yzezzy's blog

I’ve been putting off writing this blog entry for a while now. Part of it is because I’m here until the end of May – I mean, I only just got here in February! But a larger part of it is because I don’t want to say goodbye. Firstly, I don’t want to leave. But, even further, I want to be able to come back. “Goodbye” feels so permanent. Maybe “Auf Wiedersehen” is more appropriate – “until we meet again”.
 
Still, saying farewell is overwhelming for me. I’m still writing essays, still meeting with friends, still trying to cram this city into my experience. And, of course, I’m denying that I have to leave on May 29th. I feel a compulsion to purchase house plants, food staples, tea cups, the things you purchase at the beginning of the semester when the nesting urge kicks in. But, obviously, I can’t. I can still run around Berlin like I’ll never leave, still go out to Hisar near the S-Bahn for döner or to that thrift store on Potsdamer Strasse to complete my second-hand Dirndl ensemble, but reality will always follow.
 
Oh, Berlin, the things I have learned from you. Yes, I could opine about German history, identity, and society, but I won’t. I have to write about these things for all of my other classes. But, honestly, there are things I’ve gained from this city. First and foremost is the ability to love a place and still be highly critical of it. I recognize that I have idealized my home in Oregon, but being in Berlin has put me in a position in which I cannot idealize where I am. This city wears its shame on its sleeve, for it has to.  I’ve had to look Berlin’s imperfections in the face, and hopefully I’ll be able to bring that back with me to Portland.
 
And I have really begun to see, to feel, to understand the privilege of being an American, an undeserved privilege one gets for no reason other than one’s country of origin. I remember the predominance of the English language at the Berlin International Film Festival (catering not to British film professionals but largely to Americans). I’ve seen how English has become the lingua franca for cross-cultural interactions due to American cultural and economic imperialism. Even though I speak German, I could very easily get around without it, save for “danke” and “entschuldigung”. It’s as if the rest of the world, especially in these metropolitan cultural capitals, has to learn how we communicate, while we can just sit back and enjoy the privilege of keeping inside our little American boxes. We export our culture, but are not expected to import that of anyone else. Our movies reach millions of eyes worldwide, our songs millions of ears, pushing out other, non-American possibilities. And, honestly, I think this is wrong, disturbing, and lacking the beauty that cross-cultural interactions ought to have. But I also don’t know how to change it. Maybe it’s in the little things, like learning the language and using it, challenging the need for others to bend to our needs. Us Americans have it far too good in this world.
 
But it is this understanding, combined with all of the other wonderful things I’ve experienced here, that I really and truly love about being in Berlin. Still, I think back on what I’ve done, and my first reaction is to say that it isn’t enough. That it could never be enough. The other night, some friends and I had a conversation about leaving. We talked about how long we could imagine ourselves in certain cities: a friend who studied in Prague last semester said she could spend maybe almost a year there; I said I could deal with a few years in New York. However, we decided that we could stay in Berlin indefinitely. Indefinitely. Whenever I think about the trip home, that word echoes in my mind.
 
At the same time, though, I’ve done quite a bit. I danced to drums next to people spinning fire poi; I participated in a renowned film festival; I waltzed to German polka at a burlesque show; I took walks to nowhere just because I could; I faced some of the ugliest facets of humanity at Sachsenhausen and the Haus der Wansee Konferenz; I picnicked with good friends, homemade bread, and sunshine in Berlin’s parks; I danced to ska at a (very Berlin) goth bar; I laughed and talked and cried on the U-Bahn, breaking the unspoken “transit quiet time” rule; I lived here. And, for the next couple weeks, I will still live here.
 
So, Auf Wiedersehen, dear Berlin. I truly ache when I write that. But I cling to that little linguistic shred of hope – the possibly of actually being here again.
 
Dear fellow bloggers and Professor Hutkins, thank you for coming on this journey with me. Your thoughts have been wonderful, and it has been fantastic to see what all of you are doing and how you react to each other. See you back in New York!

The picture above is, quite honestly, nothing fancy. It's just a lovely little park near my apartment in which I've spent some time. While the Brandenburg Gate and the Fernsehturm are fine landmarks, my heart clings closer to places like this park.

Tips, huh? You want some tips? Well, I feel barely qualified to dispense advice. Here in my last month of being in Berlin, it seems as though I’ve barely scratched the surface of life here/life abroad. But, I’ll try my hardest!
 
1. It is okay not to leave your study abroad site city all the time. Seriously. It is. I know students who left Berlin nearly every single weekend, and they barely spent any time exploring the city. Of course, for me, the decision to limit travel was partially financial, which is totally valid, too! Sometimes being at NYU can make you feel like everyone else has so much available money, which can be pretty alienating. But don’t worry! There are plenty of people who can identify with having financial difficulties! And the place in which you’ve chosen to study is probably pretty awesome as well. Being in Berlin on the weekends is truly wonderful.
 
2. Take walks. Of course, exercise due caution regarding where and when you walk. But, still, take walks. Take walks not knowing where you’re going. Take walks with a map in your bag and the desire not to rely on it. Take walks without listening to music. Take walks in (rather than “to”) places you don’t know. Take walks and breathe and smell and feel where you live. Just take walks. I tell myself this to get me out of my room, since I can tend to be a homebody. This is a pressure-free way to GET OUT and enjoy the city.
 
3. Go to Schlecker or Rossman (there’s a Schlecker across the street from the Kulturbrauerei, near Konnopke’s Imbiss) for normal “drug store” type things (toothbrushes, shampoo, condoms [because I’m interested in your sexual health and safety], soap, and so on). Go to an “Apotheke” (pharmacy) for medicines. Yes, you will have to ask the pharmacist for over the counter drugs like ibuprofen, and the crotchetier ones may ask you why you are requesting painkillers. I propose giving the most embarrassing explanation possible loudly and confidently.
 
4. If you are, for some reason, stuck in the dark ages and don’t have online banking set up, fix this immediately. It is the only practical way to keep track of your finances abroad. Also, some American banks have partnerships with other banks internationally that will make it so that you don’t have to pay extra fees when withdrawing from these banks’ ATMs. For example, Bank of America has a partnership with Deutsche Bank, which means that you B of A customers are lucky, lucky people (Deutsche Bank is EVERYWHERE). Credit/debit cards are not very widely accepted in Germany, so have cash on you.
 
5. Don’t expect to suddenly make tons of friends from the country you’re in. Remember: you’re at an NYU site. Having pre-departure fantasies of drinking coffee in cafes with your fancy European friends is totally fine, but expecting this to happen by virtue of being abroad can lead to disappointment.
 
6. In relation to that last one, it’s always productive to try to reach out of that infamous “NYU bubble”! Go to events you’re actually interested in (instead of just going out to random bars). Participate in the language tandem program! Just make sure you’re doing things that you would want to do in the first place, rather than just focusing on meeting people. It’s more fun that way, and you’re more likely to find people you’d actually have something in common with.
 
7. Take that class with Martin Jander. You know you want to. He’s fantastic, and he’ll take you on fun field trips. He loves the zoo, double-decker buses, and the news. Refer to my blog post on him to realize how wonderful this man is.
 
