Chanukah in Berlin

One of the things about being an unemployed artist is that you frequently have to be on the move – and here I am not speaking of the particular challenges of practicing your craft, but rather the more mundane task of finding a new apartment when the lease runs out. For the last few months, I dwelt in a place high above the fray, with central heating and comfortable couches where I could cocoon. It was too good to last, and in its place I have found a suite of very large rooms with a very small coal oven which is supposed to provide enough heat to keep me warm. For a few days I was sort of shocked…you mean, I actually had to do something to make heat? I had to light a fire? Preposterous!

But then I realized that my room had 14 foot ceilings and a piano, and that perhaps it is not so good to be comfortable all the time. Besides, my new roommate – Adam - an Orthodox Jew from New York – is great fun. We both like Amadeus and are sort of obsessive about good coffee. I will never forget the sight of him in his yarmulke showing me how to load the furnace…. “Do you think we’ll get more heat if we use corpses?” I asked. Fortunately he got the joke.

Besides, I knew Adam was a kindred spirit because he invited 4 people for dinner and bought enough food for 20. He asked me if 4 bags of ziti were enough and I told him it would be plenty, but he bought more just in case, because you don’t want people to go hungry…..They say that the memory of famine lasts generations. My grandmother survived the war and thought that if the only thing she fed my father was chocolate pudding, he would surely become strong. He got rickets. My mother was ill in the hospital and I thought if I just made her scrambled eggs with extra butter and cream it would make her better. I did not know she couldn't eat it, and yet she could not tell me. I wonder if there will be a day when we can just eat. Not while there is hunger - nor for the generations that come after, say I. There will have to be a hundred years of plenty before food becomes just food.

Tonight we are having a Chanukah party at our apartment. Adam just came in with 50 pounds of potatoes that he carried with him on his bike from the Turkish market down the road. “Do you think this will make enough latkes for 20?” I said it would, but he is still not so sure.

Bless him for that.

We do not have a menorah so Adam and I went down to the recycling bin to look for empty wine bottles that we could use as candle holders. The candles were too big, so Adam took out his pen knife and started whittling them down so they would fit. It wasn’t exactly kosher, but surely God gives special dispensations for people trying to celebrate Jewish holidays in Berlin. I think there is even a blessing asking God to just let it go because you are trying your very best, under the circumstances. If there isn’t, there should be.

Of course, this was not the first time I found myself without a menorah – when I was young we lived in an Aboriginal community in northern Manitoba, which most people would say is the middle of nowhere but which most certainly is not. We did not have a menorah but we did have a 2x4 and some red candles left over from a dinner party, and in the middle of the wilderness we kindled festive lights that shone in the darkness. And so it does not matter whether or not you have silver candlesticks, nor does it matter where you are. Any place where you light candles becomes for a moment the centre of the world, and a holy place from which the planets will for a brief moment, take their orbit - if they have any sense in them.

I am off to buy some more potatoes…

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.

Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart.

Blessed is the heart with strength to stop its beating for honour’s sake.

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling fame.

-Hannah Szenes (1921-1944)

State Visit

When I was young, I remember watching a documentary about the Queen preparing for the state visit of Lech Walesa. I was fascinated by the months of preparation, the attention to detail…the costumes. I never thought that I would be preparing for a state visit myself, but I got word a couple of months ago that my father has decided to come and see me in Berlin, and while the visit of one’s parents cannot really be compared to an official diplomatic exchange between countries (or can it?), you should know that my father is a dialysis patient. What's more, the last time he was in this part of the world he was a 10 year old refugee from Communist Poland who wore steel toed-boots so he could injure the children who called him names. Needless to say I have been trying to find ways to make this visit easier, not only for my father’s comfort, but for the safety of the local populace. I have reserved a car – a Passat. I have secured an apartment on a ground floor with fluffy towels and a muted color palette….I have stocked up on tranquilizers. But it is hard to know what to prepare for and what to leave in the hands of fate. I worry that things will not be to my father’s liking – that he will not have a good time. After all, Berlin is going to be a tough sell, and so anything I can to leaven the lump I will gladly do. Of course, if this really were a state visit, I would have teams of officials at my disposal and the full resources of a nation state to procure the best of the best of everything. As it stands I have a dictionary, lots of free time and willpower. But I have learned that armed with these three things, you can pretty much get anything.

…except a temporary handicapped parking permit in Germany.

I don’t even know how the subject came up. I think I found a special website designed for travelers with disabilities that said that you could simply go to the ministry of transportation (Bundesministerium für Verkehr, Bau und Stadtentwicklung Referat Bürgerservice, Besucherdienst) and make a request. It seemed easy enough to me, and I knew that being able to park in handicapped spots would make things a lot easier, so I got dad to send me his medical information, and off I went.

The ministry of transportation is not open to the public. This is well known. You can, however, leave a written message – on very nice stationary, I might add. I did the best I could with my dictionary and my determination, and came up with something like this: “Dad visits Berlin from Canada. No movement ….. possible parking spaces for broken people? I remain your most faithful servant…” Well, I got the point across, and I knew how to close a letter properly because the first thing I do when learning a new language is to study the correct forms of salutation and address, for I have found that you can say almost anything if you do it politely.

I had expected to get a response in a couple of days, but when I received an email within 24 hours I took it to be a positive sign:

Most distinguished sir. Thank you so much for your petition which you kindly deposited at our ministry yesterday. In reference to your question regarding parking spaces for disabled persons who are temporary visitors to Germany, but who are not members of the European Union I can offer the following answer. It would be unconstitutional to refuse such a permit to anyone, as this would be in contradiction of the German Basic Law of 1949 which prohibits discrimination to anyone on the basis of physical ability. That being said, we do not handle such requests at our ministry, nor am I at liberty to divulge contact information for the appropriate government department, as this is not part of my job description. I would recommend that you go to the city hall in your district for further instruction. With friendly greetings...

