WIEEEEE HEISSSSEEENNNN SIE?

It is funny how each time you go back to school, the shine on the apple wears off a little earlier than the last time. I realized this at my very first German class a couple of weeks ago....There I was with my newly purchased notebook and color-coded flashcards (green for grammar!). I felt sort of chic because I had chosen a language school that was chiefly populated by refugees. I was eager to decline verbs with my fellow citizens of the world...we could help each other with our homework....they would invite me to their homes where I would listen to their stories and apologize for my bourgeois colonializing existence.

It was 8:59 and my teacher - appropriately named Herr Fundament - entered the room.
I had a feeling that something was wrong when he introduced himself....

"ICH.....HEEEEIIIISSSEEE (he is pointing to himself and writing on the blackboard in giant block letters)....HERRRRR TORRRRRSTEN FUUUUUNDAMENT..... Okay - he must think that we're really dumb, because this is supposed to be the intermediate class.... I even took a battery of tests to make sure I was in the right place. I got 52 percent, which meant that I was at the very bottom of the cut off score for intermediate, and the woman made me take the test AGAIN so she could be sure to put me in the right place. She just wasn't sure, you see, and it would have been impossible for her to make a decision that was not based on empirical data.....

So if I am in the intermediate class, why do I feel like I am in kindergarten?

"WIEEEEEE.....HEEEISSSSEEN...SIEEEEEE? " Her Fundament gestures to a woman in a burqa:

"Ich ....ch....ch...eise......Maryam"
"GUUUUUUTTTTT.....WOOOOOHHHEERRRRR....KOMMMEN SIE?
"Ich komme ....aus Palestine"
"AAAAHHHH....PALESTINA....GUUUUUUUT" - intones Herr Fundament.

I am in a German class with Palestinians.

Her Fundament points to a nervous looking man eating chocolate....
"WIEEEEEEEEEEEE....HEEEEISSSSEN....SIEEEEEEEEEEEE"
"Ich heisse Pavel....komme aus Polen"
"GUUUUUUUUUUT"

I am in a German class with Palestinians and Poles.

Herr Fundament points to me..... "WIE.....HEEEEIIIIISSSEEN....SIE?"
"Ich heisse Ben"
"AAAHHHH...GUUUUUT.....NACHNAME?"
"Schnitzer"
"AAAAH....SCHNITZER....DAS IST EIN RICHTIGES DEUTCHES NAME!!! GUUUT!"

I am in a German class with Palestinians and Poles. The teacher thinks I am German. Is this a joke?

In a way, it was. It turns out that the administration had placed me in the beginner class by mistake. When I asked them (in German) why they had done this, they indicated that the adjudicator of the placement exam had clearly marked on the registration form that I was to be placed in course A1. When I explained to them that I had used complete sentences and several verb tenses to register for a course that was designed for people who had no prior knowledge of the German language -- that this might have been a clue that the adjudicator had made a mistake, they told me that it was not their place to ask questions: If the adjudicator thought it was appropriate for me to be placed in the beginner's course she must have had her reasons. Punkt.

One wonders aloud how history might have been different if the Germans had asked questions....like "where are the Silvermans going?".

But let's not dwell on the past. The administration duly registered me in the intermediate class, and I began my studies in earnest the next day. They did not apologize for their error, but I didn't mind. I was just happy they didn't make me take another test.

A few days later I was in the lobby of the conservatory waiting for my lesson. I bumped into Patrick - a fellow tenor. We study with the same teacher. He is very nice and personable, but understated-- qualities you find in a lot of German people. I find this rather unnerving. I am suspicious of how well adjusted they are...why aren't they self-deprecating, sarcastic and cagey like I am?

"What is your last name?" asks Patrick....
"Schnitzer"
"Ah, so you are German"
"No"
"But someone in your family is German"
"No"
"But somebody in your family must have taught you German, because you speak German pretty well....and then there's your name."
"My family is from Poland"
"So you are Polish?"
"Yes...and no..."

And then Patrick gets it

"Ah...are you, perhaps, from a Hebrew family?"
"Yes"
"Ah...I see, but your family - they obviously survived..."

etc.

And therein lies the answer. If you had to go through this every time you introduced yourself you would be a little cagey yourself. Sometimes I just want to have a card - like the blind people who sell pens at the mall... I could hand it out to people:

"Hello, my name is Ben Schnitzer. I am not German, even though my name is German. Funny, right? You are probably wondering if I am....you know....Jewish. I am. My family comes from Poland, and I am Polish too, but not a Pole. And no, my family did not survive the war. Well, obviously some of them did because otherwise I would not be here. How are you?"

...or I could just wear a burqa...

Present Perfect

I have decided to learn German. Finding myself presently situated in Berlin, it would seem like a prudent idea to do so. Actually, my friends consider me to be pretty good with languages - truth be told. Why only this summer I ordered dinner for a party of eight in Italian at a restaurant in Rome and everybody got exactly what they ordered. Don’t laugh – this is a major accomplishment in Italy. My proficiency was duly remarked upon, and I responded that I was not really fluent in Italian, but rather spoke “restaurant” – a sprinkling of different languages that lends you an air of sophistication when dining out and prevents you from being served something odious - unless you ordered it. In my case, I think my particular skill was due to my obsession with food rather than any aptitude for Italian.

However, I must remark that ordering a meal in a language which you didn’t grow up speaking presents several challenges, for you must make yourself understood without employing those embarrassing gesticulations which encourage the locals to think that you are in some way mentally incapacitated, or worse, a tourist. (I am speaking here of obstacles encountered by non-native speakers of any particular language: If you cannot order a meal nicely in your mother tongue, stay home.)

For example, say you find yourself in a civilized restaurant and you see something that you absolutely must try. To point at the menu and blurt out “I want that” would be rude. Rather, you should consider such an occasion the perfect opportunity to employ your nuanced understanding of the conditional tense, like so:

I would very much like to order the fricassee of infant.

