11. Discuss a reading (2)

 
In all my time that I’ve spent in Florence, I still don’t know where Beppe Severgnini is coming to these introductory conclusions: “Italians are fascinated by the bella figura… they are obsessed with beauty.” I’ve lived here in Florence for nearly 4 months, and I haven’t met any Italian that is “obsessed” with the beauty of the human figure. Reading Severgnini’s “La Bella Figura,” I see a lot of stereotypical descriptions of Italians that would normally come from somebody who hasn’t lived in Italy. The mentions of women getting pinched by Italians? I haven’t heard of one person getting ‘pinched,’ that’s just some romantic dream ushered in by the swarm of trash British literature about sexually-suppressed English women fantasizing about sensual escapades in Italy. Lots of adjectives in that sentence. Microsoft Word loves to give me green squigglies.
 
I enjoyed Severgnini’s analysis of the typical Italian lifestyle, especially when it clashes with Americanization. With the Italians adapting the American idea of the shopping mall, they confuse its individualized shopping experience with the loud, confusing, bustling social network of open-air markets and piazzas. Yet most of “La Bella Figura” seems to be deprecating towards Italians—yet, interestingly, I share a similar negative attitude towards most Florentines, who seem to be closed-minded, hostile, and passively aggressive. It’s like nobody has ever showed these people what it’s like to really work for a living—they just all seem to be angry that they’re living in a country that barely functions, and does so with almost no efficiency.
 
I wonder if Beppe Severgnini has any insight into the Italian political situation of today. Ashley and I have had several discussions with Italians about politics, and I have not heard one person in support of Berlusconi’s governance. Everything I’ve heard is negative. It makes me so upset that such a beautiful country is so backwards and neglected.
 
When Goethe spoke of Italy in “Italian Journey,” he did so with a wholesome reverence that touted its rustic authenticity. Goethe called Italy a “cradle of Man, a mother of civilization.” Interestingly, the people that Goethe encounters seem to be very much like the same ones Severgnini describes—peasant-like, loud, and volatile, although not so boisterous and aggressive as the latter describes (I attribute that to modern influences).
 
When one goes deeper into the Italian countryside, far removed from the political turmoil caused by this joke of a government, I would hope that one would find that wholesomeness and rusticity mentioned by Goethe, back when Italy was still largely referred to by its once-powerful city states. By far, Venice was the only city most removed from any negative political feel--it still seemed that it was its own state, the Republic of Venice, and it's this city that gives me the closest feeling of the rustic Italian reknown so frequently mentioned in literature.

“Italian museums are astounding. They could put on five years’ worth of exhibitions in New York with what Florence’s Uffizi has in the basement. But there’s a downside to this good fortune,” (Severegnini, 87). The down side is getting burnt-out.  Seeing so much that it all begins to blend, become monotonous and drab. Not because the awesome paintings in the Uffizi or the rows of busts in the Academia aren’t special but because you hit, “roba da museo” or museum fodder as the Italian expression translates. When you hit the point of over load, things are taken for granted or as Severegnini says, “You’ve seen the duke and the lady has a familiar look,” (87).
            “Italy has most of the planet’s artistic heritage,” (88).  For the art history pundit, this is a playground. Frescoes are everywhere; we pass by famous statues in public squares everyday. For me however, I think I hit museum fodder around mid semester. I spent a good bit of fall break in Madrid and while I was there spent hours exploring the museums teeming with Picasso and Dalí paintings. They were wonderful and I’m so glad I visited.
Then, the day after fall break my mother began her visit to Florence. Somewhere around the mid point of our Florence touring I found myself dragging my feet.  Not wanting to rush my mom but also not enjoying myself the least bit I found myself waiting at the end of many halls on the large wooden benches. It was simply overwhelming, I had been to these places several times before and I had spent a majority of the past week wandering through the halls of museums in other cities. “If you have too much on the table, you lose your appetite,” (87). My eyes had been much bigger than my stomach. I had no chance of keeping anything down, let alone properly digesting it.
Now that I’m about to return home, I find myself rushing around town during my little breaks after or before class trying to cram in what I have yet to see in Florence. Cramming in last minute museum stops or visiting my favorite markets one last time. When things are in short supply I seem to want them more than when I have all I could ask for and more.
 
Source:
Severgnini, Beppe. La Bella Figura: An Insiders Guide to the Italian Mind. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 2007. Print.
 