Okay – fair enough…. Off to city hall.

Yes – welcome to citizen’s services. Do you wish to make a complaint? Ah – handicapped parking. Well, actually we do not take care of that here, for this you must go to the Strassenverkehrbehörde. But the Ministry of Transport told you to come here? Why would they do that? Everyone knows that the In Deutschland entscheiden über Gewährung von Parkerleichterungen für behinderte Menschen (Ausnahmegenehmigung), die Bürger von Nicht-EU-Staaten sind, die Straßenverkehrsbehörden der deutschen Bundesländer.

Of course they do, how silly of me. In my confusion, I called Arvedt, who finds great solace in the efficiency and logic of German bureaucracy, himself being a German bureaucrat. I mean, if he didn’t believe in the system then who would? And what would that mean for the future of Germany? Can you feel the angst? (Last summer Arvedt was very tense because a train was 3 minutes late – this was the 4^th time in the last 2 weeks that he had experienced such ineptitude and he was genuinely concerned that this marked an unacceptable decline in the level of services of the Deutsche Bahn, and that he would most certainly be writing a letter… I told him that I thought that the trains in Germany could stand to be a little less punctual if only to differentiate them from the trains of the past. He failed to comprehend my meaning and asked me to explain myself. I didn’t want to get into it, and this made him even more upset because not only was I failing to make myself clear, I was avoiding a subject – and in Germany these two things are cardinal sins, unless you are talking about the war of course, which I was doing, if only euphemistically, so maybe I was off the hook? Fortunately the train arrived right at that moment so all was forgotten and Arvedt began to look up and down the length the compartment for an official complaint form so he could make his displeasure known. I went to the restaurant car and got a beer.)

Arvedt listened to my tale like a priest hearing confession. He was patient and kind and made some suggestions, but he never for a moment doubted the absolute rightness of the system…..

You know Ben, I am really quite proud of you for going about this in the proper way. I think that you will learn a lot about Germany. I would recommend that you call the Strassenverkehrbehörde between 11 o’clock and not later than quarter after one, and you should have a certified translation of your fathers Besicherungsausweis – this means official certificate of disabled status. And you should make sure that it is stamped, because in Germany everything must have a stamp.

Like the scarlet letter? Like a yellow star? What’s the deal with the stamp? Well, here goes…..

Strassenverkehrbehörde – Schröder speaking. You want a temporary handicapped parking permit for a tourist? This is of course possible but you would need a certificate of handicapped status from your home country that would have to be translated into German…yes….of course it has to be stamped. The stamp is extremely important. Why would we accept anything without a stamp? Now, does your father have a dog assistant…I mean to say, some sort of house animal that helps him with regards to the seeing? Because if he did, then you would need a special permit for this too and it would have to be stamped. The permit would have to be stamped, not the dog. Why would you stamp a dog?

Good question

I knew full well that my father did not have a handicapped sticker, nor did he possess any sort of official proof that he is disabled. I knew for a fact that my father would rather be dead than yield one inch of freedom to his illness, and it is this tenacity which has kept him with us. But the truth is, he can’t really walk. I wondered if I could send a video of my father buying groceries that could be used in lieu of said certificate. If they could see him in his military parka trying to push a shopping cart through the snow at the Superstore in Winnipeg, they would most certainly issue some kind of documentation, or maybe a purple heart. But what is the correct procedure for stamping a video? I am sure there is some sort of government office for that, too…..

• Videoabnahmestempelbehörde? (Video stamp office)

• Filmbezeichnungechtheitsprüfungamt für Schwerbehindertenausweis Ausgabe? (Film-stamp authentication bureau for the purposes of the designation of a handicapped certificate issuance)

• Sekreteriat – Anwendungsentwicklung des Bilddokumentation Bestimmung Befristetbehindeterzustandparkerleichterungen Deutschlands? (Secretariat for the application management of visual documentation for the determination of temporary disabled status parking spaces in Germany)

I think I will go call Arvedt. I am not giving up on this one.

Nothing Personal

Some countries like France or Italy entice the potential traveler with images of sensual lusciousness – ripe fruit, brimming wine glasses… pretty girls. Some countries like England or Greece inspire with vistas evoking the majestic past…Acropolii and Thermopylae…Stonehenge. For Germany, things are not quite that easy: German food has a middling reputation, and German history, while peppered with interesting events (have you read about the Frankfurt parliament of 1848?) is - well, German history. It is therefore not surprising that the powers have taken a different course of action and have decided to market their fair land as - “Germany: Land of Ideas”.

Pretty sexy, isn’t it. Of course, that is not the point – “Germany: Land of Ideas” is portentous, solid and impressive, and these things are very important to the Germans. One would not want a slogan that minimized the importance of the German geist, or spirit. One would not want the world to think that the Germans were not earnestly struggling with their identity or thinking about the nature of their country, themselves, and their relationship to the world. But in the end, I would much rather go for the glass of wine – even a pretty girl. Wouldn’t you?

Germans have always loved ideas. Ideas are perfect. They do not disappoint, like people tend to do. To be fair, the Germans have had some wonderful ideas –like inventing the printing press, or coating marzipan in chocolate. They have also had some not so wonderful ideas: lederhosen, for example…or using pesticides to massacre children. It is unfortunately the latter which most people recall when they think about Germany. I do not blame them.

