here. The first day he was here, we laid on my bed together and smiled more than either of us knew we could. I poured my heart out in a poem like I've never had to do and he told me he wouldn't be able to stop looking at me. I assured him this was ok.

After doing the regulars--Turkish Markt, Alexanderplatz, Unter den Linden to the Tör, and the Holocaust memorial we tried some new things together. Namely Tiergarten which was spectacularly romantic and colorful. We let our hearts pull us and were blown away by the beautiful park.

Matthew loves biking, and Doner. We checked out the Hamburger Bahnhof, but it closed quickly: I WILL be going back. I was so glad Matthew could come to Weimar. I had no idea we were going to a concentration camp (ironically), but the frigid rainy afternoon left us both very "cold." Between this and both of our experiences with the other children here we thought about alot and I think only realized more how lucky we are: individually AND together. We haven't slept much, and when we got back from Weimar, we left three hours later at 2am for our 14 hour journey to Amsterdam. Obviously this is a place I want to visit, but that we are going here does have something do to with Matthew's IKEA print of an Amsterdam canal with a red bicycle.

Now I'm sitting on a train in the Netherlands, over eleven hours into our journey (first of many) together across Europe, looking into the eyes of the one I love and exchanging smiles--still a bit in disbelief of the amazing experience we are sharing. I don't understand the language here, so now I get to take a backseat--or at least share the passenger seat as we zoom across blue skied, sunny Netherlands toward our 19 hour visit to the city of canals and hashish.

survivor

2009-11-26T08:47:00.000-08:00

Joseph Koplewicz

94 years

survivor of Warsaw Ghetto and 9 concentration camps as an engineer

twirling thumbs

lip quivering with age

changing numbers from long ago

caught in disbelief

before a time of terror and today

mind removed and handed an arm

the simple truth is survival

the only painful pause

from a loss of love

in years supposedly safe from pain

quickly resolving in laughter

with a wide eyed song

of dreams fulfilled

under unbelievable blue skies

on Paris

2009-11-24T05:44:00.001-08:00

It's been a week since I got back from Paris, and I'm finally coming to terms with my experience there. I am so glad I was able to just be while I was in the city. I didn't get caught up in the romanticism or really anything at all. Being away has made me realize how beautiful it is. The people are so confident and no nonsense. They are not overly romantic as we expect them to be because they haven't been fed the institution that is love and romance that Hallmark and stereotypical French characters have given to me. They say what is needed and let their eyes do the rest of the communicating. Sometimes laughing makes me insecure but I realize that to them, it is an expression of happiness. Nothing ironic there.

In fact irony is not something I experienced with French people unless they were making fun of or imitating Americans and their culture. There is something so earnest about the way they interact--with only what is necessary, very little embellishment. But then, Paris is absolutely overrun with tourists. As with any city I suppose, its sometimes difficult to know what is the city of tourists and what is the city of the people. In NY I took many a vacation to midtown but it wasn't until I moved into Union Square that I saw the tip of the iceberg of what is NYC. Luckily for me I had my amazing friends to lead me through this city (or at least for the past 3-4 months).

That didn't always mean that I new what I was ordering at a restaurant. I managed to get kidney two times. I really tried, but it just didn't quite meet my mouth's needs. Riding Velib' bikes up and down the hills of Paris by day and by night was truly fantastic and a great way to feel like you belong on the narrow streets and broad roundabouts. It is so nice to stumble on a courtyard or a fountain or an artists loft or a gallery in a historical space and be one of the only people around.

The Parisians have parks under control. They are the most beautiful combination of public space and coiffed elegance. Standing in a park in Paris I was in awe of the design and degree of control of nature but also of how comfortable people felt there. Just as in their home, they are invited to rearrange furniture and stroll down a corridor [of trees]. Just stay off the grass.

I most enjoyed walking down the older smaller streets of Paris, especially in Montmartre and the Fifth Arrondissement. But these are the areas that most tourists seek out in Paris as the "real city." They are prescribed by all the guidebooks as secret must see spots and as such have lost some sense of their charm and originality. But then I guess they still charmed me. I'm apt to resist acting like a tourist or really being one at all. I know that when I visit a city, that is my official title, but I seek something more authentic. I don't like to rush to the museums or most famous monuments, and I didn't do that here. I spent most of my time taking the heartbeat of the city and encountering a culture very different from my own--and just as valid.

Standing on the top of Montmartre, I realized how large Paris is. It would take me at least six months living there to really begin to understand it, and I don't claim to much at all from my short (though extended) five day stay.

What I do know is that Paris left a delicious aftertaste in my mouth...something like Cotes du Rhone. And I want to take that bottle in the bathtub with her and a cigarette and soak in everything she has to offer. Even if only for a short time.

feet rest under green metalic chairs

weary with the labors of discovery

of a city set in hills

doors opened and stairs unwound

in corners hidden from any map

we discovered a new path

with no trace remaining

but in negatives and our slippery memory

music swells all around

but I hear Paris

only in voices

her speaker is blown

never to be replaced

and only her people sing her song

it sounds of ambivalence

that only a child can see

from behind round spectacles.

It was only heard once or twice

and broadcast to the world

in a tongue too hard to shape.

Of love, I find no keys

only black and white

in majors and minors

struggling to strike a chord

but barely unlocking doors going backwards or downstairs

I face a wall

and a ticket

a meager end to an unplanned excursion

the most beautiful song

2009-11-18T18:06:00.000-08:00

Two Doves

courtesy Dirty Projectors

Geranium kisser
Skin like silk and face like glass
Don't confront me with my failures
Kiss me with your mouth open
For your love, better than wine
For your cologne is really fragrant
Call on me, call on me, call on me

Your hair is like an eagle
Your two eyes are like two doves
But our bed is like a failure
All day up in the family
At the waning of the light
To the chamber that conceived me
Call on me, call on me, call on me

Geranium killer
Throat of soil and mind like stone
Please don't defend a silver lining
Around the halo of what is already shining
When all the planets are aligning
For an afternoon that's never ending
Call on me, call on me, call on me

youtube please

paris friday

2009-11-13T10:21:00.000-08:00

Luckily drenched in sun

leaves still fall

while voices explore reflections

on the trim trees

between leaves and water

countless pieces

in a puzzle for the sky

cling to massive arms

like memories

The only music

erupts in shadows

from a time of blossoms

and the familiar smells of love

Glowing faces

lounge quietly

and soak in the confident air

too timid to fly

and rooted by a strong attraction

to familiar soil

Wrapped women move past

as we sit on the edge of the day

with little recollection

of the dark that daily consumes

Just as a breath catches

vulnerable strokes from branches above

and a young boy leans over railings

for a closer view

I am swept away

and a fleeting curiosity

consumes my senses

by Medici fountain

meeting family

2009-11-11T04:26:00.000-08:00

7.11.2009

(14:00)

train to Aachen

clouds clear as I make another short stop

ready for my rendezvous

I occupy my mind with distractions

forcing calm where I feel there should be worry

I am blind

with nothing but a blurry postcard and a forgotten slideshow

holy time- a few short hours

to fill in the blanks of this curious connection.

the most beautiful tree

catches the light of the forgotten sun

and I recall where my calm comes from

a deep assurance that clouds do clear

mistakes live in the spaces of opportunity

discovering beauty is only as difficult as the next breath

silence is among the most precious of moments.

with these laws engrained in my complex thoughts

I roll over foreign tracks toward unfamiliar comfort

hoping for growth in the slightest degree

an eager ebb of the most pure and earnest interest.

dressed in their Sunday best

I would arrive with a bouquet of hope

for an afternoon topped with cream

and washed down by an evening's satiated adieu.

(19:30)

A family waits

posing for a picture by an unknown photographer

unsure on arrival and unclear at the meet,

our story begins with hello

immediate rain opens an umbrella for three

arms clung, we cross familiar streets with unfamiliar faces

minds may meet but I find myself less serious

sipping the largest glass with the lightest plate

laced in chocolate and a sweet commence

becoming flowers with an unexplained ride

I presently arrive at my past

simply the turn of the knob

puts relative distance before my eyes

soft and frail, confined only by life

three strangers with only a quarter hour

to fall in love

leaning in, struggling to hear what some call silence

a calm comes over the beginning of a bond

smiles replacing fearful furrowed brows and faces

gasps and sighs at what is and what was, knowing

only tomorrow knows what will be

suddenly the man in the bed utters

go?

and I slip through the door

only ajar and only a taste of what stays

my heart tells my eyes that it has seen what it needs

and my eyes beat with the familiar swelling of my heart.

my host thinks only on me

and fills each desire four times

quickly sharing all and snapping away from all sides

trying to capture a feeling I cannot define

an image of shining eyes and open hands

tiptoeing to the song of another

over rocky streets

by windows filled with kindness

in a place containing someone else's story

total darkness engulfs a final stop

windows covered, fresh white paint

reflects little moonlight

and a loving childhood memory

becomes my only torch

wandering as a child again

I try to discover its secrets

becoming a king in a foreign land of covered windows

to say goodbye comes on track

elevated by platforms

and the stakes of a simple evening

afraid the whole perfect gift is forgotten

memories slip onto pages

like the chocolate on the sugary treats I carry back with me

alone is not a word I know in Aachen.

zwanzigten Jahre des Mauerfall

2009-11-10T13:53:00.001-08:00

20 years ago, the Berlin wall came crashing down and East Berlin was for the first time open to the West. A country divided since their humiliating and horrifying defeat in the second World War was faced with the opportunity to become a unified land with the hope of becoming a modern nation.

