Single Sweet May in Berlin

My friend Jackie and I are walking through Tempelhofer Park in Berlin, a park whose empty terminal is still and tiny across the wide expanse of the old runway. Tempelhof Airport was actively receiving and departing airplanes until 2008, then it became a park, and there has been controversy over redevelopment plans ever since. 

But today the weather is perfect, the sky mostly blue, and packs of casual, hip Berliners have swarmed the park for picnics and barbecues. Jackie and I sit for a moment and drink from our bottles of Club Mate and finish our conversation. We have been talking nonstop the past few days, and everything I have learned about Berlin Jackie taught me. But right now we’re talking about the personal, finishing our conversation about the afterlife—Jackie mentions her roommate’s philosophical take, which she says has calmed her anxiety about dying: her roommate says between life and death, only life exists if death is the end of consciousness. 

Information board about Tempelhofer Park

Panorama of Tempelhofer Park — low sling of building is the former terminal

Berliners barbecuing and picnicking in Tempelhofer Park

We’ve had a monumental walk over here, from Friedrichshein-Kreuzberg through Gorlitzer Park, onto Neukölln, and now to this strange airport-park. Along the way we were so absorbed in conversation that I sometimes had to remind myself to look around, to be a tourist. In Gorlitzer park, the fruit trees were exploding in almost surreal beauty. I couldn’t catch my breath as I took in trees unfurling savage pink blossoms in a series of stuttering realizations. In Neukölln, Jackie pointed out the hip cafes lining the street and claimed one was likely to hear American English in this part of town; when she first moved to Berlin 5 years ago it was completely different. She lived cheaply in Neokölln, very close to Temelhofer Park, and at that time it was totally Turkish and one rarely saw women or children on the street. All the establishments were Turkish owned. As if being driven in by the busload, “hipsters,” a group unidentifiable by race or ethnicity, have inundated Neokölln in the past couple years. Now the rents are higher, many of the Turkish establishments have been forced out of business, and many families evicted, Jackie says. But, on the topic of gentrification, Jackie is some sort of post-liberal: she says her eyes glaze over when the term gentrification is even mentioned because the history of cities is the history of cycles of gentrification. 

Self portrait with Berlin Cathedral on Museum Island

Tulips blossoming along the Spree

Fruit trees blossoming near the Oberbaumbrücke in Berlin

There is no doubt about it: Berlin is endlessly cool, way cooler than Amsterdam—more hip, more gritty, more nightlife, more street life. I love people watching in Berlin, I even love cruising in Berlin. Soon we exit the park and head into the heart of Kreuzberg and continue talking incessantly. Jackie says she feels like she is on drugs with me because we talk so much. To me it feels like we’re on some sort of connective brain transmission, corroborating all the things we have thought about but never expressed to anyone since we last saw each other. Clearly my whole point of coming to Europe on a cargo ship and struggling with the definition of home and loneliness was to meet Jackie here in Berlin and talk about it, at the very height of Spring. 

***

It’s almost bedtime for Jackie after a long day and little sleep. She’s enveloped in her duvet and about to nod off on the living room couch-bed in her shared flat. I’m flipping through channels on German television. Despite both of us being at the end of our battery packs, I ask her a huge question: What’s the deal with the Berlin Wall? I feel stupid even asking, since it’s a pretty famous part of history, but Jackie generously starts explaining what happened once the wall came down, even if her eye lids are drooping. I stop her—I need to know why the wall went up in the first place. She says simply that the Allies divided Berlin after WWII and the Soviets got East Berlin. The amazing nature of history and one’s place in it hits me: I knew the wall began to come down in 1989 and the reunification of Berlin was completed in 1990, but that was only 23 years ago. In the past 23 years, while I was coming further and further into adulthood in my own part of the world, the generations cycled through the growth and development of post-wall East Berlin unbeknownst to me, yet here I was, confronted with it on a very real basis. I was fascinated.