-Picture of a very blond “David” at the Reina Sofia in Madrid

Saidiya Hartman’s Lose Your Mother: A Journey Along the Atlantic Slave Route is a tough reminder of the history of this country. Sometimes it is so easy to forget about slavery when you live in Labone in a fancy house, and all the Ghanaians love you because you’re American, and the Ghanaians themselves don’t often talk about or think about slavery. “What is it we choose to remember about the past and what is it we will to forget?” (p.15) Hartman has chosen to focus on this heartbreaking history. Although I don’t base my life around this particular issue, as many others do, I will never forget the lessons I have learned here.  

I volunteer at City of Refuge, an orphanage for trafficked children.  My friends and I decided to make a documentary about child trafficking in the Volta Region of Ghana, and it begins with a quote from a sign at Elmina Slave castle: “In Everlasting Memory of the anguish of our ancestors. May those who died rest in peace. May those who return find their roots. May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity. We, the living, vow to uphold this.” In order to keep my sanity, I need to not focus on the painful history that exists here at all times, and I don’t think it would be helpful to anyone for me to do so, but I always keep this quote in the back of my mind. The fact that human slavery still exists in various countries all over the world is not just a sad fact, but it is something that we need to fight against in order to uphold this promise.

The impact of seeing Elmina castle in person was more than I could have imagined. As a group it was clear that we cared about this country and its past, as we walked in silence around the castle. Some were crying, others were simply deep in thought, but everyone was affected by the power that this building held. Hartman talks about the Ghanaian perspective on historical slavery and how it is so far out of thought that it seems no one even cares. This was clear to me at the slave castle, as tour group of Ghanaians were running around the castle, laughing and talking like nothing was wrong, like they weren’t in the presence of something horrible. I think that Ghanaians themselves have more to learn from the past than outsiders.

I cannot speak for Ghanaians, or anybody else, but for me the experience of living in this country was, at times, very close to Hartman’s depiction. The tragedy of visiting slave castles and slave camps, and the Volta Region where child slavery still exists, will stay with me forever.

(Photo taken by me at Elmina Slave Castle)

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Times New Roman}

When I first began reading Virgina Woolf’s The London Scene, a book of six essays describing the London experience, I rolled my eyes and sighed. The first impression in the essay “The Docks of London” is, oh no this is going to be completely self-satisfying and glorifying. The docklands as I learned in a class on immigration were worked on by mostly poor, Jamaican immigrants, historically. They were gone for weeks, worked long hours in horrible conditions, paid very little, couldn’t get much rank on the ships they worked on, all of this took place on those ships Woolf describes quite beautifully and majestically. But her description does not end there. 

The image of the glorified London comes to a halt and Woolf begins to describe a kind of gloomy, decaying London. But Woolf's description is not a criticism of what goes on in those Docks, but is suggestive of a critique on industrialization and environmentalism. "Can it be that there is Earth, that there once were fields and crops underneath this desolation and disorder?" She condemns "labor" and longs for "pleasure" in the natural world. What's amazing to me about this particular essay (from a writer's standpoint) is that it is all description and yet clearly implicit of more complex ideas about capitalism, industry and aesthetic. 

My experience at the docklands was a bit different than hers, but the critique would be the same. Tall buildings, glass, pristine, an underground maze of commercial shopping stores and franchises, business men in suits who are the only ones that can navigate this area. The area that is still quite desolate and empty. It's sinister, even now that it is clean-- almost too clean. What's most interesting to me is how clear and present the seeds of the future are and how very easily we ignore their ominous message. 

I chose to read Virginia Woolf's collection of six essays called "The London Scene." She describes life in different areas of London from the docks to the House of Commons. My favorite part of the book was her depiction of Oxford Street. I'm there just a little too often...

"Down in the docks one sees thing in their crudity, their bulk, their enormity. Here in Oxford Street they have been refined and transformed." She goes on by describing barrels of tobacco that have been rolled into neat cigarettes and bales of wool spun into soft stockings. While reading this essay, I took on a new perspective of not only Oxford Street, but the different areas of London and how they related to each other. By following an item such as damp tobacco that goes from the docks to the factories to the shops and then to the consumer is an interesting way of following the inner workings of the city. But besides that, Oxford Street - my second home.