Last night, Berlin celebrated this monumental event with a huge gathering at the Brandenburger Tör. It was a cold, rainy, typical Berlin November evening, and people turned out in droves to the once abandoned area that has become so symbolic as a meeting of East and West Germany and Berlin. The plaza and its surrounding streets in both directions--leading into the sprawling parks of the Tiergarten and the historical and monumental Unter den Linden--were closed and prepared days in advance for the evening of remembrance and celebration. I turned up with a friend around 18:00 with no umbrella and insufficient footware. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by the police presence or by the tight security, but this celebration seemed to be an ironic presentation of the symbol and ideals it stood for. I passed through more than one gate to get to my unimpressive spot to the side of the main presentation area. Not only was I not able to see the grounds in front of the gate, I was positioned behind a giant screen that eventually would show images of what was happening only a few hundred feet away.

After a couple hours in the rain with anxious and eager Germans and many, many tourists, I decided to go home to strip off my socks and watch from my own screen in my living room--albeit smaller than the screen offered at the Brandenburg Gate.

In German class we talked about November 9. In Germany, not only is this day remembered for its significance in 1989, but for its first appearance in the history of the country: 1938. Known as Kristallnacht, or "the night of broken glass," this was a huge night of violation against German Jews under National Socialism. 99 Jews were killed, at least 25,000 were arrested and taken to concentration camps, and Jewish homes, businesses, and synagogues were ransacked and destroyed. The earlier recognition of this date obviously does not stand for the ideals upheld by most Germans of today, but these problems do still exist. The tension between Germans and the much smaller Jewish population of the unified Germany of today exists in massive doses, and I have been witness to the confrontation, avoidance, and even bitterness of this strained relationship on more than one occasion.

How was it that the country managed to produce an event 51 years after such an evening that today almost covers up this catastrophe completely? If this country is so determined to focus their efforts on their coming together as a people and breaking down barriers, how can they hide the fact that 71 years ago their government made an official effort to destroy an entire people--within their own border?

Watching the Mauerfall ("wall-fall") celebration from my television, I noticed something peculiar about the positioning of the spectator. Almost the entire plaza was left empty so that government leaders (including German Chancellor Angela Murkel, French President Nicolas Sarkozy, Russian President Dmitry Medvedev, and US Representative Hillary Clinton) could speak from the middle of a sprawling landscape filled with moving colored lights in front of the Brandenburg Gate. Immediately surrounding them were other government officials. Behind them were the people lucky (or rich) enough to have third row seats to the show packed with speeches and fireworks. The people of Berlin--those who chose to turn out--were stuck behind metal gates to the sides and back of the "performance space." They came to celebrate their walls coming down and found themselves where? Behind walls.

The whole ceremony was impressive, but it resembled little of the images or emotion expressed in photos or footage of the events that passed on November 9, 1989. Then a repressed people yearning for freedom were ecstatic to face the coming of a new age. Today, some Germans and many tourists came together to watch their leaders speak on a screen.

I don't know what the general consensus is about the events that occurred last night, but I know that the country still has a lot to do to come together, and I'm not so sure that the majority of the people living in this city really care about a celebration of event that has less and less to do with them.

Maybe Germans need a new reason to recognize November 9th as a historical day. It seemed a bit sugar coated to me.

london

2009-11-08T14:31:00.000-08:00

the only lonely lover in London

I listen to leaves

crushed loudly by loving couples

with cameras

other lovers relax by the river

lamenting their lives

together

arms around one another

obviously oblivious to the sensual splendor they experience

time tells them to traipse on

having no hurry but boundless bliss

departing leaving desolate the place they once danced

playing without pause the practically perfect life

not wondering when or where it will cease

only honoring the only other

each within reach

reaching without resistance

their rarely lonely lover

carnforth

2009-10-31T11:59:00.000-07:00

Spent three lovely days in the country side of UK with my best friend Beth. Pumpkin carving, pumpkin pie, pumpkin soup, also many other cooked deliciousnesses. Slept three wonderfully sleep-filled nights with their springer spaniel Murphy. Right in the middle of the visit, we went to the lake district in the north:

Sticklebarn Tavern

laughter slips

through the crack in the white framed glass

to a wet world of stone and wood

rain drizzled

the mountain stands strong and green.

walled but free, wanderers step within its bounds

lofty brush struggles to reach the top,

where no man stands as tall

another wall far below leads to unwanted fields

no cattle, no sheep here

only trees--

some ready for the coming of the cold

a narrow road leading to this house of ale and pie

two plates under an awning

devoured by hungry travelers and hound.

clouds move in over lonely summer tables

reaching down to brush the hilltops

as they blow by on their way back to sea,

leaving only more wet, more moss--green and slick

growing in a valley

untouched by most

undevoured by man and his machines

mighty among the few brave and lucky enough

to discover its greatness.

down the way, a world stands by

ready to conquer another day

unaware of a small tavern

with the delicious meals it has to offer

for the mouth and the eyes.

suddenly, atop a rock

halfway up

i am confronted

with the true power of this landscape

greater than of any painters

the hills stand like towers

stronger than any brush stroke

the stream is louder than its own water

man can tame these rolling grounds

with his walls and his gates

but even the bravest hound

cannot place his off in its hidden secrets

too great are they to ever be found

only seen from a distance

and imagined

a promised land of unmoved earth

persistent in its attempt

to remain alien

to remain unknown.

I found my sheep

when I found my girl

feet slipped into rubber boots

and a smile to wide to explain

water rushes by like a tube ride

but this belongs to nature

man must know this

he is not here unless he ventures for a visit

only attempting to take with him what he has seen

the sheep themselves do not believe

though they continue to graze

their mission in a world they can never understand

that I can never understand

only marvel at

and stand for a few short breaths

smelling the sweet view

delighting in its seductive power

sunday afternoon in BERLIN with christopher

2009-10-26T09:57:00.001-07:00

Matilda

a magical girl behind a counter

eyes welcoming with the biggest smile

twin disks spin a small bug's song.

no one in the back,

thirsty visitors gather

at small square wooden tables

with fresh light pink blossoms

3 sprigs stuck in to bridge the seasons

that smile, those eyes

the way her hair falls in strands over her soft face

from across the room my gaze

finds nothing and no one but her

like my mother she serves champagne to a young mother

her two friends looking on

made old by their friend's possession

two lovers, under the lamplight of the corner

retire from their plates

to love the literature they kiss over

a secret to sacred to skip

shared; then another bite

just in; bearded, leather

soft voice-making Matilda smile-

for him, a coffee, cookie first

by the window, a girl with a pencil fills in the blanks

reading carefully, signs her name and folds her life in threes

now, a neighbor

a newspaper in another tongue

he and Matilda share a short love letter aloud

and she kisses her sister once on each cheek

as if the sun rose twice today

once for the world

and once for Matilda

a sliver of sky

near trees

still green with spring

white balconies project

littered with nature

placed with care on the edge

mimicking the green

they stand by

over a white umbrella

despite the clouds

by boards, chalky

with offers and with price

but the street comes without price

a free special to strollers

on a Sunday afternoon

buying young vegetables

in bike baskets

and showing their

freed hounds the crisp day

on Dieffenbachstraße

I understand my father more now. Partly from Freud, though I have no desire to kill, eat, and replace him with myself-but mostly from my lone travels. Like his adventures and disappearances, I find myself learning most alone. Content to watch a duck exploring his water as ambulance sirens pass and runners' feet jog by on the moist earth. On a Serra-like jetty over the Spree lies before me a bullet ravaged monument: three men in struggle, forcing themselves into each other, pyramidal over the deep waters and the passing barge. Behind them lies Berlin, in her glory-tall, proud, under construction. Someday I will tell these stories-unbelievable-to an eager ear. Listeners curious of another place-another time even. I will be back, but these are the true discoveries. Like my father, on his bike-searching for the quiet and the noise. Finding both-in utmost perfection-before peddling back to the world given to me by helping hands. Unprotected now, I log my journey in hopes of crystallizing it into my own forgotten history. To share this with him would be an honor.

Treptower Park

East Berlin's Disneyland

crumbled with the wall

overgrown and underused

children's voices still squealing from fun

now a fence runs its edge

a wall destroyed-a wall empoloyed

only earth and stone paths

provide a glimpse into the wonder

a fantastical world made dark

by the dawning of a new era

a giant wheel with no motor

train tracks buried by leaves and branch

dinosaurs toppled and games switched off

A fossil, long forgotten by most.

but a tell tale sign of what was

and what wasn't

behind a wall.

drugs and stereotypes

2009-10-24T11:02:00.000-07:00

Depression in 3rd world countries: does it exist? What about in aboriginal cultures? Forest tribes of Africa who wear loincloths? Do they chemically alter their mentally "weaker/challenged/different" members? If so, is it natural?

