Be the 501,000th visitor to 'Berlinquiries'!

The race is on to see who will be the historic 501,000th visitor to the "blog."

Now is your chance to forever etch your name into history books! If you're lucky enough to be the 501,000th reader to view "Berlinquiries" -- and can prove it by providing a computer screen shot with the historic number -- you'll win a very special prize.

How to play: after you've finished reading this, scroll down to the bottom of the "blog" to view the counter. If you can record the historic moment by taking a screen shot, provide it to the "Berlinquires" staff and you will receive further instructions about your very special prize. No purchase necessary!

Should no one successfully capture the historic moment itself, the next closest complete submission will win a slightly less special prize.

Good luck!

Dreams and semi-realities

Topics related to Sophia and doughnuts keep appearing in my dreams.

First of all, a hearty thanks to those readers who recently took part in the democratic process by voting in my poll. It's nice to know that I can get quick results by laying down a guilt trip every now and then, and that at least a couple people out there are paying close attention. I am forever grateful.

Also a note: seeing as how I have a relatively big following here in Germany (operative word being 'relatively'), I want to be sure all of my loyal readers know that it's okay to make comments in German. If you're bothering to read through this and have something important to say, feel free to say it in your language of preference. I will have the Berlinquiries translation staff provide me with an English approximation as quickly as possible.

But anyway, I write today not to simply heap praise upon those who await my every written word like the conclusion of a murder mystery novel, but, as always to share a couple of novel stories and anecdotes I have heard and experienced over the past couple of weeks, which I hope you will find most amusing.

Sex, lies and Legos: Between Sophia's occasional crying and my own nocturnal preferences, I've had a bizarre sleeping routine as of late that has contributed to some -- what I consider at least -- entertaining dreams and pre-dream thoughts. While I'm sure many of the readers of my 'blog' would also qualify for some sort of Freudian analysis, I find that my dreams and bedtime thoughts (when I can remember them) are usually the stuff of high drama. Take, for instance, a dream I had shortly after arriving in Germany. In this particular sleepy pondering I found myself meeting a good friend of my wife's (who shall remain anonymous until further notice) for a casual afternoon of ice skating. However, upon my arrival to the slippery surface, I found my wife's good friend clad in a professional speed skating body suit; wearing my normal jeans, shirt and jacket, naturally I was ill-prepared to race and was quite quickly left behind.

However, my recent dreams have had more to do with my daughter Sophia, or issues directly related to her. The other night my mind managed to convince me that I was somehow involved in a toy building-block related intrigue, where the makers of Duplo building blocks were pitted against the makers of Lego (although I think in reality they're owned by the same company) in a high-stakes blood feud for market share and economic viability. The actors in my dream made very little explicit, although I had a pretty good sense of what was happening implicitly. The highly decorated interiors of expensive hotel rooms barely concealed the scandals and abusive relationships between the various toy manufacturing executives. Glasses of champagne; blood-red lipstick; finely upholstered furniture; daggers; mysterious women in elegant evening wear; red, blue, yellow and green bricks scattered here and there. It was kind of like a James Bond film crossed with Wall Street and Bob the Builder. I can't tell you what all happened exactly -- mostly because it's too steamy and violent for this PG rated 'blog' -- but I can assure you that it was all very vivid and it was one of those dreams where when I awoke, it took several minutes for me to realize that it didn't actually happen.

Anyway, I have this other dream that's reoccurring -- which isn't technically a dream because I always have it before I fall asleep -- where I swear I can smell the doughnuts from the bakery down the street from where I grew up as a boy. They were very good doughnuts.

Interpretations, anyone?

S-Bahn incident: Speaking of the bizarre, I witnessed something on the S-Bahn last week that was about as surreal as one of my dreams. As my most loyal readers know, I have to go back and forth between Potsdam at least once a week, with necessitates a train ride of about an hour. On this particular journey, there was apparently some kind of commercial or scene from a comedy being filmed. I'm not at all sure what the meaning of it all was, but there was a guy wearing a chicken costume without the head (which he carried around with him under his arm) accompanied by another guy wearing a dog costume. Chicken and dog would walk down the center of the train while actually eating real pieces of chicken, pause to put some chicken in the mouth of the dog costume (most of which feel to the floor) and then continue walking toward the camera. They apparently weren't very good actors (which I'm sure you'll find surprising), as the crew had to re-shoot the scene several times.

I was laughing to myself quite a bit, but the really strange aspect about the experience was that I was the only one in the almost full train that seemed to find any of this slightly amusing. Across from me a grandma kept trying to get her two grandsons to look out the window -- "look at the trees, boys!" -- and all the while there are two (apparently poorly paid) grown men wearing animal costumes walking here and there. The other passengers would look up but not say anything, and would certainly not smile. Was I the only unpaid extra or something?