8. Check out these places: Balkaymak (Turkish restaurant) and Maharaja (Indian restaurant) in Schöneberg; the Märchen Hütte (after dark, of course); Brecht’s East German theatre, the Berliner Ensemble; Ostbahnhof Flea Market; the 6th floor of the department store Kaufhaus des Westens (it’s the food hall); Wild at Heart, if you’re interested in bars with retro themes and burlesque shows; Kreuzberg in general; Schlachtensee, a lake in Berlin; lastly, find a Tchibo coffee shop and try to tell me that this isn’t one of the strangest business models ever.
 
9. You can love where you are and still be critical of it. I suppose this should be expected of me, since living in Berlin is like being hit over the head with German history every day. But no matter where you are, it’s important to be able to see what is not quite right about the place. Of course, it’s also important to see the positive, wonderful aspects of your study abroad site, and to cherish these. Sometimes we Americans have a tendency to be hyper-critical of our own nation, but then idealize other countries too much!
 
10. If you’re coming to Berlin, be ready to have your assumptions challenged. Even me, the Germany-nerd, had to face a lot of surprising, wonderful, or disconcerting facts about this place. Come with a desire to learn, to grow, and to soak up this place. Know your privileges, know the stereotypes or idealizations you hold, and try to address them.
 
Many of these seem kind of “woo-woo” and over-general, but I really hope you can find something useful. You may love Berlin, you may not, but really try get to know it. It can seem huge and crazy and complicated, but you can always try to wiggle into its nooks and crannies, to get deep into the mud (metaphorically, of course) of this city. OH! And a final mini-tip: learn the German. Feel the German. Love the German. And try to speak it so the cashiers at Rewe will stop complaining about American students!

The photo above is of the U-Bahn leaving the station in Berlin. The Berlin transit system is a beautiful thing.

Spring Break for me was the week before last, and I decided to take a short jaunt over to Prague before going to Munich. It was inexpensive, easy, interesting, and, of course, contained an opportunity to meet up with a friend studying in Prague. Prague was fun, the food was delicious, my hostel room was awesome. It was a somewhat unfamiliar experience to, in the bluntest of terms, see so much old stuff.  Adorned buildings, medieval architecture, renaissance architecture, all sorts of architecture, amongst those cramped streets. It was overwhelming and fantastic.
 
However, as I boarded the bus to Germany, a wave of relief washed over me. I turned to Ryan and asked, “Hey, so, are you kind of excited to be able to speak German again?”
 
“How did you know exactly what I was thinking?” he replied, smiling as we entered into a chorus of German chatter on board. We continued to talk, going on about how we wanted to say “danke” and “entschuldigung” during our time in Prague, how we felt like jerks when we constantly asked people if English was okay. Germany had certainly spoiled us, with our prior knowledge of the language
 
But that’s not all! When boarding the train from Munich to Berlin, a similar thing occurred. This time it was relief at coming back to Berlin. Of course, I enjoyed my time in Munich. I saw quite a few palaces, ate delicious Bavarian food, was amused at the people wearing Dirndls and Lederhosen (everyone in the north of Germany thinks these traditional outfits are hilarious). But Munich is a whole different creature, one that did not hold onto my heart as Berlin tugged me back up to the banks of the Spree. When we arrived at Berlin Hauptbahnhof (the main train station), I felt at ease amongst the midnight hustle that characterizes Berlin’s transportation hubs, somehow comfortable with the things that mark Berlin’s transit system as its own.
 
So, what’s the epiphany here? That I really, really like Berlin? Well, you all know that I already do really, really like Berlin. That was a given. Could it be that I am starting to really feel comfortable speaking German? Interesting hypothesis, but I don’t think I’d devote an entire blog post to that. I think it’s all a little more complicated.
 
Take, for example, this dream I had the other night. It went something like this: I was at home on the date that I was having the dream (April 30th or thereabouts), very upset that I was actually at home, crying at some points. For many of you this wouldn’t be so surprising. I know a lot of people who prefer New York City to their hometowns, but I am extremely attached to Oregon. My first semester at NYU was really difficult to handle, compounded by my decision to leave Tisch’s acting program. Things have  certainly improved since those beginning months, but I still think Oregon is a pretty neat place. So, in short, I have a tendency not to be terribly sad when I go home. But, here I was, dreaming that I was home and missing Berlin.
 
What I’ve realized is that my conception of home can change. I still consider, and may always consider, Oregon my home, but there can be more than one thing that I call “home”. Of course, not every place I go to can be a home for me; I am very critical and discerning when it comes to the places I attach myself to. But Berlin has crept into my heart and plans to stay there. When I leave in a few weeks, it will certainly be bittersweet. My epiphany is that my attachments can spread, that where I belong might not be so easily pinned down to one place. I’m happy about it, but it’s also going to be hard to deal with.

The above photo is of me in front of Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria, a day before returning to Berlin. See that smile? That's both triumph of having hiked up to that altitude (not without injury), excitement at seeing a castle, and happiness at the thought that the next day I'd be back in Berlin.

Tall, grey-haired, fond of his knit caps and sweater/polo shirt combinations. Always early, with a newspaper under his arm. A self-proclaimed “news junkie”. Somewhat intellectually intimidating. Somewhat adorable, although that word seems a little strange when applied to him. Born in 1955, raised in West Germany, and highly critical of that environment. Highly critical of Germany in general, works with anti-bigotry organizations, but he loves this country nonetheless.
 
He’s the legend of the NYU Berlin program. He knows Berlin inside and out. He knows Germany’s history to the same extent. He’s Professor Martin Jander, instructor of a class entitled Comparative Modern Societies: Politics and Society in 20th Century Germany. That seems rather dry, but Prof. Jander himself is lively and impassioned, which transfers over to the material.
 
Although I love the course, the real comfort of Prof. Jander comes outside of the 4:45 to 7:15 slot we have on Tuesdays. After class, he holds what he cheekily refers to “extended office hours”, which translates to a group of students going to a café to drink beer and eat with Prof. Jander. All the pretenses fade away, and speaking becomes free and open. Jander likes to hear about our takes on American and German society, we like to hear about his, but the conversations usually revolve around the most mundane of things. Funny things we’ve found in the grocery store, beer, how we’re liking our stay here, other classes, things we do on the weekends.
 
A favorite instance of mine was spurred on by a nickname a girl in our class gave him. He was dubbed “Jandibear” and wanted to know why the word “bear” was used as a term of affection. I explained to him that it probably had something to do with teddy bears and the fact that most bears are fluffy (never mind their deadliness, of course), and his face lit up with delight. He said “Oh, I had a teddy bear when I was a kid! I loved that thing.”. The next e-mail he sent us was signed “Jandibear”. Another time he and I stood around in the student lounge, drinking leftover Bionade (a strange beverage here in Germany), talking about our mutual love for the zoo and German soap operas that deal with problems between “native Germans” and people with Turkish heritage. We discussed Bao Bao, the Berlin Zoo’s panda who just sits around eating and sleeping while being obsessively adored. We discussed how American and German cultures confront (or fail to confront) their own bigotry. And it was all casual, all peppered with Jandibear’s little quirks, so disarming and so indescribable.
 