Assuming that these people do not have the same relation or understanding of mental illness, is mental illness and its accompanying drug/pharmaceutical industry a creation of capitalism? I don't watch that much German television, but when I do I see NO commercials for anti-anxiety, depression, or even birth control. Drugs are not on TV. Even prescription. I haven't needed to buy any medication since I've been here, but have heard that at APOTHEKEs (pharmacies) all of the available medicines are herbal. I had my mother and matthew bring me Sudafed, Benadryl, and Claritin, perhaps because of my belief that it is necessary to put these things into my body immediately when I feel any symptom of in-normality. My Literature teacher here, Esther Dischereit, who is a premier feminist and German-Jewish writer in Germany, has a new fix for our illness every week: a boiled potato or onion to the ear, fresh boiled ginger tea, eating an entire lemon, etc.

Have we been tricked by our consumerist societal values into accepting that chemical alteration or quick pharmaceutical remedies are not only the easiest way to get better, but absolutely necessary?

New York and Berlin don't seem that far apart. They are both in developed countries with global awareness and supply a life that depends on the global economy, import/export, and communication with multiple cultures, but there is something about New York that limits its ability to give people their own voice. Perhaps by giving its citizens "freedoms" American people have forgotten about how to explore everything that is available to them and instead seek only comfort and contentment. We are obsessed with finding love, with material wealth, and with creating the perfect beautiful living environment. Even if these are not ideals that we incorporate into our everyday practice and goals, they are part of our existence. They are ideals that we respect, admire, and--whether actively or not--strive for.

Berliners (though so far limited in my exposure to them) find Americans disgustingly commercial. They are terrified and nauseous at the thought of Wal-Mart as Christmas time: the very idea that American capitalism feeds on. To the people of Berlin, stereotype is a word that is often at the forefront of conversation. "Are there stereotypes of Germans?" they might ask. This question, I believe is actually combatting the numerous stereotypes held by most Germans--and almost entirely rightly so--against the American clichés that they have come to know so well. America consists of East and West: the middle is a land of conservatism, lack of culture, and religious rule. American's don't know their own politics. Americans take ten day trips to see the entirety of Europe. Americans still live in a land of segregation in which black and white people have their own individual proms.

...Looking at this list, I can't really meet any of those stereotypes with a strong case to defend the land of the free and the brave. Makes us seem pretty trapped and cowardly actually.

Here's some stereotypes of Germans. These aren't mine; they were in the handbook given to us by NYU in Berlin:

Germans are stiff and formal and hard to make friends with.

Germans are always neat, well-organized, and on time.

Germans lack humor and don't know how to enjoy themselves.

Germans are gruff, constantly nagging know-it-alls.

Stereotypes are strong. They have reason to exist. They also cover up our ability to reach each other. So do chemically altering drugs.

I didn't mean to go on a huge rant about the differences between my culture and the one in which I'm living, but I actually can't think of anything better to do right now.

Our own limitations, whether a cultural predisposition to something different or a drug that defines the spectrum of our emotions to a restricted and socially acceptable range, hold us back from reaching one another. In response we must build bridges to the opposite banks from which we stand. Whether this means crossing the Atlantic, having coffee with someone who we struggle to communicate with, listening to an earnest politician for the first time, deciding to find alternate means of happiness and fulfillment, seeing a piece or collection of art that challenges our conventional tastes, allowing ourselves to fully feel and express an extreme emotion, or simply learning one new fact a day, everyone has the opportunity in front of them to take control of their own lives--expanding themselves personally, in their community, and as a citizen of the world.

We can overcome the need for chemical alteration and the existence of stereotype by rising above what is considered the standard. Who wants to be a standard? In high school, isn't standard a "C?" We should all take our mother's advice and strive for an "A", no matter if we work in an office in Milwaukee, direct a theater company in New York, play a drum in a rural African tribe, or develop technology in Japan (all of which are considered stereotypes).

contemporary art with german placards

2009-10-22T11:06:00.000-07:00

Hamburger Bahnhof (trainstation) was built and first used as a terminal in the mid 1800s. It went out of train service by the beginning of the twentieth century, survived the war, and opened as the Nationalgalerie's institution for contemporary art in 1996.

Thursday afternoons and evenings happen to be free art time in Berlin. Last week I only made it in for about twenty minutes before they closed at 18:00, but this time I left myself a good hour and a half and had ample time to wander the hallways and let my brain get lost in the hallways and pieces and installations.

Entering the grounds of the Hamburger Bahnhof, I am immediately struck by the bright yellow and red flags flying atop the two towers above the doorway. "Die Kunst ist Super!" ("The art is super!), they boast. This colorful, fluttering beckoning along with Dan Flavin's usual neon/fluorescent installation on one side of the courtyard is sure to ward off anyone who thinks they are about to see Kirchner or Schiele (or any German artist whose work dates prior to the radical artistic revolutions beginning in the 1960s). This is delightful for me.

Walking through the large wooden doors, before me stands what was once the main train platform area. Completely gutted, no trains run here now, but the architectural elements of a grand German train station are still elegantly accentuated in this main hall. Large metal trellised beams, high vaulted arches, and beautiful sectioned skylights and windows make this cavernous space a stark but inviting first major work to view in the museum and as a taste of what lies behind the walls of the impressive heart of this museum. With white walls, open space, Helvetica fonts, and names like Jeff Koons, Andy Warhol, Sol Le Witt, and Robert Smithson, I was immediately reminded of my favorite art museum--the DIA: Beacon art institute in Beacon, NY, about an hour and a half north of the city.

I must admit I'm on a visual hunt for all things ZOLA. That is to say, I'm looking for inspiration everywhere for my next theatrical directing venture, Emile Zola's naturalistic thriller Therese Raquin. For me, the Hamburger Bahnhof left only a small bit of disappointment in visual and emotional stimulation. This mostly derived from my own difficulty finding a comfortable way to take the museum in. It wasn't until I reached my third hall of perhaps five that I got into a groove and started being drawn into the work. Part of this is surely my own issue, but it is also definitely the primary responsibility of the museum to curate their work in a way that is as inclusive, critical, and thought provoking as possible. Something was missing in the curatorial continuity here.

Here's a few notables from my trip through Hamburger Bahnhof:

DANIEL SPOERRI's table setting turned on its side and mounted on the wall- a ghostly remnant/preserved moment of a communal experience that has been stolen from its proper place in time

PAUL PFEIFFER's half constructed football stadium combined with a 90 degree reflective/translucent wall provides a full 360 degree view of a scale model of a gigantic sports palace; his next room is completely empty but for the enormous soundscape of the inside of a football stadium coming from approximately 10-15 speakers placed around the room in juxtaposition to a small 5cmx5cm screen playing footage of a major football game at the far end of the space- an interesting and awe inspiring comment on the feeling that is created when thousands of people come together to celebrate a competitive sport versus the small taste received through digital/visual means

ABSALON's Ceullule II installation- an abode all in white, created only of pure cubic geometric shapes (cubes, rectangles, cylinders, etc) that is perfectly proportioned to accommodate one person; viewing the prototype from the inside is claustrophobically frustrating as is his video installation: a self videoportrait of himself screaming repetitively from the inside one of his creations. Absalon died from AIDS at 28 in 1993 before fulfilling his vision of installing prototypes of his personal living space in at least five cities

OTTO ZITKO's line and symbol painting on all four sides of an intermittent room provides color to an otherwise empty wall-canvas and through chaos creates an incredibly effective and simple continuity of space

DIETER/BJÖRN/ODDUR ROTH's gardensculpture started as a decomposable head bust of bird seeds and has grown through generations into a piece over 40m long- its rustic ladders, windows, and various pieces of junk created a treehouse without the tree and in the middle of a warehouse space (the claim of containing live bunnies proved untrue...)

RODNEY GRAHAM's two video installations--one of a typewriter being slowly covered in snow and one of a slowly turning chandelier--demonstrated how much I adore an old, loud, complicated 16mm projection machine

RICHARD ARTSCHAGER's "No Exit" hallway stretched the entire length of the museum's main wing with overhead light globes reading a simple red EXIT the entire length of the corridor

PIPILOTTI RIST's video installation didn't do much for me but his oversized red nylon couch and armchair gave me a laugh as I watched people watching his work--I was reminded of the power of proportion

ROBERT KUSMIROWSKI's Transition corridor mimicked the modern underground Berlin train station with some simple tape lines and eggshell paint (almost trump l'oeil)

MATTHEW BARNEY's video installation of the first part of his five section film The Cremaster Cycle reminded me that I need more of him in my life: So do you

A question formed in my mind as I views work after work entitled Ohne namen (untitled) that are so common in contemporary art museums. Someone important to me recently suggested a theory that music is only pure when it has no title and no words. Otherwise, I presume we are introducing implied or imposed meanings on something that otherwise exists in some uninfluenced--though still human developed--form. These pure works are supposed to be representations of emotional states--those of the artists turmoil or overwhelming love or whatever else. If this is the case for music, could one argue that it is necessary for visual art as well? In that case what about theater? Are we even looking for a pure form in theater? Without words and titles wouldn't theater be dance? So what's the difference?

