My memory is a funny thing - highly sensory - sort of photographic, but more like cinematic. I can usually tell ahead of time when a moment is going to become a memory - a certain combination of senses hitting me at once in the head, the heart, the gut. These days my brain is working overtime to capture and store indefinitely, and I can do nothing but stand, rooted, when it hits me - watching C. buy flowers in the Dappermarkt, strolling along the Leidsestraat in the light rain, making lists of the last things I have to buy, see, photograph, walk through, do; the last benches I have to sit and write on, the last times (for a while, anyway), that I will laugh and dance, talk, drink, eat, listen, observe, with this constellation of people who I have entwined myself with in Nederland.
I think that leaving Amsterdam is going to be harder for me than leaving anywhere else has been, although it always rips at my heart a little to be transplanted. I've grown up here in a sense - navigated a language barrier, a bicycle, new neighborhoods, new ways of teaching and learning, making friends of my own accord,pursued curiosity rather than fear, taken care of myself, begun to integrate myself, and chosen things to love wholly without the influence of people I knew, emulated, adored, or needed before I came here. Even in Saint Paul, in the beginning, I had the comfort of a small campus and people who lived in the rooms directly surrounding me, moreover, I had the examples of cousins and bookstore friends and parents and people I had known my whole life to build upon and follow, a set of ideas about what college and liberal arts college and the Midwest could do for me. Here, I did not have that - I was ready, after years of fear and self-examination and worry and slow, steady rehabilitation from these things, to stumble into the world on my own shakey toddler legs, and I did, and I could not predict or regulate what would be difficult or easy, and I loved being thrown into that maelstrom fiercely, with all my heart. I'm concerned that I have/will become addicted to change of environment, reinvention, and the constant set of challenges and rewards spit at me from living in an unfamilier culture. Despite the fact that I am emotionally preparing to leave, wrapping things up, buying and taking pictures of last things, grappling with what it will be like to leave the life I have begun to build here, despite the fact that pieces of my heart are firmly grounded in Buffalo, Eagle, Saint Paul, North Truro, Many Glacier, Trumansburg, despite the fact that I love so many people who are not here, despite the fact that I am young still and far from full-grown, or even mature, I think in some ways I will always think of Amsterdam, of Nederland, as my first adult home.
Two nights ago, at the Bitterzoet, we listened to a Dutch funk family band blow the roof off for two solid hours. They were sweating, they were smoking, they were belting. The drummer sang a la Levon Helm, the bassist stuck his tongue out when he was concentrating, the sax player moved every part of his body except his arms, the lead singer was the one of the teeniest tiniest frailest looking waifs of a white girl I have ever seen, but she could have given Aretha a run for her money. They came back for an encore, the DJs began to spin - Sister Nancy, People Get Ready, A Tribe Called Quest for good measure. I was dehydrated, I had not been home for twelve hours, I was carrying my school bag on my right arm, I had just said goodbye to Letje, I was dancing with a familiar fever, a familiar smile. I looked around at my beautiful friends all concentrating, all happy, all busting moves that I have come to feel so much at home in the middle of. At the hipsters and go-go Dutch girls and slow rastas with beautiful dreads and scruffly young men with backpacks and headphones around their necks wagging their knees. And I teared up a little, realizing that I have only nine more nights of the potential to be surrounded by these particular characters and motions and sounds, to be in the midst of this particular mental film.
I'm not even entirely sure who my readership is, though I do know some. But whoever you are, I'd like you to think about whether you want me to continue this blog or not when I return, and let me know. I'm torn.
30 May 2008
25 May 2008
21 May 2008
Eastern Docklands
If I had had my camera with me when the contents of this post happened, you'd be staring at the sun setting in orange, yellow, purple, red over open water, bright wispy jet trails, a darker cloud from adjacent smokestack floating in front. You would be wishing you were in Amsterdam.
As it happens, I did NOT have my camera with me last night, so you'll have to imagine it. I wanted to watch Shortbus, but there was nowhere to go, so C+I decided to take a walk down to KNSM Eiland instead. My secret inner plan was to pull over at the cafe where we played Dutch Monopoly a few weeks back and devour a platter of nachos, but nope. We got over there and it looked crowded. Two small Asian girls were sitting on the steps. They started to wave at us and shout "Hey!!! Hello!!!" My first thought was that some kind of event was going on inside, and they were the promoters. "Let's humor them," I thought, hoping that free beer or free music or something was in the cards.
They were not promoters. They were French teenagers, and I'm pretty sure they just wanted to practice their English. They asked where we were from, if we lived with our parents, if we played guitar, if we skateboarded, if we were 50 years old. They were from outside Paris, wanted to buy "I Love New York" shirts, and "didn't think the museum was very interesting." It was sort of cool and pretty bizarre being waylaid by them. I felt like we were going to run out of things to talk about, the cafe was still crowded, an enthusiastic pair of middle aged men was beckoning us from the window, and the night was young (it was 9:30, still light out, which is pretty standard here these days), so we moved on sans nachos.