But there is something heroic in the German quest for the ideal, something noble that is all too often lost in our world full of intellectual and moral compromises sent from an iphone. And while this adherence and search for the “ideal” is wonderful when it comes to the representation of romantic art, it is a bit of a pain when it comes to buying stamps or paying a parking fine. Living here, I sometimes wish the Germans would just “let one go” and bend a rule, just once in a little while – just to let me know that within them the human heart still beats…maybe just this once my certificate of good conduct wouldn’t be required in order to rent a movie about the Baader-Meinhof gang. Maybe this time I will not be scolded for exiting from the front door of bus. Oh, who am I kidding… it is never going to happen and the sooner I realize that, the happier I will be.

I first came to this realization last summer when I had a day off of rehearsal and decided to treat myself to Kaffee und Kuchen at KaDeWe. In the formerly divided Berlin of yore, KaDeWe, short for Kaufhaus des Westens (Department store of the West) was the preeminent symbol of all that was right, or wrong with capitalism - depending on your point of view, for at KaDeWe you really can buy anything – for a price: fresh crocodile meat? -Done. How about a bag of loose diamonds to go with it? - But of course. And why not a 10 dollar can of imported Campbell’s Soup to stave off the home sickness that strikes us all? Would you like it gift wrapped? A friend of mine who had grown up in East Berlin told me that he had learned all about KaDeWe in school – that store over there where you could buy whatever your heart desired, but only if you had the money. But not everyone had the money – far from it, so wasn’t it better to live in a society where everyone did have money but there was nothing to buy?

As always, my desire for chocolate trumped any questions of a political nature, so I went to the Lenôtre pasty counter on the 6^th floor – that place where you can believe that life is just that much better when things are dipped in sugar and put on display. It had been a pretty long week so I decided to treat myself and order a latté in addition to my usual gateau Marly (kirsch-soaked genoise filled with champagne butter cream, coated with pink marzipan and topped with fresh strawberries tantalizingly glazed with red currant jelly - served with vanilla flavored whipped cream on a china plate with a silver cake fork by a woman named Ulrike who had perfectly manicured nails and a charming demeanor until your friend asks in a loud voice for a glass of tap water….)

I need not tell you that the experience was sublime. I was in Berlin, after all, and I was an opera singer. What’s more, I was being paid for the privilege. I had left my comfortable bourgeois life behind me and was really living the dream, as it were. It goes without saying that the cake was exquisite – a symphony of tastes that seemed to validate the choices I had made in life. I sat there for a moment, trying to capture what the moment meant to me – that synthesis of fulfillment and pleasure; yet another sign that I was doing the right thing. With sugar-enhanced bravado, I asked for the receipt in German – a master of fluent nonchalance. I reached for my wallet. It was not there.

I can tell you from experience that losing one’s wallet is an anxiety inducing experience. By extension, losing one’s wallet in a foreign country where one only has a basic grasp of the language could be considered to be the catalyst for a full on panic attack. But I did not panic. I was in Berlin, and I was an opera singer, and if these two things had taught me anything, it was the ability to exhibit grace under pressure. Besides, I was not about to let Ulrike see me sweat. Luckily, at that precise moment I managed to find 5 euro and 90 cents in my coat pocket. Since the bill came to 7 euro (it would have only been 5.50 had I not ordered that verdammte latté), I was only out about a euro, and who would care about that?

With a mixture of sweet relief and the last vestiges of my enhanced self confidence, I calmly informed Ulrike of the situation: Oh silly-but-well-meaning-foreigner-me, forgetting my wallet at home but doing the proper thing by informing the authorities…oh, couldn’t you just please just let this one go, Ulrike? You see, I have almost enough, and I owe only a little more than a euro, and you know I will come back – I really will. How could one go for more than a week without a slice of Gateau Marly? I mean, it is like communion for me! Ulrike? Why are you making the tap water face? Why are you telling me to wait right here while you dial a number into the slim line telephone with your beautifully manicured nails?

In retrospect, I wonder why I didn’t just ask a fellow customer for a euro or two and be on my way. I did think of this, but I was more embarrassed by not being able to formulate the correct German word order needed to do so than I was by being - for all intents and purposes - a shoplifter (but is it shoplifting if you eat what you steal?). I could have also just taken my chances and left as fast as I could, but at the time I thought - “what’s the worst that could happen?”

And so I did just as I was told and sat there while a pride of impatient Charlottenburg matrons cooled their very high heels. I tried to explain to them that I could not actually leave the counter because I was being detained. This was perfectly understood, and they agreed among themselves that being held against one’s will was quite a logical state of affairs. What they could not understand was why I had elected to address them using the informal you and they pointedly told me so, as did Ulrike – brandishing a silver cake fork.

“You are the man who lost his wallet, ja?” I bolted upright and spun around to find a very trim man in a very trim suit – my accuser. He was flanked by two larger men in baggy tracksuits. I guess this was security. I nodded, not really able to speak, not wanting to be corrected again.

“You see,” he began, “I must detain you until the exact amount of the bill has been paid. The fact that you only owe 1 Euro and 20 cents is not the point. If I were to let you go now, then this would set an impossible precedent and eventually people would be able to just steal whatever they liked, and then what would the state of the German economy be?”

To say that I did not care would be a gross understatement. I asked him what I could do – perhaps I could phone my friend and he could provide the store with a credit card number. Perhaps they could just trust me to return later in the day with the outstanding money. Or, perhaps they could stop acting all crazy-ass and spend their time trying to catch the people stealing the designer underwear on the 4^th floor instead of interrogating me over a partially paid for piece of cake. Nope.