I could go on.

Ultimately, my thoughts and experience here today reinforced the fact that DIA: Beacon is my favorite museum in the world. I wish I could go there today. Right now. If you are one of my long lost loves in NYC right now, please put down what you are doing, buy your MTA Metro North daycation pass to Beacon (including museum admission) and run--don't walk--to the most amazing day in a museum you will ever have. Seriously though, if you have a Saturday or Sunday free, NOW is the time to visit this unbelievably beautiful town on the Hudson with a contemporary art museum and collection that will absolutely blow your mind.

A very important teacher begged me to go here once, and since I did 1 year ago, now I'm begging you. It's actually a no brainer.

For now, I will fulfill my contemporary art yearnings by visiting this delightful museum with its own impressive collection of thought provoking works.

TR: FRÜLINGS ERWACHEN

2009-10-19T12:22:00.000-07:00

Frülings Erwachen

Wedekind’s masterful play, written ca. 1889, comes jaunting to the stage at the Berliner Ensemble with a cast of talented Shauspieler and a simple and poigniant design that pleases both the senses and the intellect at every turn.

My familiarity with Frank Wedekind’s Spring Awakening began with the Broadway production of the same name that came to the into the NYC spotlight after an impressive run at the off-Broadway Atlantic Theater Company. When I first saw this production—with music by pop star Duncan Sheik and book (adaptation) by Stephen Sater—it was an impressive new genre of musical for commercial theater with a cast of energetic, sexy, potential superstar young actors with voices that took Sheik’s music to the next level. All this changed when the producers realized how much money they could make by simplifying and “Disney-fying” this revolutionary new musical. The resulting production—which I also witnessed—lost not only its charm and depth, but it’s integrity.

The story of this handful of ill-informed German school students and their stifling Puritanical elders is all to familiar to every American theater-goer and twelve year old girl, but this is truly a story—a piece of literature—that everyone who hits puberty should read.

Wendla Bergmann is just turning thirteen and resists her mother’s attempt to put her in a longer, blacker, more conservative (ie “grownup”) dress. To her mother’s dismay, she is allowed to keep her kurz, weiß (short, white) dress for another spring season—a decision that will ultimately lead the play to its tragic turn. Melchior Gabor obviously has an infatuation with Wendla—this does not go unnoticed by the young girl and her giggling friends—although mingling of boys and girls is frowned upon at this dangerous age. Despite the fact that the children once played together, the awakening of their “urges” makes contact taboo. Melchior has an amusing scene as he helps his troubled friend Moritz Stiefel understand the joys of self pleasure and tries to explain that it is normal to have “phantoms” of the fairer sex. As Mortiz’s thoughts distract him from school and he is kicked out of the academy, Melchior and Wendla’s romance intensifies as they begin to meet behind their parents disapproving backs. Wendla’s mother has a hilarious time trying to explain where babies come from to her curious daughter—ultimately landing with “a man and a woman must love each other very much.” With this answer in mind, Wendla thinks nothing of Melchior’s rape because he vows that he does not love her. Meanwhile, Moritz decides it is better to take his own life. His childhood friend Ilsa catches him in the act and tries to persuade him otherwise by sharing about her newfound personal and sexual freedom. But the constraints of his society get the best of him, and he ends his life as we end act one. His funeral is a decisive moment for the audience in seeing the dynamic between young person and authority, but provides no real resolve for the characters: the surviving boys stand confused and alone while their elders mock the death of their strange friend and leave with a cackling, sickening laugh. Melchior has his own trouble when his teachers discover his “anatomical” drawings, and he is sent to a reformatory school in Britain. Wendla comes down with stomach pains and her mother painfully confronts her with the truth of the situation: “You have a child!” The play comes to a close as Melchior discovers Wendla’s grave in the cemetery. Then the play takes a strange turn. Mortiz, along with the philosophical person of (perhaps) Wedekind himself appear to Melchior in the graveyard and take the momentum out of what is otherwise an intensely tragic and climactic ending.

The Berliner Ensemble’s production of the original play retains every bit of integrity that Wedekind’s play begs its staging to uphold. The children are played by young actors with real chops for their art and a depth of understanding for their characters that goes beyond the pop star attitude of their musical counterparts. Particularly touching performances here include Hanschen’s late night love affair with a post card of Desdemona, Thea’s hilarious and flawless depiction of a young girl yearning to dawn pink from head to toe, and Moritz Stiefel’s troubled—and troubling—version of a boy who is misunderstood and loses hope.

Most of the adults are played in a style that presents them as goofy, antiquated, and clown-like aliens. They appear much less frequently than their children, but it is quite evident that the stifling of knowledge to youngsters produces correspondingly stifled adults. All stars from the old folk include Ms. Gabor’s tedious but emotional four-page letter to Moritz that ends with a simple sigh and the Headmaster’s challenged assistant—overworked and underdressed (his vest popped open as he sauntered around the stage opening and closing windows)—who almost feels remorse when Melchior is caught trying to “artistically” understand his own physiology.

The design for this struggle between the generations generally stays out of the crossfire here. Sounds were limited to wind, rain, thunder, and birds—essential sound to any spring. No music was even needed to accentuate the incredible noise made by the depth of the ensemble’s characters. The costumes—all in black and white until Ilsa’s entrance in prostitute pink—emphasized the children’s physical development by showing their stretching seams and shortening sleeves. The set was brilliantly simple and effective. It consisted almost exclusively of four electronic rotating flats—white on one side and black on the other—that became a character in and of themselves—whether twisting wildly in the spring wind or turning slowly and dauntingly just before Moritz’s suicide scene—until they grandly fell to the floor to create the uneven landscape of the cemetery. Lighting was as simple and as blunt as Wedekind’s language. Blue-white tints and light rose hints bounced off the bright white surfaces of the set and gaunt pale faces of the actors.

Ultimately my reaction to this piece was similar to that of my reaction to the musical version in the states. I left invigorated by the compelling story and inspired (if not a bit jealous) by the energetic performances of young actors who are obviously doing what they love on the stage while also sharing a story of love, misunderstanding, tragedy, loss, and—mostly, of growing up.

Theater Review: MEIN KAMPF

2009-10-19T06:03:00.000-07:00

NUDITY! FAIRIES! QUEENS! HITLER! AND A LIVE CHICKEN!

This is what you get when you see the Berliner Ensemble's rep production of George Tabori'sMein Kampf. No this is not the infamous A. Hitler's Mein Kampf (My struggle/fight), though you will find him onstage here...in one form or another. Entering the Probühne behind the main playing house of the BE, an actor is sweeping the stage under a sweeping ceiling scrim. The play starts with a snow storm upstage accompanied by sweeping music. Here is where the sweeping stops. Tabori's "kampf" is that his FARCE gets bogged down with tedious, high brow German humor and only finds traces of farcical style that will "kampf" its way in later in the evening.

As the play begins Shlomo Hertzl and Lobkowitz chat about Shlomo's book and settle on the title Mein Kampf as Adolph hitler arrives in traditional Austrian attire looking for a place to stay. He insults the two Jewish men, but the diatribe is generally light hearted and he is offered a bed to sleep in. Hitler goes to look for a job--without pants, thanks to Sholmo--and is disappointed when no one will give him employment. The following day, Hitler is sent out of the house while Schlomo receives a visit from his close friend Gretchen who arrives and promptly removes all her clothing. Schlomo resists any contact because of his religious guilt, even when Gretchen offers him the opportunity to fondle her hymen. Soon we realize that the two are good friends as Gretchen offers him a gift of a live chicken, Mitzi.

Here is where the performance began to show its slack for me. I've always been told that when you put a live animal on stage it immediately distracts from the action going on, so I decided that now would be a good time to test this theory. Results: chickens like to shit, alot. They also have four talons on each foot. They are not particularly frightened by people though they prefer to stay away from bright lights. Perhaps animals on stage do provide some solace to theatergoers not prolific in the language of the play.

In the second act Death comes to visit. In this play Death is a real Drag--literally a drag queen in this production--and she comes to collect Hilter. He manages to escape because he happens to be in the bathroom "taking, apparently, the hardest shit since Luther saw the devil in the privy." Death leaves vowing to return, and in the next and final scene, Schlomo awakens to a dream in which Hitler, Gretchen, and five Hitler like henchman present him breakfast in bed and ask for his completed book, Mein Kampf. Schlomo cannot produce the book because he hasn't yet written it and as payback for his shortfall, the one of the Hitlers prepares "Mitzi Schnitzel" in a monologue that combines home cooking shows and torture in a hilariously dark and uncomfortable performance. Death returns just in time to take Hitler away and the play ends as Lobkowitz returns, takes a bite of chicken, and makes a crucifixion joke.