The Eastern Docklands are "our" area of Amsterdam, but I haven't really explored them much. They're a group of islands in the "Y-Lake," which, as far as I understand, is sort of like an ocean delta that the city is situated on, connected by glamorous hypermodern bridges with majestic white arches. A combination of old harbor warehouses and incredibly stunning super modern architecture, artists' lofts and public housing. They're totally different from any other part of Amsterdam that I've been to - feel more like home, in ways. Quieter, less people. Open water and the smell of the ocean, big waves, buildings that make my heart pound, sights and smells of heavy industry lining the opposite shore (Niagara River, anyone?), fast cars bumping hip-hop and brash skateboarders. We walked for about an hour, eventually finding our way back to Funen after circling most of KNSM and sitting and contemplating the ridiculous sunset on a seaside bench for a while. As we circled away from the water and back towards our branch of civilization, we saw a motorboat with three dancing figures silhouetted against the water, an unmistakably familiar wail and bassline. "Is that - are they really playing that?" asked C, and they were. Sipping on coke and rum
I'm like so what, I'm drunk,
It's the freakin'weekend baby
I'm 'bout to have me some fun...
Oh, R. Kelly. Made my night to hear that bouncing off the waves - an extra little taste of home!
We walked back past a house that looked like it was made of Legos, across one of the bridges, along the train tracks and past an apartment building that had rapidly sparkling lights flashing to some kind of rhythm built into the ground of its courtyard.
Got chips at the Texaco (Sweet Chili Pepper Doritos, which much to my chagrin do not exist in America), home, bed.
Whitney arrives today, and Jordan tomorrow!
As it happens, I did NOT have my camera with me last night, so you'll have to imagine it. I wanted to watch Shortbus, but there was nowhere to go, so C+I decided to take a walk down to KNSM Eiland instead. My secret inner plan was to pull over at the cafe where we played Dutch Monopoly a few weeks back and devour a platter of nachos, but nope. We got over there and it looked crowded. Two small Asian girls were sitting on the steps. They started to wave at us and shout "Hey!!! Hello!!!" My first thought was that some kind of event was going on inside, and they were the promoters. "Let's humor them," I thought, hoping that free beer or free music or something was in the cards.
They were not promoters. They were French teenagers, and I'm pretty sure they just wanted to practice their English. They asked where we were from, if we lived with our parents, if we played guitar, if we skateboarded, if we were 50 years old. They were from outside Paris, wanted to buy "I Love New York" shirts, and "didn't think the museum was very interesting." It was sort of cool and pretty bizarre being waylaid by them. I felt like we were going to run out of things to talk about, the cafe was still crowded, an enthusiastic pair of middle aged men was beckoning us from the window, and the night was young (it was 9:30, still light out, which is pretty standard here these days), so we moved on sans nachos.
The Eastern Docklands are "our" area of Amsterdam, but I haven't really explored them much. They're a group of islands in the "Y-Lake," which, as far as I understand, is sort of like an ocean delta that the city is situated on, connected by glamorous hypermodern bridges with majestic white arches. A combination of old harbor warehouses and incredibly stunning super modern architecture, artists' lofts and public housing. They're totally different from any other part of Amsterdam that I've been to - feel more like home, in ways. Quieter, less people. Open water and the smell of the ocean, big waves, buildings that make my heart pound, sights and smells of heavy industry lining the opposite shore (Niagara River, anyone?), fast cars bumping hip-hop and brash skateboarders. We walked for about an hour, eventually finding our way back to Funen after circling most of KNSM and sitting and contemplating the ridiculous sunset on a seaside bench for a while. As we circled away from the water and back towards our branch of civilization, we saw a motorboat with three dancing figures silhouetted against the water, an unmistakably familiar wail and bassline. "Is that - are they really playing that?" asked C, and they were. Sipping on coke and rum
I'm like so what, I'm drunk,
It's the freakin'weekend baby
I'm 'bout to have me some fun...
Oh, R. Kelly. Made my night to hear that bouncing off the waves - an extra little taste of home!
We walked back past a house that looked like it was made of Legos, across one of the bridges, along the train tracks and past an apartment building that had rapidly sparkling lights flashing to some kind of rhythm built into the ground of its courtyard.
Got chips at the Texaco (Sweet Chili Pepper Doritos, which much to my chagrin do not exist in America), home, bed.
Whitney arrives today, and Jordan tomorrow!
14 May 2008
Chi
Yep, that's a Chi Machine. L has one - and I thought only Pam knew about this business! For those of you who don't know, you put your feet in a chi machine and it sort of rocks you back and forth for a while, and when you are done you feel very tingly and your chi, supposedly, is aligned.