The bustling vibe of Oxford Street is exactly as Woolf describes. There are two obvious factors that contribute to the energy of this place: the stores and the people. The stores vary from low to high end and sell every type of clothing you can imagine. On more than one occasion have I found metallic leopard print crotchless MC Hammer pants. This probably contributes to why I'm no longer surprised by the street fashion of London. 

Storefronts show off their latest and best pieces, these days oftentimes not even on a mannequin. Gap recently strung a bunch of their jeans to spell "GAP" and Topshop likes to suspend their clothes on invisible wires to make it look like they're floating. Woolf describes the sounds of red double deckers and black cabs zooming past and busy people ducking in and out of stores that sell lavish goods like ribbons, cigars and the latest fashions. Sounds familiar. The energy here definitely hasn't changed. It attracts an audience that varies just as much as the clothes it sells. I actually spent this afternoon in Oxford Street and contributed to the crowd by being one more person weaving in and out trying not to hit anyone with my shopping bags. Besides being a great place to shop and an excuse to prolong your post fall break assignments, Oxford Street is a source of entertainment. 

(Photo: I took this photo of the Oxford Circus Underground Station. The entrance is right across the street of Topshop and the beginning of Oxford Street...how convenient.)

London Fragments, by Rudiger Gorner, toes the line between memoir and literary criticism- and, I would argue, falls slightly short as both.

In this text, Gorner uses analysis of some of London's most famous authors, combined with first hand observations, to try to gain a fuller understanding of London as a city. It's a big task for a small book, especially when you consider the fact that many of these author's perspectives of London aren't simply diverse, but sometimes contradictory of one another. Woolf's London is not Stevenson's London is not Dickens' London.

That's not to say that the points Goriner makes aren't legitimate. On the contrary, they're often very insightful. Perhaps the problem is that he assumes his readers are as well-read as he is: sadly, most of us are not. I'm lucky that this year I'm taking two courses on British Literature, or else I would be extremely confused.

For example, in one paragraph he summarizes Edgar Allen Poe's short story The Man In The Crowd (17), comparing the story's narrator to a "flaneur". Do you know what a "flaneur" is? I didn't until I learned its definition in one of my classes ( it's a person who walks about a city, observing his/her surroundings.) It's because this same class that I had the opportunity to read The Man In The Crowd. This kind of term needs to be clearly explained to the reader or else there's the definite possibility that a. they aren't going to have any idea what you're talking about, and b.they're going to think you're a pretentious prick. Goriner doesn't provide the reader with a suitable definition; the best he can do is note that " the flaneur is typified by a leisurely, pleasurable gait" (16).

I initially chose to read Alice Leccese Power’s Italy in Mind because there was a chapter written by Susan Sontag, whom I love, but after reading all of the sections I realized that I was more drawn to the excerpts on Florence and Tuscany. This book was an anthology of different famous authors and artists, from Gore Vidal and Mark Twain to Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Charles Dickens, all of whom had gone to Italy and most of whom had fallen in love with the country.
 
I found myself connecting with many of the responses some of the writers discussed in their pieces, particularly in one of the chapters called “On Italian Time,” by Mary Morris. She talks about her frustration with Italian transportation in particular, and how little importance is placed on promptness in Italy. Italians hardly care what time it is, what direction they’re going, etc. Morris recounts instances in which she has missed trains, gotten lost, etc., just because train conductors have told her the wrong platform or street signs have led her in circles rather than where she needs to be. Although this is frustrating, it personifies the Italian mindset. “Who cares if you turn left when what’s right is just as beautiful and the wine just as good?”
 
Morris also says, “No one maliciously puts you on the wrong part of the train, or sends you in the wrong direction. It’s just that arrivals and departures matter much less than wines and sauces, the state of your frescoes, and lovemaking.” I love this quote, and I love Italy for its list of priorities. Sure, I have never been more frustrated about traveling than when I have done so in Italy. When the trains aren’t on strike something else always goes wrong. Many times I have found myself sprinting to try to catch a train, cursing the confusing departures board for leading me to the wrong platform. But it is definitely true that Italians find many more things important than time, and those things that they prioritize ahead of what often frustrates those foreigners about the way things work are often what snare the same foreigners into falling in love with the place. “They don’t care what day it is, let alone what time. What matters is seeing, smelling, tasting.”
 