Doesn’t that sound better? Now, if you were unclear or imprecise in your speech, you may not receive what you ordered. When confronted with this unfortunate situation, it is useful to know the past perfect – as well as the imperative:

Excuse me, but I believe there has been a mistake. I ordered the fricassee of infant, but this is clearly an adolescent stew. Please bring me what I ordered.

If you still have not received what you have ordered, or they tell you they are out of that particular dish – in this case fricassee of infant - it would be wise to familiarize yourself with both the past conditional and the future perfect:

I would have liked to have ordered the fricassee of infant, but it appears you are all out of it. In that case, I will have the barbequed toddler surprise…with a nice glass of Chianti.

If you apply these few simple suggestions to the language of your choice, you will soon find yourself possessing all the skills you need to eat well in any country. As your comfort grows, so will your confidence, and you will soon find yourself engaging in scintillating conversation with vital people the world over. At the very least, your waiter will be grateful for your efforts.

At this point it must be said that one of the frustrating things about studying languages is learning grammar. This is especially true these days as we live in an age where grammar of any sort is no longer taught in school. The time which was once spent on teaching children to spell properly and compose sentences is now used to teach them “creative writing”. I believe the results speak for themselves. In any event, many of the terms I have used may be unfamiliar to you. For this reason I am including a lexicon of grammatical terms of my own design for your reference.

Present tense: Current state of anxiety

Past tense: Before yoga and therapy.

Conditional tense: Tension which is dependant on proximity to one’s mother

Future tense: This is conditional

Future perfect: Hindered by an excess of the present tense.

Past perfect: This does not exist. It never did. Get over it.

Simple past: Wasn’t it though?

Simple perfect: Yes it is.

Now what does any of this have to do with learning German? I don’t know. I just started talking about languages, and now I find myself completely off topic – a complaint which has been made about my “creative writing” since I was in Grade 2. I remember my report card quite clearly: “Ben has a very active imagination, but his work is rather nebulous. For example, he wrote a composition about space which lacked clarity and detail”. I was – even then – quite offended. Of course I wrote a non-specific composition about space because space by its very nature lacks clarity and detail. That is why it is called space.

Another time I thought it might be fun to write a series of public service announcements from farm animals asking readers not to kill them. The other kids thought I was weird. I was. One day I taped the name tag from the Wandering Jew plant to my shirt and spent the morning walking around the school asking the teachers where I should go. I was seven. When the other children called me a nerd, I just told them they were being anally retentive. I didn’t know what it meant, but that’s what my mom said about people she didn’t like. I got to go to the guidance counselor for that one.

My finest moment was in Grade 5 when I dressed up in drag for Halloween. I wore white high heeled shoes and a lovely hat, but my feet were killing me. Seeing that I was in pain, one of my friends asked me if I was okay. My reply: “You have to suffer to be beautiful”.

This adage, by the way, does not only apply to shoes, although pretty shoes do hurt more. It has to do with having the courage of your convictions come what may. And so I guess this is all about learning German after all, or learning anything for that matter.…the present perfect comes to mind.

“You Gotta Fight… for your Right… to Party”

One of the exciting new developments at the Komische Oper in Berlin is that you can now view the surtitles on the back of the seat in front of you. This means that you do not have to strain yourself to view the running commentary projected onto the top of the proscenium arch. This is the case at most other opera houses, and accounts for the preponderance of stiff-necked people at the opera.

The Komische Opera – one of Berlin’s 3 fully functioning opera houses – performs everything in German, the idea being that the work - to be rendered accessible - should be sung in the language of Das Volk.

Presumably this artistic decision would make surtitles redundant. However, opera – regardless of the language in which it is sung – is incomprehensible at the best of the times. This is a good thing: most opera libretti are embarrassingly bad.

This was not the case with last night’s offering – a newly composed operatic version of Hamlet by Christian Jost. Shakespeare offers the opera composer an immunity of sorts – even if the music and production values are horrible at least you cannot fault the text. Perhaps this explains the fact that there are literally hundreds of operas based on the Bard’s works, but only a handful performed on a regular basis. Of these precious few, only two are acknowledged as equal to the original plays – Verdi’s settings of Otello and Falstaff.

So where does this leave Hamlet by Christian Jost? - Somewhere in the vast middle, not that it matters. I will probably never see this piece again, which is in no way a reflection of its artistic value. Last night the number of people performing the work outnumbered the audience by a significant margin. Not so long ago, the premiere of a new opera was often greeted by mass euphoria, or at the very least general interest. Nowadays the best that can be hoped for are polite applause followed by some earnest discussions in the remotest circles of intellectual bohemia – where I now find myself.

In Berlin I often feel as though I am one of those people who got to the party just a little bit too late…sure, there are people milling about and the vibe is still pretty good, but you get the definite sensation that things are on the downswing – that in an hour’s time the DJ will have packed up and you will find yourself waiting for a cab in the cold.

For now at least, on this island, the party is still going strong. The DJ is spinning and there are lots of interesting people to meet. You can call up your friend and go to a different opera every night of the week. You can wear a tux or a pair of jeans – or a combination of the two. You can dye your hair green and wear leather chaps and nobody will care. This cultural bounty and this tolerance – Berlin’s greatest gifts to the world - have been hard won and have only come about after years of brutality and repression.

It is up to us to ensure that art and tolerance continue. It is up to us to ensure that there will always be a party to go to, and more importantly, that we will all be able to attend.

Einigkeit, und Recht und Freiheit....

It is 7:00 on Saturday morning, and Berlin is providing me with proof that it is the city that never sleeps - there is a group of very drunk, very loud young men singing the German National Anthem at the top of their lungs outside my window. Now I don't hate German per se, but any time people raise their voices while speaking it I get a little uncomfortable. Also, the melody of the National Hymn has not changed since the Second World War, so that is a bit disconcerting. Oh, it is all okay you see because they use different words now (a different stanza from the same epic poem). Somehow this does not make me feel more at ease.