“You said you have a friend?” He was intrigued. “Well then you must call your friend and inform him that he must come to the store with either your wallet, or with the exact amount owing. At that point, I can let you go, but not before. You must understand, sir, that this is nothing against you personally – I am sure you are a very competent member of society who pays his taxes and directs his complaints about public order to the appropriate ministries, but perhaps as a visitor to our country you need to better understand that in Germany, we have rules.”

No shit

Saying that Germany has rules is like telling someone that Canada has snow while they are waiting for the bus in Winnipeg in January – that is to say that it is so painfully obvious that you begin question the sanity of the speaker. If I had been at a bus stop, I certainly would have written this man off as crazy. I certainly would have ignored him, but sadly I was not at a bus stop, nor was I in Winnipeg for that matter.

I was in Berlin, and this was not personal, only ridiculous. Ulrike handed me the slimline telephone and I called my friend.

…Nothing personal

In the know

Last night I went to a concert in an abandoned ball house...very divine decadence – crumbling plaster and faded gold leaf - sputtering candles expiring with a fizz onto chipped gilt mirrors. In a word, fabulous. I went with a friend to see a very earnest Finnish pianist play Brahms. It was lovely. My friend told me that he would be accompanied by a man who owned a very exclusive boutique, so I of course dressed for the occasion, which meant my very best cravat and the Kelly green loafers I only bring out for the most special of occasions. I thought I looked pretty good, truth be told.

When I arrived, my friend greeted me warmly and introduced me to a painfully thin couple who were dressed entirely in what seemed to be black rags. I thought they looked like hobos dipped in India ink, but my friend assured me that their clothes were very expensive. The woman extended a limp wrist and smiled, except that it looked like she was wincing in pain. The man looked me up and down and gave me a withering glance, the kind a society matron gives when confronted with a wet dog. They did not comment on the shoes…..everybody comments on the shoes! I think it is because the shoes were not black. My friend told me that this man and his girlfriend had not been seen in anything other than black for almost 20 years. Perhaps they are mourning their sense of humour.

After the concert (which was appropriately dark, being late Brahms and all), we went to a little café for a bite to eat. Over lentil soup I learned all about the man in black – his business philosophy (be aggressive), his “concept” (be aggressive but try to hide it), his tips on how to succeed in life (there are winners and losers- you choose). I think I was supposed to be impressed, and I was: I was especially impressed that a man who sold clothes for a living thought so much of himself…It showed lot of chutzpah, I thought. I mean, if he were a master tailor who knew how to sew an exquisite button hole - that would be something. If he made shoes and knew how to cloak a customer’s foot in buttery calfskin, I would show my reverence. But the shmatta business? Are you serious? Am I to be pontificated to by someone in trade?

I must admit, however, that this man’s confidence piqued my interest, so I decided to check out the website for his store the moment I got home. I was immediately confronted by a solitary image of barbed wire. Did this mean he was selling striped pajamas? Was there even still a market for that in Berlin? Actually, the barbed wire was meant to suggest a barrier which signaled the exclusivity of the venture – a velvet rope for the most masochistic of fashion victims. Of course..... Question: Why is it so cool to be forbidding? Who invented that? Moving on…..

I learned that the store is so exclusive it doesn’t have a sign to let you know it is there. You are just supposed to know. Oh, and the location of the store changes every few months and this is not advertised. You are supposed to know this, too. You are also supposed to know that the store is not really a store but actually an “avant garde guerilla sartorial experiment” which is open for 4 hours a day, by appointment only. What’s next, land mines?

It goes without saying that everything on display was black. Most of the items were artfully torn, ripped or discolored. I believe the term that they used was “distressed”. There was one piece - a scarf, I believe (it was hard to tell) - from a very exclusive underground designer that consisted of frayed clumps of wool in various shades of “muted charcoal, midnight and pitch”….it looked like my grade 8 sewing project and cost 400 Euros… 400 Euros? For a scarf that doesn’t even keep you warm? What are they, mishuggah? I can only imagine bringing something like that home, only to discover that my father had mended it by morning with a piece of denim scrounged from his workbench in the garage. “Why can’t you buy yourself a decent scarf?” He would say. “Let’s go to Canadian Tire – they have scarves on sale for 4.99. Nice ones…warm! So what if they have reindeer on them? Are you going to fucking care what the fucking scarf looks like when its 50 below?”

Good point.

It gets better. I scrolled down to find a one-of-a-kind fiberglass coat by a Japanese designer for 5000 Euros. I immediately called my friend…“could it be true?”, I asked. Indeed it was – my friend told me that he had actually seen the coat in the store before it was snapped up last month, and that he noticed that the label said “not to be worn – fiberglass cuts skin”. An $8000 coat that you can’t even wear. Who would sell such a thing? Maybe it comes with a special undergarment? Maybe there is a danger element I don’t know about? Maybe we’re all going to hell in a hand basket?

Am I just supposed to know?

I told my friend that with 5000 euros you could pay the rent in Berlin for an entire year. He laughed, and we agreed to meet tomorrow for coffee – not lunch, mind you. My friend always brings a sandwich with him wherever he goes. He is trying to save money while he finds a job here in Berlin. In the meantime he studies German 5 hours a day and goes swimming in the evenings because it is less expensive. He wears bright red pants that he bought at H&M.

They look great.

Just for Me (?)