And that is probably my favorite part about Italy. Not only does Italy adopt a more relaxed attitude about time, Italians are passionate about food. Being a self-proclaimed foodie, this is obviously an ideal place for me to live. Italians share my love for food and eating, which has been really fun to experience, especially coming from America where everyone is always so crazy about what/how much food/calories they can allow themselves in a single day. Thinking about it all the time is enough to drive someone crazy. Kate Simon discusses this in the book also, saying, “For a woman whose society considers five pounds of avoir du pois the equivalent of five pounds of leprosy, it is a warm boon to hear a man say that he likes a buona forchetta, a joyous eater, as he keeps stuffing her the same way his Saracenic ancestors stuffed their women.” Being able to live in a place where I can appreciate food that is made and eaten passionately definitely makes up for a semester of missed trains and botched directions.

Jorge Luis Borges’ “Library of Babel” is a metaphor, his explanation, of the damage that occurs when humanity attempts to categorize and explain chaotic and unexplainable universe.

Babel is the biblical explanation for the existence of multiple languages, diversity, and plurality. The story begins that Noah’s descendents, the Babylonians, using one common language managed to build the highest tower that led to the heavens. However, this was threatening to God; implied in his line in Genesis “nothing will later stop them from doing whatever they presume to do.”  Why was this threatening? Could it be that the closer humanity got to God the closer they were to discovering the meaning of God? Probably. What is more explicit however, is that the building of Babel and its subsequent destruction is God’s retribution for humanity’s desire for uniformity, conformity, and meaning. Humanity can no longer reach the heavens and achieve complete understanding of the universe.

So, what is Borges implying in his attempt to build the Library of Babel? His library is “indeterminable, composed of an indefinite, perhaps an infinite number of hexagonal galleries” (Borges, 81).  Then naturally the library contains all possible languages, essentially a library that builds the tower of Babel. Therefore man, the ever consummate librarian, would be led to the meaning of the universe. Borges’ text affirms this, “There was no personal or universal problem whose eloquent solution did not exist- in some hexagon. The universe was justified” (Borges, 83). Then Babel did for the Babylonians before them, the library would lead to God.

This is obvious. What is not so blatant is how blasphemous Borges’ attempt is. It is just another demonstration of how futile the attempt is to find God or meaning. Borges repeats many times throughout the story how meaningless it is to create an impossible library.  “Actually, the Library includes all verbal structures, all the variations allowed by the twenty-five orthographic symbols, but it does not permit of one absolute absurdity” (Borges, 86). Moreover, the library is doubly inaccessible because of the sheer volume of books that occupy its recesses. The search for God becomes meaningless. Well, almost; because ultimately Borges can’t help tempt his readers with the myth that in the library there exists a book that explains everything. 

This reaction against an ordered universe is a manifestation of Borges reaction post WWII. Upon his return from Europe to Argentina in the 30's he must have seen the complete chaos and disarray that led the country to a military coup in 1943 (just two years after he published the book). His position has an intellectual within Argentine society was being replaced by the call for action among the masses, who had taken to the streets to claim their rights as a new social class. This might explain his next quote, “I suspect that the human species is on the road to extinction, while the Library will last on forever: illuminated, solitary,  infinite, perfectly immovable, filled with precious volumes, useless, incorruptible, secret” (Borges, 87).  It is the inane attempt at finding that one Book, (or in Argentina's case, the one set of politics that would supply an answer to the inequality of the classes,  or  the one meaning, or the one race that erases our pluralism, our myriad of existences, and ultimately the infinity of being. 

Photo taken by me,  of Trevor and the kids in Kuma Konda

I was surprised at how much I could relate George Packer’s book “The Village of Waiting” to my own experience in Africa. The book chronicles the author’s time as a volunteer for the Peace Corps working as an English teacher. After staying in Lome for a bit, he is stationed in Lavie, a remote village, in Togo. I really enjoyed the fact that Packer did not romanticize what life in a rural village is like. Although he is describing his time in a Togo almost thirty years before my own visit, it appears that there has been little change.
 
I have been to Togo twice since I’ve arrived in Africa. Once just to stay in Lome, the capital city for one night and the other time to a town called Kpalime. During the my second visit, which I blogged about before, my friends and I hired a tour guide to take us to a village on the top of a mountain called Kuma Kanda. Our wonderful tour guide, Jerome, met us at the chop bar we were having breakfast at. We talked for a while our food cooked. We found out that Jerome is from Kuma Kanda originally and moved to Kpalime to work as a tour guide. He also informed us that he has recently fallen in love for the first time and is getting married in January. Similar to how in the book, Christine lived in the capitol before finding her husband and moving back to his home village to produce children an do domestic work, Jerome told me that he and his bride-to-be will most likely move back  to Kuma Kanda when they decide to start a family. Jerome also told us how he had tried to get a visa to leave Togo and go to the U.K. but even after filling out all the paper work and paying the $100, his application was rejected. He was stuck. 
 