I found all of this out a few years ago when I was asked to sing O Canada for the festivities celebrating the reunification of Germany at the German Consulate in Vancouver. They had engaged a German opera singer who was singing with the Vancouver Opera, but he had rehearsal, so they asked me. I was reticent, but it was a job so I accepted. They then inquired if I would be so kind to sing the German National Anthem as well , and I was a little more reticent, but I had already accepted and the reception was the next day. I agreed. And then I went to the library to try to find the music and discovered that they did indeed still use the same melody as the Nazis did.

Had I known this, I probably would have declined their invitation, but it was too late and so on the appointed day I sang - pretty sure that I was going to be struck down at any minute. I wasn't, and when I was finished singing, I noticed an Israeli professor from UBC staring at me quite intently. She asked me how I could live with myself singing that particular piece. I told her that I was a music student and needed the money, and that they had kindly asked me to sing. I asked her what she was doing at a party at the German Consulate. She choked on her bratwurst and I got a beer.

I have extensive training in singing words and music that I don't identify with, or which are patently against my personal beliefs and frankly offensive to me. Most classical vocal music is ostensibly about either about Jesus or being in love with a women, and I don't really "get" either. If you are a musician, you must always try to find the deeper universal meaning of the piece you are performing, in order to communicate it to as wide an audience as possible. If you are a human being living on planet earth, you will probably have to make some sort of moral compromise in the course of your days, or find a way to rationalize your actions in a way that allows you to live with yourself. In my case, I turned these words and this melody into a prayer of sorts.... I prayed that the German nation strive for unity and righteousness and freedom - as the words of the anthem state.

I can live with that. I would not have survived the alternative.

One of the happy results of my gig at the German Consulate was meeting my friend Arvedt, who organized the whole thing. We became fast friends, and last summer I visited him in Bonn.
Arvedt is always trying to show me a rosy picture of Germany - the food, the Rhine, the trains that run on time (don't get me started). I find that very touching because he loves his country and his heritage, as he should. And I get carried away in it too, because I want to. Because I want to see the best in Germany. I want to forget.

But there is always something that brings me back to a reality I would rather not see, something that reminds me that Germany is a friend with whom I must always keep some measure of distance.

One morning, in Bonn, Arvedt and I were eating breakfast in a small café in the main town square. It was a pretty spectacular morning, and the buildings were as quaint as could be. We had just come from a bike ride down the Rhine and I was getting mentally prepared to go back to Berlin for rehearsals. On that particular day, there was a soccer match between Bonn and Cologne, which meant much excitement, and the usual crowds of drunken youth which accompany such events. I did not pay them much heed, and continued to eat. They were more an annoyance than anything else, until one of them started shouting

"Wo sind die Juden?"

And all at once, my carefully constructed picture of Germany - of kaffee und kuchen and dirndls and Bach crumbled to pieces. For this was the rallying cry of the Crusaders who massacred Jews in the Rhine valley 1000 years ago....in the exact spot where I now sat. This was proof positive that lurking beneath the surface of this carefully constructed country of basic laws and grand coalitions there still lurked something sinister. I looked at Arvedt, and he tried to explain to me that they didn't really mean Jews in the precise meaning of the word, but actually supporters of the Cologne soccer team. I don't know if he told me this to make me feel better, or to rationalize what was happening in his mind, but whatever the reason, it did not work. I started shaking and we eventually had to leave.

At that moment, I felt very sorry for Arvedt. When I think about that morning I do not think about the fear that gripped me or the disgust or the incredulity - I think about the look on Arvedt's face. For here was a good friend and a person who had spent their whole life working to be a decent and honest person - someone who would, damn it, dispel those awful stereotypes about Germans. Here was a kind man, a person who had tried in every action to be decent and fair - to be an example, to make up for the past. And it seemed as though all of that work - that picture of what it meant to be German for him - was being shattered too.

He never let me see that for long, and he never admitted to it. He told me not to worry about it. He told me to forget what happened. Let's go to the church and place flowers on Schumann's grave, he said - let's go to the Haribo factory and buy all the candy we can carry! I went along with it, not knowing what else to do, not knowing what else to say. I went along with it as much for him as for me. I went along with it because I wanted to forget what happened.

Of course I cannot forget, nor should I. If remembering - or being aware - means that my outlook is a little less rosy, so be it. If it means that I question what Germany is and what it represents for me - good and bad, that is okay too.

I can live with that. I cannot survive the alternative.

On the Move

Rosa Luxemburg, the Communist activist and writer once mused that those who don’t move don’t notice their chains. Now, you may think that I am extremely well read and that I gleaned this kernel of wisdom by reading turgid manifestoes by candle light, but I assure you this is not the case. I was at a bookstore, you see…I was lost and was desperately looking for a map because a friend had invited me for dinner and I was late…..this quote was on the page before the u-bahn map in some Berlin guide book. And it has stuck with me.

…but first more about quotes…. Using quotes makes you look far more intelligent than you really are, and I advocate the practice highly, for no sane person should ever provide another with an excuse to call them stupid.

The more obscure the quotation, the better. If the quote comes from a writer we all have heard of, but whom nobody reads, that is excellent. If the quote is in French, or comes from a French writer who we have all heard of but whom nobody reads, this is immeasurably superior: French may not be the international language of diplomacy any longer (shhh…don’t tell the French) but it has lost none of its snob appeal. Now if the quote is from the language of a marginalized people, or an oppressed minority, you have won the jackpot. If you say that you heard the quote from wizened woman (she was so amazing….she welcomed us into her home) stirring her pot of groats in the Andes…or Tibet…while you were searching for yourself and contributing to societies-in-peril, then your life’s work is done. Good for you….buy yourself an organic sustainable soy latté. You deserve it. If, however, you choose not to translate the quote from the original, you may arouse the admiration of others, but possibly the scorn and derision of many more. I leave this vital choice in your hands.

Man is born free, yet everywhere he is in chains – or so the saying goes. I couldn’t tell you where this particular quote comes from (Descartes? Voltaire? A French writer we have all heard of but do not read?). You see, the café where I currently find myself does not have internet access so I can’t look it up, and of course without the internet we know nothing.