Hitler is certainly a hot topic for any visitor to Germany, and this play afforded me many opportunities to think about how he is portrayed. In the play he was often times depicted as a fool--from drinking/spilling problems to choking fits and ridiculous noise making. Quite regularly Hitler was played as Homosexual as well--whether stomping in his long johns or "short shorts" or wrapping his legs around Schlomo with slight thrusts whilst he gets a shave. Somewhere in all this I was led to believe that perhaps Germans really enjoy watching Hitler mocked and made fun of--hell I was right there with him. I couldn't help feeling a little bad for the actor--talented though he is--who must daily walk the streets of Berlin resembling the leader of the third Reich.

During intermission, I spoke to the girl sitting next to me who happened to be the prompter for this production. I was fascinated to hear that at every production of the Berliner Ensemble a prompter sits in the first row and follows along the script. Often the actors help each other on stage, but in the case of complete forgetfulness, this prompter will actually call out a line (or perhaps mouth it?). In any case, this fact only reinforced my fascination with the fantastic company that is the BE. Each play is only produced three to four times a month and it must take an incredible crew to make the daily changes necessary in sets, lights, costume transport, signage and advertisement, and overall mentality. Not to mention the actors. In the four plays I've seen here now, I've managed to make connections of an actor to another show in each different production. The intricate web of jobs must be an amazing one, and no easy feat to carry out so as not to run into any problems. I truly admire their system, especially when considering the quality of their work.

Having read Tabori's Mein Kampf I know that it is rich in humor and allusion. I know that in the end their are connections made between the Jewish faith and people and their involvement in Hitler gaining power despite their strength. I know that the play is deeply touching and ultimately silly. Farce is the form that I understand this play to be on paper, but something about the energy coming from the actors (and from the audience, to be fair) didn't bring this play to the heightened level at which it could have been performed. Everything felt and looked very late 1920's/early 1930's but when Schlomo pulled out a modern electronic thermometer to take Hitler's temperature, I shouldn't have spent more than five seconds pondering why this prop stuck out among the fairly consistent design up to this point. Somewhere among the numerous captivating directing choices, the director lost his sense of farcical edge and depended too much on the language without directing the action. The result resulted in moments of flat performance.

I'm always taken for a ride during curtain calls in Germany. No matter the quality of the production (at least as far as I have seen), the audience claps in apparent appreciation for at least three minutes solid--sometimes more like eight--and the actors, in turn bow over and over collectively and always individually as well. In this sense, German theater is hugely a give and take relationship between actor and audience, and that is of the utmost importance for theater in my opinion. So, as I clapped for a good five minutes, I held back emotional tears not necessarily for the play, but for the respect the players and their patrons had for each other.

the arrival

2009-10-14T03:55:00.000-07:00

From the corner of my eye, a smile.

Tasting bitterly human,

you touch me like a signal from the past.

Comfort food.

Your breath descends to stillness

bringing my heart closer to yours.

Oh what sweet kiss,

wake me with your eyes.

A bird song and the sounding church

encourage our ecstasy.

Lips dancing like long lost lovers,

exploring the surface as if for the first time,

I wonder- Has a love ever been so perfect?

Ms Marcus

2009-10-12T16:35:00.000-07:00

I had the opportunity to meet Inge Marcus, a German-Jewish woman born in 1922 who narrowly escaped persecution when she managed to flee the country in 1939. She shared cake, tea, time, her dining room, and her story with us, and I hope to someday share it with you. Her story captivated me, and here is a letter thats speaks to my experience with her...which I hope is only the beginning of a journey of my own.

Dear Ms Marcus,

When you opened your home to me, a curious young storyteller, you opened not only your door, but your heart and mind. This has, in turn, opened my eyes. The story you have painted to me is full of rich strokes, bright colors and fine details. Its subject is a beautiful, kind, and supremely intelligent woman who takes great pride and joy not only in her story but also in sharing it. The subject of this story is you.

If I could tell your story today I would speak of a young German girl who loves to perform and works hard in school. This young girl grows into a young woman who is excited to be traveling to England by airplane, frightened by leaving her country and family in a time when uncertainty abounds, and confused by the customs of her new acquaintances upon her arrival. She goes on to become a brave and skilled nurse and makes such strong connections with her colleagues and friends that their bonds inspire the relationships of their parents still subject to scrutiny back in there home country. This delightful young woman is put to the ultimate test--and perhaps forced to grow up--when she and her friends no longer receive letters from their families. She always hopes for the best however, and continues in her efforts to support herself and immerse herself in every opportunity afforded her. This woman falls in love with London, New York, Paris, and a handsome young man. In her wedding photo her blushing young face is hidden behind her supple bouquet and her husbands eyes are closed as if he can barely contain his overwhelming joy and endless love for his new partner. When the happy couple returns to Berlin, they bravely face a city destroyed by war and torn apart by an unimaginable evil force that they each slowly begin to understand. They are met with kindness nonetheless, and when the young bride finds a vacant apartment to her liking, the two are fortunate enough to be the proud owners of a new home. They go on to make a home, children, and a life for themselves. She acknowledges the importance of her past, faith, and her family's tradition and dedicates her time to a women's society for the Jewish faith. After many years, her efforts lead the organization to global recognition and acceptance that was no easy task to acquire. Her fascinating life and story continues today through her many children and grandchildren living on multiple continents.

As you can tell, my details are nowhere near as explicit as yours; it is, after all, your story. I am fascinated by the earnestness with which you explain your life. Not once bitter, resentful, or victimizing, your story is one of perseverance, adventure, and inspiration despite the conflicts of the time.

I would like to tell your story. My passion is bringing stories to the stage. I create art, and more specifically I create theater. Your story is already beautifully theatricalized in your articulate and passionate telling, and I only hope to someday be a part of bringing the feelings and emotions you awoke in me to an audience in a way that is as impactful, humble, and fascinating as you are yourself. Whether I am able to meet you again or not, you will forever be in my thoughts and, perhaps, in my work.

With my most humble thanks, I look forward to the opportunity to learn more about you and your experiences,

Christopher Bowser

had a weekend with mom

2009-10-12T15:04:00.000-07:00

...and I thought it would be a good time to do away with sleeping.

I also thought it would be a good time to put together my own 72 hour tour of Germany's capital city.

Start your weekend late Thursday night by going out with some friends to a party called Chantal's House of Shame. (Needless to say I thought of my good friend of Chantel.) Apparently the shame part is not optional either. By 4am it is time to rush to the Hauptbahnhof to pick up your mother. Get there a few minutes late and frantically look around the mostly deserted train station to no avail. 1800COLLECT will fail my but your credit card won't. Thanks Visa. After a quick chat with your father, learn that she missed her train and is getting in 4 hours later. Great. Now catch a couple hours of sleep. Oversleep. Eventually find your mother standing by the Starbucks in the station. (Some things never change.)

Now get ready for three fun filled and walking filled days. Start early Friday morning with a visit to the Turkish market (buy tasty cheese, produce, and homemade Bourbon whiskey), cover the former DDR capital all the way to Brandenburg gate, and make a stop at the Holocaust memorial and Hitler's bunker (these two should really always be done in conjunction...it's amazing to see how each space is memorialized so differently) End day one. Woof.

Day two takes us further east to see the East Side Gallery and Karl Marx Allee. Eventually work your way up to the shopping in Hackesher Markt of Mitte. When it starts to rain head home and make dinner.

Now it gets sticky. You really haven't been doing enough, so decide to go out. It IS Saturday night in Berlin. One thing leads to another and you end up at Berghain. Serious clubbing until 8am.

Wake up at 11 and spend the entire day walking. This time take the U-bahn to the Mauerpark flea market (eat cult favorites currywurst and döner kebap and catch great deals later in the afternoon), jump the S-bahn to Potzdamer Platz and grab a coffee or four in the Sony Center (your only stop in the far WEST), and walk the Reichstag government sector (some of the most beautiful contemporary river side architecture you will ever see). Topped the day off with a production at Berliner Ensemble (this Sunday: Mein Kampf, a satire from George Tabori).

Make sure you stay up until 3:30 before you take your mother back to the train station at 8am Monday morning.

Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

I'm with the Village Voice

2009-10-03T13:35:00.000-07:00

A GIANT Message for Berliners

No longer able to make my way through the crowded streets of Unter Den Linden on my bike, I lean it against a building and set out on foot through the hoards of people sporting accessories from strollers to canes. I can't help but feel a sense of honor to be walking among thousands of people who came together to see a piece of theater. The power that this art has on the citizens of Berlin is evident as I inch by under the Linden trees that the street is named for. A sense of excitement and anticipation is building as the climactic moment approaches. Not knowing exactly what or when this moment would be is pleasantly putting me over the edge. I need to know.