Honore is a dear.
Another good food experiment: ham and leek in soy, lemon, coke, garlic, lemon pepper marinade.
Honore is a dear.
Another good food experiment: ham and leek in soy, lemon, coke, garlic, lemon pepper marinade.
12 May 2008
Ham n Eggz
I've settled into life with Honore, overlooking the Bestevaerstraat. I made something delicious - ham + eggs scramble with cane sugar and lemon pepper (fully stocked spice cabinet)!
Reading Edie is an eye-opener. You hear these names, you know, but all I know about the Warhol gang comes from Basquiat, which is another matter entirely. The Sedgwicks were a mythical, crazy family, and Edie became mythical and crazy in her own right. It's also written really interestingly - pieced together from accounts from all sorts of people in her life. Bob Dylan and Bob Neuwirth are in there, Andy's in there, Ginsberg's in there. Paul America + Paul Morrissey, Viva. What a weird world. I've also been doing a lot of reading for school, and trying to further my hip-hop education.
some writing. cat hair everywhere. sunshine.
Reading Edie is an eye-opener. You hear these names, you know, but all I know about the Warhol gang comes from Basquiat, which is another matter entirely. The Sedgwicks were a mythical, crazy family, and Edie became mythical and crazy in her own right. It's also written really interestingly - pieced together from accounts from all sorts of people in her life. Bob Dylan and Bob Neuwirth are in there, Andy's in there, Ginsberg's in there. Paul America + Paul Morrissey, Viva. What a weird world. I've also been doing a lot of reading for school, and trying to further my hip-hop education.
some writing. cat hair everywhere. sunshine.
08 May 2008
HOT
It is HOT here. Beautiful, but HOT. I had forgotten that I don't do so well in the heat. I guess it's good preparation for the Saint Paul summer. Ha.
Another meeting with M. today about my paper, which turned into a long debate over appelsap about American and Dutch politics, about the Dutch fear of "Islamicisation", about sex tourism. He is so interesting to talk to because he thinks in the same way that I do - all over the place, connecting everything that he perceives. He says he's not concerned about my mess of a paper because I'm scrupulous and I'm just psyching myself out right now and I'll pull it together in the end. But what I think he means is that he's not concerned because I think like him, which is sort of comforting and sort of not. It is nice to see such a similar mind in the academic world - it makes me feel better about my chances hacking it. On my way out, he noted that my skirt is "an homage to the Warhol gang" and dragged me to his partner's apartment downstairs to look at his extensive Warhol library. I left with "Edie," which I've been instructed to read right away.
It's super nice to feel like I have an intellectual community of sorts in this country, one that I've built with my own intellectual connections with people and not with the names or skills of my very literary, very intellectual parents. I think I'll always feel that in Buffalo, to a certain extent whatever intellectual acceptance I find will be on their coat-tails rather than on my own merits. Not by virtue of recommendation, exactly, but by virtue of access. Like if I hadn't been running around poetry readings and literary parties when I was 4, if I hadn't spent so much time at the bookstore schmoozing, would I have that access? Maybe, but I'm not sure. Permeability of intellectual community is an interesting concept.
We talked a bunch about the pitfalls and advantages of postmodernism. M described it as a sort of "deprogramming," a good thing for people who want to be creative and fresh thinkers to go through. But if you stick to the language of deprogramming rather than a more communicable language when trying to apply postmodern ideas to concrete things, you lose your ability to do so. It's funny because I had a similar conversation with L. the day before, when I went to her house to get the keys and meet her cat, Honore de Balzac (formerly Guillaume), who I'll be caring for for the next ten days or so. It's something that I'm preoccupied with and more and more interested in parsing through, because postmodernist theory was the catalyst for some very real, very concrete changes in my life, thought processes, introspective patterns, and ways of relating to other people. I credit it with much of the transformation I've been going through over the past several years, and with helping me to be a happier and more grounded person. In conversation, it often comes up that fellow peers or professors find it too abstract, too empty,not applicable to the "real world" - which has been the opposite of truth for me. Chela Sandoval and Jose Estaban Munoz, two theorists who changed my life,also have many examples of the very concrete power and applicability of highly abstract thought.
Anyway. I've been mulling that over. I move into L.'s apartment for my cat-sitting duties on Sunday, tomorrow I am going to Leiden to see Sarah's childhood hangouts, and other things (like the University). Today I am going to try to push through the heat and get things done, and maybe take a trip to the market. The RA, embarrassingly, has to help me cut Lupe loose from the rack under cover of darkness, because I was dumb and somehow lost my keys.