If man is in chains, but doesn’t notice them if he does not move, what does that mean?

Damned if I know.

Well, I am done my very expensive coffee and my very trendy café and I am loathe to buy another, for I fear that if I do I will zip right on out of here…and I don’t want to upset the chains too much – they have already been through quite enough this last month!

Why I left Vancouver....

This is what they came up with for the "Cultural Olympiad" to coincide with the Olympics
(courtesy of the Globe and Mail) :

"A forest walk featuring sculpture and trombone music, a huge screen projecting cutting-edge videos and films by some of the world’s best visual artists, and DJs spinning electronic music into the early morning hours will aim to turn the city of Vancouver into a giant cultural installation during the 2010 Cultural Olympiad.

The Vancouver Organizing Committee for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Winter Games (VANOC) announced a number of new acts and programs on Monday for the upcoming Cultural Olympiad, which will run during the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Games.

One of the highlights is certain to be a tribute to Canadian icon Neil Young, brought together by American music producer Hal Willner. Broken Social Scene, Ron Sexsmith, Joan as Policewoman and Iron and Wine will take part.

Other musical acts announced on Monday include Steve Earle (with Joel Plaskett opening); the Hilario Duran Latin Jazz Band performing with Jane Bunnett; and a double bill of Somali-born Toronto rapper K’Naan and Tinariwen, a collective of poet-guitarists from the south Saharan.

The Spirit of Uganda, a company of 22 young artists orphaned by AIDS or civil war, will perform in Canada for the first time. And Spain’s Maria Pagés will unveil Flamenco Republic at the Orpheum theatre.

A large screen will be set up outside the Vancouver Art Gallery’s Robson side to project video and film work by various artists.

In Metcalfe/Lewis: Ikons, Vancouver sculptor Eric Metcalfe will provide the visuals and New York-based trombonist George Lewis the audio for what’s promised to be a forest walk like no other. The forest and music are meant to respond to the actions of the people taking part.

Toronto-based sculptor Ed Pien will use fanciful creatures pulled from Chinese and Inuit mythology to create a maze-like installation.

Other cultural organizations participating include the National Arts Centre with a show called Made in Canada; Taiwan’s Chai Found Music Workshop; and Daniel Janke’s Whitehorse-based ensemble will play a live score for a series of short films, including vignettes from the animated classic Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland for Alice and Other Heroes.

The Cultural Olympiad will run from January 22 to March 21. The program will include more than 600 performances and exhibitions in Metro Vancouver and the Sea to Sky corridor.

For a full list of projects announced to date and to purchase tickets, visit www.vancouver2010.com/culturalolympiad ."

Um yeah....

Okay...let's play their game:

Soula P. (soprano) and Ben S.(tenor) , along with Pantelis the Pug and a host of invented animal puppets create an improvised children's opera that draws freely on Plato's Republic, the Talmud, Joni Mitchell and First Nations Imagery to create an intriguing soundscape that is at once new and rooted in ancient traditions. Drawing on the extensive history of madness in both of their families, Soula and Ben channel primordial emotions and project these "sound memories" using their own "classically" trained voices, but also augmented by the "other" voices of "found" characters.

Pantelis - a pug - is the mirror. He responds to the work and in the process adds a spontaneous dimension to the work, giving it freshness and at the same time depth.

Reviews:

"A highly compelling, if unusual piece. Perhaps there would have been more order if some German artists were involved" - Cottbus Review of Art & Performance (CRAP)
"I have not seen something so shattering in Dresden since the Allies blew up my house" - Dresden Review: Arts Tagespiegel (DRAT)
"The contrast of Parassidis' luscious soprano with the pug's haunting cries was, in a word, spellbinding. The U-Bahn setting added a nice echo..." - Schwerin/Halle Inter-Arts Today (SHIAT)
"Really, the apogee of improvised post-modern children's opera. A triumph of the genre."
- Weimar Art News Kultur (WANK)

This is what happens when you look yourself up on German Google...

How do you like the makeover? I thought I would undergo some "light" plastic surgery to blend in....

http://www.bild.de/BILD/lifestyle/bams/2009/05/03/klassiker-der-kueche-extra/hg02/benjamin-schnitzer-kocht-spaghetti-bolognese.html

By the way, did you know that the past tense of "to google"in German is "gegoogle"?
Zum Beispiel: Ich habe viele geschichten über Beyoncé gegoogelt. (for example: I googled stories about Beyoncé).

May you be inscribed in the Buch of Life

How does one celebrate a Jewish Holiday in a foreign land, thousands of miles away from family and friends? Well, the first thing to do is to go to a really good party.... Now you must think that all I do in Berlin is go to parties, or crash parties, or get into parties....this is not entirely true - it just happens most of the time. If you lived in Berlin, you would party a lot too - not because it is really that fun to actually go to parties, but after walking around Berlin for a day and being confronted by all that History one really does need a stiff drink, or in my case a Rosh Hashannah reception at the Jewish Museum. I attended as the guest of a friend of a friend who is involved in their cultural programming... he is also from Canada, but a Polish citizen as well...his family comes from the same town that my family does - Lodz - where the people are known for their quick wit and dirty sense of humour. I gave him Yiddish magnetic poetry for his fridge because he is letting me stay on his couch while I find a place, and the other night we sat at his kitchen table and tried to see how many words we could find that meant "idiot". There were 15. Isn't Yiddish great?

So my friend and I went to this party in honour of the Jewish New Year at the Jewish Museum.
Except there were no Jews . We were there - my friend and I - and there was one other short person with curly hair, but he was probably Austrian. He looked like Schubert. For all intents and purposes, the reception looked like a party at the German Foreign Ministry. There was a buffet catered by the Inter Continental with exotic fruit and an approximation of kreplach (Jewish Ravioli! The server exclaimed). There was a swing band made up of members of the Berlin Philharmonic (they didn't really swing....too much Mozart). The woman who played the shofar was one of the most well regarded trumpet players in Israel (she still couldn't play the darn thing...they are tricky). There were, however, no Jews.