I must admit I live a fabulous life. Of course, I would never in a million years admit to it being otherwise – having flitted off to Europe to pursue my dreams, no strings attached. Tonight I am going to an experimental opera in a subway station and then an all-night party at a 100 year old ball house where it girls and it boys learn how to do a proper Viennese waltz from East German ladies who have been AROUND. Why, at this very second the melted buttery afternoon sun is streaming into the window of my apartment –casting exquisite shadows from the crown moldings onto the unfinished parquet floor. It is one of those Cecil B. DeMille moments where the clouds part and you find yourself the recipient of a shaft of light that seems to indicate that you have been given some divine acknowledgement for just being yourself - when it is really only chance and the lady on the floor below – the one with the noisy cat and the Schlager music at 3 AM probably feels the exact same way because the shaft of light is shining on her too. Still, it is nice to have those moments – those unexpected breaks in the weather…a turning of the dial to a more pleasant frequency.

Yes, I do have a pretty fabulous life – but in gay terms, it is only entry level fabulousness.I came to this realization over tea with my friend Michael. I had just gotten my diplomatic passport because I was about to be sent on assignment to Rome. We were both very excited because now I had something really fantastic to tell people at parties. What did it matter that I was really only going over for 6 weeks to feed paper into a scanner? Since when does a good story have to be burdened with something as ridiculous as the truth? I was finally fabulous and this would have to be acknowledged. Of course, Michael and I both came to the conclusion that it would have been far more fabulous had I been an ambassador or something – someone with a retinue and a car and all sorts of decorations. Then, every knee would bend and all would be forced to recognize the absolute supremacy of my existence. There would be much plotting of my downfall of course, but I would persevere and overcome with that steely grace that is my trademark.

They don’t call us queens for nothing.

In the gay world, fabulousness must be maintained at all costs: even if your life is going down the toilet, you must present well. For example, a cramped bachelor apartment is a charming pied-à-terre. Old clothes are called vintage and skipping dinner because you can’t afford it is slimming down for spring. One must never, EVER admit to the banality of one’s existence, much less the oppression and ridicule one must often overcome to get on with it. To do so would admit some sort of defeat, some tacit acknowledgement that the forces that have tried to keep you contained - to keep you invisible have won, or at least gained ground. My dear, this is not DONE: Not only must you have a stiff upper lip, but the makeup must be perfectly applied.

And while all this social corseting is very impressive, resulting as it does in an entire subculture of perfectly turned out people who thrive on artifice and dreams, it can be exhausting because you can see the gears working: it takes a lot of thought to upgrade your life on a constant basis. That being said, a night out in one of the gay clubs of Berlin can be a great deal of fun, as long as you don’t scratch the surface and expect anything real. But who expects reality after dark?

The other night I went for a drink with some fellow expat friends at a pub over in East Berlin. I was telling them – as I have told you - that I had a fabulous life…but that it would probably be more fabulous if I took a private plane with Bjork or something.

Here is what followed:

Jack

Bjork? ….Oh God – I know people who PARTY with Bjork…she is crazy – really, she should be committed. I went to a club with her in Ankara once that was too INSANE to believe. Oh Ben, you’re sweet – meet Robert – he’s sweet too and from New York… we hooked up in Pyongyang when I was on assignment for Lonely Planet…this was of course before I met my husband and we moved to Istanbul (the food is to DIE FOR). Oh, how I love the Turks – such little anarchists. Not like the horrible rule-bound Germans…but really, are the French any better? The European Union needs a collective FUCK, if I do say so myself. Now Ben…is it? Ben – why are you in Berlin? You’re an opera singer? Oh faaaabulous! You must meat Adonis…yes that’s his real name – he is a singer too – from Manila. Such funny names they have down there….I think his mom’s name is Conception or something. God – that’s like naming your daughter Impregnate or something. How bizarre! Folker…oh FOLLKER…where’s Adonis? Very funny…no Folker, I don’t think you’re that cute. -What’s that? Adonis is in Milan? Now Ben, Adonis is a fabulous countertenor and he is dating a conductor from Lithuania...they just bought a house in Crete. Have you been to Crete? No? You MUST go. I would go, but my husband is in Iceland for a fashion shoot and I am just PINING for him. Oh and then of course there’s Guinevere - a singer as well, but she is doing her PhD at Columbia on feminist undertones in modern German opera. Folker….oh FOLLLLKER…does Guinivere have a Fulbright? Thought so…very smart….you would never guess she comes from Kentucky….what’s that? Where do I come from? Kansas. Can you believe it? Well, we all must come from somewhere. I know I talk with a European accent...it must be because I’ve lived EVERYWHERE…., I went to school in Munich, and then I lived in Japan for a while …and then I moved in with a bunch of Jewish lesbians in Berkley. We are no longer on speaking terms - they think I’m Anti Semitic because I don’t worship Susan Sontag. Do you want a drink? Oh, just try some of my champagne…entre nous I know it looks ridiculous, but it really does taste better when you drink it from the bottle with a straw… Folker.oh FOLLLKER – get Ben a straw. Isn’t this fun?

