Learning about old stuff

Taking in 2,000 year old Greek art, with commentary from a snooty British lady.

One of the interesting features of living in a huge city like Berlin is having the opportunity to view various ancient artifacts such as those housed at the Pergamon Museum. It's called the Pergamon Museum because the signature piece for this place is an enormous altar from the ancient Greek city of Pergamon (modern day Bergama in Turkey). This structure dates from approximately 200 BC and, compared to most of the other items on display in the museum, isn't really all that old. In the years shortly after the turn of the 20th century, the Prussians apparently managed to make some smooth deals with the Ottoman Turks, who henceforth allowed a number of remarkable cultural and historical pieces to be moved from their lands to Berlin. The archaeologists attempted to reconstruct it all as it was on site, and the result is the museum. It perhaps wasn't the most culturally responsible thing to do, but I suppose there's no turning back now. And it does inspire, to a certain degree, a desire to visit the original excavation sites.

Anyway, like all museums of such significance, the self-guided tour provides the casual visitor with far more information than can be consumed in any one sitting. Moreover, I forgot to bring my notebook with me, and was therefore incapable of copying down some of the funnier translations of ancient inscriptions, some of which (in my brain, at least) sounded remarkably similar to the rhetoric used by a certain president of a large and powerful North American country. (I can't remember exactly what they were, but some were along the lines of "casting away of evil," "Do-er of deeds" and "may god X watch over our city and empire.")

May I also say that I take issue, to some degree, with the English language voice selected for the self-guided audio tour, i.e., the snooty British lady that talks to you through the headset that you carry around with you. The good folks at the museum always ask you what your choice of language is before handing you such a contraption; after the wife said "Englisch," I quickly amended the request -- only half jokingly -- to "Amerikanisch, eigentlich." Apparently I am not all that bright, because when I hear English being spoken at the sophistication level of which one hears on such a museum headset, and then I'm distracted with all these long vowel sounds, well, I just don't understand it all that well. Not only was I not entirely sure what a "frieze" was exactly, I also did not know until Saturday that one pronounces the 'e' at the end of that word (although an Internet search presents evidence to the contrary.)

Now, of course I am not one of these people who would suggest that everything be customized specifically to American tastes, or should I say lack thereof. I would take the snooty British over Tennessean twang any day. But still, it would be nice if they could pick a voice that we could all agree on -- a Canadian's, perhaps.

Warning: this entry contains poor writing

Birds, once again the fodder for a joke on my 'blog.'

After spending so much time in the past several days studying books that claim to help one produce enthralling writing, I'm pretty certain that the following post does not fall into that category. It is not particularly humorous, unique, or suspenseful, nor is it particularly well organized or carefully edited. It probably contains a number of clichès or worn-out phrases that, were I a truly creative person that really cared about the quality of his writing, I could probably work out and improve. I might even forget to use the spellcheck function so conveniently provided by the proprietors of this website. Should you choose to keep reading, well, I think that's tremendous. You must be very patient, because I cannot possibly imagine that you could be obsessed with the subject matter I select. Still, let this introductory paragraph serve as a warning not to take any ideas from my 'blog' and supplant them upon yours, as I'm afraid mine sets quite a poor example of what good writing should be -- and of course because I would also call my lawyer-friend about it.

A quick glance at my Swiss-made Tissot wristwatch with Titanium clasp reminds me that I haven't updated this 'blog' for a week now. As all of you know, I'm usually not one to just let the exciting day-to-day activities that comprise my life crumble away like so much stale bread to the birds -- although I do think feeding the birds is a good idea. So in the interest of complete transparency -- and, as usual, my own edification -- I now offer you a brief 'roundup' of the various excitements I have experienced since my previous post:

Jan. 18: A windy storm named "Kiryl" blew across Germany, damaging the newly built Hauptbahnhof, but more tragically, cancelling my session at the Volkshochschule. I spent the day watching television and reading about how to become a better writer.

Jan. 19: The Volkshochschule reopened, and I scrambled to finish the homework I should have had completed for Thursday but hadn't, because I would have looked really stupid not having completed the assignments that should have been done the day before. That night, we rented "House of the Flying Daggers," and I drank a glass of wine while admiring the director's exquisite use of color. The guy at the Kiez Video and DVD is a cheapskate that charges an extra Euro if you wait until the next day to return your movie, so I made a second trip there before heading to bed. (Apparently I am also a cheapskate, but I prefer the word "thrifty.")

Jan. 20: Saturday, Saturday... oh. I switched out all the music files on my computer to MP3 files (something I should have done a long time ago), which now allows me to take my entire music collection with me on my iPod, even though there are really only about 20 or so songs that I like at any given moment. At night we met with my German teacher for dinner, a reminder that I don't yet understand the language very well.