Jerome lead us on took moto-taxis to the top of the mountain. We stopped to meet two artists who have studios at the base of the mountain. Then we continued up the trail and Jerome pointed out cool stuff- ripping coffee beans and different leaves out of the trees for us to eat along the way. He cut a piece of bark off a mango tree  and told us about the many healing properties the bark contains. After the beautiful and informative trek around the mountain, we arrived back where we started at the village center, and sat down to enjoy our packed lunch.
 
A group of little kids gathered on a log about ten feet or so from the table we were eating at. Trevor, being goofy, started making funny faces at the kids. They of course found this to be hilarious and the next time I looked up from my lunch, Trevor was sitting on the log swarmed by little ones. It started off as a group of boys who where playfully laughing at Trevor. Then a little girl, no older than four walked over and sat down between two of the boys. She realized that as a result of the boys flailing their little bodies with laughter, she would not be able to avoid getting pushed around where she was sitting. She quickly rose to her feet and confidently walked right over to Trevor and plopped herself down on his lap. It was the most adorable thing. She was holding a little plastic purse that was ripped on every seam. She proudly opened it up to show Trever what was inside- a broken plastic compact mirror. When I walked over to see what all the commotion was about, Trevor has been calling out the names of Ghanaian food and pretending to eat the kids hands and arms.
“Ahhh, Fufu! Gobble, gobble, gobble". "Banku? Nom,nom,nom!"
The kids roared with laugher. It was only after we left the village that we realized the kids didn’t know a word of English. They probably spoke Ewe or another local dialect and had absolutely no clue what we were saying the whole time. Regardless of our crazy jiberish and white skin that they persistently tried to rub off, they instantly accepted us. It was great, but at the time, I felt a little bit guilty stomping into their home, and being toured around like it was the natural history museum.  
 
Just like Packer made a mental inventory of all the items he saw in the Agbeli’s yard, I too made a note of the objects around me. The children’s toys for the entire village consisted of a deflated soccer ball, two wheels connected by a metal pole that had obviously broken off of a cart or something, and the much desired plastic purse and compact mirror.  At first I felt sad and guilty about how little they had and how the cyclical nature of village life appeared to end with no way out. In the book, Packer points out that poverty isn’t as obvious in the village as it is in a city. Everyone lives in a mud house, wears tattered clothing from Goodwill and shares all the same dilapidated toys. This was a new perspective for me, but one that will definitely not forget as a visit many other villages on this continent. 

I am reading Imagined London: A Tour of the World’s Greatest Fictional City, written by Anna Quindlen, for my second reading for the tutorial. The non-fiction work is semi-autobiographical as Quindlen steps foot in London, physically, for the very first time. She is there to promote a new book of her own and she is already in her forty’s, but she has been there many time before through her imagination and by reading all the lovely fictions written by Londoners in London.

I was quite inspired by how well read she is although she makes herself out to be a bit antisocial as a consequence. The book opens up on Shaftesbury avenue which is in SoHo and which I’ve come to know pretty well. It’s quite a busy place and its where I went to see FlashDance with my aunt when she was in town a couple weeks ago. Even though I’ve never been there in the early morning on a sunday, the way Quindlen describes it, as “tired and slightly disreputable look” which goes very well with what one might imagine it would. It’s kind of like times square on January first at 10am might look- but a lesser version. When she takes us through Bloomsbury, I was so excited, relating the images she elicits of the parks and garden and squares that I walk passed every day. She goes in and out between describing her experience there and her knowledge about the literary history. I want to read Dickens, Doyle, and Galsworthy now.

I may not get around to it before I leave in December but after reading about Quindlen’s magical experience, I realize how nice it is to discover what you’ve already seen in fiction, especially in a city like London. Quindlen also mentions how the blue circular plaques outside historical buildings where important individuals used to live when she brings up the Bloomsbury group and the Woolfs. Just the other day I was having a conversation with my Organic Chemistry Professor about chloroform, one of the original anesthetics, and he mentioned that the blue plaque on the block where I go to school everyday commemorates the man who first used chloroform on patients going into surgury. Quindlen pays special attention to the signs and can tell a lot from them, I’d be curious what else I could learn by paying more attention to them.