Another meeting with M. today about my paper, which turned into a long debate over appelsap about American and Dutch politics, about the Dutch fear of "Islamicisation", about sex tourism. He is so interesting to talk to because he thinks in the same way that I do - all over the place, connecting everything that he perceives. He says he's not concerned about my mess of a paper because I'm scrupulous and I'm just psyching myself out right now and I'll pull it together in the end. But what I think he means is that he's not concerned because I think like him, which is sort of comforting and sort of not. It is nice to see such a similar mind in the academic world - it makes me feel better about my chances hacking it. On my way out, he noted that my skirt is "an homage to the Warhol gang" and dragged me to his partner's apartment downstairs to look at his extensive Warhol library. I left with "Edie," which I've been instructed to read right away.
It's super nice to feel like I have an intellectual community of sorts in this country, one that I've built with my own intellectual connections with people and not with the names or skills of my very literary, very intellectual parents. I think I'll always feel that in Buffalo, to a certain extent whatever intellectual acceptance I find will be on their coat-tails rather than on my own merits. Not by virtue of recommendation, exactly, but by virtue of access. Like if I hadn't been running around poetry readings and literary parties when I was 4, if I hadn't spent so much time at the bookstore schmoozing, would I have that access? Maybe, but I'm not sure. Permeability of intellectual community is an interesting concept.
We talked a bunch about the pitfalls and advantages of postmodernism. M described it as a sort of "deprogramming," a good thing for people who want to be creative and fresh thinkers to go through. But if you stick to the language of deprogramming rather than a more communicable language when trying to apply postmodern ideas to concrete things, you lose your ability to do so. It's funny because I had a similar conversation with L. the day before, when I went to her house to get the keys and meet her cat, Honore de Balzac (formerly Guillaume), who I'll be caring for for the next ten days or so. It's something that I'm preoccupied with and more and more interested in parsing through, because postmodernist theory was the catalyst for some very real, very concrete changes in my life, thought processes, introspective patterns, and ways of relating to other people. I credit it with much of the transformation I've been going through over the past several years, and with helping me to be a happier and more grounded person. In conversation, it often comes up that fellow peers or professors find it too abstract, too empty,not applicable to the "real world" - which has been the opposite of truth for me. Chela Sandoval and Jose Estaban Munoz, two theorists who changed my life,also have many examples of the very concrete power and applicability of highly abstract thought.
Anyway. I've been mulling that over. I move into L.'s apartment for my cat-sitting duties on Sunday, tomorrow I am going to Leiden to see Sarah's childhood hangouts, and other things (like the University). Today I am going to try to push through the heat and get things done, and maybe take a trip to the market. The RA, embarrassingly, has to help me cut Lupe loose from the rack under cover of darkness, because I was dumb and somehow lost my keys.
05 May 2008
Berlin The Second, or Why You Should Use the City Toilette
Day two of Berlin was busy – early rise, a long + fruitful trip to the Judische Museum, which we spent a solid 3 hours in, delicious falafel, and the East Side Gallery – a portion of the Wall that’s been preserved and dedicated to murals and messages from people the world over.
Public art is a particular kind of heaven for me, so I was just wandering along the wall in a happy daze at my own pace, and taking an obscene amount of pictures. A short man dressed all in white made me take his picture (with my camera) and then said ‘thank you” and wandered off with his tall blonde beautiful girlfriend. “He’s a ----(word that I could not understand)!” she repeated twice as they continued on their merry ways. I wonder if he was famous? or maybe he just likes posing for photos.
Sat and wrote postcards by an old church around the bend from Museum Island, went off in search of currywurst, which I passed up for a bacon pickle potato omelette, in the end. I'm sure it's delicious, but at the time I really felt strongly that I needed some gherkin.
We wanted to see the Reichstag at night, but we wanted to wait until it got dark, and had a few hours – so we rambled down the leafy, pristine West Berlin side of the Unter den Linden boulevard with our sights set on reaching the gold statuesque beauty in the distance. “The chick on a stick,” we called her affectionately. We hoped to get as far as Charlottenburg Palace, but it quickly became clear that dusk was approaching, and the Chick was as far as we were going to get if we wanted to make it back to the Reichstag before 10:15, the time of the last admittance. “We’re going to have to briskly strut if we want to make it,” observed C as we started to hurry back. We were either not brisk enough, or did not strut hard enough – held up + distracted by laughter, my imminent need to pee, and the discovery that setting your camera on the ground can result in some interesting photos. (“Hey look, it looks your foot is crushing that streetlight!”)
Needless to say, when we reached the Reichstag we were greeted by friendly women in red windbreakers, earnestly informing us that we probably wouldn’t make it in and might want to come back the next morning.
By this point I REALLY needed to pee and was dancing + prancing my way to a sketchy looking public toilet I had seen near the beginning of the park along Unter den Linden. Public urination is legal in Berlin, for boys AND girls, but the last time I tried that I peed on my shorts, so I wasn’t eager to risk it again, especially considering that I had tights in the way as well. At least I was wearing rain boots, if it had come to that.
