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”.

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.