Traveling can be alienating. Being here can be alienating. There’s a constant assumption, in public, that I’m also German, but inside I know I’m not. Sometimes it feels like I’m just walking through this beautiful city in a strange foreigner’s bubble. But Martin Jander and I share our “foreign-ness” with each other; his Germanness and my Americanness compliment each other. But there’s another layer to this. The professor-student dynamic, while still somewhat present, fades into the background. He takes what his students say seriously, comes to us for insight as we do to him. And yes, he can be a contradiction, somehow strange and unreachable while simultaneously warm and approachable. The warmth, however, is almost overwhelming, and the contradictions feel somehow familiar, and bring with them subtle comforts. As this semester rolls to a close, I know that I will miss the Tuesdays with Jandibear.

I don't have a photo of Prof. Jander, so I decided to post one of me nearly crying at having finally seen a panda in real life. Taken at the Berlin Zoo.

Oh, Berlin. I just can’t pin you down. You’re past and present, new and old, open and closed, German and non-German. People have been trying to decide what you are for years, and I don’t know if I’ve gotten any closer. So I look at this assignment, and I wonder how it is that I could even try to find some that embodies the spirit of Berlin. It’s big. It’s complicated. It’s beautiful. Did I mention that it’s big?
 
But sometimes you can find reflections of such “bigness” in the smallest of things. Take, for instance, the döner kebab. It’s a typical street food here in Germany, elevated almost to a cult status, but still essentially very simple. It’s similar to the gyro, consisting mainly of lamb (or, occasionally, chicken) served wrapped in a thick pita (dürüm). The version developed in Germany by Turkish immigrants has “Salat” (literally, “salad”) in it – a mixture a lettuce, onions, cucumber, and tomatoes – and a choice of sauces – hot sauce, herb sauce, garlic sauce, and yogurt. Sometimes they’ll even ask you if you want hummus on it. And of course you do, because it makes the experience that more delicious.
 
It is also a messy experience. The little paper sleeve thingy will fall apart, the sauce will get everywhere, and you will drop about half of your Salat while trying to eat it. If you use a fork you’re a wimp, but if you don’t your hands will be covered with döner residue. Sometimes you order it wrong, and the guy behind the counter will give you the spiciest sauce available when really you just wanted the mild yogurt. But there are as many variations to this as there are variations of ways to experience Berlin itself. Similarly, there are just as many kinds of ways to actually get döner. One thing, however, is standard: the meat is stacked onto this crazy vertical skewer in an inverted cone shape and cooked this way, often right at the front of the stand or restaurant. Bits of meat are shaved off when you order and slapped onto your pita. Sometimes the döner server will only speak Turkish, sometimes they will speak English better than some of your professors, but the giant vertical meat cone is the one truly classic, consistent, holy, unchangeable aspect of döner.
 
This may seem a little sketchy. And, to be honest, it kind of is. I remember my initial taxi ride in Berlin from the airport to my apartment. The neighborhood seemed covered in graffiti, and our building looked run down. But in time the building became home, and the graffiti became a beloved part of my life here. I’m also reminded of Berlin’s history, how some of it is unsettling, making it difficult to reconcile with the past and living in the present. However, much of the history is beautiful, and even the most atrocious history of Germany is an unchangeable fact that must be reckoned with, rather than pushed aside, every single day.
 
The döner as Berlin knows it is a specifically Turkish-German invention, the product of immigration and cross-cultural knowledge. And, in some instances, one could celebrate it as a way that “ethnic Germans” (whatever that means anymore) and those with Turkish immigration backgrounds begin to interact, to understand each other at a basic human level. Food certainly does that. But it has also been the victim of misunderstanding. Sometimes it seems that certain Germans believe that all they need to understand of the Turks is the döner, and not even try for real cultural dialogue or at least acknowledgement that Turkish people have more to offer than a fast food dish after a night of drinking. The döner is collaboration and conflict, both a barrier and a passageway. It unites East and West, but has the potential to build a new wall between “Germans” and “non-Germans” alongside its potential to do the opposite.
 
Living in Berlin is a messy endeavor. One has to navigate the past in the moment of the present, and deal with the prejudices and trials of today without losing sight of the troubles of yesterday. But its messiness is what makes it so wonderful, so delicious. It’s the fact that beautiful plazas and parks can exist between and amongst the graffiti that is really astounding, and soon the paint and vandalism takes on a beauty of its own. It’s the accordianists on the U-Bahn, the old timers at the flea markets, the football hooligans, the children always appropriately dressed for the weather. It’s the potential of getting sick from a bad döner, but always wanting to come back for more.

The above picture is Germany's Chancellor, Angela Merkel, shaving off some döner meat. You better believe it.

In Berlin, they’re reconstructing the palace.
 
In any other European city, this statement would seem benign. The reaction would be something like “Oh, of course they’re rebuilding the palace! What’s a major continental city without its palace?”. But here in Berlin every stone, every inch of scaffolding, every square foot of a floor plan is up for debate. In a city where nearly every building is new, restored, or completely rebuilt, it may seem surprising that such a heated discussion would arise regarding reconstructing another building. But, really, this debate, and the resulting decision to rebuild the palace, can say a lot about Berlin. Every brick is political.
 
Brian Ladd, author of “The Ghosts of Berlin: Confronting German History in the Urban Landscape”, recounts this debate in one of the beginning chapters of his book which deals with “old” Berlin, that is Berlin before the Weimar Era and the madness of the 20th Century. This chapter deals with the early history of Berlin, yes, but it also discusses how this history is dealt with, how this handling of early history actually has more to do with the more recent “ghosts” in the city. I remember, on our second week of class, one of my professors took us on a walking tour (he runs historical/sociological/critical tours in Berlin) and we stopped, shivering in the cold, in front of the Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral). He pointed in the direction of the Stadtschloss (City Palace) building site and said “To me, all this reconstruction says something about the history the government is trying to remember, the ‘good old years’ of Berlin. It’s not necessarily forgetting, but rather a redirection of attention. But not really for the better, and it’s not even a successful redirection.” These ghosts and how people handle them are why I am fascinated by this chapter, why I didn’t choose a later one about the Nazi Era or the GDR to focus on.
 
Ladd notes that, in the course of the debate over the Stadtschloss (which was bombed in WWII, demolished by the GDR, and replaced with the “Palace of the Repubilc”, home of the GDR’s largely powerless parliament, a huge party meeting hall, and a bowling alley), the charge that one side or the other was guilty of “historical ignorance” was often made (69). That is, one side would claim that the proponents of rebuilding the Palace were trying to gloss over history, that of both the Nazi Era and of the GDR, and were thus falling back into fascist, nationalist patterns. The other, in turn, would claim that those opposed to rebuilding the Palace lacked no real knowledge of the history of the building, since Hitler shunned it, never using it in his plans for the Third Reich, and the GDR destroyed it to build a structure viewed (by the West) as anti-democratic. To them, the Palace was a symbol of some sort of True German Identity, one that had been victimized by a series of bad regimes and leaders.
 