Somebody’s Heart is Burning: A Woman Wanderer in Africais Tanya Shaffer’s reflections on the year she spent in West Africa. Overwhelmed by the serious course her relationship with her boyfriend was taking Shaffer decided to spend a year volunteering in Ghana and travelling around Africa in general. I found the book thoroughly enjoyable, largely because she and I shared many of the same experiences. The thing that I found most poignant though was the way that she developed her understanding of how to make friends with the locals.
One of the things that I’ve found very difficult in Ghana is making friends with Ghanaians. Ghanaians have a tendency to be very, very friendly. It’s not uncommon for someone to declare immediately upon meeting you that they wish to be friends and demand your phone number. Me and my fellow students quickly discovered that if you do give out your number it’s not uncommon for someone to call you around 5 times a day, often with the goal of just saying hello. Another issue comes in the form of demands. For Ghanaians it is not at all rude for someone to point at some object you have and problem “Give me that.” Since the general stereotype of Americans is that we are all very rich we get this demand a lot and it often leaves me feeling used. Of course, these are all cultural differences it’s just that these attitudes are so different from what I’m used to back home that it makes friendships very difficult to navigate.
Shaffer often encounters both of these things during her time here. I was pretty impressed by the way she embraced the natural friendliness of Ghanaians. Rather than allow herself to be put off by how different it is she accepts it and enjoys the extensive hospitality that Ghanaians have to offer. While there were still times when Shaffer did grow uncomfortable and was forced to ask someone to tone down their friendliness the range of interesting experiences that she got out of just embracing their kindness has made me want to work much harder to push through this particular cultural difference.
In terms of the second issue, Shaffer struggled in much the same way I did. I think that this is largely because in America demanding something is seen as so rude and as taking advantage of someone so it’s really hard to reconcile that even knowing that it’s not looked at that way here. A tragedy winds up pushing Shaffer to really consider the issue and I found the conclusions that she drew very interesting. Mostly she just focuses on the need for patience and the need to remember that one flaw shouldn’t end a friendship, even if different cultural backgrounds make that flaw seem bigger. She’s also careful to make the point that even though Americans aren’t as rich as the stereotype would imply, most of the time we are significantly better off than most of the people we meet and that fact will play into our understandings of each other at some point.
It felt a little like Shaffer’s book was really helpful in working out some of my issues with adjusting to life here. Since she has had the benefits of significantly more time and the chance for a lot of reflection she has made far more progress than I have in creating a better understanding of how to handle these issues and I think I really benefitted from getting to see that. 

(pictured: me and some random woman who insisted on posing with me at the beach)

Sarah Lyall’s book, The Anglo Files, is probably the closest I’ll get to truly understanding the personalities of British people. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of interaction with London locals in pubs, stores, on the Tube, and simply on the street, and it’s been enough to note that their sense of humor and mannerisms are much different from those of Americans. But I don’t think I’ll ever truly know enough about their childhoods or culture to understand why they act the way they do; that’s where this book became quite helpful. I think that’s what I like most about Lyall’s book and her personal anecdotes that fill it: she has a very American point of view on viewing the Brits. Having grown up in New York City and moved to London only once she was older, she too viewed their personalities and quirks as eccentric and slightly off. As an American-British writer for the New York Times, I found it interesting how she discussed the way news was presented in newspapers. In my own time, I’ve noticed slight differences, but they didn’t come fully to light until she compared them. In fact, she begins her chapter with, “Just as the U.S. Congress is duller but somehow more respectable than the British Parliament, so American newspapers are generally less amusing but more trustworthy than British ones.”
 
As an avid reader of newspapers back in New York, I found it very interesting when I first got here how there are two separate categories of papers that locals read. There are the broadsheets whose main purpose is to present news to the readers, and there are the tabloids filled with pop culture tidbits and celebrity gossip. I’ve noticed that people really love their paper here, whether it’s the free Evening Standard that is available at almost any Tube station or a more interesting read, such as The Sun. From what I’ve seen, The Sun is incredibly popular here if you want to be entertained for a half hour or so. I think Lyall’s description of The Sun paints a very accurate picture of the type of news many locals want to read about and stay informed on: “Although the paper looks as if it hardly expects to be taken seriously what with all the pictures of celebrities and articles about drunken antics on its front page, it prides itself on being both a reflection and an arbiter of the national mood.” Perhaps the most recognizable feature of The Sun is their Page Three Girls, a picture of a different naked woman daily on their third page. Lyall’s right: “It can take some time to get a measure of [British papers], and sudden exposure can be disorienting, if not alarming.”   
 