I get off the now stand still street and after taking a side street to get around Pariser Platz (the Plaza where the Brandenburg Gate stands) I find another crowd of people behind a barricade. With one flash of my press pass, I am welcomed through the gate. Looking back at the curious Berliners stuck behind the metal barricade I can't help but feel a sense of irony in keeping the crowd of Germans behind a wall amidst the festivity. Practically alone on the empty street, I work my way to the press stand. The crowds are thick around Brandenburg Gate, but my spot up high in the press booth allows me a clear view of the entire west side of the plaza and the thousands of people gathered there.

The Berliner Festspiel invited the premiere French theater company Royal de Luxe to bring their "creation theater" to the streets of Berlin as a gift to the city and as part of the city's 20 year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall. Royal de Luxe, founded and directed by Jean Luc Courcoult, has been creating street theater for over thirty years around the world. The company chooses to bring their theater to public places because of their belief that people can be touched more easily in the street than they can inside a theater. For their production in Berlin, Royal de Luxe created a fairy tale in which two giants--the Little Giantess and her uncle The Deep Sea Diver--reunite after being separated by land and sea monsters who wall up the city. The two giants will travel through the streets of the city for four days at the beginning of October. This, the third day of the performance, is German Unification Day and also the day that the giants meet along their journeys.

From high above the crowd, nothing seems to be happening and no giant puppets are in sight. Finally after about half an hour and as the wind picks up chilling us all under darkening and threatening skies, the video display in front of the historic Brandenburg Gate shows us live feed of the giants beginning to wake from their naps and move down the streets. Approaching from the East is the Little Giant, and on my side of the gate, the Big Giant is slowly walking down Straße de 17 Juni from the Tiergarten of the west.

As the Big Giant works his way into my view, I finally get a good view of how these gigantic puppets move. Over 30 people are involved in making the 30 foot tall, 2.5 ton Deep Sea Diver puppet walk. For each step he takes, TWO "Lilliputians" (these are the Royal de Luxe actors/puppet masters dressed in red velvet uniform) must jump from a platform 5 feet off the ground hanging from the lines that lift his size 45 feet. He moves at about 1 km/h. Each giant has about 20 different lines connected to pulleys that the Lilliputians use to control their various body parts. I do love a good pulley. The most impressive and life-like feature of these puppets is their terrifyingly realistic eye movements. Not a moment went by when either giant forgot to blink or wasn't completely informed about their emotional state through their eye movement or gaze. The sparkle in the giants' eyes combined with their amazingly agile movements left me with no doubt--at least during the "performance"--that these giants were real. And damn good actors.

Finally, the Big Giant arrives in front of the gate with great fanfare--literally, a live band follows behind him on a mobile bandstand filling our ears with the original orchestrations for the reunion of the long separated giants. Next, the Little Giant comes into view as she walks (a bit more quickly than her larger uncle) through the Brandenburg Gate. As she does so, I come to realize the actual implication of what is happening here. Just over 20 years ago, what this fictional giant-little girl was doing was not possible. Many--if not most--of the people in the crowd here today remember this time. Perhaps the events of today are moving to me, but I cannot imagine the emotions the long time residents of Berlin must be going through.

With the two giants now reunited, the celebration began. I suppose I should have expected it, but as Thriller blasts over the loudspeakers and the Big Giant is persuaded by his Lilliputians to moonwalk, I realize that Jackson mania is still everywhere--even in Germany. The Little Giant did her own dance routine, and then this section of the fairy tale ended with the Little Giant coming to rest on the lap of her uncle, the Big Giant.

At the end of the day I realized that while the giants had been utterly fascinating, perhaps more interesting to me were the masses of people who gathered around these strange oversize creatures to witness a story that was created just for them as a fairy tale version of their own experiences. No one went through any violence or persecution today, but the emotional needs of the giant characters and of Berliners provide the same message--one of hope, love, healing, and connection. The giants came together fantastically in their tale, just as East and West Germany did twenty years ago, and just as we did today.

it's Oktober

2009-10-01T12:37:00.000-07:00

(one of many murals in my neighborhood of East Berlin)

...and it's cold. Berlin has plunged into Herbst (autumn). The wind on my face and the leaves falling everywhere make this one of my favorite times of year. If the rain can stay away, I think I will really enjoy being in this city for the blustery season.

I'm a bit sick right now, and as I am between visitors right now, I'm taking it easy for the next week and trying to LIVE in the city instead of feeling like I'm SEEING IT. Ty, my supervisor from my RA job last year was here over the last weekend and then headed off to Prague. We trudged along the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining section of the Berlin wall on this rainy Tuesday morning before he left. Next Friday, my mom arrives for the weekend in the middle of her trip with her sister and mother to visit her family here, and when she leaves on Monday, Matthew flies in around the same time for his weeklong stay. After that, I have trips planned to the UK, Cologne, and Paris. It seems more and more my schedule is filling up, and to take advantage of this week in which I have few obligations is the greatest feeling right now.

Don't get me wrong, I'm excited for visitors and trips. I'm also excited when I find myself alone. When I bike with no map, I learn more about the city than by studying any book or atlas. As I follow my instincts (along with a few great pointers from locals/expats) I find more and more a city full of contradictions: it seems to be opening up its gates to me, while at the same time showing the limited extent of its own walls. Eventually there will not be much city left to see, but for the meantime, I'm enjoying the feeling of familiarity that rests just next to curiosity and adventure.

I'd like to get an accordion. When my German teacher asks me "Welcher Instrument mochtest du spielen?" (which instrument would you like to learn to play) amidst answers of guitar and drums, I always tell her Accordion. And perhaps Ukulele. I already know Trumpet, so if I can get the other two down, I'm all set to tackle any Beirut song. That's all I really need. In any case, Accordion's are pretty big and more importantly-available- here, and I just don't see why I shouldn't get one and start learning tomorrow. Except that it would be impossible to get home. It's up in the air then. Here's my favorite Accordion player in Berlin. I've seen him almost everyday in the one or two spots he frequents.

Accordion music is so completely entrancing to me. It embodies romance, elegance, and creation. An accordion has flair, grace, and mechanical parts. If I wasn't in Europe, I know now that it would transport me here. And it will. When I play it in my apartment in New York.

this one's for mom

2009-09-30T11:31:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember, potato salad has been my favorite food. It literally makes me a little anxious when the prospect of potato salad is near. For every birthday, family celebration or visit, or vacation, potato salad was always my number one request. From Me-ma's german model, to Grandma Lennie's paprika topped version; my mom's low fat to Sheila's diced style in a aluminum pan (to name a few...and YES I remember them all) I enjoyed potato salad for many years and from a very young age. It is only now that I have reached the realization that when I want potato salad, I can have potato salad. And after my second attempt, I'm quite pleased with the result. I would like to share with you my recipe.

Christopher's Berlin potato salad:

about 8-10 small boiled potatoes, cold (delblemished but not skinned)

2 german gurkens (pickels) diced

3 hard boiled eggs chopped

1 large cucumber chopped

2.5 small onions or 1 large onion chopped

2 tbsp mayo (I prefer miracle whip)

1 small container of light sour cream

Salt and fresh rosemary to taste

Combine all ingredients in a large bowl and mix together.

Best flavor attained after sitting for a few hours or over night.

I can actually say that as I made this delicious dish, I took all of my fine potato salad memories and put them in with love: creating a new breed of the age old backyard barbeque side dish and traditional german snack that encompasses all of my favorite varieties from home--with my own personal flair.

Paul cooked too. His addition was a egg/onion/ground beef combo that was delicious with fresh chopped tomatoes and, of course, the potato salad. We enjoyed a meal that was not pasta. And that's a big deal for us.

This post was made possible by Me-ma's german roots, Grandma Lennie's cookbook, my mother's endless hours of cooking, Sheila and Chris R.'s weeks of babysitting, and the south's general destruction of the great dish that is potato salad.

Dreams

2009-09-28T00:11:00.000-07:00

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

-Langston Hughes

While walking under cloudy skies in chilly Berlin this morning before 9 and before my body usually finds its way to the streets, I thought about my dreams. Not the goals and wishes I have for my life--but the darker, mysterious, and ambiguous world of my sleep.

I have experienced strange new things. Tried things I have never tried before. Been terrified--for my life, my wellbeing, and that of others. I have been sickeningly disgusted, I have felt love, I have cried, and laughed and smiled. A gun to my head. People from another planet. Distant memories. Inspiring figures. Catastrophic tragedies. I have snored.

I hope I do them all some blistery slightly miserable morning before 9. For what is life without dreams?

Munchen

2009-09-27T13:20:00.000-07:00

Rented a car this weekend and drove the Autobahn to Munich for Oktoberfest. Paul, Annie, Tim (Chawa-gaga) and I set out on Friday morning for Bayern (Bavaria). The driving here is amazing.

Here's a few stats for our Berlin-Munich drive:

Model: VW Passat

Average speed 180kph (about 108 mph)

Top speed 210kph (about 126 mph)

Distance about 600km (5.5 hours)

Cost of 1 tank of gas €90 (about $130)

Windmills seen: endless

When we got to Munich it was about 4:30 and we got a parking place right in front of the apartment where we were staying. I met a couple of "Muncheners" at Kesner in NYC this summer and Daniel, who lives in Munich (his girlfriend Christine lives about 30min away) was kind enough to let me and Paul stay at his amazing flat about 4 blocks from Oktoberfest (Wiesn).