SLEEP IS COMMERCIAL:
Graffiti stencil on facade in Berlin, city of cool, well-placed Graffiti

Weird raised pipes that run throughout Berlin periodically (in Mitte)

Mural through dark driveway near Schlesisches Tor station of the U1

I have heard stories about disgruntled Berliners yelling things such as “Learn German!” from open windows when they hear someone on the street speaking in English. I have heard tales of graffiti signs on buildings that point an arrow to a window with a caption that reads, “Insert grenade here.” I have heard anecdotes about people sneering and saying, “Go back to America.” Jackie says some of the old time anarchist punk tenants that moved into her building in the 90s gave her roommates trouble for moving into their flat in the 00s. “Those high nose academics,” the neighbors said. Jackie retorts, “They did the same thing in the 90s! The neighborhood developed and became a cool place for people to live because they came here in the first place!” 

Reflection of illuminated trees in a Berlin canal 

Night scene along the Spree

Yours truly and Jackie on the Oberbaumbrücke

There is something interesting in my preference about getting my information from Jackie rather than a text-based source, be it online or a physical book. No doubt about it, I am a researcher at heart, but this time my preference is for the primary source interview. On my first night in Berlin, Jackie told me there was no summer one year in the 1800s. She said a late spring gradually gave way to an early fall. The pronouncement haunted me like a dream I couldn’t shake the entire next day as I wandered heavy, grey Mitte: losing such a cherished season was actually possible on this mysterious planet? Three days later, after we left Tempelhofer Park, we checked out The Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek (American Memorial Library) and Jackie pointed out the sign—she claimed the “Amerika” portion of the sign had been removed by protestors as part of a ballsy anti-America action a few years earlier. I wondered at Jackie possibly being nearby when that happened, of potentially being witness to it. In these two examples, the power of myth and vague memory propel the imagination: I found out later that indeed there was no summer in 1816 mostly because Mount Tambora in Indonesia erupted in April 1815, which was the biggest recorded volcano explosion in history. In actuality, there was no spring, summer, or fall in 1816, there was just a year of winter basically. As for the The Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek, that turned out to be total myth: the sign always just said GEDENKBIBLIOTHEK. I love these layers of information, and it makes me contemplate the nature of “trueness”–if Jackie’s description of the Year Without a Summer catapulted my imagination into motion, then I think her take on it was valuable, even if inaccurate, information. 

***

It’s my last night in Berlin and I am pretty sure I’ve fallen in love with every person I’ve met, except the Americans that started talking to us outside the cafe tonight. I cringed as they claimed to be from Los Angeles (but were originally from Texas), I muttered as I admitted I was born in Glendale, I shuddered as the homely sporty one tried to pick up on Jackie’s adorable German roommate. I suppose this exposes the shell of being the only American I’ve developed in the past few months, and I am ashamed of my internalized self-hatred although I can’t wait to complain about these Americans to Jackie. But the bigger theme is the dragon I’ve been chasing ever since I conceived of riding a cargo ship across the Atlantic: I want to be unique, I want to be the trend setter, I want to be unparalleled and in order for that to happen I don’t want homely, jet-lagged Americans talking to me loudly in a hip part of Berlin.

Intersection of Oppelnen Straße and Skalitzer Staße, Berlin

View of interesting architecture from the Oberbaumbrücke, Berlin

Sun setting through tunnel of the Kottbusser Tor station of the U1

Walking to the next bar, I finally get my chance to complain, but through the course of my diatribe I realize to be set on fire by Berlin means to writhe in its cultural complex. Earlier in the day, walking home from the Berlinische Gallerie, I was making hasty resolutions to learn German and emigrate to Berlin; in the afternoon I scrapped the plan, pinpointing all the cultural strife one would have to overcome; now, on the eve of my departure, I relished the strife as only an outsider could. I laughed at the Germans so fervently clinging to their language, their culture, their post-wall city. Racism is alive and well in Europe, I said to Jackie, while in the U.S. political correctness has ravished any attempt at a productive conversation, and while in Amsterdam, the clever Dutch have capitalized on their reputation of tolerance and good English speaking abilities.  