There were interesting cultural displays and everybody was very earnest and appreciative and clapped when the trumpet player tried to play the shofar....this made me feel a bit embarassed - like the time when I was 13 and the German guests of my mother's best friend wanted to video tape our Passover seder..... to put in their archive of bizarre cultural activities of endangered foreign peoples? Like Leni Riefenstahl photographing African tribes? A Yiddish word comes to mind: Feh!

My favourite part of the evening were the fortune cookies. Why they decided to have fortune cookies at a Rosh Hashannah, I'll never know -but I was looking forward to a moment of levity. However, when I read my fortune, I discovered - not some light-hearted assurance that I would be prosperous - but a quote from the 1920s German-Jewish Communist poet Kurt Tucholsky which read

" Tolerance is the suspicion that the other person is right".

God love the Germans...even their fortune cookies are filled with lead. But can you blame them?

After the party my friend and I went and had a drink with an Israeli musicologist and her husband. She told me that when she was a child her mother used to take her on a picnic on Yom Kippur. They would eat ham sandwiches. We have made a date to do the same, although I am of course conflicted about not fasting.

Old habits die hard

The state of the Angst

Much ink has been spilled about The Future Of Opera...at least in Berlin. Nobody really cares anywhere else. Do you? But here in Berlin it is a hot topic of discussion - along with the future of books, the nature of art, the future of art, the future of German art....the future of German books...do you see a pattern? Do you care? Exactly.

I care. Of course I care. But I don't like to talk about it, because I feel that when it comes to art, those who can't do, talk. And so I guess that means I am talentless because I am writing a blog about art or something. Shit. Oh who am I kidding - I don't talk about it because I hate being told I'm wrong.

So rather than go into an informed discussion about the state of the Western World's most esoteric and expensive art form, I will merely describe some of the things that I have seen and let you come to your own conclusions.

Last Saturday night I went to the German State Opera - a veritable temple of culture, which is, incidentally, right beside the Bebelplatz where the Nazis burned books. Charming. I went to see Mozart's great opera "The Abduction from the Seraglio". It is set in 18th century Turkey and is, like most opera, misogynist, elitist, class-ist and Eurocentric (thanks mom - for teaching me those big words). It is also a great deal of fun, and contains some of the best music Mozart ever wrote.

In this opera, the antagonist - Pasha Selim, is a despotic character and the keeper of a harem. However, in the end, he ends up being a decent man and sets everyone free, whereupon there is much rejoicing. In this production, he was Hitler...Hitler in a white dress and gold make-up, but unmistakably Hitler. Of course, this was a brilliant conceit on the part of the director, because no matter how bad the production was (and it was bad) the audience would not dare show its displeasure at an unfavorable portrayal of Die Fuhrer! And so they applauded wildly - mostly out of guilt, it would seem.

Bassa Selim's enforcer, Osmin, is a much more ruthless character. He was dressed in a track suit. It was his job to keep the prisoners in line. In a German opera production that means that he rapes them. The protagonists (two English nobles) are in love and haven't seen each other in a while, because Konstanze is a prisoner of Pasha Selim, and Belmote trying to rescue her. When they do see each other, they do not hug or kiss or say hello...they simulate anal sex....duh.

Hitler...rape...anal sex. In Germany? Really? What a surprise. So original.

The next day I saw an atonal opera about the history of communism. But do you care?

Exactly.

...Wish you were here....

Just outside Tegel Airport there is a giant sign which reads “Germany – Land of Ideas”. This sign is meant to welcome you, which is logical because ideas can indeed be welcoming. They can also be repulsive...so can Germany, as history has amply shown. However, Berlin, for all its historical errors, is a city which has always embraced different ways of thinking. This has also been amply shown. Take – for example – the prostitutes outside my window.

No oppressed masses they - standing on the corner with the full support of the state. They are unionized and galvanized – and woe betide anyone who treats them with anything less than respect. Say what you want about the world’s oldest profession, but Berlin’s ladies of the evening can deduct their business expenses for tax purposes, thank-you-very-much.

Speaking of ladies of the evening, I just came back from the Vogue party at Galleries Lafeyette. Lest you think I am in the in-crowd and invited to these sorts of things, you should know that I was merely walking home from an extremely edifying choral concert at the Jewish Museum when I came across a red carpet, an open door and very good looking people holding trays of champagne. I am never one to pass an opportunity, and I was wearing a Hugo Boss suit jacket (albeit bought second hand in the depths of Prenzalauer Berg and altered by a chain-smoking Polish tailor), so I swished in and pretended like I owned the place and proceeded to get drunk on free Moet et Chandon champagne at the Hermès boutique. I also got a free catalogue which they put in a real Hermès shopping bag, which meant that I could freely saunter into to any number of stores without reproach….which of course I did – and it was a good thing too because I missed dinner.

But who needs dinner when you can have raspberry macaroons from Paris, or chocolate truffles shaped like high heels…or a mojito- flavoured sorbet made à la minute and served in a frozen lime? Mind you, most of the women there couldn’t really eat any of the food even if they wanted to (and they didn’t) because their lips were pumped up with so much collagen…. this just meant that there was more for me.

But I did not indulge. That would have been gauche. I merely took one of everything and pretended to look like I was seriously considering a 700 euro dog bowl or a hand-made riding crop made in the best artisanal tradition (these are very popular in Berlin, but not for horses…more about that later). As the saying goes, if you can fake sincerity you’ve got it made…..well, money helps too. So do looks. Money and looks help a lot.

The rest of us just have to crash the party and survive on our wits. And you cannot fake wit.

It is almost midnight and I am supposed to be working hard – with my nose to the grindstone and my eyes set on future heights (actually, that would be very uncomfortable…and it would look weird…think about it). Discipline will have to wait until tomorrow…okay, maybe the next day….or maybe I’ll just pencil it in for sometime next week. Say, Tuesday at 5 - after the gym and before La Traviata?

I am so busted….