Jan. 21: The wife and I intended to see an afternoon movie, but when we got to our favorite cinema at Potsdammer Platz (what I consider to usually be one of the most tranquil places in Berlin) half of the place was roped off in anticipation of an appearance by the lead singer of the boy band "Tokio Hotel." There was a accompanying group of about 500 screaming teenage girls there, which gave me a headache. We bought tickets for an evening showing of "Babel," which was interesting, although now I don't think I'll be looking to take a bus tour of Morocco anytime soon.

Jan. 22: My Volkshochschule session was cancelled due to a scheduling conflict, which cleared the way for me to spend a bit more time making preparations for my upcoming trip to Denmark. For dinner I cooked a delicious pasta dish using garlic, pesto, yellow pepper, onions, and some good quality Italian cheese. I matched it with a nice glass of French red wine, and then proceeded to read my book and write in my journal.

Jan. 23: My Volkshochschule class was once again underway, and fortunately I had enough time to complete the assignments that I'd put off until that morning. In the evening I attended my first Chinese class. I found that to be interesting study material; the language is so much different from English or German or any other language I have studied. It is also much more fun to write the characters.

Jan. 24: I had my intermediate German grammar class again, the one where the women rule by a ratio of 12-to-1 or so. (The Greek guy showed up again, and apparently intends to keep coming back. I think he is single.) I felt generally clueless, although after getting my wife to help me with the next week's assignment after we ate dinner together, I felt somewhat better about it all. We retired, she managing to read nearly three pages of the Paul Theroux book I recommended to her before falling asleep, I reminiscing in my journal about a visit to Amsterdam several years ago.

So that is all; this morning we awoke to find snow on the ground outside and water of a comparable temperature in our shower. And like every other piece of bad writing, I shall end this entry abruptly.

Fast times at the Volkshochschule

JC, if you're behind what happened to me today, thanks, but you're a few years late.

I've noticed from all the comments that have been posted on this journal, in addition to the countless pieces of personal mail that I've received but do not have time to answer, that a lot of people are curious about what I'm doing here in Berlin in my spare time. Repeatedly I am asked questions such as "Nathan, how do you manage to update two 'blogs' at once?" or "Can you tell me more about the Berlin district in which you live?" or "What is your favorite color, so that I can co-ordinate the background of my 'blog' to it?"

Without a full-time job or it may seem as though I have plenty of spare time; indeed, I do enjoy more leisure than I did before I exchanged my lucrative but stressful office lifestyle for the existence I cherish today. But to suggest that I'm just sitting around all the time, attempting to write witty little tidbits and turns of phrase -- well, that's a little unfair.

The reality -- at least the reality that I recognize -- is that I spend a good bit of my day attending classes at the Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf Volkshochschule, which is either a kind of a Finishing School for Intelligent Foreigners, or the Cheapest German Classes Available, depending on your perspective.

For those of you that have never studied a foreign language in its country of usage (German in Germany, for example), let it be said that you may be missing out on an experience that, if not personally enriching, is highly amusing. Cultures meet, mingle, and sometimes butt heads. Here in Berlin it is entirely possible to take a German class where you will find yourself in a room with students representing six of the world's seven continents. (I have not yet met a student from Antarctica.) Several of us have noted that it is not unlike the United Nations, although as of yet we have not tried to pass a resolution.

Indeed, today I started my fourth German class here in Berlin (a weekly three-hour grammar class designed to complement the four three-hour sessions I take on the other four weekdays), and par for the course (I hate golf), there were representatives from a dizzying array of nations. But something was different this time, and I noticed it immediately. The din in the room, comprised of various voices and languages, somehow seemed a bit off, perhaps a slightly higher pitch. Perhaps I had been listening to my iPod too loudly? But no, just before I sat down I realized that this was no meeting of the United Nations, no, not by a long shot. This was a Miss Universe pageant. There were 21 girls in this class, and apparently I am the only male in Berlin who has bad grammar and wants to improve it. I had to think of The Beach Boys, who were always singing about how great California is with the lyric two girls for every boy. Well, those guys apparently have never been to Berlin. When I introduced myself I thought about saying "My name is Nathan, I'm from America, and my phone number is..." but I thought better of it. Or maybe I couldn't remember it... and eventually a guy from Greece arrived, whose name I will not try to spell.

But really, being surrounded by so many women did not bother me. No, seven years of near-nightly deadline pressure in some of America's most poorly-climatized newsrooms has taught me to maintain my composure.

So once I'd wiped the sweat away from my brow and the drool off of my notebook, yeah. I was totally cool.

Visiting Uncle Sam -- securely

Construction on the new American Embassy, soon to be the most secure location on Pariser Platz.