There is a much greater variety in the type of “news” covered in the papers here. For instance, in today’s Evening Standard, the cover story is entitled “Mid-Air Explosion,” an article about the jet whose engine blew up during a trip from London to Sydney and was forced to make an emergency landing in Singapore. Such news is presented in their featured news section alongside such other articles such as “Whole Foods set to open second London Branch,” “Ashley enjoys the single life with a little help from friends,” and “Islington to ban lapdancing clubs.” While some of the articles are a far cry from being considered crucial news, I do enjoy the variety this free paper offers. There are 7 pages of sports, at least 5 full pages to the business section, as well as a section titled “London Life” that features everything from restaurant and show reviews to gallery openings. It’s taken some getting used to, but reading the paper here is much more entertaining than any single one I could read back home.

For one of my classes, I read a book called The Ghosts of Berlin by Brian Ladd. It's a history book that places the architecture of Berlin into context, describing the construction (and reconstruction, and re-reconstruction) of the buildings that make up the city. Most of the time, the government and social structure of Germany changed faster than it took to clean up after the last regime, so the final structure of this capital city represents decades of indecision and instability - it's all very interesting and enlightening, really a good book.

But that's not the book I'm talking about here. My reading for The Art of Travel was Christopher Isherwood's novel Goodbye, Berlin, a brilliant book that fills in the holes that Brian Ladd's book left empty. The architecture of Berlin is only the stage; Isherwood provides the players, the characters of 1930's Germany that are the real ghosts of Berlin. Logging his adventures as a British English teacher, Isherwood details “his” encounters with a wide variety of characters. The most famous of these is probably Sally Bowles – this is the book that inspired the musical Cabaret – an aspiring actress who is more than willing to sleep with or marry any man that might further her career. He befriends the wealthy Landauer family, who own one of the largest department stores in the city, then shares drinks in a bar with musicians and shoplifters who boast about what they just stole from said department store. Isherwood the narrator socializes with the richest as well as some of the poorest members of society, Communists, Jews, and members of the newly formed Nazi party.

Through his conversations with these characters, he paints a social and political picture of Berlin during a critical time period, the interbellum years in which the city tried to recover from World War I and gradually walked into the trap of the Third Reich. The Nazis' declarations grow ever more confident and gleeful as the novel goes on, while other characters continue to dismiss them with less and less assurance, until the arrests begin and a hush falls over the city; by the last page, Hitler has taken over and people have slowly learned to keep their heads down and their thoughts to themselves. The self-reliance and political adaptation of Isherwood's characters apply a certain attitude to Berlin that I hadn't understood earlier. One woman in particular, the narrator's sometimes-landlady, exhibits a strictly-survival mentality that makes sense in such an unstable setting as Nazified Berlin:

"It's no use trying to explain to her, or talking politics,” the narrator Isherwood explains. “Already she is adapting herself as she will adapt herself to every new regime. This morning I even heard her talking reverently about 'Der Führer’ to the porter's wife... She is merely acclimatizing herself, in accordance with a natural law, like an animal which changes its coat for the winter. Thousands of people like Frl. Schroeder are acclimatizing themselves. After all, whatever government is in power, they are doomed to live in this town" (207).

Whether this is resilience or denial and avoiding responsibility, Frl. Schroeder’s adaptability is a common characteristic of twentieth-century Berliners. This city has undergone so many upheavals during the past century that they are still putting the pieces of their identity back together. I think Isherwood's novel presents a wonderful picture of Berlin on the brink of yet another transition. Walking through the streets or reading about the architecture of Berlin only explains the setting; it takes a personal account like Goodbye, Berlin to fill in the blanks and capture the historical color and personality of a place. Some people will embrace political change, some will flee from it, but most of them will endure and try to maintain their normal lives, adapting like Frl. Schroeder. Many scenes take place in familiar locations of Berlin – Wannsee (where I took the above picture of a man watching the sunset), Bülowstraße, Hallesches Tor – so it’s easy now to visit these streets and picture their history more clearly. Studying the architecture isn’t enough; thanks to Isherwood, I can practically see the ghosts now.