This toilet looked like a phone booth or something – a little circular enclave set back in the urban forest. It looked like the kind of place where serial killers might lurk. I didn’t have enough change, nor did I really have enough time to read the instructions before I entered, or worry too much about the serial killers. It is a) hard to believe that anything bad could happen to you along Unter den Linden, and b) we made a big ruckus so we wouldn't shock them. There was a lot of hilarity as Christy hastily paid the required 50 cents and she and Hallie watched me bum rush the automatic-open door and lift my skirt almost before it closed again.
But let me tell you, this toilet was one of the highlights of my journey! From the Muzak that pleasantly began to filter in as the light turned on and the bathroom came to life for me, to the pee disappearing into an abyss, compost-toilet style, to the dim fluorescent lights and the automatic water, soap, and air dispensers over the “sink,” this was practically a luxury experience. A sign by the automatic door open /close buttons, much like those of an elevator, informed me that I was only allotted 20 minutes in the oasis. I could gladly have spent that, or more, exploring all the nifty gadgets and pacing up and down the wide space that I was allotted, contemplating my day in solitude, soaking in the tunes. What a wonderful experience! When I exited, the doors shut behind me, the lights and Muzak shut off, and the whole unit began to tremble. A lit-up sign by the door said something in German, we think “cleaning.” And more satisfied than I had expected to be, EVER, by a public toilet, off we meandered back to the Wombat, and the roof terrace of the so-called “Wombar," to finish off our journey with a quiet drink and a stunning view of the city.
This morning we woke up at 6 and got to the train station way too early, and now we are headed back to the Dam.
Berlin is/was/will always be incredible. It energized me and I fell in love with it and I probably won’t ever shut up about it.
Public art is a particular kind of heaven for me, so I was just wandering along the wall in a happy daze at my own pace, and taking an obscene amount of pictures. A short man dressed all in white made me take his picture (with my camera) and then said ‘thank you” and wandered off with his tall blonde beautiful girlfriend. “He’s a ----(word that I could not understand)!” she repeated twice as they continued on their merry ways. I wonder if he was famous? or maybe he just likes posing for photos.
Sat and wrote postcards by an old church around the bend from Museum Island, went off in search of currywurst, which I passed up for a bacon pickle potato omelette, in the end. I'm sure it's delicious, but at the time I really felt strongly that I needed some gherkin.
We wanted to see the Reichstag at night, but we wanted to wait until it got dark, and had a few hours – so we rambled down the leafy, pristine West Berlin side of the Unter den Linden boulevard with our sights set on reaching the gold statuesque beauty in the distance. “The chick on a stick,” we called her affectionately. We hoped to get as far as Charlottenburg Palace, but it quickly became clear that dusk was approaching, and the Chick was as far as we were going to get if we wanted to make it back to the Reichstag before 10:15, the time of the last admittance. “We’re going to have to briskly strut if we want to make it,” observed C as we started to hurry back. We were either not brisk enough, or did not strut hard enough – held up + distracted by laughter, my imminent need to pee, and the discovery that setting your camera on the ground can result in some interesting photos. (“Hey look, it looks your foot is crushing that streetlight!”)
Needless to say, when we reached the Reichstag we were greeted by friendly women in red windbreakers, earnestly informing us that we probably wouldn’t make it in and might want to come back the next morning.
By this point I REALLY needed to pee and was dancing + prancing my way to a sketchy looking public toilet I had seen near the beginning of the park along Unter den Linden. Public urination is legal in Berlin, for boys AND girls, but the last time I tried that I peed on my shorts, so I wasn’t eager to risk it again, especially considering that I had tights in the way as well. At least I was wearing rain boots, if it had come to that.
This toilet looked like a phone booth or something – a little circular enclave set back in the urban forest. It looked like the kind of place where serial killers might lurk. I didn’t have enough change, nor did I really have enough time to read the instructions before I entered, or worry too much about the serial killers. It is a) hard to believe that anything bad could happen to you along Unter den Linden, and b) we made a big ruckus so we wouldn't shock them. There was a lot of hilarity as Christy hastily paid the required 50 cents and she and Hallie watched me bum rush the automatic-open door and lift my skirt almost before it closed again.
But let me tell you, this toilet was one of the highlights of my journey! From the Muzak that pleasantly began to filter in as the light turned on and the bathroom came to life for me, to the pee disappearing into an abyss, compost-toilet style, to the dim fluorescent lights and the automatic water, soap, and air dispensers over the “sink,” this was practically a luxury experience. A sign by the automatic door open /close buttons, much like those of an elevator, informed me that I was only allotted 20 minutes in the oasis. I could gladly have spent that, or more, exploring all the nifty gadgets and pacing up and down the wide space that I was allotted, contemplating my day in solitude, soaking in the tunes. What a wonderful experience! When I exited, the doors shut behind me, the lights and Muzak shut off, and the whole unit began to tremble. A lit-up sign by the door said something in German, we think “cleaning.” And more satisfied than I had expected to be, EVER, by a public toilet, off we meandered back to the Wombat, and the roof terrace of the so-called “Wombar," to finish off our journey with a quiet drink and a stunning view of the city.