I thought of quite a poignant observation to share with you -- well, one that I consider poignant at least -- which I must say I quite nearly abandoned in light of the event that occurred yesterday in Athens, Greece: Namely a small rocket attack that caused an explosion in the third floor bathroom of the American Embassy there. To which I say (in all seriousness), that it is most fortunate that no one was hurt. Not simply because I detest violence not sanctioned by organized sports (I also loathe dysfunctional bathrooms), but also because it might well have kept me from imparting my tale.

Furthermore, since several of you have very sweetly mentioned how much you enjoy reading the little pieces I post here (or at least have lied very deceptively about it), I feel doubly obligated to provide you with the following, even if it does perhaps put a future career opportunity with the State Department in question.

Anyway, in Berlin, the building housing the good folks who serve Americans such as myself is located -- as is posted on the Internet by the State Department -- on Clayallee in the southwestern portion of this city. It is not a pretty building; in fact, if it were not for the employees of that place, who were helpful and direct if not always polite, I would have thought I was visiting a prison. (Although thankfully I have never been to such a place.) Indeed, the whole compound is surrounded by sentry posts, a very tall and pointy fence that I would not try to climb, and numerous security guards with reasonably large weapons. I got the feeling that from the time I stepped out of the U-Bahn station, I was being monitored by surveillance cameras -- which was probably the case. Upon arrival there, I was made to stand outside for a few minutes (presumably while people wearing sunglasses reviewed my file) and then at a tempo that might have been made to seem arbitrary, I was admitted to a security booth for screening. At the metal detector, I was required to lockbox three electronic devices that I had on my person. My cell phone (which I seldom use) and my music player (which had only my wife's music loaded upon it) I could do without.

However, the third device -- my digital camera -- I was not particularly pleased at parting with. Not because I would have needed it to complete my business, but simply because I am accustomed to carrying it with me at all times these days, as I enjoy recording the world around me. And hey, they're watching me, why can't I watch them? But apparently visual descriptions of the interior of the embassy are a no-no, and I could not take a picture of, for example, the enormous seal of the United States hanging on the wall, the other "customers" waiting there, or the children's play area. That may not be precisely the reason for banning digital cameras, but hey, no cameras, it's a rule, I can live with that.

Although such a policy would anger or even infuriate some thinkers who -- like myself -- pretend to write for a living, I am not one of these people. No, no; when it comes to embassies, I believe in security, law, order and more security. Others though, might have been tempted to compose a exhaustive account of every last nook and cranny of that place. I, however, shall provide you with one that I am sure the good people running our nation would approve of:

After clearing security, I walked forward for an unspecified distance before turning either to the right or to the left down a corridor to a locked door. At this point I pushed a button that made an innominate sound and I proceeded through the doorway -- although I do not feel at liberty to clarify whether I pushed or pulled. After admiring a large portrait of a famous American politician who may or may not play with dolls, I then made use of a staircase to either ascend or descend steps, the exact number of which, in the interest of safety, will remain untold.

At this new level of the embassy building, which was cleverly disguised with the moniker "Citizen Services," I proceeded to a clerk's window -- probably made of sound and bullet-proof glass for my safety as much as for his (or hers). I had intended to introduce myself as "Codename Ziplock" -- after all, this place needs to be secure -- but the clerk insisted on referring to me as "Mr. Saunders." The aforementioned task related to my travel document (essentially stapling in another twenty-some pages) apparently required some clearance from headquarters; I think it's safe to assume a call was placed to Condoleeza Rice. In the meantime I relaxed on a piece of furniture that was made of fabric certainly produced by the honorable citizens of a country closely allied to us Americans, such as Italy, Ukraine, or Poland, although I do not think it wise to name names.

Eventually, with my papers once again in order, I retraced my steps, picked up my embargoed electronics equipment and proceeded home. Now I'm outside of the "secure zone" again, but I have to wonder -- even with what happened in Athens -- doesn't all the security in some respect add to a sense of insecurity? Is it really better to invest in so many guns and pointy sticks rather than in goodwill? And to the Apple corporation: is my iPod really that dangerous?

Codename Ziplock signing off.

How I procrastinated today

Everything makes more sense when framed in terms of my shower.

You may or may not have been informed that I'm in the midst of trying to write a story about my recent trip to Poland, which probably should be pretty easy considering the volume of notes I've taken. However, the copy that would make up such a story (at least a newspaper worthy version of it) is kind of like the hot water in my bathroom -- is doesn't really want to come out, and in fact there may not be very much of it. To continue the simile, there is also the problem that, sometimes so much comes at one time that I don't know what to do with it, and I end up pouring a good bit of it down the drain unused, while I stand around naked waiting to get warm.

Hopefully you get the idea. Some literary people call this "writer's block," but I think that term should really only be applied to successful authors; just because I have a website and an attitude, it doesn't really make me capable of having "writer's block," although there are plenty of people out there that would tell you otherwise.