Anyone there?

People:

I know Facebook is all the rage these days, but if I don't have at least five votes in my poll before it expires, there will be consequences.

Honorably yours,
Nathan

A taste of single-ness

Prague: land of curt transactions and confusing rules.

It's been a rather interesting week for me personally, which is not to say that every week doesn't have it's own little elements to it that are interesting, but on the whole, the past week has been remarkable for the single reason that I have spent it without my immediate family, i.e., wife and daughter. While at times this has translated to varying shades of loneliness, boredom, laziness (quite a few shades of laziness, actually) and even a couple of hints of desperation, taken for what it was, it was a nice break from the diapering and feeding of Sophia and from the friendly reminders (some would call it nagging, but I certainly do not) stemming from my wife.

The week of single-ness, as I will call it, began a week ago today with a four-and-a-half hour train journey from Berlin-Südkreuz to Praha-Holesovice, the secondary train station of the city called Prague by seemingly everyone but the Czechs. My loyal readers surely know that, as of late, I rarely venture too far from the gentle (or do I mean Gentile?) confines of leafy Charlottenburg, although naturally during this part of the year those leaves that were not sucked up by the city waste management tend to be blown across the sidewalk and cobblestone roads by the cold but not freezing winter wind, and they make a far from gentle scratching noise as their no longer beautiful forms are helplessly wisked from one grey corner of the neighborhood to the next. You may now be thinking that I am digressing somewhat; but if you are reading this passage correctly, you certainly realize that perhaps I had grown somewhat indifferent to my urban surroundings in the past months.

Indeed. Unnerved slightly by that leaf-on-stone scratching noise, and somewhat perturbed by the prospect of spending what could easily amount to a dull week at home on my own (the immediate family was shoving off to grandma's), the lure of Praha-Holesovice -- a place that I could not properly pronounce but one which offered the prospect of travel, the (relatively) unknown, ice hockey, and delicious beers -- was simply too great, so I booked a train ticket there with great anticipation.

While I could share with you every minute detail of the journey -- which I indeed found fascinating -- I doubt very much that it would be all that interesting to read. I know well enough that the readers of my "blog" don't click on my link to hear about the ordinary. Instead, I provide you with a few quirky tidbits of the journey, again utilizing that most ubiquitous of journalistic forms, the roundup:

Sazka Arena: Nothing permitted, except for everything: I've been wondering around Praha all day taking pictures, looking for delicious yet affordable baked goods and trying not to get lost. Eventually I start to get cold, so I make my way to the hockey arena a little early, where there's a 6:45 game scheduled between Slavia Praha and HC Znojemsti Orli. To my shock, there's an enormous sign in front of the stadium forbidding a quite wide range of item, many of which an average person such as myself tends to carry around. Such items included bottled water, cameras and cell phones, and I had one of each in my backpack.

I figured my bottled water I could always toss out with minimal loss, and my cell phone, well, they just couldn't possibly be serious about that. But I was legitimately concerned that I wouldn't be admitted through the arena's airport-style security check with my camera, so I asked the friendly girl at the ticket counter what would happen. "Cameras aren't allowed. You can check it over there." She pointed to an ominous looking red van on the far side of the arena. Not about to drop off my camera (sufferening from wear and old age as it is) with just any old shmo -- and quite honestly planning to take as many photos as possible in the arena -- I decided I'd ask the security detail themselves what would happen. The guy looked at me as though he'd never heard of such a rule. So I went back and bought a ticket -- even with my camera draped around my shoulder. Clenching my teeth, I put everything in my backpack and put it through the metal detector. The only thing I had to do was toss out my water bottle -- no big problem though, more room for beer.

"Okay." "Okay what?" I needed to buy a bus ticket to Brno. In Praha, the bus station is a pretty nutty place -- people coming from other places in Eastern Europe, people going places in Western Europe, people selling towels, people buying towels, people begging for change, people not giving change, the police walking around ignoring it all. The smell of gasoline fumes and stingy, unshowered budget tourists (myself included.) A cold morning. All this adds up to relatively unfriendly service people. I wait five minutes in line in front of a ticket window for an older gentleman to finish smoking a cigarette. Finally service.

Me: "I'd like a ticket to Brno."
Him: "10:45. Two Hundred." (Spoken without a pause, as if it were one sentence.)
Me: "Hm. [long pause] It says 190 here." (I point to the paper directly in front of him that advertises Praha-Brno, 190 Kc, about $10)
Him: "Two Hundred." [pointing at the price on the ticket he has already printed out.]
Me: "Okay." (I'm not going to make a fuss over what amounts to about fifty cents.)
Him: "Okay what?" (Does he think I'm trying to negotiate?)