After throwing on a pair of liederhosen and traditional socks, we were out the door for the park. All the tents were completely full already, but Daniel's brother knew someone at one of the tents/houses so we got through and managed to get a beer. The Mass, which is one liter of beer is stronger here than the usual brew (didn't manage to find out why...except for the people singing and dancing on tables...seems like a good enough cause). After I downed my second Mass of the evening, I was well on my way to...somewhere. We stopped for a quick Hendl (Half a chicken with the most amazing flavors) on the fair grounds walking back to Daniel's apartment.

And then we commenced drinking. Alot. So much. Never before or after or again will I consume so much alcohol. After a couple of hours a group of us left to go to a club. Paul never made it in a cab. APPARENTLY we went to a club. Drank. danced. went to THREE MORE clubs? Drinking all the time. Then we went home? Then I woke up. Here's the miracle: I was NEVER sick. There is something in the water in this place.

Paul had a great time too. He passed out on the bench outside their apartment and was discovered by Christine with a beer in his hand and a pack of cigarettes he didn't smoke nor remembers buying.

At 9am we awoke to the ROAR of tens of thousands of people filing into the Wiesn. By 9:30 ALL the tents were full and CLOSED. People like their beer early here.

After a traditional Bavarian breakfast of weisswurste (white sausage with little condom skins) and pretzels, we spent Saturday getting a fantastic tour of the city of Munich. It is so different than Berlin. I always mention how much destruction and identity confusion there seems to be in Berlin. Munich embodies history, culture, and tradition. Every building, person (the liederhosen and dirndls helped), and corner of this city feels ENTIRELY German. Like stereotype. In the most Bavarian way. It's just beautiful.

After a delightful dinner, our overworked and underpaid hosts drifted off to the deserts episode of Planet Earth, and Paul and I headed to a Rave about 25 minutes away. Yep. Check.

I had THE MOST fun in Munich. Daniel and Christine showed more hospitality than I could have ever imagined from someone I met once for 20 minutes on the other side of the world. If the rest of Munich is anything like them, then this truly is really quite close to heaven.

Dirty Projectors/Tuneyards

2009-09-21T15:54:00.000-07:00

Went to a Dirty Projectors concert tonight in Kreuzberg, just down the street from our apartments.

Cool venue--Festsaal Kreuzberg. Three disco balls, two bars, balcony, red curtain, courtyard. 78% of the people there spoke English, and I'd say 40% were from NYC. Basically we were in Williamsburg.

The opening act was Tuneyards. This girl was COMPLETELY CRAZY. She was so bold and alive and enjoying her time on stage--really a great performer. She used a loop machine to record her voice, drum beat, or her own beat boxing for each song...which made me thing of my talented good friend James Monaco who is probably making some really great music right now.

The Dirty Projectors played for over an hour with two encores. You should check them out if you don't know them. They are doing some really cool stuff. The three girls have this amazing pipe organ sound that they produce as they intermingle their voices at all sorts of ranges. The group is so good looking too. Relaxed. Having a great time, and enjoying each other's talents.

Two bands worth listening too. Word.

Mcwhat?

2009-09-16T09:59:00.000-07:00

That's right, Germany found a way to capitalize on one of the most capitalist enterprises we have in possibly the most ironic way.

"McFit: Just look good."

Ok, sure. I can do that. After being warned about a flesh eating disease (MRSA? Merca?) that American's are sure to get if they even step foot inside a European gym, I was a bit discouraged about the prospect of keeping in shape while I scarf down my wienerschnitzel and pommes frites. I decided to meet my flesh eating friend face to face and found that this is perhaps the most sanitary atmosphere outside the H1N1 (hell, swine flu) vaccine manufacturer in China (thanks CNN...). EVERYONE has a towel that they drape over EVERY machine when they use it. The first time I went, I...did not. I carried my rough one ply paper towel around and pretended that I knew how much 45 kilos was. I've only been three times and still when anyone asks me anything, I panic as though I've been convicted of some horrible crime and usually the only thing that comes our is "sorry." I do know SOME German. I was delighted when the scale had a lbs. option. I pushed it and my weight flashed- 10:10:45- or something. "Entschuldigung..."(yes German!) I beckoned one of the many blonde fit ladies who works the counter "kennst du....mmmmphhsshh?" I tried to ask her if she knew what the machine was trying so earnestly to tell me. She checked with one of her blonde beautiful friends and confirmed that it was pounds and she knew nothing about it. Language barrier meet weight barrier.

In any case I have found a cheap option for the four months I am here. The eye candy's not bad either.

ANARCHY!

2009-09-15T07:07:00.000-07:00

This is the symbol for the anarchists of Berlin. It appears on the wall visible opposite from my balcony in Kreutzberg from my first floor apartment. Last night at around 245am, I woke up to explosions. At first I dismissed it as fireworks as I had heard earlier in the evening, but then--from my open window, I smelled the smoke. I sat up and thought "ooh, bonfire," but taking a closer look, realized that their was a Mercedes SUV aflame about 30 feet from my window in the backyard. Confused (and tired) I got up and walked into the hallway. There I was distracted by a bright orange glow coming from my living room. When I looked out the front of my apartment, I found a second car burning on the street 30 feet the other side of my apartment.

I took the first photo from my living room and the second from the front door of my building. This car burnt so heavily that it completely destroyed the car next to it and damaged two others. As we worried about gasoline explosions, the cars tires and windows blew out in extraordinary bangs. Within 10 minutes the firetrucks and police vans arrived, but the experience was jarring. We evacuated and all of us NYU'ers were awake and confused by the excitement. Turns out, anarchist car burnings are a regular occurance in gentrifying neighborhoods of Berlin.

This map shows the (incomplete) spots where car burnings have occurred around Berlin over the past couple years. Apparently the Berlin Police chief sparked controversy when he warned people not to park their fancy cars in Kreutzberg. I won't be pulling my Mercedes up anytime soon.

Educate Yourself

2009-09-14T16:34:00.002-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZZ6GrzWkw0

I may be out of the country, but I haven't missed the ridiculous debate over Obama's speech to school children on September 8. The claim that our President is indoctrinating our children is ludicrous. He said "The future of America depends on you." By keeping their children home from school, ignorant parents are only assuring that their children will go on to be useless, unhappy, fools like themselves.

"If you quit on school, you're not only quitting on yourself, you're quitting on your country." Marxist? Perhaps, but how does this statement hurt any developing child's goal making abilities and drive to be the best they can be?

Perhaps Obama has been through alot. He spoke about the hardships in his life and maybe he even inspired some kid somewhere to do better from themselves. Nah. He probably just corrupted the youth of America.

Truly, from across the ocean, I am deeply disturbed to hear what has been said about this speech even before it was aired on whitehouse.gov. I hope that the institutions of knowledge that I spent so much time invested in and learning from validated themselves by showing this important piece of history on the first day of school. Otherwise I seriously question support of their continued existence and or funding.

All the President is really asking is that we take responsibility for ourselves. If half of the adults in our country could take this simple advice we might be able to exist in a nation and world that is not constantly demonstrating its inability to move forward because of petty over-argued battles.

I wish I had the opportunity to be inspired by this speech while I was in school. To have someone speak that earnestly about my own potential in this country and world would have meant alot to me.

"Asking for help isn't a sign of weekness, it's a sign of strength, because it shows you have the courage to admit when you don't know something, and that then allows you to learn something new." This is advice I can certainly use and HAVE been dealing with over the past 6 months. It's about human connection, something that Fox news, Republicans, Conservatives AND CNN, Democrats, and Liberals could all learn from. It's not that revolutionary, we just need to remind ourselves that without using the simplest help that is available to us--each other--we are all doomed to fail.

Berliners eat ice cream on Saturday

2009-09-12T11:19:00.000-07:00

So naturally I had Mexican food. Which I have heard is terrible in Germany, but it was actually very fulfilling. Plus I had bier mit Fanta! That was tasty. Reminds me of the Porrons at Macondo on Houston in NYC. I went to Prinzlauerberg today and biked/walked around. Stepped into a few shops and found things to expensive. While I sat at my Mexican restaurant and all the Germans watched soccer (?some sport nonetheless) I read my Marx readings for homework and pondered critique of religion and how the proletariate is a model of the disintegration of a nation. Interesting guy. Tough reading. MARX, FREUD, & NIETZCHE is going to be a fun class. Later I had ice cream too (after all I AM a Berliner for OVER a week now...).

Since I last wrote I have been a cultural fiend.

On Tuesday, Annie and I saw Die Kleinburgerhochzeit at the Berliner Ensemble. A raucous comedy by my own dear B. Brecht. Comedy? Who knew? €7. Thanks Berlin.