So, for my edification as much as yours, I present to you just a few of the unnecessary activities in which I took part today, aside from compiling this list:

The other Polish "L." I spent a good 15 minutes or so searching the Internet for the proper way to type the Polish "L with line through it," which actually makes a sound similar to the English 'W.' Had I been able to find a quick answer, this might actually have been helpful. But instead I ended up reading a Polish typographer's report about the character which, while interesting, brought me no closer to making it appear on my computer screen, as you have probably gathered.

A passport issue resolved. Thereafter, I stared nervously into my computer screen for another 20 minutes or so like a teenager looking at pornography at the Internet cafe. Then my computer's robotic voice informed me that it was now 2:00, which meant that my countrymen at the Embassy would now be accepting phonecalls. The clerk on the other end was slow to pick up the phone, but did answer and -- to my great surprise -- swiftly and politely fielded my inquiries regarding adding additional pages to my travel document. So now I can plan for my next trip outside of Germany, although clearly this does little to help resolve the issues pertaining to my last journey.

In search of beverages. I can't say this was entirely as waste of time, actually, because of the various chores I needed to get done today, there is nothing more amusing to me than going to the beverage shop that's kitty corner from our building. In there you can get at least 10 different juices, 20 brands of beer, and countless varieties of wine.

Reading about other American Berliners. I found a page with a list of several other Berliner "bloggers" (I hate that word) on the Internet, which I won't list here because then you might click on it. Let it suffice for me to opine that most of the other online journals written by Americans living in Berlin are either sickeningly similar to mine (attempts at wry, off the cuff remarks about being or aspiring to be an author) or about food (I mean of the "here's how to make Maultaschen" variety), the last of which, after some consideration, I might actually print out, because now I'm starting to get hungry. I wonder what we have in the kitchen?

Sunday stroll at the Schlosspark

Waterfowl, probably the sanest creatures at the park.

As you may know, there's a rather large park here in northern Charlottenburg, formerly a pleasure garden for the Prussian royalty that romped around the palace (In German: Schloss) that gave this section of Berlin its name. The Hohenzollerns were chased off almost a century ago, but the park still happens to be a rather agreeable place for a walk. While there are numerous interesting species of plant and animal life there to observe and admire (ducks, for example), the real attraction of going there is, of course, as any one who has visited a Paris street cafe could explain, to observe the wide variety of humans there on display, a few of which I shall bluntly stereotype for you in the following paragraphs:

The Mismatched Couple. Hans still wears his hair at shoulder length, Jana is over 50. He needs her to provide some stability into his otherwise boundless lifestyle, she needs him to make her feel young again -- or just as a romantic escape from an otherwise dreadfully dull cubicle existence. Her co-workers gossip scandalously about her secret love; he cannot properly comprehend the concept of co-workers, because the most complicated job he has ever held for over a month was checking for subway fares on the U2. He loves the park because it's free and there they can get away from his roommates; she loves it because no one offers her a senior discount when she enters the grounds.

The Aspiring Musician. Friedrich comes from California -- even if it doesn't say so on his birth certificate. His instrument is an accordion, a guitar, or a saxophone (occasionally a keyboard, fiddle, or clarinet, depending on karma), and his hero is the martyr John Lennon, that great American who once said "give peace a dime." He does not beg for your change, but rather kindly and gently suggests that you support the arts. He loves the park because the tranquil setting greatly enhances the musical experience -- and because there he doesn't have to compete with the homeless selling the Straßenfeger.

The Pre-occupied Parents with Neglected Child(ren). Marlene needs to get out of the flat for a little while, why not meet up with the Müllers for a walk? The best Bundesliga matches were all yesterday, so Gerd doesn't have much of an excuse not to go along, even though Susi Müller drives him bananas. And little Fritz loves the park anyway, so let's make an afternoon of it. Somehow Fritzi gets his shoe stuck up in a tree, and the obvious way of retrieving it requires throwing sticks, rocks and other potentially dangerous projectiles in the hope of dislodging the wayward footwear. Which is fine by Gerd, because Susi is afraid of objects flying at her face (and patently distrusts Gerd's aim, perhaps with reasonable cause); she and husband Paul head down the path, promising that they'll "meet up later." Fritzi's shoe is eventually recovered when Marlene knocks it free with a well-aimed tennis ball, which evokes polite applause from the small audience that has gathered to watch the spectacle. The youngster's left sock, however, does not appreciate the charade.

The Dignified Lady with Dog. Georgette can't understand why people can't behave themselves properly at the park; after all when she was a girl they were just happy to have a park at all. Hmph. Shoes clearly do not belong in trees. That man is going to hurt someone by throwing that stick. Hmph. Now, what did Poochie do with his tennis ball?