And that was the end of the conversation, really. I pushed a 500 Koruna note under the slot and got my ticket and 300 Koruna back. Friendly? No. But efficient. The whole transation took about twenty seconds. Imagine trying to buy a plane or train ticket in Germany or the USA with that kind of speed.

Before Sunset: I watched this movie, starring Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke -- starring is perhaps the wrong word because there really isn't anyone else in the movie -- on the bus ride back to Praha. Watch is the operative word here because I didn't bother listening to the Czech dubbing. English subtitles were sufficient. Is it not completely obvious what is going to happen in this movie from the outset? I didn't even seen the prequel and it's already clearly obvious that they're going to meet up, chat it up, and that at the end there will be allusions to sex.

Worrying about being happy; Sophia's clothes

Lately, I feel as though I've been waiting to get my goat. Or to have my goat given to me. Or something like that. This lovely creature lives in the courtyard one building down, but isn't mine, so to speak.

It's been an interesting couple of weeks since I last recorded my thoughts here, in fact, quite a positive couple of weeks if I may say so. So positive, in fact, that I struggle to come up with sufficient "blog" material, since as many of you know, I'm the type of person that generally finds it easier to begrudge my failures than to rejoice in my triumphs. Call it a character flaw, call it stubbornness combined with modesty.

Call it whenever you want. Nonetheless, I feel as though I ought to mention my most recent bit of good luck, which places me in front of 16 students of the English language on Monday nights in a pleasant classroom with a chalkboard and desks and chairs. The only drawback to this, perhaps, is that the classroom is located in Potsdam, a 45 minute train ride from my home in quasi-gentrified Charlottenburg. Whereas I once loathed my half hour commute to work driving along the 6-line highways and through the urban sprawl of San Antonio, riding to Potsdam and back on the S-Bahn once a week is a jaunt I can tolerate -- even enjoy -- aided in no small part of course by its infrequency. Even the train station at Potsdam amuses me... they have a new sort of exhibition every couple of months. Over the summer it was dinosaurs, right now it's award winning journalistic photography. Perhaps one month soon there will be an exhibit dedicated to waterfowl. But I suppose I ought to leave all the happy thoughts at that, not wishing to tempt fate, as it is much more interesting to read "blog" content about the things that make my angry rather than those that make me happy.

As for the sublime, lately I've been finding the words written on Sophia's clothes to be most peculiar, and often quite amusing. Obviously, being merely seven months old, she is incapable of reading what is written on her garments, which of course she is also incapable of selecting or putting on. Therefore it is quite obvious that most of what is written has little to do with her, but rather very much to do with her image -- what those around her perceive her to be or want her to be like. Seeing as how I (like most fathers, I would imagine) have had little to no direct input in acquiring or purchasing any of her garments (and, let me assure you, I'm fine with that), it is quite interesting to see the sorts of "statements" Sophia is making. (And if you happened to have given us one of these fine garments, please know that I mean no offense here; be happy in knowing that our child is keeping warm and thriving thanks to your thoughtfulness. Hopefully she'll grow up to be more tactful than her father.) Here is a sampling of a few samples:

"New born beauty." While Sophia is verifiably the most beautiful baby amongst her young playmates, she no longer really qualifies, in my opinion, as a "newborn." Perhaps this was the reason for separating the word into two parts?

"I'm the boss: Baby '07." Indeed, when it comes time to eating, Sophia is more or less the boss. And indeed, she was born in the year 2007. But what exactly is the message here? That parents should be sure to work for their baby's needs as if it was a job? That in addition to that, that Sophia, having merely been born, has already accomplished a feat worth commemorating on par with college gradation in the form of an article of printing clothing? I remain slightly baffled, but certainly concur that she is the boss.

"Little Princess." I think this appears on a number of articles of her clothing. If Sophia indeed is a little princess, she and her royal parents preside over the shittiest castle I've seen in Europe.

"I love cheese." Don't we all. But wait a minute. Sophia's young digestive tract isn't yet sufficiently developed to digest cheese -- much less is her young mind aware of what cheese is to the degree that she could love it. That said, there are some days when I'm convinced she loves the curtains as much or more than her dad, so why not have some room to love cheese as well? A little love for everything, I say!

A "roundup" of recent and slightly interesting events

The "blog" is back, alive and well, unlike this Christmas ham.

Since you all know I'm not the type to make excuses, I'll don't really want to bother going into too much detail about how I haven't had much time to "blog" lately. But of course the problem in doing that is that I would have to ignore some of the slightly interesting events that have transpired in my life over the past several months. That just wouldn't do. After all, isn't the word "news" or "journal" or something an integral part of the word "blog"? (Well, I suppose not.)

Regardless, I now present you with a set of recent happenings, some of which may interest you, in the reverse order of their occurrence, and using the "roundup" format, that most popular journalistic writing utility.