Sunday morning vantage between the U-bahn and S-bahn after a night of dancing at the Berghain

Luckauer Straße (easy easy easy easy easy)

Home sweet home: Görlitzer Bahnhof station of the U1

After a few more Cinco de Mayo shots of tequila (after all, Jackie and I did meet in San Francisco where the bastardized Mexican holiday is celebrated by getting wasted), we shuffle home under the rails of the U1 and Jackie promises me David Bowie’s newest music video, which is a tribute to the years he spent in Berlin in the 70s. She keeps saying everyone thought it was great because it was made by a famous videographer but she’ll wait for me to make my own pronouncement. I sense an indictment brewing. Once home, she cues it up on her laptop and I try to view it with an open mind. I think, well the song absolutely sucks. I think, who is that chick’s face? I think, why are there subtitles of the lyrics? Jackie yells, “How could anyone take this seriously?! All the names of the streets are spelled wrong!” 

With Jackie’s familiar world view I find something I had lost inside myself a long time ago: the courage to be outspoken, the self assurance to love, the promise of blossoms unfurling their petals. Spring has come to Europe and this won’t be another year without a summer. 

Blossoms...

...blossoms...

and more blossoming Berlin

Queen's Day 2013 in Amsterdam

de Bijenkorf department store on Damsplein got in the full spirit

The new royal family waving from the balcony of the Palace in Damsplein (from wodumedia.com)

In case you didn't know, The Netherlands has a constitutional monarchy, and the Dutch love their Queens. This is most apparent on Queen's Day (Koninginnedag), April 30, the Dutch national holiday in which basically all people of the Netherlands flood Amsterdam wearing orange and paint Dutch flags on their cheeks. The entire city turns into a combination of an open air market, a dance party, and a endless procession of boats blasting techno music. But, the fun starts on Queen's Night, the night before, but you gotta be careful not to party too hard, because the next day is even better!

View of a politie mobile with the decorated de Bijenkorf in the background, Queen's Night

The palace balcony the night before the grand appearance

Close-up of the inflated crown on the roof of de Bijenkorf on Queen's Night

2013 was a very special Queen's Day because it is the last for a long time. Queen Beatrix's son Willem-Alexander ascended the throne this year (first king since 1890!), so beginning in 2014, the holiday will be known as King's Day (Koningsdag) and will be moved to April 27, Willem-Alexander's birthday.

Most of the pictures in this little section were taken either on Keizergracht or Prisengracht.

Homomonument represent! (flashing the "W" sign for Willem-Alexander)

My roommate and me

Prisengracht is the most popular canal for boating

My roommate and I went to that dance party under the clown for a while

This was my second Queen's Day and I enjoyed myself just about as much as I did in 2004 when I studied here. I sort of remembered it as drunk people flooding the streets along the canals and huge concerts in all the squares, but this year it drove home a very endearing characteristic of Dutch culture to me: their ability to be enterprising and sell almost anything (fruit, sandwiches, clothes, electronics, furniture, records, baked goods, recyclable cups, access to their toilets) and their ability to make a fun, almost naive party for all ages—my favorite just might have been all the children getting in on the fun which is clearly not reserved for adults only. This might sound crazy but I also admire how the holiday is almost comprised of people wholesomely celebrating their country and their culture. It's refreshing to not have to constantly question patriotism and just have fun.

View from a friend's 3rd floor apartment near Leidseplein 

Detail of my orange shoelaces! 

The Dutch flag 

After a long day of walking around the city, dancing with strangers on Prisengracht, meeting new people, having dinner with friends, and watching the royal parade on boats along Het Ij on big screens at Museumplein, I headed home. As I neared the canal closest to my apartment, Kostverlorenvaart, I slowly realized that debris from a boat was floating in the silvery purple water, and then I realized the last of a group of Dutch hipsters were extracting themselves from the canal. Poor partiers! Their boat had capsized and their speakers, bean bag chairs, and beer cans were floating in the canal. Well, at least everyone got out safely!

Debris from capsized boat in canal Kostverlorenvaart

This dude seemed jovial enough even though his party had officially ended

Good night Amsterdam!

Belgium 2000-2012

Throwing down anchor in Antwerp, Belgium.

 “Want to go to Brussels tonight?” Bahar asks as she cracks two eggs in the pan she’s been frying some sausage in.