Like Brianna, I'm going to sort-of talk about Prague in Black and Gold (Peter Demetz). Honestly, it was our required reading book for the summer, so most NYU Prague students can give you some of their thoughts. Like most, I didn't finish the book. Unlike most, I made it more than half-way though. Getting an idea of how we generally felt about it?

As someone who is interested in history, I found it interesting to learn about the different events in the city. It was useful to get familiar with some of the events and place names before arriving here, because then I knew what was being discussed when they came up in discussions and lectures. The thing is, I knew the names but didn't understand the events. The style in which the book was written contributes to this; the author includes sweeping descriptive statements and excludes the stories that explain why certain descriptions are accurate. Why was this kind king kind or this sly counselor sly? I want to know, but Demetz doesn't really explain. He throws out his opinions and trusts that we the readers will just accept these ascertains from him because he's the expert. Personally, though I do trust that he knows what he's talking about, I'd really like an explanation once in a while.

Prague in Black and Gold makes for a matter-of-fact historical overview of the city. Since living here, I've found certain books, artists, and films being mentioned repeatedly both in my classes and as personal recommendations by my professors. By the end of the semester, I'll have a long list (which I promise to post online somewhere) of materials to look at for a more holistic and interdisciplinary view of Prague. I am, after all, a Gallatin student, and interdisciplinary is just the way to go! Especially in a city like Prague where the social circles beyond a certain point are small enough that all the best artists and authors reference all the others. Aside from a couple of books on the reading list for this class, as soon as I get access to Bobst again I'm going to be looking up:

The Good Soldier Svejk (a book)
Maj (famous love poem)
Czeslaw Milosz (he's not Czech, but his poetry is wonderful)
Citizen Havel (a film)
The Corner Shop (another film)
I Served the King of England (a book)
Bedrich Smetana (composer)
Ivan Pinkava (photographer)
Josef Bolf (painter)

A quick note on the inclusion of Milosz: Living in the Czech Republic means living in Central Eastern Europe. This might sound obvious, but before arriving here I hadn't realized how much the cultures and histories of the area are intertwined. I didn't know that looking up the history of Poland or Slovenia would help me understand Czech history (though I should have known to read up on Slovakia). As much as people here are proud of their countries, they acknowledge this interconnectedness (begrudgingly, sometimes)...and I would have gladly done the homework necessary to participate in their conversations if only I had known then what I know now.

For my second book for this class I’m reading Notes from a Small Island written by Bill Bryson. So far, it seems to focus on Bryson’s reminiscences, recent and further in his past, of his experiences in Britain. He lived here for many years and not only describes his first nights in England, but also his most recent journey throughout the country to take a final look before he moves back to America.
           
Especially in the section about his arrival here, I can relate to pretty much everything he says. From his initial shock at the hours people keep here (no one’s out past 11 on a week night) to confronting his assumptions about the people of England. In one particular passage when he’s remembering his first night in Dover and his attempts to find a hotel he says that he, “imagined a cheery conversation that concluded with the proprietress (played by Margaret Rutherford) bustling me to the kitchen table against my feeble hollow protests about inconveniencing her – ‘Now not another word. You just sit yourself down, young man. Why, you must be positively ravenous after that long trip, you poor thing.’” This is perhaps the most common, although very naïve, idea that many Americans have of British people. I can't deny that I might have had a similar picture in my mind. Of course, he instead ended up sleeping practically outside. Now, just because not every British person is a perky innkeeper, doesn’t mean that they’re not generally nice. He describes later, when talking about the many reasons he loves London, that it has “more courteous inhabitants than any other large city in the world.” I’ve found this to be entirely true, and I can actually count the number of times I’ve seen someone lose their temper here, two. It’s so noticeable because it’s such a rarity. I have the same high opinion of London as him, and I think he sums some of my feelings up nicely when he says, “It has more history, finer parks, a livelier and more varied press, better theaters, more numerous orchestras and museums, leafier squares, [and] safer streets.”
 
His confusion over English terminology is also something I can relate to. Although, he mentions too many examples to quote, basically the idea is that British English is not the same as American English. There are so many ways one can get lost in a conversation here. And another oddity that I’ve found and that Bryson comments on brilliantly is that, “I remain impressed by the ability of Britons of all ages and social backgrounds to get genuinely excited by the prospect of a hot beverage.” I like tea, don’t get me wrong. But, it’s like a great present here. Everyone adores it.