One Little Goat

One little goat, one little goat:

The angel of death came,
and slew the slaughterer,
who killed the ox,
that drank the water,
that extinguished the fire,
that burned the stick,
that beat the dog,
that bit the cat,
that ate the goat,
which my father bought for two zuzim.
--Had Gadya, Verse 9

This gloomy Sunday brought me to the Neue Nationalgalerie, a museum for modern art, showcasing key works from Picasso, Kirchner, Beckmann, Dix, Klee, Bacon, Nay, Newman, Stella, and Richter; however, since the museum doesn't have enough space to exhibit their entire collection all at once, the current paintings and sculptures range from 1900 - 1945. (Later in 2011, the museum will exhibit its postwar collection.)

I knew the collection was impressive--the website boasts that the Neue Nationalgalerie is one of the most important museums in Europe. Yet, it was that gloomy Sunday that prompted me to go to the museum; I had heard there was an excellent selection of German expressionism, and I thought that just maybe this interminably dismal Berlin weather could be cured with a little color.

I wasn't disappointed. The first paintings I saw swelled with color and were possibly my favorite in the entire museum. Two artists had depicted the same Jewish song, the Had Gadya (One Little Goat), which is sung at the end of the Passover Seder. The "cumulative" story follows a father who buys a goat that is then eaten by a cat that is then bitten by a dog that is then beat with a stick, and so on. The destruction continues and continues until God steps in, intervening, you know, divinely, as he is wont to do.

And although God does punctuate the last scene of each artist's depiction, i.e., the series first done by El Lissitzky (1890-1941) in 1936 and the later one done by Frank Stella (1936-) in 1984, what must the atheist think, if she acknowledges this accumulation of goat-cat-dog destruction but without hope of divine intervention? What if she can't accept that tenth verse? Stella's series gives a riposte insofar as he is able to stretch the most whimsical forms over dire situations. And then they're not that dire. And how does a cat eat a goat?

Besides the wonder of these first paintings, the architecture of the gallery is remarkable in itself. Designed by Mies van der Rohe in 1968, the museum is said to be the architect's last great building, opening a year before his death. Naturally, the building reminded me of the towers of glass and steel that stand before Lake Michigan in Chicago; however, rather than the pricey condos and offices that occupy those spaces, this Berlin gallery has been constructed with the experience of "looking at art" in mind. This experience, which can often become laborious, leaving you feeling rushed, bored, trapped, claustrophobic, or, as Ferlinghetti puts it, "constipated," this museum is noticeably different.

In the Neue Nationalgalerie, the whole first floor is reserved for changing installations, such as the one above, The Michael Kohlhaas Curtain, designed by Frank Stella and Spanish architect and engineer, Santiago Calatrava. What Mies is so good at comes through here: the creation of space. You experience space that is light and freeing. Artworks don't come here to die, they haven't been sent to solitary confinement, but are here let be.

The gallery, however, is completely underground. But you don't feel trapped in a cavern, because another feature of the museum is the utilization of natural light that both illuminates the paintings and ensures their integrity isn't compromised in any way. These aspects of the building's design come together to provide an ideal aesthetic experience; and, if it all still does become a bit too much, you can just sit down in any of those iconic Mies van der Rohe Barcelona chairs.

And, although I'm not sure why, I didn't have to pay admission. It might have been because I'm a Goethe-Institut student, but more likely, the woman at the ticket desk, recognizing what a fine admirer of art I surely am, knew what a travesty it would be to make me pay. Let other museums take notice.

Dr. Pong

Through a friend of a friend, we were privy to the following wild scene last Monday night: after walking through unmarked doors, my friends and I found an all-inclusive, all-night ping-pong extravaganza, topped off with cheap beers and a decent DJ. But what is an all-inclusive, all-night ping-pong extravaganza? Let me fill you in.

Put down a refundable deposit of $5 and you get a paddle, and if you are able to return that paddle at the end of the night then you get the deposit back, if you aren't able to return the paddle, at least you will have some kind of story to tell. Once you have your paddle--and, let's be honest, your beer--you are ready to go. When you hear the knocking of paddles on the ping-pong table, then a new game is about to begin. Find a spot in the line of 20 or 30 people and begin your dance around the maypole. On your turn, if you successfully return the ball, then you are free to remain in the game--otherwise, you take your seat on the sidelines, drink your beer, and watch the match play out. As more and more players are eliminated, the action increases, growing quicker and quicker until the game is a mad scramble around a beer-slicked floor, and half the success is just being able to get from one side of the table to the other, which is, of course, easier said than done. Indeed, as I watched the game (lucky me, I wasn't able to return my first ball and was thus immediately benched), one overzealous man, sprinting with beer and paddle in hand, fell; he shattered his bottle, tore his arm to bits, and most likely very nearly died. But with a few paper towels thrown on the ground and the glass shards kicked to the side, the game could go on. And it did.