Work/Life Balance

In North America we are working more and doing less. The amount of stress leave has gone up exponentially and people are complaining of always feeling tired and overworked. Can you blame them? Times are tough and people are worried about their jobs. What's more, advances in technology mean that you can never really leave the office. Ever.

- Things are different in Italy.


In Italy you cannot simply come to the office and go to your desk and start working. You must say hello to everyone in turn and spend a few minutes talking about the shoes you bought, or the gelato you ate. Once at your desk you must re-apply your perfume or cologne because it makes you feel better. After 2 hours - as if by magic - somebody asks you to go for a walk and get a capuccino. There is coffee available in the office and Santina brought cornetti, but it is good to leave the building and get some air, no? Of course going out for coffee is not just going out for coffee. You can't go to the first place because they were mean to Fabrizia last week when she tried to pay with a 50 euro bill. The second place is closed because today is 3 days before the Festa della Republica and people like to take the days off beforehand per la vacanza. The third place is over on the Piazza Buenos Aires but of course this means we have to walk a bit - but it is worth it because they make a real Capuccino Freddo (cold cappucino) as opposed to just adding cold milk to hot espresso, which would be (apparently) unthinkable. Besides, if you take more time for a break, people will assume you were stressed and needed the extra few minutes, no?

Coffee proceeds at a leisurely pace...you sit at the terrace and flirt with the waiter and smell the Mugetto in bloom. You feel refreshed, and saunter back to your office and talk to your coworkers about where the best bakery is in the neighbourhood.

As if by magic, the next 2 hours fly by. And then it is time for lunch. Well, ordinarily it would be time for lunch but today there was a diplomatic reception at the Villa Grazioli, which of course we went to. Afterward, we went for lunch. There was food at the reception, but that was not lunch. And of course, you cannot have lunch without going for coffee....

Do you see the pattern?

Now it is 5:15, and I was supposed to leave at 4:30. Of course, I was not done my work at 4:30 because I went for a cappucino and a reception and lunch, and then coffee. But now I am done my work. And now I am going home. Maybe I will stop for un aperitivo on the way home.

Do you see the pattern?

- Ciao.

I love Rome

I love Rome.

I love Rome because it is full of short people who like to eat good food and talk with their hands.
I love Rome because is a place where a bottle of good wine costs less than 5 dollars and waiters are offended if you don't eat at least 2 courses. It is a place where nuns dance in parks and old men sell flowers....

I love Rome bcause you can wear blue shoes and green pants and carry an orange bag and wear a pink tie....and nobody cares.

Rome invites you to make a nice dinner just for you...and to eat it overlooking an obelisk as the sun sets. Rome is confirmation that humans can be eternal and eternally silly.Rome gives you the permission to have delusions of grandeur and the grandeur of delusions. You can also just sit and have a coffee and watch the children play in the street...everybody else does!

I love Rome because Rome is crowded and confusing and noisy and beautiful.... I love Rome because Rome is old and has been around the block. In fact, I think Rome invented the block.

Rome has 7 hills and 13 aqueducts and a wall with 14 gates.
Rome has 3 million people and 2 million cats. Rome has children and nonnas and gardens and
fig trees and flowers and trafic and grafiti and garbage.

Rome has 1 big, beating heart.

I love Rome.

Walk like a Man

The other day I was walking to work. I walk to work every day, not because I like to walk necessarily, but because it seems the least invasive way to add exercise to my daily regime. Ideally, I would prefer not to move my limbs at all - rather, I would like to be surrounded by cushions and brought things on occasion as I needed them. And if you think that this is a recent affectation, think again: I did not deign to walk until I was two. I realized early on that life is easier if people just come to you. Why move when you can just sit there and make people laugh and have them feed you? I must admit, this is much easier to pull of while wearing a diaper, but I digress.

In any event, whoever is in charge has decided that I was not to be a man of leisure.
And so I must walk. To work. And even though I do so, please do not for a moment
think that I am one of those people who wears runners with his suit
so that he does not wreck his dress shoes. No, I wear my expensive, uncomfortable and impractical shoes on my walk to work - for life is a difficult journey along a difficult path and it begins with one small step and you must keep your head high and always look forward. Therefore, it helps to have fabulous footwear.

Of course, it is not really a hardship to walk in the early morning beside the ocean as the sun rises through the mist. The view of the mountains is not quite as unobstructed as it once was, having been obscured by many tall shiny buildings where rich people get to live, but I can deal with that. And I must be careful not to step on the people asleep on the sidewalk - who seem to have multiplied at the same rate as the number of Bentleys driving by... but can I deal with that?

No. I cannot. And if there had been someone to yell at I would have done so, but I was loathe to disturb the slumber of the people sleeping around me - for they have few other comforts save their dreams. And if I could have run with superhuman speed after the Bentleys and Lambroghinis and Mercedes, and attacked them with my keys and thrown the cellphones of the owners into the sea, I would have done so, too. But I have never been a good runner. I had no choice but to keep walking in my ridiculous shoes, and for the first time in a long time I looked down rather than forward, as is my custom.

...and speaking of walking...

Last night I went to the fireworks at English Bay. They were beautiful, and when it was over we all walked home - tens of thousands of people walking. And I thought to myself - there is no human force on earth that can stop so many people from moving in one direction like this. And as I looked around me I prayed that one day we would all be walking together - in the same direction - for something a little more important than a bit of noise and colour in the sky....

...because I hate walking over people.

For Heather

I know it has been a long time since I have written... and I do recall that my last entry was rather morose, or at the very least far more introspective than I thought it would be. I wonder why we share our intimacies with people online - writing on a blog to me seems like the ancient Jewish ritual of scattering crumbs on the water at the New Year as a way of cleansing - of casting off the burdens of the past year. Words are like scattered crumbs in that you never know where they will end up, but it doesn't matter because you feel lighter having gotten rid of them. And I wonder why it is so much easier for me to share my innermost thoughts anonymously on a computer screen than it is to tell people who I have known all my life what I really feel.... perhaps because I do not know what your reaction to my words will be.
I hope of course that you will like them, but I cannot know. And if I could see the reactions of people's faces as they read what I write, I would certainly stop writing altogether out of sheer embarrassment. Indeed, the only saving grace about singing (like writing) is that usually you can't see your audience - the darkness makes it easier to bare your soul. In that way, it is like being in a confessional booth - you have the sense that you are anonymous and alone, but that somebody is listening.