Dante

Oh GUINIVERE– you really are the queen lesbian bee of the party. And you know there can only be one – queen, that is. I am intensely jealous! But you are such an ENLIGHTENED despot…rather like Joseph II of Austria – benevolent yet firm and in control. And isn’t that just what one needs in a man? What’s that? Of course I know you couldn’t care less, but you’re hanging out with a bunch of queers so could you just PRETEND to look interested? Folker…oh FOLLLLKER! Where’s Adonis? Milan? I thought they already went to Crete. One can never keep track, coming and going....like my last trick! Well, I should be going myself – I have to travel to San Fran at the ass-crack of dawn and I haven’t even BEGUN to think of what to pack. No – I won’t be back next week… I’ve decided to take a few days off after the conference….Sergio and I are renting a car and driving to Napa. But I’ll be back in December after I meet with my thesis advisor at Stanford. Come to think of it, next week might be a bit slow…I’ll be away of course…. Bryce is going to Moscow for work…and Sebastian will be in New York at his art opening…well Ben, it has been a pleasure…but do tell me, why are you drinking champagne with a straw?

Seamus

What am I doing in Berlin? What aren’t I doing in Berlin – that’s the question you should be asking! No – the question that you SHOULD be asking is WHO aren’t I doing in Berlin. My God! This place makes Sodom look like North Dakota. Do I own a boutique? How flattering – you are so charming…Ben, is it? No, nothing as glamorous as that – although one does have dreams. I am a translator and interpreter….from Polish to German and Russian to German…and German to Czech, and Czech to English. I work on contract with Krupp, Siemens….all of those lovely companies who built tanks during the war…and you? You’re a singer! Have you met Guinevere? You have? She’s on a Fulbright…very smart – although I can’t for the life of me understand what she’s writing about. How about Adonis? He’s in MILAN you say? He does get AROUND, that boy. Well you know what they say - to succeed in the opera business you have to get under good conductor. Ben, darling - lovely to meet you – we MUST do this again some time….and champagne with a straw…very daring – you’re BAD aren’t you… don’t try to admit you’re not! Tschussi!

I have no idea if anything my friends told me was real – or rather, at which point the reality stopped and the embellishment began. It did not matter because I was entertained and caught up in the froth of it all. But I had, at that very moment, the overwhelming desire to race home and sit in silence. In the middle of the most exciting city in the world, I longed for solitude and for something that I could say unequivocally was real. Silence is real – it does not pretend to be anything more than it is. It is the absence of embellishment – it is the place from which you can build a firm foundation. It is in and of itself complete. It is the ending of things, and it is the beginning of things.


In this most exciting city in the world, I longed for a new beginning of things - one which was based in something as pure and complete as silence; based on the knowledge that I am in and of myself complete, a firm foundation – no need for embellishment.

Remember how I said that it was sunny? It isn’t. It is actually quite grey….and I am actually not going out tonight. Tonight I will sit in quietness and read a book, or really enjoy eating that pear I bought the other day… it must be ripe by now – although one can’t rush these things. I did, however, go to an opera in a subway station the other day, which was quite interesting...and from time to time, when the sun shines, I think it is just for me. But of course it does not shine just for me, and I think that is the lesson in all of this.

No need for embellishment.

Quite Enough

It is Sunday morning in Berlin. The church bells are ringing, but I can assure you that the pews will be empty. Berliners do not go to church, and if they do, they certainly never admit to it. If a Berliner admitted to going to church on Sunday morning, then there would be the assumption that they did not go out on Saturday night, and that is an unpardonable sin - perhaps the only one - in this Sodom on the Spree. I am assuming that most people are asleep, although they could be at one of the all-night bars in Schőnberg where they paint the windows black to keep out the sunlight– those places that have not been renovated in 30 years…where they still play disco on cassette tapes and where strangers still ask you to dance.

It is almost 10. There are still a few brave revelers on their way home, swerving in and out of the sidewalk, glinting at the unwelcome brightness. One young man in impossibly tight leather pants raises a beer bottle to his lips but misses and in the process sprays himself with foam… a baptism of sorts – a sacrament of the cult of Dionysus – just one of the things you see every day in this city where carousing is an act of defiance, where scars run deep.

For in Berlin there is no half-hearted revelry, no tripping the light fantastic – here there is grit and seediness in pockmarked buildings – a desperate hedonism that is revolting, but which you cannot resist. In Berlin people still drink to forget - to overcome – and it feels as though the thousands of neighborhood pubs that define this city are a living theatre where world-weary citizens act out their collective history with a vital force that never sees the light of day.

Heavy, I know – and perhaps a bit outdated, for Berlin is changing fast. It is becoming more international - worldly, more style and less substance. It is more difficult to find that Berliner Schnauze – the pugnacious come-as-you-are crustiness of the people who have seen it all – people whose surly exterior reveal a genuine warmth once you get to know them.

Indeed, going for coffee in the recently rebuilt Potsdamer Platz feels like going out for coffee in any number of cities – sitting in a Starbucks, across from the Marriott, beside the McDonalds. You order your latte and your muffin and sit down – listening to the CD of the week that is the same one you heard everywhere else. It is hard to know where you are - until you look outside and see the double row of stones on the pavement, marking the place where the wall once stood. I asked my friend why they didn’t try to rebuild Potsdamer Platz in a more authentic way that was rooted in the history and culture of the place. He looked at me and calmly told me that the stones were quite enough.

Yes, the stones are quite enough. Stones where the wall once was, stones where the Jews once were, stones where the boots once marched…stones where the books once burned. Berlin changes, reinvents itself, stays the same, tries to remember and at the same time move on, can’t decide which one is more important...can't decide if one can exist without the other.

But I can tell you that even if Berlin were razed to the ground - if it ceased even to be a place on the map, that Berlin would still be marked forever. And this is right and good, lest we too become only stones - the ones that people step over on their way home from a night of drinking, the drinking they do to forget the fact that they knew – knew all along what had happened in this place.

And that they chose to do nothing.