This morning we woke up at 6 and got to the train station way too early, and now we are headed back to the Dam.
Berlin is/was/will always be incredible. It energized me and I fell in love with it and I probably won’t ever shut up about it.
Berlin the First: Ik Ben Verlieft
(n.b. - I wrote these on the road, and that is why the tense is weird.)
Berlin is electric. It took me right away, as many "A" and "B" cities seem to (Amsterdam, Austin, Buffalo, Barcelona...). Could my love for it endure? I don't know, but two days isn't enough. I need to come back.
Christy and Hallie and I pulled into town on the train and enjoyed Pizza Hut (for shame, but we were so hungry and we WANTED it) in the shadow of T-Punkt (T-Mobile), took the S-bahn to the U-bahn, disembarked by a large white brand new building that houses our hostel, called Wombat's - the windows are floor to ceiling and every room has a shiny bathroom - the bar, on the 7th floor, has a sizeable terrace that looks out into whatever you want to see of the East Berlin night.
It was warm and clear and the TV tower and the sky were massive and stunning. Off we took into the beautiful evening, down the beautiful Torstrasse, and it hit us - as we passed gallery after gallery, as we noticed the enthused, fedora-adorned "walk" symbol, as cyclists zipped by us. Convenience stores have bar stools, food that costs 12 euro in Amsterdam costs half as much here, we passed a lively bar with a full living room set up on the street in front of it - worn oriental carpet, threadbare plush chairs and couches, a floor lamp. The graffiti is beautiful or shocking, or both, more often than not, even when it is tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
Today we took the best tour I have ever taken of anything, James Monroe's house in Virginia (which we only went to because Monticello was crowded and impossible), coming in a close second. Our guide's name was Nick and he is some sort of badass Nazi-bunker-specialist archaeologist with a penchant for rolling his own cigarettes. He was hilarious and British and full of more information and witticisms than I can even begin to recall. At the site of Hitler's bunker (he wrote the text for the English part of the modest commemorative sign, so he must be pretty important around these parts), he whipped this out (I scribbled it on the back of my map so I wouldn't forget, something I should have done more often) - "You don't think Hitler's really dead? Well he'd be gettin' on a bit, wouldn't he? You think he's off having mojitos somewhere with Biggie and 2Pac and John Lennon and all those other people who die and aren't allowed to be dead? No, let me tell you, he's really dead."
Berlin has so much history and so much memory packed into the center, it boggles the mind. The Reichstag has a transparent roof and is always open to the public, so people can look down on their politicians and the politicians can look up at them, and everyone can remember what they're sposed to be doing. The Holocaust Memorial is a sea of cement blocks. The Book-Burning Memorial (see photo) is underground and shows many, many empty shelves. There are only tiny, war-scarred (but still grand) bits of the glorious Prussian empire left over. At the end of the tour (which lasted almost four hours), Nick stopped us and told us the story of the Wall coming down. It almost brought tears to my eyes, really and truly, and I hope I can remember it so that I can retell it one day. A pale imitation of how he told it, I'm sure, but I bet I could capture some of the energy. The history of Communist East Berlin is, like many Communist histories, pretty horrifying. The history of its end is, like many histories of ends of Communist regimes, pretty spectacular.
Berlin, as an undivided city, is only 18 years old. And it's a great example of what can happen when enough people fiercely love a place and fight and improvise and pour their hearts into it to build up a vibrant culture out of destruction (Buffalo, take note).
After the tour, sat in a cafe and ate a big meal for not very many euro, sauntered through some tourist stores (so far, my junk collection habit in Europe has been limited to postcards, which are both aesthetically pleasing and useful - but here, on account of the low low prices and my panic at leaving Europe sooner than later, my hoarding out-of-context glittery crap instinct kicked in and I bought - drumrolllllll - a black ashtray with a gold filigree/pastel drawing of the Brandenburg Gate in the bottom! I don't even know).
Evening brought us, on a whim, to the Konzerthaus, where we joined many many aging German people to sit in prime cheap seats directly behind the orchestra. I can't even begin to describe how amazing it was. There was some Beethoven and some Bartok, the concert hall itself is decked out in red plush and white marble and gold leaf and Prussian charm. We could see the conductor's face, which was wicked. He was incredible. He conducted without a score (I didn't think about that being a big deal, but Christy, who is a violist, made it clear that it's pretty rare, and risky), and he moved his whole body as he directed, and it was beautiful to watch and to listen to the synchronicity he was causing. The orchestra themselves were wonderful as well. We were sitting sort of behind the basses and cellos. Good place to be.