This issue of “historical ignorance”, an issue Ladd brings up throughout the book, says a lot about Germany, and especially Berlin, which has been a symbol for the conflicts of German-ness since the nation was founded in 1871. In fact, it seems like the worst claim to be made about someone here is that they are ignorant of Germany’s history, especially of the Holocaust and of the time of the Wall. Berlin is, thus, a paradox to me. It is the capitol of modernity, emblematic of movements forward, of art, of alternative lifestyles, of everything younger generations move to the big city for. But, at the same time, it is unswayingly focused on its past, always chasing its ghosts around, wrestling with them, trying to grasp apparitions of the past and be forgiven. And, the more I walk around the city, the more I read, the more I check the news and talk in class, the more the extremes of this paradox become apparent to me.
 
We feed off of Berlin’s ghosts. I do, the city does, Ladd does, every one of you reading this does. But, sometimes, this focus on the past, this strange symbiotic struggle, can be used to ignore the painful realities present. I do not mean that the past, especially reconciling with the actions of the entire citizenry of Germany during WWII, has been entirely dealt with. It never will be. Even after the last former Nazi soldier, Holocaust survivor, childhood member of the Hitler Youth, dissident tortured by the Gestapo or the Stasi, or Cold War spy has died, the past will not be dead. That’s the nature of trauma, of historical wounds. However, when the city only focuses on the past or its image of modernity, it ignores real and honest problems that are not related to the neatly laid-out “German problems” of the 20th Century. That is, the persecution and blatant racism against Turks and related groups.
 
Many Germans, it seems, think racism is just anti-Semitism, and that Germany has thus “ended” racism. Meanwhile, neo-Nazis, taking their focus away from controversial Jewish targets, have murdered and terrorized Turks at an alarming rate. In battling over historical ignorance, over whether or not reconstructing old buildings like the Palace bends to anti-Semitic or fascist inclinations, an ignorance of the present has been created, one that has allowed the worst of the past to creep back in under a new form. In reading Ladd’s book, it has occurred to me that the ghosts of Berlin exist right alongside the city’s non-ghosts, its living, breathing monsters that lurk amongst this wonderful metropolis (I do not, I must note, mean to say that Berlin is terrible. I love this city. And, in loving it, I am the most critical of it). Ignorance and charges of ignorance, then, makes the hierarchy of problems created by Germans (what people think is most worthy to address or easiest to deal with) visible and, hopefully, easier to dismantle. What matters isn't the rebuilding of the Palace, but the discussion around it.

The photo above was taken by me. It's the Berliner Dom, a rebuilt building itself, which is not far from the site where the Palace will be rebuilt.

Berlin is known for its flea market scene. Trendy markets, from sizes tiny to MEGA HUGE, have popped up all over the city, the most popular of which might be Mauerpark Flea Market (literally “Wall Park”, referencing the space’s position along the path of the Berlin Wall and in Death Strip). Every Sunday, Mauerpark Flea Market is packed with tourists and locals alike, trying to find that new purse or set of cheap old tools. But, really, it can be hard to even see the wares on display due to the pulsating masses of people. You’re jostled, suffocated, barely able to stop at stalls or break away from the crowd.
 
The Antikmarkt Ostbahnhof , however, is different (Antique Market Ostbahnhof – Ostbahnhof was once the main train station of East Berlin and still acts as one of the larger hubs for train transportation in Berlin). Its name makes it sound a lot fancier than it actually is – “antique market”, in the US, would ring of ornate oak living room sets, polished silver keepsakes, refurbished non-functioning historical weaponry, and things like “armoires”, “settees”, and “chesterfields”.  Antikmarkt Ostbahnhof couldn’t be further from that expectation!  There are two kinds of vendors here: people who simply sell their old stuff, emphasis on the “old”, (or the stuff of their parents, grandparents, friends, relatives – sometimes groups of people run stalls together), or people who specialize in a certain kind of item. All of the vendors are pretty small-time, including the specialists. The man who sells stamps from East Germany, the Nazi era, and the Weimar Republic, all of them lovingly and carefully packaged in little bags or on pieces of black cardboard, sells his wares exclusively at this flea market, and often prices them below the market standard. But nowhere do you see neatly laid-out furniture in perfect condition, appraisers, or markers of whatever kind of “oldness” is popular right now.
 
The vendors here are mainly older folks and, from what I can surmise, East Berliners. What they sell reflects the inner history of the city: the old sheet music from the Weimar era hidden away during the Nazizeit, remnants of East German culture and production, questionably-acquired American military items and Communist army uniforms, and the regular odds and ends one acquires in a long life (obsolete telephones, jars, framed pictures, costume jewelry, incomplete dish sets). It’s all presented without pretense, in piles or in bags, hung up from the supports of the stalls or strewn over tables, while the vendors casually converse with each other and potential customers. There are two small food vendors, and at either you can get a Rostbratwurst, a coffee, Glühwein, some starchy thing made from potatoes. It’s simple and warm beneath the crisp morning air.
 
This is Berlin’s Sunday culture. Stores are closed on Sundays in Germany, so the flea markets flourish. And while the young people, the loud people, the fashion finders and trendsetters are out at Mauerpark, a definite community forms around little places like Antikmarkt Ostbahnhof. The vendors know each other and most of the regular customers. Even a couple awkward “Amis”, like myself and my boyfriend Ryan, are at least a little accepted as long as we behave unobtrusively, as long as we don’t change the patterns of interaction too much. The primary purpose of this place isn’t necessarily selling one’s wares. Rather, it’s a social space, one in which an entire world is created: people argue, people celebrate, people make small talk over the quality of today’s coffee or the price changes at so-and-so’s stall down at the other side of the market.
 
The Antikmarkt Ostbahnhof is a strange time-warped kind of place, that’s to be sure. This mini-society is created amongst objects filled with painful memories, and it’s interesting to see how people deal with this history. I remember the stamp vendor chortling a little when I gasped as I went through a file of stamps. I had come across some of the “Hitler head” stamps (not openly viewable unless you searched behind other cards of stamps, since displaying Nazi paraphernalia/objects is both socially and legally complicated and, sometimes, forbidden) and my expression had belied my surprise at the idea of Hitler’s image being displayed on every letter, like today’s “Forever Stamps”. But for the Germans at Antikmarkt Ostbahnhof, this is a fact they’re familiar with. Not necessarily comfortable, but familiar. Familiar discomfort mixed with familiar social comfort, is a feeling that defines this place. Uneasiness and normalcy together, every Sunday from 9 AM to 5 PM.

I pass it every day on the U2, on a section of the line that is above ground. In fact, I very much enjoy this portion of track, especially the long stretch between the stations Gleisdreieck and Bülowstrasse, because I can look out the windows and spot landmarks (hey look! That’s the Sony Center at Potsdamer Platz!) or look down and see the little garden houses and plots below me (Germans, it turns out, sometimes have little gardens with teeeeensy cottages away from their usual homes). But the aforementioned “it” always takes precedence, always draws my eyes away from whatever else seemed interesting.

It’s a mural. Colorful, complicated, absolutely huge. And, somewhat unexpectedly, it’s on the side of a hotel. For a long time, I only got glimpses of it as I passed on the train. I wasn’t able to process it, only catch little bits and hope that I saw a different part of it each time. Until, however, one day I came across it from the ground on one of my walks. That’s when I took the above photo, and it was also when I realized just how much that mural was intended to be seen from the train. In fact, you can’t really see it completely from the ground; it’s always blocked by the fence, the trucks, and what have you. And, with this in mind, the frustration of never getting a complete picture of the mural faded away. My mindset was that the intrigue and the enchantment of this work of art laid in its incompleteness in my head. It was exciting to look at it for a couple short seconds every day, to get caught up in its enchantment aboard the train.