January 4, 2008, 10:00 a.m. Plumbing issues. While Sophia takes a nap, Conny and I take advantage of the peace and quiet to romantically unclog the drain beneath our bathtub. (For more bathroom related writing, see this related blog entry.) Seeing as Conny and I are both amateur plumbers at best, I can only properly describe the action as having to do with displacing/removing lots of slimy black stuff. I'm sure most people reading this have had to engage in some sort of similar activity. It is unpleasant. Trying to alleviate our combined revulsion, Conny pointed out that at least it was our slimy black stuff that we were removing from the drain. But I say that anything that looks like that really has nothing to do with my body, and most certainly does not come from me or anyone I consider to be my friend and or family. Fortunately no photos were taken.

(Having written this, Conny asks that I delete it, claiming that people will always think our bathroom is constantly in a poor state of affairs. I remind her that it is.)

December 14, 2007, 4:30 p.m. Certified... at something. Having undertaken and completed a training program that will now permit me to teach the English language to adults (appropriate acronym not used here), and having spent the better part of previous four weeks surrounded by people from the United Kingdom, I receive a teaching certificate with my name and the word "PASSED" printed upon it. While initially this makes me very happy, as conceivably it should improve my chances of finding work here in certificate/rubber stamp-mad Germany, I am later slightly concerned when I see that certain of my classmates have received a very similar certificate but with the word "CREDIT" instead. "What might the difference be," I can't help but ask, at first myself but then several of my classmates. Apparently some of my fellow students were somehow determined to be better prepared for teaching than others. I suddenly cease to care when I consider that I'm probably the only one in the classroom who always writes the word "blog" in quotations marks according to personal stylistic whim.

December 8, 2007. 8:30 p.m. Getting to know Tom. In a bizarre twist of events, I end up welcoming a Cambridge graduate into my apartment for the weekend, a sofa bed, living and working space having been vacated for the weekend by mother and wife and daughter, respectively. Tom is the only person I have ever met who told me that he is planning to live in a city where there is a lot of drama. Frankly there is a lot of drama here in the Seelingstrasse at times, although I'm pretty sure that isn't what he was referring to.

November 29, 2007, 9:20 p.m. Group therapy. Struggling to keep my head above water during my certification class and in deep need of some brief distraction, I download the podcast of the latest McLaughlin Group in the desperate hope for some amusement on my bus ride to class. Panel member Pat Buchanan obliges.

November 13, 2007, 1:30 p.m. Failure at dog imitation. It's a Tuesday afternoon, and having spent the best parts of the previous weekend singing children's songs, demonstrating my skills with a puppet and sitting in a circle and holding hands -- with a group of exclusively adults -- I receive a phone call from a certain nursery school subcontractor (name of person and business purposefully omitted) in which I am told that I am not cut out for teaching children English because I don't seem comfortable crawling around on the floor and barking like a dog. While admittedly I was somewhat disappointed about not being offered a job at first, after some short consideration, I must wholeheartedly agree. My main objection is that now, even after two months' time, I still feel as though two wonderful weekend days were sickeningly wasted. I vow revenge, but decide to vent my irritation elsewhere after considering the options.

November 4, 2007, 12:55 p.m. Exhaustion. Wearing my jogging outfit and sweating profusely, I blissfully come around the last corner of a 9K "fun" run. At the last possible moment, with all of my energy expended, a fit and attractive young woman I had purposefully overtaken a few kilometers back in what was supposed to be proof my personal physical prowess, sneaks ahead of me. I can not retake the lead. Although nine kilometers, rather than five or ten, is something of an odd a distance to run, frankly it is probably still a couple kilometers longer than I can enjoy. Nonetheless my wife and young daughter are ecstatically proud of me.

October 27, 2007, 3:30 p.m. Mediocre soccer. Myself and some friends go to watch Hertha play Bochum, a match that ends 1-0, if I remember correctly. The game was far less interesting than was the commentary from my companions, four of whom hail from Italy, who concurred that the match nearly met the quality of a second league Italian game.

October 15, 2007, 4:00 p.m. Getting lost in translations. Thanks to a very thoughtful friend with connections at a German theatrical society, I land approximately sixty hours of translation work that will keep me (and Conny) occupied (and reasonably well-paid) for the next week and a half. If I haven't mentioned it before, Berlin seems to be a place where almost no one has a permanent full-time job. Most people just get by through cobbling together a set of freelance jobs. This has been my life as of recent. At any rate, it was a joy trying to come up with translations for concepts such as Schlagermusik (I went with "German beat music") and just having the opportunity to write something snappy.

Of course there were also holidays, visits from numerous friends and family, and plenty of "firsts" from Sophia. But in comparison to the sublime, that's all rather ordinary, isn't it? Well, that is about it for now... if I haven't at least left to go buy some groceries by the time Conny and Sophia get back here, I fear some sort of serious spousal disenchantment. Toodles.