I don't know, here I am collecting places to love again. It's so exciting to be somewhere that is not only rebuilding, but excited about all the possibilities in its rebuilding. Tomorrow we will see more and I'm sure I will love more.
Time for bed.
Berlin is electric. It took me right away, as many "A" and "B" cities seem to (Amsterdam, Austin, Buffalo, Barcelona...). Could my love for it endure? I don't know, but two days isn't enough. I need to come back.
Christy and Hallie and I pulled into town on the train and enjoyed Pizza Hut (for shame, but we were so hungry and we WANTED it) in the shadow of T-Punkt (T-Mobile), took the S-bahn to the U-bahn, disembarked by a large white brand new building that houses our hostel, called Wombat's - the windows are floor to ceiling and every room has a shiny bathroom - the bar, on the 7th floor, has a sizeable terrace that looks out into whatever you want to see of the East Berlin night.
It was warm and clear and the TV tower and the sky were massive and stunning. Off we took into the beautiful evening, down the beautiful Torstrasse, and it hit us - as we passed gallery after gallery, as we noticed the enthused, fedora-adorned "walk" symbol, as cyclists zipped by us. Convenience stores have bar stools, food that costs 12 euro in Amsterdam costs half as much here, we passed a lively bar with a full living room set up on the street in front of it - worn oriental carpet, threadbare plush chairs and couches, a floor lamp. The graffiti is beautiful or shocking, or both, more often than not, even when it is tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
Today we took the best tour I have ever taken of anything, James Monroe's house in Virginia (which we only went to because Monticello was crowded and impossible), coming in a close second. Our guide's name was Nick and he is some sort of badass Nazi-bunker-specialist archaeologist with a penchant for rolling his own cigarettes. He was hilarious and British and full of more information and witticisms than I can even begin to recall. At the site of Hitler's bunker (he wrote the text for the English part of the modest commemorative sign, so he must be pretty important around these parts), he whipped this out (I scribbled it on the back of my map so I wouldn't forget, something I should have done more often) - "You don't think Hitler's really dead? Well he'd be gettin' on a bit, wouldn't he? You think he's off having mojitos somewhere with Biggie and 2Pac and John Lennon and all those other people who die and aren't allowed to be dead? No, let me tell you, he's really dead."
Berlin has so much history and so much memory packed into the center, it boggles the mind. The Reichstag has a transparent roof and is always open to the public, so people can look down on their politicians and the politicians can look up at them, and everyone can remember what they're sposed to be doing. The Holocaust Memorial is a sea of cement blocks. The Book-Burning Memorial (see photo) is underground and shows many, many empty shelves. There are only tiny, war-scarred (but still grand) bits of the glorious Prussian empire left over. At the end of the tour (which lasted almost four hours), Nick stopped us and told us the story of the Wall coming down. It almost brought tears to my eyes, really and truly, and I hope I can remember it so that I can retell it one day. A pale imitation of how he told it, I'm sure, but I bet I could capture some of the energy. The history of Communist East Berlin is, like many Communist histories, pretty horrifying. The history of its end is, like many histories of ends of Communist regimes, pretty spectacular.
Berlin, as an undivided city, is only 18 years old. And it's a great example of what can happen when enough people fiercely love a place and fight and improvise and pour their hearts into it to build up a vibrant culture out of destruction (Buffalo, take note).
After the tour, sat in a cafe and ate a big meal for not very many euro, sauntered through some tourist stores (so far, my junk collection habit in Europe has been limited to postcards, which are both aesthetically pleasing and useful - but here, on account of the low low prices and my panic at leaving Europe sooner than later, my hoarding out-of-context glittery crap instinct kicked in and I bought - drumrolllllll - a black ashtray with a gold filigree/pastel drawing of the Brandenburg Gate in the bottom! I don't even know).
Evening brought us, on a whim, to the Konzerthaus, where we joined many many aging German people to sit in prime cheap seats directly behind the orchestra. I can't even begin to describe how amazing it was. There was some Beethoven and some Bartok, the concert hall itself is decked out in red plush and white marble and gold leaf and Prussian charm. We could see the conductor's face, which was wicked. He was incredible. He conducted without a score (I didn't think about that being a big deal, but Christy, who is a violist, made it clear that it's pretty rare, and risky), and he moved his whole body as he directed, and it was beautiful to watch and to listen to the synchronicity he was causing. The orchestra themselves were wonderful as well. We were sitting sort of behind the basses and cellos. Good place to be.
I don't know, here I am collecting places to love again. It's so exciting to be somewhere that is not only rebuilding, but excited about all the possibilities in its rebuilding. Tomorrow we will see more and I'm sure I will love more.
Time for bed.