On Wednesday we went to the Berliner Festspiele, a huge nearly 3 week literature festival going on here right now, and heard Arundhati Roy read from her new book Democracy's Failing Light. She is an Indian writer and in this reading focused primarily on the potential civil war coming in her motherland. Her words were shocking, relatable, poetic, intelligent, inspiring, and absolutely made me want to read her book as well as know more about what is going on in the world--not to mention my own backyard. Her reading can be found here should you have the time and interest to check it out (which I would highly recommend): www.literaturfestival.com/upload//roy%20english%281%29.pdf

On Thursday morning our Literature class went three doors down from our school to visit--where?--oh right, Bertholt Brecht and Helena Weigel's home. The two of them--though separated at the time--each lived out the final years of their lives in this beautiful three story apartment building in the middle of east Berlin. They shared the ground floor (and beautiful garden out back!) but then each artist had their own floor above and the two would apparently write notes back and forth when they wanted something from the other. The apartment was giving to the two because the government of the GDR thought that surely if Brecht had a large space, he would host international guests--otherwise, Brecht's onstage commentary did little to please the authorities. I made an appointment with the Brecht archives to visit on Tuesday morning. You can do research and see copies of original manuscripts on what was once Weigel's floor.

Thursday night took me to the Berliner Staatsoper for Verde's La Traviata. I got a fourth row seat for €13. I turned to my (sophisticated?) opera going neighbors and asked "Kann ich lese bitte?" asking if I could read their opera synopsis. They were confused and replied "Englisch?" After one minute of talking I found out that they are related to someone who graduated from Tisch 3 years ago. Small world. The theater went black, the HUGE orchestra struck the opening chords and the primadonna appeared upstage left in a light up dress. She wandered downstage and wowed us all with her crystal clear soprano performance and eloquent characterization. She truly was the only performance up there. The chorus was terrible. Like community theater in Huntsville (no offense, this is a major metropolitan art city) bad. Plus they were in all black--and many in leather. A beautiful evening of italian singing and german supertitles. Oops...you're out of luck here Americans. Looking forward to Il Barbiere di Siviglia and perhaps I will sit through La Boheme again.

On Friday Paul and I biked over to Tempelhof airport. We were surprised to find an almost wholly abandoned monstrously huge building. The gorgeous terminal built btw 1936 and 1941 is made of limestone and was once among the 20 largest buildings in the world AND once among the busiest and most advanced airports in the world. It closed almost a year ago and has since been used for a fashion expo and a concert series. We couldn't get inside the terminal but what we could see was absolutely riveting and haunting. Hopefully we will get back for a tour. A park here would be really swell.

Friday night, a group of about 15 of us ventured to Friedrichshain to a Soul club that Annie found. After wandering around the residential neighborhoods of Berlin's equivalent of Bushwick. Somehow we found this place and it turned out to be a really great time. Two dance floors with really great soul music kept us dancing till 3:30. The fire pit under the outdoor discoball warmed us up as we cooled off from workin it out.

The weather is just great. I can deal with 60 degrees, sure.

First Day of Class

2009-09-07T13:40:00.003-07:00

Got up in time to ride my bike to class. Trusting my sense of direction I found the building I was looking for rather quickly. Got a bike lock so my "sehr altes farhad" will not get stolen. First I had German. I signed up for Elementary German II but once we went through some of the material I might try to go to Intermediate I. That would be a class of three people. We shall see. I got some much needed coffee between classes and found myself in "Balzak Coffee." It was Starbucks to the "t". Everything from the counter design to the infamous "tall, grande, venti" sizing system to the designs of every piece of furniture and every sign matched its American counterpart (though Starbucks do spot the streets here as well). My next class was "Marx, Nietzche, and Freud." The class is over two hours long, but I was so intensely interested in everything the teacher had to say. It made me realize how fantastic academic classes can be. When I hear majors like politics, sociology, or economics, usually I just shrug and ask "so what do you wan to do?" not knowing exactly what those studies involve. I realized today that this class (taught by the politics and sociology teacher) is just an extension of everything I have been thinking about recently from capitalism and its effect on the world to what the hell I'm going to do when I get out of this ridiculous theater school with a BFA. The only moment I found myself drifting was when I began to think about my own death while the teacher explained that the intensity of the three philosophers we will study often has a somewhat depressing effect. I was so moved by Riaz Kahn's excitement about the material we will cover that it was truly contagious. I hope everything lives up! On my bikeride home I got "lost" and found a man playing accordion (my favorite) next to the plaza where Nazi student book burnings occured in the late 1930s. What a place I am in.

Potsdam Tour

2009-09-06T14:33:00.001-07:00

More than once today on our tour of Potsdam I found myself in an a space talking not about the famous building that was there, but about the building that once stood there. Instead I was usually looking at an empty lot often covered in scattered weeds and or broken concrete. So many times on the lenthy (but helpful) tours over the past few days I have heard the same story. It goes something like this:

Once upon a time there was a beautiful cathedral (or palace or amazing piece of architecture) standing in this spot, but then it was bombed in the air raids of WW2. Then it sat for 20 years in ruins. Then it was restored. Then it was demolished after the fall of the wall because it stood for ideals that were no longer accepted. And then my favorite: Now they are REBUILDING it but (here's the kicker) we don't really know what we want to do with it once it's built.

Berlin and Potsdam are both so beautiful but it's nearly impossible to tell what era a building is from because it was either restored or rebuilt or is just generally confused. I have to wonder what a people who have been surrounded by this kind of pattern for even the last 20 years have done to cope with the tug of war of sorts. This city seems to thrive on destruction as a means of not only economy but as creation itself.

Imagine the ordeal over what to do with the site of the World Trade Center...It was a big controversial contest and still almost 10 years later we still don't have anything in the sky there...but something is started right? I guess I don't even really know the whole story. But there is 10 or 20 times as much of that going on here today. Even my friends who were here a year ago saw a different city. And when I come back in 10 years, who even knows...

That's my rant about history for now. I have so much to learn.

Who'd have known that Frederich the Great had this amazing palace in the middle of Germany that was modeled after his love for French literature and architecture? Sannsouci is this amazing park that is full of green and palaces and hedges and fairytale dreams. When you first walk in the gates you can see 2.83 Kilometers straight through the park to the palace at the far end. And then there are the palaces along the way. This one was Frederich's "pleasure home." Our tour ended outside the palace, so I took a quick bathroom break in this guy Frederich's backyard and then snuck away on my own. As I walked through the gardens I was finally able to take a moment and experience Germany for myself. I wandered, sat under a tree for a while trying to Meditate (thanks Valerie) and just cleared my mind of all the biznass of the last couple days. As I walked out of the park down another path of beautiful trees, I hopped over an old stone wall and found myself in front of the ruins of an old outdoor theater. I walked under the long forgotten scaffolding surrounding the structure and stood on the stage. It was covered in rubble and vegetation, but faintly on the backwall I could make out a scene painting of a beautiful lake (I assume Wannsee, the nearest lake). It reminded me of my mentor, Ron Harris, and his backyard theater that I performed in on the eve of my departure for my initial audition for NYU as he coached me through my monologue. His biggest suggestion: SLOW DOWN. I need to remind myself of this now.

Mauerpark

2009-09-06T02:49:00.000-07:00

Got up at 7:15 today to go to the Mauerpark Flea Market. We took the train there with a 20% chance of rain, so we were pretty set on staying dry. By the time we got there it was raining. Fine. A little mud doesn't hurt. Except when you're wearing suede shoes.

Anyway. This flea market is amazing. Purchases:

Lizard(?)/leather vintage wallet (With necessary coin purse section)- €7

Leather backpack- €28

Lennon sunglass/clear plastic frame- €4 each

2 beer steins- €4

BIKE- €30

I managed to ask at each stand: "Wie viel kostet das?" Which I believe is asking "How much is that." I got numbers down, so I became the liaison between non English speakers and my fellow bike searching friends. I was proud to carry on conversation with my Bike seller as we talked about the weather and "wo ich komme aus" (answer: NYC).

Right, so now I have a bike. After bathing my suede shoes and soaking through the ass of my jeans I rode home with my new thrifty friends in the light rain. No deaths only one small wipeout between the 4 of us. Good to know: you can't ride with your bike tires in the tram rail lines in the street. Those are for trams. Also good brakes are really good for good bikes. Oops. Again, no death.

Verdict: flea markets im Berlin ist super!

The churchbells are ringing 12 times now. Must go off for another NYUinBerlin sponsored tour or the surrounding area. yay...

the newest recyclable fashion

2009-09-03T16:50:00.000-07:00

Spreewald pickles and duty free haute couture. We somehow managed to stay up until 2am despite our jetlag and are slowly working our way through our new German supermarket purchases including nutella, pickles, red cabbage, beer, beer, beer, and various delicious cookies. Paul is doing a dramatic reading on the origin of cupcakes from Scientific American (including a fine British accent). We are seriously delirious.

pitstop in Zurich

2009-09-03T01:49:00.000-07:00

After sitting next to the swine flu from JFK I found myself with 5 hours in Switzerland.

delicious brioche, swiss chocolate to share. swiss francs (no euro)

I'm in heaven. Already.