“Sure… I’m up for Brussels,” I respond, afraid to say no to anything.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table of Bahar’s family in Hoboken, Belgium (a suburb of Antwerp), chowing down on an assortment of spreadable and sliced cheeses, deli meats, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, bread, sweet nutty specialties recently arrived from Turkey, hot tea and cookies. 

The most hospitable Bahar with a delicious cake of her own creation. She's quite the little baker and plans to open up her own pastry shop in Antwerp some day.

 “Well I’m working tonight at the restaurant in Brussels, so you can come if you want,” Bahar says.

It's Tuesday, September 18 and I’ve only been on terra firma for 3 hours yet I found Bahar (well, she found me scurrying from one Quick fast food restaurant to another near Centraal Station) and I landed smack dab in the middle of a typical Belgian brunch. I’m surrounded by her brother, sister, and friend—her father’s around, working downstairs, and her mother and other brother are due back from Turkey on Monday—and everyone’s talking, bickering, and laughing. We’ve been excitedly catching up on the last 8, 10 years in details small and large. Obviously the tale of my sea voyage has dominated the topic of conversation, but now Bahar has been telling me about the Belgian restaurant chain she works for, whose specialty is all-you-can-eat ribs. 

Amadeus is The Place for Ribs.

 “I work from 6 to 12 so you’ll be alone, but I’ll try to get off early and we can have a drink,” Bahar says. “You could eat ribs for dinner!”

Indeed a few hours later Bahar and I were on the highway from Antwerp to Brussels, and having some damn good conversation while she drove. Although we hadn't seen each other for 8 years and both confessed to being nervous at any possible awkwardness, we were picking up like old friends. A main topic of conversation was this year of being alone that I had embarked on. She couldn't quite empathize with what she viewed as me taking a huge risk, yet she shared her experiences doing an internship in Paris a few years ago, which was the longest she'd been away from home, on her own. 

Upon arriving in Brussels, we got a parking spot across the street from her work and she marked some spots on the map then sent me on my way.

The Grote Markt of Brussels.

Steeple in the Grote Markt (Grand Place) in Brussels, Belgium.

Kelci and the Grote Markt.

 That night in Brussels I did not eat ribs (although I did on another two occasions); instead I stuffed my face with the sandwiches the ship’s Chief Chef had made for me that morning while I sauntered down Boulevard Du Jardin Botanique at sunset. I suppose it was then I realized I had been half expecting to get back on the ship that evening, that this was just another port of call. I mulled this over while walking around for a few hours, having coffee and writing in my notebook at a café, and walking around for another few hours. I suppose I gave up and accepted my fate as just another ordinary land dweller, and finally came back to Bahar’s work around 11:30, where she sat me at a table close to her dish-washing post and started pouring me beers. 

Reflection in the Magritte Museum.

View from the top of the hill, near the Royal Palace.

Square in front of the Grand Palace. Beautiful sky!

Magritte's sky in a window of the Magritte Museum below a real life double.

Sunset coming down Boulevard Du Jardin Botanique.

We left Brussels sometime between 3 and 4 a.m., and enjoyed having the silent Grote Markt all to ourselves!

 I had vague recollections of visiting Brussels as part of the Belgian exchange program through my High School when I was 17, but the most I could remember was feeling alienated by the French influence—this city was not Belgian the way the cities we’d visited in the North were, the way I’d come to know and regard Belgium in the short week and half since our High School group arrived. I remember being ushered hurriedly to Le Manneken Pis through narrow streets crammed with red and white gingham-covered tables, and I remember being disappointed in the tiny boy mounted on an out-of-the-way corner peeing, while grey heavy clouds loomed above.

Cobalt sky at twilight in Brussels.

Looking down Vlaamsesteenweg from St. Katelijneplein in Brussels.

Full moon over a guild house facade in the Grote Markt, Brussels.

 This time around I ended up visiting Brussels twice—the first night of my stay with Bahar and again the last night, and both times Bahar left me to my own devices as she dutifully went to work in the restaurant. On my last night, I again went in search of Le Manneken Pis and found him on a corner surrounded by a large group of tourists, even including a guided tour, taking pictures. I literally couldn’t help but laugh at all of us, all of us come to find this point of interest.

There he is! Surrounded by tourists!