Of course, however, I couldn’t just leave it at that. I looked it up on Google, and found out the following information: the mural was painted by 10 artists from Berlin and Latin America in partnership with an organization called Interbrigadas. It is, at least of the time of this entry on the website, the largest mural in Berlin. After looking at their straight-on photos of the mural, the extensive use of Latin American imagery became obvious. And while I found myself more able to appreciate the collage-like nature of the piece, its beauty, and even its humor, my understanding of how it worked, why it was there, and how it related to Berlin became foggier.

The Latin American population in Berlin is extremely small, barely even noticeable. Most Berliners and Germans, it seems, still rely on extremely stereotypical notions of what a Latin American is. But, to be honest, I don’t think the effect of this mural on the city, or on my perception of it, is one of education. It doesn’t provide salient information regarding Latin American cultures, though I’m not saying that it ought to. Rather, let’s look at what’s there. It’s strange. It’s bright. It contains some familiar elements (the picture of Marx, the Fernsehturm, images of the types of buildings you find in Berlin, and, what I only recently noticed, the likeness of some U-Bahn cars), but is largely composed of things not intimately known to Berliners. Add to that the fact that this mural was created as an opportunity for the artists involved to create work and expand their horizons. The piece seems to speak of opportunities, to highlight the colorful around the familiar. But, at the same time, it implies that Berlin needs to be reminded of these opportunities that the city holds. Its facing of the U-Bahn can add to this interpretation: while the U-Bahn is a huge part of the mundane, everyday routine of people’s lives, it can also present itself as an opportunity for adventure and exploration.

However, the fact that Marx and the Fernsehturm are the most visibly German elements of the mural changes the above interpretation of the work’s representation of Berlin. Both are emblematic of East Germany and, of course, the time of separation. The Fernsehturm was, in fact, a Communist project, motivated both to increase television access for East Germans and (more prominently) to create an image of technical superiority when compared to the West. What does the prominence of these elements say about Berlin? Is it a nod to the recent history of the city? Is it a form of Ostalgie (“East nostalgia”)? Is it supposed to be criticism to the right-leaning government of today’s Federal Republic of Germany?

To be honest, I can’t really answer those questions. What I do know, though, is that every time I pass by this mural on the train, I continue to spend those short moments examining it for something new. And in those moments, I’ve realized something. The work itself is very new, very modern, contains a fair amount of modern elements (the U-Bahn cars, for example), and even represents a connection only made possible by contemporary advances (that is, artists from Latin America and artists from Berlin working side-by-side). However, it also contains many “old” elements (Marx, certain Latin American symbols, and so on). I feel as though this also contributes to how one views Berlin with regards to this work. Among many other things, it represents the new and the old together, forming an uneven, mish-mashed, even slightly troublesome picture. And, of course, Berlin itself fits these descriptors.

The above photo was taken by me.

As noted in my previous post, so much of Berlin is some kind of reconstruction. From identity to architecture, things have been either rebuilt or replaced throughout the city atop the scars of WWII (or, in many cases, in order to open the wounds again). And, as a temporary resident here, a question has indeed crossed my mind: “What’s real here? What’s authentic?”
 
After all, isn’t that what we’re supposed to be looking for when we travel? Is it the history? That smoky little bar in Kreuzberg? The currywurst stands? The flea markets filled with old Nazi and Communist relics? And so we search, we rummage, we ride the trains back and forth. Our search leads us both to the museums and monuments as well as into little back streets we would never have thought to go into. And, at least in my case, this search hasn’t necessarily led to entire satisfaction regarding my questions of authenticity; the questions aren’t answered. Of course, I’ve had many fantastic experiences. I’ve taken walks for hours, jumped on mini-trampolines in parks, eaten fantastic food, encountered an impressive number of accordion buskers, and spent entire days speaking mainly in German. But, as is the constant issue of the traveler, this high-held “authenticity” seems out of my reach.
 
So, what’s the problem here? Am I just not trying hard enough? Have I not been following the super-duper-authentic-traveler’s-rules? Well, yeah. Those might be true. But, really, I think the actual problem is the moralization of the word “authenticity”. In fact, reading MacCannel’s text assisted me in coming to this conclusion (Dean MacCannel is, for those playing along at home, a sociologist who wrote an article entitled “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings off of which this post is based). Recall how he cheekily notes that Daniel Boorstin’s position, that of elevating the authenticity-seeking “traveler” while disparaging the superficial “tourist”, is “morally superior to the one presented [in the text]” in that it doesn’t analyze or challenge previous assumptions regarding travel but, rather, “expresses a long-standing touristic attitude” (601, 602). That is, the attitude of the morally-superior position of “authenticity”, which in turn leads to a dislike of other tourists, even though this attitude is, as MacCannel reveals, extremely touristic itself.
 
Look, we all fall into this. It is a cultural ideal that authenticity is so much better than anything else. Of course, when we travel we don’t want to be so removed from the place we’re visiting, so concentrated in front regions, to the point that we end up exacerbating our privilege as Americans/outsiders (“we don’t think the non-iconic things are pretty enough”) or acting as though we’re being led around Pyongyang by government officials. However, a huge search for “authenticity” removes you from that place as well. And I’m not saying that the “fake” things are somehow better than authenticity, thus reversing our current moralization. In fact, I argue for a removal for that moralization altogether, and a reexamination of what authenticity is. Because it’s important to note that the expat bar on Schönhauser Allee is as much within the city as the bars “real” Berliners go to. Similarly, the Brandenburg Gate is as much within the city as the hidden artists’ squats. Authenticity is an extremely squirrelly concept; it's highly subjective and fleeting. In order for me to get some kind of conception of what Berlin is, I’ve had to accept this.

The photo above was found on the Internet. I like to call it "OH MY GOD LOOK IT'S BERLIN", since it shows the dome of the Reichstag from the top of the Brandenburg Gate (two of the most famous structures in Berlin). However, for the purposes of this post, I very well could have used a picture of graffiti, a segment of the Wall, a bunch of gritty-looking people sitting at a bar, or what have you, to illustrate notions of what Berlin is.

Side-note 1: I'd also like to say that, as outsiders, we sometime forget that the "insiders" have similar notions of authenticity regarding other cultures. I recently went to a dance party called "Soul Explosion" that advertised its "real" 60s - 70s American soul music and atmosphere. The music was great, but what I found inside was a huge screen on which clips from Soul Train adn blaxploitation movies were played. It was a little disconcerting, to say the least!

Side-note 2: I apologize for my entries being behind. Things got a little crazy academically (funny how this whole "study abroad" thing really does include studying!), but they are sliding back into normalcy.