One of the peculiar things about me is that I never know what I am going to write about when I start a blog entry. For instance, I was going to write all about Heather, but now I have written about something else altogether! Oh dear.
Well, the last time I saw Heather, she was wearing the most beautiful red coat, and it was custom made, and it looked as though a flower petal had fallen from the sky and molded itself to her, so well did the coat fit - so vibrant was the shade of it. And it had movement and I remember it was the only element of colour in an otherwise drab room, and I thought that was very much like Heather.

For when it comes down to it, we are here to add colour to drab rooms, and to have movement. And in that way we are like crumbs and words in that we travel and perhaps have no destination.... but it does not matter because at least we are

moving.

Dear Diaries

One of the traits which I am less proud is my tendency to re-read my old journals.
I don't know why I do this - perhaps it is narcissism. Maybe I just like my own writing best! (How narcissistic). Maybe there is nothing better than to sit at night by a candle and try to make sense of things - that is probably it.

There they sit, my journals, arranged chronologically in an old steamer trunk I bought for 5 dollars at a garage sale. Some are them are beautiful - hand-bound with cream coloured vellum... others are just looseleaf stapled together, all are full to bursting. When I left home, I took only one suitcase, and it contained (in addition to completely impractical clothing and far too many toiletries) my scribblings... granted I moved out when I was 20, so there were (mercifully) far less scribblings then there are now. Interestingly, I still write the exact same things that I wrote when I was younger. I still have the same fears and wants and anxieties, for all my belief that I have changed.

I remember when I started keeping a journal - the exact day, to tell you the truth. It was May 10, 1996. I was sitting in Chemistry class and we were supposed to be working out some formula or another, and I wrote (in copperplate script, as was my custom)

"Ben is gay".

I remember feeling deeply afraid at that moment, for it was the first time I had accepted this, much less written it down. I don't know why I was compelled to write these words at that precise time, but nobody ever plans the moment when they cannot take it anymore. Nobody says "in 3 days and 10 minutes I will not be able to live a lie any longer". And so you should always expect the profound and the life changing to occur at inopportune times - while you are brushing your teeth, or writing your LSATS. Or as a 16 year old in chemistry class, as I was.

I was afraid, for change, by its very nature begets fear - especially if that change leads to increased vulnerability and openness, as it did in my case. I feared that somebody - my teacher... a classmate...a moth... would walk by and see what I had written and my life as I knew it - my carefully constructed artificial way of being, would spontaneously crumble and I would be alone in the world. Hastily, I crossed out what I had written, and although I felt smug in the notion that I had the power to write the truth, and then to rub it out - as if it had never been, I was compelled to write it again, and so I did. And this time I did not erase it. And I could not stop what I had started.

We were supposed to be working out a formula...one formula or another - some random collection of letters and numbers which would allow us to make a little more sense of the world: We were supposed to find out an an indisputable and absolute truth which we could hold on to and if things became too much or we lost our way, we could at least say "I may not know where I am going and I may not know who I will become but I did learn at one point in time many years ago that if you mix hydrogen and oxygen together in the proper proportions, you will have created water".

Of course, we all know that few of us really remember anything we learned in school.
We remember the moments in our lives when we had the audacity and the courage to write our own formulas - to be sure of one true thing to hold on to so that if things became too much or we lost our way, we could at least say

"I may not know where I am going and I may not know who I will become, but I did learn at one point in time many years ago to accept myself and to be brave enough to walk forward into freedom, even though I thought it might kill me. And I survived."

Update from Chad

I was starting to get worried because I had not heard from Arvedt in a couple of days - but all cellphone links to Chad are now blocked, so there was no way for him to text me. I had read that all non-essential personnel had been evacuated, but I wasn't exactly sure how they determined who was essential and who was not. So I waited, and checked news updates on the internet more often than was probably good for me.

I got a call early this morning. Arvedt is fine - he had just been airlifted to Libreville in Gabon and was calling me from a French military base. He said that he was caught in the middle of the fighting, because the German consulate was located between the presidential palace and the front line of the rebels. He told me that there were 5 unexploded grenades inside the embassy compound, and that there was shooting everywhere and that he had not slept for 3 days. He said it was not clear who was in control in Chad - there were periodic announcements over the loudspeakers proclaiming victory by the rebels, and then there would be another announcement by the government stating the rebels had been defeated. Arvedt said that this development was unexpected, because everyone believed that the government troops would defeat the rebels at a battle 80 km outside the city. He told me that he had just had hist first meeting with his French counterparts 10 days ago, and they had talked about emergency measures and crisis management, but the talks were informal.
Needless to say, he was glad they took place!

After waiting in the compound for 3 days, they were were rescued by French commandos. Everybody had to literally run across an open field into waiting helicopters, where they were flown to the French military base and then to Gabon by cargo plane.

Arvedt sounded very calm, and after he told me all of this he asked very simply
"how are you? How was New York?" .....I just had to laugh.

New Message

Today I was sitting at home eating soup. Pretty routine... I had a rehearsal later today, and then a performance at the opera. I was listening to a CBC radio programme about perfume. Suddenly, my phone started beeping, and I opened it to find that I had a new text message from my friend Arvedt who is first secretary at the German Embassy in N'Djamena, Chad. This is what it said:

"Hi Ben... we have 4000 rebels 10km out of town. They want to end the dictator's presidency. Lots of military at the presidential palace 500 m away. Lots of work. I am working closely with the French Embassy on evacuation plan for us 50 Germans, but it is too early to tell."

First of all, I couldn't believe that I was getting a text message from the middle of Africa. Second of all, I couldn't believe that a friend of mine was sending me
a text message in the midst of an attempted coup d'etat. One wonders what Edward R. Murrow would have done with such technology....