Kelci and the peeing boy. Can you tell by the look on my face I am suppressing a laugh on this absurdity?

Bahar in front of a Burssels candy shop. Too bad it was closed because Bahar loves candy shops!

 Neither time I visited Brussels with Bahar could I get a grip on the city—I wasn’t bothered by the French yet the city was strangely international in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. It seemed overwhelmingly young, like teenagers were particularly fond of partying on its literally red carpeted streets, and Bahar and I managed to meet two business women and their boss from Norway (that had been kicked out of a strip club earlier), a guy that kept spitting on us (on accident) from Chile (who proclaimed to be the owner of the Irish pub we were sitting in front of), and two Romanians (one of which was running a Greek restaurant and the other of which offered us the Presidential Suite at the Sheraton). Only in Brussels was I bothered persistently for cigarettes, and only in Brussels did young Moroccan boys get in our face and hassle us to share our frits with them. (Although these things are irritating, they don’t hold a candle to the way San Francisco crazies can disturb you.) 

Chowing down on ribs at the Antwerp location of the restaurant Bahar works in.

Riding one of Bahar's bikes through the center of Antwerp, with the Cathedral of our Lady rising into the black sky behind me.

Of course Bahar and I spent a lot of time in Antwerp, good old Antwerp with its medieval winding alleys, cobblestone streets, guild house facades, and ornate cathedral. Bahar loves Antwerp and feels quite proud of her city—she thinks it's the perfect size, not too big and not too small, and it's easy to agree with her opinion that's it's beautiful. We hung out with her friends, went to the movies, partook in Belgian specialties like waffles and frits, ate at restaurants, and frequented cafes to sample the many wonderful beers Belgium has to offer. Bahar loves sweet beers so we attempted to try as many new sweet beers—the stronger the better—as we could find. Sometimes we would go to cute or unique cafes and sometimes places specifically for their beer selection, like Bier Central near Centraal Station. 

Waffles!!

Partying down in Molly's Irish Pub in Antwerp.

 One particular night in Ghent, after an afternoon spent at the sea in Blankenberge, we started out with some usual choices, Kriek and La Chouffe, then progressed to more adventurous choices: I ordered Bière De Miel Biologique—an organic honey beer—and Bahar ordered Geuze Mariage Parfait—the perfect marriage. When the server brought the beers, she gave me Bahar’s and vice versa. One sip of Bahar’s beer brought a scowl to my face; an uncanny yeasty bitterness enveloped my mouth. I almost said out loud, “Do I have to drink this?” but then Bahar realized the switcheroo. If I couldn’t stand the hyper-fermented yogurt taste of the beer, how was Bahar’s sweet palette going to handle it? Somehow, she managed, she really suffered through it. What a champ! Later her efforts were rewarded by an extremely drunk Belgian leaning on the table to talk to her and the table flipping over, spilling her fresh beer all over her front. We took it as a sign—I got a to-go cup for my remaining beer (yes, those exist at bars in Belgium!) and we made our exit over the canal and out of the city center. 

The Dreupelkot/Beer House in Ghent had a funny menu. "This is rather difficult to explain: Frenchmen say that foreigners are crazy; Holland people pretend to know best; and the Germans are always talking about their Reinheitsgebot, a 500 years old law concerning the prime materials used to produce beer. They are right for these beers,..."

Our adventurous picks: Bière De Miel Biologique and Geuze Mariage Parfait. This was obviously before the drunk dude flipped the table over.

Despite how disgusting Mariage Parfait was, Bahar finished it! Look at her empty glass!