Berlin is a troubled city. It has been witness to and complicit in the Shoah (Holocaust), Gestapo crimes, Stasi torture, Nazism, neo-Nazism, and so on. At the same time, it is a living, breathing city, still caught up in a post-unification fervor of renewal and restoration. It is from within these muddled convergences of past(s), present(s), and (as will discussed) future(s) that Karen E. Till writes The New Berlin: Memory, Politics, Place, regarding memorialization and city planning in Berlin in the 1980s, 1990s, and into the 21st century.
 
As an outsider (which, in many ways, I certainly still am to Berlin), one has a tendency to look at historic and memorial structures in this city, be they the Brandenburg Gate or the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, as if they are totally organic and, furthermore, entirely authentic. They are seen as a site of consensus and as insights to some monolithic “past”, some instance of truth regarding what happened before our time. Till, however, notes that “people become obsessed with material remnants because the past is a fiction”, and that “place-making”, as she puts it, is an attempt to reconstruct a history, to reconcile, to define identity in terms of what has been and what should be felt afterwards (14). Furthermore, she refers throughout the book to “remembering the future”, meaning placing the future in the past, using memory (which is always reconstructed, always selective) to “narrate a history of national hopes for the future – desires that continue to haunt the spaces of the New Berlin today” (39).
 
In Berlin especially, this process is done through the channels of architecture, city planning, and memorials. And this is precisely what you have to remember when you’re here. Everything is the product of a decision, and not even an easy one, at that. The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, presented by tour guides as a unanimous statement by the city to the world, but it was highly contested. Members of the Jewish community, other citizens’ groups, politicians – you name them, and they were arguing about the memorial. Does it do the right thing? Is its position in the city the best place for it to be? Should there even be such an “open wound” in the city? The memorial was constructed, right in the middle of the city, but the contention around it still haunts where it stands.
 
Even historic sites from before the Nazizeit, before either World War, are a part of Berlin’s remembering of the future. One of my professors took us on a tour last month of sites in Berlin, and noted an old 19th century landmark covered in scaffolding. The city government had chosen to restore this building, partially destroyed in the war, to project an image of Berlin, to remember the days before the “ghost of shame” colored the city (a problematic pursuit indeed), and to thus garner more tourist visits to the relics of Berlin’s booming glory days. In reading The New Berlin, these places have become suspect to me. What is it that people are trying to say through places? What future are they remembering?
 
Even further, Till also notes the influence outsiders have had upon post-Wall Berlin. While Berlin may have a tendency to over-memorialize, to over-restore, we post-Shoah generations (especially Americans) feed upon the historic places and memorials. Of course, there is America’s sickly Holocaust fetishism, our replaying and replaying of documentary reels, our creation of an industry out of such atrocity, our own hero complex and love of pointing fingers away from ourselves. But, even beyond that, there is an earnestness with which we approach places of memory. There is a desire to understand and know what cannot fully be understood and known, paired with a desire to feel emotions, from empathy to guilt, and see these put on display. We expect the city to be sorry, and in doing so we expect to feel some of it ourselves.
 
But even though so much is constructed, I always have to go back to the realization that there isn’t a hard line between a “real” place and a “fake” one. Most of the places of memory in Berlin are both and neither. They represent the “unknowable” mentioned above. People may chastise Berlin for its memorials (they might not be “enough”, they might be “too much”), for its restorations of places of significance from the 19th century, or the Weimar period, or the Nazi time, or the time of the split city, for any and all representations of its past. However, it should always be in mind that this is a complicated city. People live here, work here, travel here. But it also has a multiplicity of pasts, all of which are being confronted or ignored constantly in the very structure of the city. And, at the same time, the city as a whole keeps on moving through time. We go to historic places and want to see something away from time, away from the biases and judgments of eras, but that’s not possible. Just by being here, I take part in Berlin's remembering of the future.

The above photo, taken by me, displays part of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. "New Berlin", as its called, is in the background.

I find it a little funny that I am writing about the normal, day-to-day things at this point in my time abroad. I just got back from a trip to Hamburg (entirely out of the ordinary), and only recently got back into a regular pattern from the hectic days of the Berlin Film Festival. But, of course, I came back from Hamburg to the daily errands, the laundry, the half-eaten box of Corny Bars (a granola bar-like product) in my cabinet. This is by no means a lamentation, but simply recognition of the long lines of routine between the exciting punctuation in life, whether abroad or at home.
 
Here, however, I find the routine a little more interesting, a little less normal. That doesn’t really mean, though, that’s it’s always a whole lot of fun. For example, I have been washing my laundry by hand since I got here. I do small loads in my kitchen sink, then transfer the clothes to my bathroom where I hang them up and turn on the heat all the way. This may seem a little romantic, like a somewhat cheesy story about moving to Paris (the young woman, new to the big city, hanging her dresses and underthings ever-so-delicately above the radiator before stopping in a café for coffee and potential adventure), but this chore’s charm is waning. Laundry, however, is expensive here (three Euros for a wash, fifty Euro cents per ten minutes of drying), and I’ve been trying to stretch my budget. Soon I will have to venture into the basement and do laundry the “regular” way.
 
But there are plenty of elements of my routine, daily things little things, that I do find rather fun. A big part of this is groceries, food, and packaging. Germans tend to go grocery shopping at least once or twice a week, and I have joined in on that grand tradition. And not only do you take multiple shopping trips, but you also go to multiple shops. Need bread that isn’t really dense, hard, or dry? Get yourself to the bakery. Want a decent beer or great cold cuts? Go to the Potsdamer Platz Kaiser’s. Looking for dry staples, run-of-the-mill beverages, and cheap candy? The discount grocery stores, like Lidl and Aldi, are the place to be.
 
I really, really like grocery shopping here. I want to try all of the new things, even the weird meats suspended in aspic. This is compounded by the fact that I’m quite fascinated by packaging, product names, and marketing. After all, I’ve been known to say that, if it weren’t for my conscience, I could find advertising or marketing a really interesting career. I love translating the little sayings and slogans on bags of candy, noting the design of cleaning products (many of which have little mascots, like the fox on my “Spee” brand laundry detergent), and what have you. I’m actually collecting a little bag of labels and packaging from food and other things I bring into my apartment in order to glue these bits of everyday life into a notebook. It’s like a collection of the nitty-gritty, the things you usually throw away, heavily influenced by my love of German kitsch. In some ways, I’m still a tourist in the grocery store.
 
So I have these bits of German grocery ephemera scattered about, an electric kettle on the counter (a standard German appliance), a suitcase full of laundry to wash, all in my 325 square foot studio apartment across the street from a building housing both living spaces and a Turkish bathhouse. I think the couple with the big, friendly dog down the hall from me just left for dinner. Someone on the street in front of my window is calling out to someone else in a mix of German and Turkish while the birds in the big trees nearby are starting to calm down as the sky gets dark. There’s an iron burn in my industrial carpet, left by a previous tenant, and a TV that brings the best (and worst) of German programming and dubbed American sitcoms to my room.
 
There’s so much do to, both inside my room and outside in big, beautiful Berlin. It’s really cold, though, so this time the chores and laundry have won. Ah, yes, another element of settling into normalcy: judging your activities based on whether or not the temperature is above freezing.

The picture above is the view from my apartment balcony on an especially blue-skied day. You can't see the Turkish bathhhouse's signage, but trust me, it's there.