Sehnsucht

Last night I went to a pub in Prenzlauer Berg. Prenzlauer Berg is the epicentre of all things cool in this city, and it is quite difficult to get to. I think this is on purpose: if it were really accessible by public transit you wouldn’t get to embrace the zietgeist and ride your antique looking but actually brand new and quite expensive bicycle – its front basket laden with organic produce and a memory stick containing your latest digital art. In addition, if there were more buses in the area, then everybody would live there, and then how would the people of Prenzlauer Berg feel superior to the people who lived everywhere else?

Everybody in Prenzlauer Berg has a bike…and a child….and this being Germany, various state of the art contraptions to adapt one to the other. In fact, there are so many children around that the area is now called “Babyberg”, and one can while away the hours on the Kollwitz Platz watching the urban-hipster-moms agonize over which brand of fair-trade quinoa to buy for little Jochen or Eva before riding home (how do they do it in their peasant skirts and combat boots?) to work on their dissertation/performance art/sustainable macramé.

Of course, those in the know will tell you that Prenzlauer Berg has become far too gentrified to be considered a hip and happening place. Apparently, the action has moved further afield to the great socialist housing blocks of Friedrichshain –although I hear that these too have been overrun by drunk British tourists, and other species of untermensch . It is hard to know where to go, really – but someone did tell me the other day that there is this club in a bombed out basement in Lichtenberg that is hot and as of yet, undiscovered. You bring the vodka - I’ll bring the keen sense of awareness. (By the time you read this, the place will probably have lost its edge and then we will have to drive all the way to Poland for a good time, perish the thought.)

Prenzlauer Berg is in East Berlin.

East Berlin was once ghastly and is now less so, although traces remain. Interestingly, many people feel a sort of fuzzy longing for the iron-clad security of daily life in the socialist past. There are even East German -themed parties: you get driven there in a Trabant, dress up as a Young Pioneer and dance like its 1988. Few of these parties feature food shortages and police informants however, nor are you walled in. East Germany – it was the party you just couldn’t leave.

It is curious to note that a good portion of the people who suffer from Osalgie never actually lived in East Germany. Many would consider it peculiar to be nostalgic for something you never knew, but not the Germans – they have invented a word for it: Sehnsucht.

Was ist Sehnsucht? My dear, there isn’t enough ink in the world. Sehnsucht is an emotion – how does one say auf Englisch - a feeling, or the perception of a longing for that which is unknown, but on a deeper level is perhaps understood. It is the acceptance that the delicious pein of this unfulfilled longing is sweeter than the fulfillment of any mortal desire. In the context of the fall of the Berlin wall, I think it would be like saying that you wished you knew, or could actually have seen for yourself if the grass were really greener on the other side. Of course, now that there is no other side, you will never know, and the realization that this particular longing will never be fulfilled only serves to make it more intense. But with the pain comes a frisson of excitement – the awareness that you are perceptive enough to have this longing; that you posses the character to be able to experience and identify these feelings at all, and in so doing, confirm the depth of your soul. I mean, you always knew that you were deeper than your friends – more aware, more attuned to the human condition, but now this longing has confirmed it – and you feel special…but oh, the pain.

That, in a nutshell is Sehnsucht – although the Germans will delight in telling you that it just one of those concepts that is impossible to translate, but if you become a willing student of German culture and society, maybe – just maybe – you will be able to understand and then someday soon you too can experience Sehnsucht and it will cause you to rent a Trabant for a day, or live in a commune.

I know one man who actually does lives in a commune. He is from West Berlin, of course, and comes from a distinguished family. We went out for dinner the other day, and he was beside himself with glee. Communal living! Now he could finally cast of the shackles of his capitalist past and contribute to “actually existing socialism”. (Cheers to that). He told me that he loved living communally because everything was shared – costs, chores, frustrations and joys (blame?). In fact, he pulled out his iphone ™ from his Burberry™ trench coat to show me a picture. Now, I don’t really know much about living in a commune, but if it means you can buy designer clothes, then I am all for it.

In the interim, I will have to endure the unfulfilled longing I have for a bespoke suit.

It could be a lot worse. I could be walled in.

Anything at all

A lot of people in Berlin lament the fact that their city has now been “discovered” by the international artistic community - that you are more likely to meet an Israeli or an American on a night out than an actual Berliner. Mention the construction of the new airport that will accommodate Trans-Atlantic flights, and they visibly cringe. I don’t blame them. If people discover Berlin, then Berlin will become more expensive, and if Berlin becomes more expensive, the singers, performance artists and writers who have come here in droves will have to get day jobs…and then Berlin will be just like where they came from.

Since nobody in Berlin really works, there is a lot of nightlife which means you are never far from a party, or at least a warm place to drink. The fact that there are thousands of artists trying to escape from themselves means that these places are always full. It is, however, important to know at least one person with a real job - if only to buy you a beer from time to time.

I consider myself extremely fortunate because not only do I know someone who is gainfully employed, he is a friend of mine from High School. Ming Vu (not his real name) and I were the only out gay kids in school, and while you may think this would have been a big deal in the mid 90’s, it wasn’t for us. You see, my parents - in an act of atonement for their bourgeois existence - decided to send me to the worst school in Winnipeg. Actually, it was a wonderful place and I received an excellent education, but when half of the student population is strung out on glue from the art room and the other half has just gotten out of juvenile detention, the sexual preferences of a couple of nerdy kids with glasses is not front page news. At the very least, nobody is going to care whose picture you put on your locker. In my case it was an artful collage of Matthew McConaughey. I have better taste now.