(Queen's) Night + Day
The night of April 29th is a special time in Amsterdam. Stages get set up all over the city, for Dutch pop stars to wail and gyrate on, expensive beer and giant inflated beer bottles can be found on every corner, and the Dutch go wild – dancing in the streets, decked out in orange (I saw some pretty choice outfits), drunken, uninhibited. It’s a sight to be seen, for sure. This is Queen’s Night, and the next day is Queen’s Day – all a big celebration of Beatrix, the current matriarch of the nation, and Wilhelmina before her.
Monday night I got a fuzzy phone call, and pulled an all-nighter to write a paper that (surprise!) turned out not to be due the next day. Tuesday I ran on adrenaline all day long, and well into the night, as we roamed around the city taking in/partaking in the spectacle. And around midnight, I went to meet Eleni and Anne, who came up from Maastricht for the big day and stayed with/wandered around with me. It was so wonderful to see them! These occasional appearances by Mac friends make me realize, cornily, what a special place our school is, and how cool it is that despite many differences we all share a certain sensibility – a sense of humor, an endless curiosity, a taste for the wonder in the everyday. Blah blah blah. But really, it was great to have them!
We did NOT stay up all night (some people did, but I don’t think I could have handled a double all-nighter) and had a leisurely start on Wednesday. Once we got going, we managed to spend almost eight hours walking (with the occasional dance or rest break), and hit every major square in the city. From Funen to Rembrandtplein to Museumplein, to Leidseplein to Spui (where we got some beer and chorizo and danced for a bit), to Dam Square (where Anne got “normal” sized Suikerspin (cotton candy) that was half her size), to Nieuwmarkt (through an almost-brawl in the Red Light District – racial slurs, a lot of shoving, and a man brandishing a banana liquer bottle over his head), and finally back home in the most glorious sunset I’ve seen in a while. Or rather, the most glorious sunset I would have seen in a while, until I got to Berlin (see next entries). There was lots of good food and good music and lots of people were selling their old junk on the streets – the city was sort of like a giant garage sale/block party – and it was really neato to see the Dutch go nuts, and to be a part of something with such an amazing spirit. Hopefully one day I can come back and do the whole thing again. So much to see, and you can barely even scratch the surface in one day. My camera died which I was super bummed about.
When we first got to Amsterdam, Queen’s Day seemed so very far away. It was almost unfathomable to try and imagine what our lives would be like three months after arriving. Now, it’s unfathomable to try and imagine what the next month of frantic finishing-everything trying-to-see-everything trying-to-bond-with-everyone will be like, and, even more frighteningly, what my life will be like upon return. If Glacier was any indication, I am going to have really severe reverse culture shock. Dang. Best make the most of these last few weeks.
Monday night I got a fuzzy phone call, and pulled an all-nighter to write a paper that (surprise!) turned out not to be due the next day. Tuesday I ran on adrenaline all day long, and well into the night, as we roamed around the city taking in/partaking in the spectacle. And around midnight, I went to meet Eleni and Anne, who came up from Maastricht for the big day and stayed with/wandered around with me. It was so wonderful to see them! These occasional appearances by Mac friends make me realize, cornily, what a special place our school is, and how cool it is that despite many differences we all share a certain sensibility – a sense of humor, an endless curiosity, a taste for the wonder in the everyday. Blah blah blah. But really, it was great to have them!
We did NOT stay up all night (some people did, but I don’t think I could have handled a double all-nighter) and had a leisurely start on Wednesday. Once we got going, we managed to spend almost eight hours walking (with the occasional dance or rest break), and hit every major square in the city. From Funen to Rembrandtplein to Museumplein, to Leidseplein to Spui (where we got some beer and chorizo and danced for a bit), to Dam Square (where Anne got “normal” sized Suikerspin (cotton candy) that was half her size), to Nieuwmarkt (through an almost-brawl in the Red Light District – racial slurs, a lot of shoving, and a man brandishing a banana liquer bottle over his head), and finally back home in the most glorious sunset I’ve seen in a while. Or rather, the most glorious sunset I would have seen in a while, until I got to Berlin (see next entries). There was lots of good food and good music and lots of people were selling their old junk on the streets – the city was sort of like a giant garage sale/block party – and it was really neato to see the Dutch go nuts, and to be a part of something with such an amazing spirit. Hopefully one day I can come back and do the whole thing again. So much to see, and you can barely even scratch the surface in one day. My camera died which I was super bummed about.
When we first got to Amsterdam, Queen’s Day seemed so very far away. It was almost unfathomable to try and imagine what our lives would be like three months after arriving. Now, it’s unfathomable to try and imagine what the next month of frantic finishing-everything trying-to-see-everything trying-to-bond-with-everyone will be like, and, even more frighteningly, what my life will be like upon return. If Glacier was any indication, I am going to have really severe reverse culture shock. Dang. Best make the most of these last few weeks.
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