On my third day in Berlin, I tried my hand at ordering some delicious currywurst (pictured above) at the famous Konnopke's Imbiss, just outside of the Kulturbrauerei (I recommend looking through the Deutsches Currywurst Museum website to learn more about this delicious, delicious food). I carefully looked over the menu, drawing on my years of German instruction to formulate my order, hopefully, in the correct manner. It was simple enough: Currywurst, Pommes, and a Coke. Yes, I knew that I could do it, that I could conduct the entire exchange in the language of the land.

So, I said it: "Ich möchte ein Currywurst, Pommes, und eine Cola" (I would like a currywurst, French fries, and a cola). The woman at the stand responded, "Mayo, too? Alright, five Euro." I was quite surprised at immediately being answered in English. Had I done something wrong? Was my American accent just too obvious? Was I doomed to fail at ordering food in Berlin?

Of course, after thinking about it, the currywurst lady's reaction was entirely understandable. Konnopke's Imbiss attracts all manner of tourists, especially since it was featured on Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. She spoke to me in English partially because it would have been safe for her to assume that I barely spoke any German. She spoke to me in English because there was a line forming behind me and she wanted to move things along. She spoke to me in English out of simple politeness.

For someone who speaks the language well enough to be at least marginally passable, but isn't yet fluent, a variety of issues (I wouldn't call them "problems") are made apparent, including the tendency of English-speaking Berliners to assume you don't speak German at all. There is the expected: general misunderstanding/difficulty in communicating. It's the same thing that many of my non-German speaking classmates and friends experience. This, however, isn't something I, myself, find very interesting. I'm more engaged by the next issue: knowing enough to start a conversation or understand what the other person is saying, but not knowing enough to coherently reply.

At first there's a feeling of accomplishment. "Go me! I've used my learning properly! And they even thought I passed well enough for someone who isn't a tourist! Yay!" But then the frustration often sets in. The feeling of not having the words you want, despite understanding the other half of the conversation, is often very disheartening. I feel as though this reveals a hidden aspect of communicating in another language. It’s not just the exchange of information and feelings, but also the proving of one’s status in the city. This doesn’t mean that there’s necessarily a malicious aspect to communication. Rather, it simply means that way in which you communicates, how you handle the language, informs others around you about who you are and what you’re doing here.
 
My favorite interactions thusfar have been with non-native German speakers who are residents of the country, if not legal citizens. They often start with the presumption that I’m a native German. I hide the English on my shirts, speak softly to my English-speaking friends, and (here’s the big one) I’m white. Even though Germany has had a long history of immigration from various countries, continents, and cultures, the “default German” is still, unfortunately, pictured as white. So the conversation begins with a hierarchy already in place. Of course, there’s eventually a realization that we’re both speaking in accented German, both sometimes grasping for words we don’t have.  It doesn’t necessarily put us on equal footing in the social hierarchy, but it makes the stumbles and mistakes feel a little more OK.
 
As an end note, I’d like to just say how much I love the U-Bahn for overhearing conversations. I barely ever talk to anyone on the train, save for the occasional “Entschuldigung” (“excuse me”), but listening to the patterns of speech around me is always fascinating. I justify my eavesdropping by saying that I’m trying to better my language skills, but often it’s just fun to do.

On my first day of class I got lost between Eberswalderstrasse U-Bahnhof and the Kulturbraurerei.
 
Alright, this probably doesn’t mean anything to you. The words are foreign, the city is foreign, and even the transportation system to which I am referring is foreign. However, if you both spoke German and lived in Berlin, the above situation would sound to you like a childish, hilarious, and somewhat pitiable mistake. So, as a translation, I offer the following: Eberswalderstrasse U-Bahnhof is the subway station (U-Bahn, short for Untergrund-Bahn, which is the “Underground Train”) I get off at in order to go to class at the NYU Berlin Academic Center. The Kulturbrauerei (“Culture Brewery”) is an old brewery that has been refurbished to house theatres, nightclubs, and, incidentally, the Academic Center. It’s about a block away from the station, hence the silliness of my mistake. It’s like getting off the train at Herald Square and entirely missing Macy’s (okay, maybe not that extreme, but you get the point).
 
I walked in the entirely wrong direction for about twenty minutes, frantically trying to figure out what I had done wrong in order to make it to class on time. I was hungry, worried, tired, and unkindly reminded that Berlin is not like our somewhat neatly-gridded Manhattan. There are no numbered streets, only names that mean very little to someone unfamiliar with the city: Danzingerstrasse, Schoenhauser Allee, Tempelhofer Ufer. However, though this first foray into getting lost was entirely frustrating,, I soon decided to take a walk around my own neighborhood, many U-Bahn stops south of the Academic Center in Prenzlauer Berg.
 
I live on the eastern side of Schoeneberg, smashed right up against the neighborhood of Kreuzberg in former West Berlin. This day I went eastward, close to Kreuzberg, with no real direction in mind. In fact, I was purposefully lost, but I didn’t mind. I had no place to be, only time on my hands and a beautiful blue and grey sky (remember, I’m from Oregon). And, of course, a monthly transit pass. I passed by an S-Bahn station (Stadtbahn/City Train in Berlin, but in some places the S-Bahn is the Schnellbahn/Fast Train, and in others Stadtbahn means something entirely different), not knowing that it was there in the first place, and then turned left, right, left again. I eventually crossed a small canal/creek right in the middle of the city by means of a beautiful small bridge, and the sky was turning dark.
 
I don’t remember the names of the streets I walked, but I do remember seeing one of the most beautiful, giant murals I had ever seen. It covered the entire side of a building, hectic and chaotic, maybe done by multiple artists, possibly illegally. Of course then it dawned on me: I wasn’t lost at all. I had seen that mural many times through the window of the U-Bahn. Yes, although the name is “Undergrund-Bahn”, the train does come above ground! And, yes, I knew precisely where I was: right next to the Gleisdreieck U-Bahn Station, the stop right before my home station on the U-2 line. So, noticing the coming night, and having forgotten how I got there in the first place, I hopped aboard the train.
 
This gives me a fantastic opportunity to talk about the Berlin transit system, mostly its trains. There are also trams and busses, but I have yet to use them. As mentioned above, there are two types of public trains that serve just the Berlin area: the S-Bahn and the U-Bahn. The train map is the kind obsessed over by public transit enthusiasts: clean, geometrical, and with little relation to the streets above, save for station names. Great for locals, somewhat complicated for those unfamiliar with Berlin. But I have come to understand it in its starkness and love its efficiency, thanks in large part to my participation in the Berlin International Film Festival. It has taken me to theatres away from my general area, westward, eastward, and northward. There was, for example, an old East German theatre on Karl-Marx-Allee (yes, THAT East German) where I watched documentaries and a strange 2.5 hour Russian film set in 2020, and to which I had to take a new U-Bahn line.
 
Speaking of efficiency, I must say that the stereotype that Germans are very practical and punctual is true, at least in terms of transit. The trains are on time, and electric signs tell you when the next train is coming. The doors of the train only open when you press a button, in order to conserve energy. You can always hear the pre-recorded announcement regarding which stop is next, unless buskers playing accordions and keytars are in your car. I’ve almost memorized all the stations from my apartment to school and back, and have a tendency to recite them along with the announcement.
 