I am still amazed at our brazenness back then. When we were 16, Ming and I used to go to the gay bar, which was precisely 1 block from school – a fact that amused us to no end. (To this day I don’t know where I learned more.) Where the straight boys stole porn from the smoke shop on Donald Street, Ming and I bought ours outright – even though we were clearly under age. I guess we figured the cashier would be too shocked and uncomfortable to tell us we weren’t allowed to buy Mandate. We were right.

Of course, I never thought I was going to see Ming again.

After High School we went our separate ways. Ming became a pharmacist and I became a handful, but after seeing him I am happy to report that we have both become more like ourselves, which is an achievement and a victory of sorts. Last night, we met for a beer with some of his friends in Prenzlauer Berg and I asked him how he had the energy to go out clubbing every night and still get up for work in the morning. He told me that his job was pretty boring – mostly reading spreadsheets and compiling reports. He said that he had quite a pleasant life and enjoyed his work, but that it didn’t define him.

“Be thankful you’re not creative” - I said - “it’s hell!”

My witticism elicited some knowing looks from the assembled crowd, for it was “word fag night” – a weekly gathering of literary folk who translate and teach and interpret. John, a doctoral student in Victorian history, clutched his artfully tied kaffiyeh to his breast and pretended to faint. I thought it was an appropriate gesture, given his field of study.

Ming just smiled and told me that if I ever needed anything - anything at all that I could just call him up.

I think I might just do that.

Thesis Statement

For Deb….Long may she reign!

Last night I had dinner with a couple of German academics. No, I was not forced. I was, however, relieved: it was one of the few evenings I have spent with intellectuals where they did not try to eat me. One of the academics studies the cultural implications of public service announcements in the Weimar Republic, and the other the cultural implications of keyboard music in Restoration England. Together, they explore the cultural implications of their relationship, which last night meant groping each other under the table.

I love how academics find an obscure atoll of expertise and seize it. Like modern-day conquistadores, they plant their flag on the shores of knowledge and shout to all and sundry in the full refulgence of their superior intellect: “Now know this: I hereby claim post-colonial feminist readings of Milton in perpetuity.” I would tell them that nobody’s listening, but that would be rude.

Like most people, have listened to academics on occasion – sometimes out of politeness, sometimes because I paid for the privilege, but mostly it was in the absence of an accessible fire escape. I have heard highly developed minds expound on a wide variety of subjects, none of which I remember presently. What I do know is that I have never heard an academic discus his or her thesis. By this I mean that I have never heard an academic actually tell me what their thesis was about. I find this peculiar, as one’s thesis usually has to with 1) oneself or 2), one’s field, and I have rarely met an academic who shies away from discussing either. Don’t get me wrong - they talk about their theses all the time, but the discourse is usually couched in phrases like “when I wrote my thesis I took lithium” or “my thesis destroyed my marriage” or the perennial favorite - “My thesis adviser is a cross between Machiavelli and Hitler”.

All of this makes me wonder if academic studies are not really the pursuit of higher learning for the general advancement of society, but rather some form of self-inflicted torture. Of course, there are many academics who do not consider the completion of a doctorate to resemble the trials of the damned, but they are usually straight men or scientists - and who cares about them? In truth, I think many academics don’t talk about their theses (rhymes with…) because they are traumatized by the experience of writing them. In fact, when I was young, I actually thought that The Thesis was some form of disease - like The Flu or, The Plague. You see, my mother decided to move to a remote Aboriginal community in northern Manitoba, have two children and then compose a 1000 page treatise exploring the relationship between cubist art and modernist literature.

We are still asking each other why.

In my experience, The Thesis has recognizable symptoms: long periods spent at a desk followed by a curious kind of mania which results in an exquisitely clean house and experiments in Indonesian cooking…tears… The Thesis skews logic: Many evenings - before going out - my mother would calmly inform the babysitter that if there were a fire….that if there were a fire, the first priority would be to save the green bag that contained her research. The second priority would be to see to the children. I wondered what could possibly cause my own mother to value the welfare of a sack of papers above my own. Then I remembered: The Thesis. In the still small voice of a child, I prayed to a benevolent God: “Please, deliver us from The Thesis…let us know peace once more.”

My prayers were soon answered. One day, after working for a year without a single day off, my mother emerged from her makeshift basement office ringed by a halo of cigarette smoke. I would say she looked like a prophet, but I have the feeling that my mother would be offended by a description based in androcentric patriarchal hegemony. On the other hand, she might see the use of the word prophet as a reclamation of sorts. It is hard to tell . It would also be apt to say that she resembled Joan Baez on Quaaludes.

In any event, I knew something special was happening because I was allowed to have any toy I wanted at Woolco. Even better, I got to ride in the shopping cart as mom danced with it in the aisles- humming along with the muzak and emitting a strange form of guttural laughter.

It was at that moment I knew we were free.

Our freedom was short lived, however. A few months later, mom decided to enter Academia. For those of you who don’t know, Academia is a network of institutions designed for people whose theses have gone into remission, only to come back a few months later in a more virulent strain….but that’s another story.

Postscript:

I still remember the day The Thesis arrived at the cottage. It was a pleasant summer afternoon, and we were sitting on the patio – drinking. The Thesis was stunning - bound in a deep hunter green with gold writing. Being a scholarly work, it was suitably heavy – but it also had an elegant slimness which I still find appealing. In fact, I think The Thesis would look lovely in a wood-paneled library with a fireplace and overstuffed club chairs. Mom’s friend Nancy picked up a copy and slurred

“Debbie, what the hell is this about?”

My mom started laughing and replied

“Nancy, I have no fucking idea”.