 My third night in Belgium was another special one. Since Bahar had to work, I went with her brother Mehmet to a party for the Erasmus international students at UA (Universiteit Antwerpen), where everyone was supposed to bring a food dish from their country. I appeared to be the only U.S. contingent and had acquired a few boxes of chocolate chip cookies with the Statue of Liberty on the package and a jar of peanut butter with an American flag stretched across the label—American style! it proclaimed. I instructed the confused students to slather the peanut butter on the cookies; the few that did seemed to enjoy it and Mehmet agreed it was a hit. As the night wore on I kept feeling secretly superior to everyone there: I was here having a great time and I didn’t even have to be a student to do it! The truth would come out as I got to talking to someone new—and there were a lot of conversations that night—that I wasn’t actually a student at the University, yet I had a great time meeting all the people from different counties at the beginning of their semester in Belgium. After we left the party in the University building, we loitered in one of the squares drinking and smoking for a long time, went to a dance club in the red light district with a couple Polish girls we had acquired along the way, and then Mehmet took me to meet Bahar at a nearby pub where she was having a drink with a coworker. Bahar, her coworker, and I ate doner kebab at a place run by goofy Turkish dudes then we were chased down the street by drunken Belgian students who were trying to throw a bicycle inner tube around our heads. All in a night in Antwerp! 

Mehmet brought this Turkish dessert that sort of tasted like cotton candy but looked like strands of hair. Towards the end of the dinner we started up conversations with groups of people based on the premise they had to try this sweetness. The wasted girls on the left thought the candy made good mustaches.

The Polish girls we acquired made some interesting shots called Mad Dogs. I was a big fan so I got the recipe: most of the shot glass filled with vodka, slowly pour a berry liqueur into the top, and a few dashes of Tabasco. LEKKER!

Yours truly flanked by the Polish girls on some abandoned furniture outside University housing.

The streets of the center of Antwerp are overtaken on Thursdays because it's students' night!

 Bahar was the perfect host; she embodies Turkish hospitality in a completely overwhelming way to me. We went out almost every day, riding our bikes to the center, or taking the train to the sea, or driving to Brussels, and when she had to work she installed me with one of her family members. So many times we would discuss plans to do separate things since she, you know, had a life to attend to, and each time she would end up coming with me, chaperoning us on another exciting adventure in Belgium. In a very perfect way, she was the ideal landing pad for me; I almost can’t fathom how I would have made the well-fed transition from boat-dweller to European city dweller without Bahar and her warm family.

The one night we stayed home, after I got my hair done at her cousin's fabulous hair salon in Hoboken.

 A couple points of interest in Antwerp are the new MAS museum and the Flemish House of Literature (Letterenhuis). I wasn't able to view the collections of the former but I made it up to the observation terrace on the top floor just in time for a stunning rainbow that stretched across all of Antwerp. It was amazing! The trip to the MAS was worth that alone. As for the latter, the Letterenhuis, I can recommend it to anyone who is interested in/has studied literature and writing or anyone who is interested in the book as an object. The staff dutifully informed me none of the exhibits were in English, but I opted to have a look anyway. I was not disappointed! On the main floor, an exhaustive timeline of keypoints in Flemish literature kept pace with literary developments around the world, and many display cases held unique manuscripts and first editions by Flemish authors, usually surrounded by other ephemera from the same period.

The new MAS.

Beautiful rainbow viewed from the roof of the MAS.

This picture may suggest I am the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

This text was on the wall in the women's bathroom of the Letterenhuis. Rough translation: "Life is not a book. The beginning is nowhere. It is here and there and yonder, and everything happens at once. A book is different." Louis Paul Boon, Abel Gholaerts (1944)

Bahar and I enjoying the Belgian coast.

Sunset over Blankenberge.

Cargo ships making their way through the North Sea--that was me a week ago!

Last bits of orange peeking through the clouds.

Enjoying the sunset with a bottle of liebfraumilch.

 My favorite day was the afternoon we spent in Blankenberge, which is a town on the coast of the North Sea in West Flanders. Once we came to the beach, after walking down the shopping street from the train station, something in me clicked: days before I had sailed past this town on the ship. I recognized the sea and the clouds; I saw the cargo liners moving through their routes close to the horizon. To the right was even a small port with cargo cranes standing at the ready. Although I was in a transition period, I felt serene on the sand before the water. It reminded me of San Francisco’s Ocean Beach, the day I swam at Coney Island in New York with Cricket before I flew to Argentina, and the many waters the ship had sailed through. But now, almost three months after I had left home, I was standing on the coast of the North Sea, mere kilometers from my end goal: Amsterdam. My future and my past met each other here on the Belgian sand; one of my feet was in the sea and the other was taking the step towards Holland.