I texted Arvedt back and told him that I was glad he was safe, and to keep me informed...It is hard to believe that a few short weeks ago he was visiting me in Vancouver -- we were sitting by the ocean drinking lattes and talking about nothing in particular, watching the ducks swim by - looking at the reflection of the mountains in the water. I don't know how any of us have the audacity to do such things when there are horrors being perpetrated around the world every day... and yet we do.. and they probably sit by the water and drink coffee in Africa too, when they get the chance.

I finished my lunch, and went to work, where I put on my costume for the Vancouver Opera's production of "The Italian Girl in Algiers" . It consisted of a turban and a loose cotton robe and as I looked in the mirror, I realized that I looked almost exactly like the pictures of the Chadian rebels I had seen on the BBC website earlier in the day.

And I thought to myself: "The world is fucked".

French Lessons

The other day I decided that I needed to improve my French. It is, after all, what a lady of breeding does when searching for a husband. In fact, this limitation is the only piece missing from the puzzle, as I am already quite an accomplished debutante: I am a masterful flower arranger and an expert cook. I sparkle in conversation and can play Beethoven sonatas on the piano.... I even have my own personalized stationary (understated yet elegant - with my name printed on medium weight cream coloured vellum. No monogram though... that would be a bit much).

While I do have infinite time to devote to this pursuit at the moment, I do not have infinite resources,so that rules out the larger schools like Berlitz. However, I do want quality instruction, and so I viewed it as positively providential that I happened to come across an advertisement for private lessons at an establishment named "Le Petit Sorbonne". The name appealed to the snob in me, and the price...well it couldn't be beat.

My teacher, Nicolas, is so kind. He is from Montpellier - in the south - and there is a touch of the Spaniard in his dark complexion and liquid eyes. He has traveled the world and lived in 52 countries. The only reason he moved here is because he has never lived in North America. He told me that he loves Vancouver, but he believes that the women here are the most frigid in the world. I blushed. He says it is because of English Canada's puritan culture, and he thinks that we Vancouverites don't know how to enjoy life. As I took a swig from my decaf-skinny-sugarfree latte and observed the hordes of people rushing about to their various exercise classes in Lululemon yoga pants, I could see his point.

Oh, how wonderful it was to talk with a French person... I have always loved France - its "laughing awareness" (as Julia Child says) -- its insouciance, its joie de vivre. My mother thinks that in a previous life I was an absolutist king giving edicts from Versailles. I told her that I must have gotten my perceived hauteur from her, because as far as I remembered, she ruled the household by what seemed to be Divine Right. In fact, she even insisted on a simplified version of the "lever" ritual in which the monarch would be attended by the nobility of the court as they awoke. It was my responsibility to convey to my mother her morning coffee at precisely 8:00. In my house, as at Versailles, the bedrooms were quite far from the kitchen, so I had to ensure that I moved quickly lest the coffee become cold. I also had to make sure I walked silently and did not spill. One did not want to raise the ire. Once I delivered the coffee, I would gently wake my mother and wait for further instructions.

It should be noted that Louis XIV invented elaborate court ceremonial to ensure that the nobility stayed under his control. Before the Sun King, the nobles lived on their own estates and were free to plot against the king, which they did. By building Versailles and making it so irresistible, Louis ensured that his nobles would live in a gilded cage: free to pursue pleasure, but completely dependent on him for
everything...in attendance...waiting with bated breath for any sign of favour.

Vanity Fair

They say that January is the busiest month for gyms. Of course, I have no statistical evidence to back this up, but I can venture to say that I speak correctly based on my first hand experiences at the West End Community Fitness Centre these last few days. The sight of legions of flabbily fearsome Vancouverites gyrating wildly to remove all bodily evidence of holiday gluttonies is something to behold before dying - if only for the comic relief. I say that it is a sight because when I went there, I took one look at the exercise room yesterday and promptly returned home... there were no machines to be had, and I did not feel like waiting.

However, I fear that I will have to return sooner than later, as I went for a costume fitting the other day for the upcoming opera, and I discovered (to my horror) that I will be dressed in harem pants AND NOTHING ELSE. The opera is called "The Italian Girl in Algiers" and is almost comically outdated, sexist, racist and out of touch with the realities of the 21st century. That is to say, it is typical of the genre.
Much of the opera takes place in a spa, where a chorus of eunuchs dressed as slave girls laments the fate of women... Interspersed among them are male "customers" who need attending (that would be me). I would have felt much more comfortable being a slave girl - I wouldn't really have to act, and the costume drapes so much better. But, I feel that playing a man will be more of an acting challenge and will therefore expand my range as an artist. It will also motivate me to stick to my embryonic fitness regime.

Failing that, I can just ask the makeup department to add a bit of contouring...
After all, as my brother (who is far more fit than I am ) says "Jews just don't have 6 packs".

Only in New York, part 2

Last night I took my cousin Anna to the Met. Placido Domingo was singing Orestes in a new production of Iphegenie en Tauride by Gluck, and it was sublime. However, experiencing the actual opera is only half the reason to go to the Met. Really, you go to the Met to get dressed up and drink champagne on the grand tier and look over and see Renee Fleming.

Anna had never been to the Met, and she enjoyed every minute - especially since she herself had played Iphegenia in one of her acting classes. However, the air was thin at the top of Olympus and rather than retire to an elegant lounge across the street, we decided to go downtown and see what interesting things we could find....

And what did we find? Lesbian burlesque (OH MY GOD...she's making a vulva out of balloons)...bisexual soldiers on leave (is he flirting with you or with me? If we're drinking the same drink and he bought only one, who is it for?) ...a blues bar where the musicians wore French maid outfits and sang in German... the best 2 dollar cheese pizza ever(okay...we're only getting one more slice, but we have to share) .... limousines parked in front of mountains of garbage.... and, last but not least, a situation where a police officer stopped the car and pointed a gun at us...well, really they pointed the gun at the hoodlums BEHIND us, but I digress.