My next adventure with transit will be taking U-Bahn lines to their termination, and getting off at whatever station that intrigues me. “Bernauer Strasse”, “Sophie-Charlotte-Platz”, and their 171 station counterparts each seem like a new adventure. There is something quite wondrous about emerging from below ground and watching a city unfold around you, picking up pieces of patchwork Berlin.

The picture above was taken by me on the walk mentioned above. It's the U-2 train exiting Gleisdreieck.

Certain things can be described as nebulous regarding this journey I’ve taken. Not my wish to go, since I’ve had a strong desire to be in Germany since I started learning the language as a freshman in high school, but certainly not the point at which I decided I wanted to do so. Similarly, the image I had formed in my head of Berlin was fuzzy, incomplete, with no real beginning or end. Sure, there were the pictures of our apartments that NYU had sent us and the postcard images of the Reichstag, Brandenburger Tor, and Fersehturm with which I am familiar, but I, for all my research and preparation, didn’t really have a picture in my head of my neighborhood, or the U-Bahn stations, or any of the other parts of my life. However, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t encounter surprise upon arrival.
 
Even though I didn’t have a clear image in my head of Berlin, I had a definite mental atmosphere that equated to Berlin before I left. Part of that atmosphere is history, years and years of history, world-changing history, the history we all think about when we hear the word “Germany” as well as totally different history. Another portion is best described by my experiences with Lufthansa. For both of my flights with them, they were extremely efficient. They apologized profusely for being fifteen minutes late landing in Berlin. Aboard the second of my three flights, I was attended to by a variety of clean-cut, multilingual, courteous individuals dressed in regulation blue and yellow. Matthias, my main flight attendant, periodically walked up and down my aisle, asking passengers “Kaffee? Coffee? Kaffee?” while I watched American movies and TV. Although I grew lightheaded, weary, and, admittedly, grumpy, the personnel kept their sparkle of efficiency.
 
Ten hours in one plane can certainly skew one’s understanding of the world. It isn’t as though I’m not used to airplane travel (getting to NYU entails the five or six hour journey to Newark Airport from Portland), but there’s something about setting up a life in planes and airports, countryless, sleepless, without actual day or night, that’s different. You get settled within motion, best described by the experience of being on a plane (you are hurtling through the air in a metal tube, but simply sit there, wait, poke at your food, perhaps watch some movies or do a crossword). Trying to prepare, trying to anticipate, trying to remember while you’re there in the first place – all of these things become more difficult in such transient spaces.
 
Dragging myself to the baggage carousel in Berlin Tegel airport, I was still surrounded by the glitter of Lufthansa. But on the cab ride to my apartment, the reality of being in this particular city finally hit. The composition of Berlin doesn’t really fit our conceptions of “old world” Europe, or the modern gleam that Lufthansa portrays. I was struck at how mish-mash and hodge-podge the city is, newer buildings standing on the spaces where old buildings were bombed. There are some structures that were built in the past twenty years, but plenty of them have the lackluster architecture of apartment housing built in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. These buildings, however, often stand right up against those that were not bombed, beautiful pieces of work from the past.

What really stands out is the graffiti. Berlin isn’t necessarily a “dirty” city (it certainly smells better than New York!), but a huge amount of its surfaces are tagged by spray paint. Perhaps this is emphasized by the weather’s grayness, or by the fact that Berlin has a smaller population and business density than New York. Still, graffiti is found most places, save for historical and government buildings. It seems to be accepted, almost celebrated, rather than scrubbed off and forgotten, like in many places in the states. I never really expected there to be so much, dancing over walls and impossible places.

It is true, though, that my surprise at the architecture and graffiti, my forgetting that Berlin isn’t simply the “new efficiency” or the “old world”, has reminded me that the city wasn’t just waiting here for me to come to it. It lives. It houses life. And, similarly, even though I’ve been anticipating this journey for five years, I need to stop thinking of being here as the culmination of all that waiting. Rather, I’m here as a continuation. I’m here to live my life, including going to classes, buying groceries, and washing dishes. And, to be honest, I’m still compulsively drawn to Berlin. What’s here is more interesting than my fuzzy anticipatory mental image.

The picture above was taken by me at the, somewhat cheesy, reproduction of Checkpoint Charlie. For those of you planning on going to Berlin, I strongly recommend spending more time at the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe nearby.

Good evening! Or, good afternoon, good morning, or goodnight, depending on where you are. Unlike many of you, I'm currently lounging my days away (read: frantically tidying up my affairs and temping in my dad’s office) in the Pacific Time Zone, still in my beloved home of Portland, Oregon. Although I leave for Berlin in only six days, the reality of a move that will span a continent an the Atlantic ocean, as evidenced by my meager packing efforts: my soon-to-be-checked bag currently contains a bottle of conditioner, two skirts, and a calendar of historic Portland photographs.
 
But before we get too far into my musings regarding Germany and my upcoming journey, I suppose it is a good idea to actually introduce myself and explain why I’m here. My name is Hannah, and I am a sophomore Gallatin student by way of the Tisch acting program. I’m a life-long Oregonian, an avid knitter, a Germanophile, a Star Trek fan, a feminist, and a big happy geek. I enjoy long walks on the beach, fine wines, and discussions regarding social and political histories of former Eastern Bloc nations.
 
My concentration has gone through a variety of permutations before now, and it will likely continue to change, but its tentative title is “Performance, Gender, and Germany: A Sociological Perspective” (those are, of course, my four favorite areas of academia). In my freshman year of high school, I began learning German, and thus began my life as a huge nerd regarding anything to do with German language or culture. And, to be honest, this nerdery is part of what compelled me to go to Gallatin and stay at NYU. See, when I realized that the acting program was most definitely not for me, I constantly fretted over whether or not I had made a mistake by coming to NYU. But the academic freedom of Gallatin (I was an IB student in high school, which encourage a great deal of independent research, even though the program was very structured) combined with NYU’s rich study abroad opportunities were exactly what I wanted in a university program I have gotten extremely close to going to Germany two times in my past, but the ease of studying abroad at NYU will finally make this goal of mine a reality.
 
The German language is one of my great loves, and the recent history of Germany itself fascinates me. The German people are living their history right now; the consequences of reunification and the Second World War are still being revealed and acted upon. “Ossis” and “Wessis” (Easterners and Westerners) often remain divided. Although reforms have taken place, old laws still make it difficult for the country’s largely Turkish working-class immigrant population to obtain and retain citizenship. Germany is in an extremely unique situation, and Berlin itself is a fantastic place to study and experience this situation. It’s where the East meets the West, where traditional “old world” conceptions of Europe smash up against the harsh realities of the past seventy years. I couldn’t be more excited.
 
I hope to have many adventures throughout Germany and central/eastern European countries to reflect upon (I have already informed my bank that I will be traveling through Poland, the Czech Republic, Hungary, and Bosnia and Herzegovina), but for now all I can do is anticipate. And, of course, finish packing. Ich kann es fast nicht glauben, dass ich bald nach Berlin fliegen werde!

The above photo of me was taken far too long ago by my mother in Eugene, OR. I went to middle and high school there while I lived with my mother. More recent, exciting, and Berlin-filled photos are to come.