In all, our group of potential ping-pong all-stars didn't fare too well; although, Mr. Chicken did make it to the final four in one game, while Eve claimed (though no one can verify this) that she had made it to the finals in her last outing. Nevertheless, winning or losing is hardly the point here. We weren't ping-pong champs, but we enjoyed ourselves all the more. Mit Dr. Pong haben wir Spass gemacht!

Beethoven-Haydn-Mozart-Denkmal

Musik ist höhere Offenbarung als alle Weisheit und Philosophie.
--Ludwig van Beethoven


The other day I was taking a nice stroll through the Tiergarten (quite literally, the Garden of Animals, which is itself a sight to behold) when I stumbled upon this beast: the Beethoven-Haydn-Mozart-Denkmal. Whoa! Something about the almost clear sky and the clouds that cut across it, something about the lush greens rolled out across this city park, something about the air of old trees and new flowers made the sight of this statue overwhelming.

The statue as we see it now is the product of restoration efforts that were only completed in 2007. The ten meter high statue was originally erected in 1904, and established by Rudolf and Wolfgang Siemering, in honor, of course, of the three composers: Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. Reconstruction became necessary after the destruction of Berlin in the Second World War. Many of the 145 individual parts making up the statue had to be restored due to bullet holes and other damage. Some parts that were entirely lost, e.g., Mozart's nose (his poor schnoz!), had to be recreated from images in old postcards and historical photos. Nevertheless, the statue stands today, beautiful as ever. So, go and pay homage to these musical brutes.

Winterfeldtplatz Markt

Trocken Brot macht Wangen rot.
[Dry bread makes cheeks red.]
--German Proverb

I am fortunate to live near one of the largest farmer's markets in Berlin. Since 1990 the square has hosted a market every Wednesday and Saturday, where you can buy fresh-local-bio fruits and veggies, artisinal meats and cheeses, roast bratwursts, fishes, linens, silver polish, jewelry, antiques, espressos, flowers, breads--in short, anything your little heart could possibly desire.



The market takes place in Winterfeldtplatz, which is in northern Shöneberg. The square was named in 1893 after Prussian General Hans Karl von Winterfeldtplatz, and it's been named such ever since.



The market is so resplendent with goods, you are likely to forget what you came for in the first place. This is the certainly the case for me. Not only must I constantly be forming the correct sentences in German for what I want to order (but they never to come out right anyway) and thinking about the quantity in terms of grams and kilos, I also must contend with the din and aroma of the espresso machine, which works on me like some Pavlovian trigger--so now I have an espresso, but I have no idea what I was going to buy, or even what I've bought. Nevertheless, I make my way through the 250 stalls, where I am stopped by the redolent "fragrance" of some kind of German cheese that has been sitting in the sun for a few hours. I pass on this cheese, but I do buy a locally made cream cheese mixed with garlic, onions, chives, dill, and parsley. It is the best cream cheese you'll probably never have. Anyway, I've been slathering it on baguettes with cured salmon that I also picked up at the market, and topping that off with cucumbers and capers. Or, as one would say in German, "Lecker!"

Fahrräder überall!

It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and can coast down them. ... Thus you remember them as they actually are, while in a motorcar only a high hill impresses you, and you have no such accurate remembrance of country you have driven through as you gain by riding a bicycle.
--Ernest Hemingway

If I remember Berlin as seen from my bike, the memory will seem like a dream I had once. I was lucky enough to be provided a bike by my host, and cruising down the streets of this German city in the sun of summertime has no experience to call its equal. Pedaling through Berlin brings you past countless historical landmarks, astounding architecture, bakery after bakery, boutiques, theaters, artworks, people. You see arguments and bawdiness, you see the expected streets, buildings, stations, and shops, but you also see the beautiful. From the saddle, riding through the different neighborhoods, you are offered a glimpse of the world--das Fahhrad here becomes a microcosmic vehicle.

Because the city generously caters to bikers, the experience is so pleasurable. Throughout the city, there are bike lanes; however, these bike lanes aren't like the kinds you might be familiar with in Philly or Chicago, where they remain part of the street, precariously placed between speeding cars and parked cars: sooner or later, you will either be flattened or "doored." In contrast, the bike lanes in Berlin are part of the sidewalk, keeping you away from the flow of cars, especially on busy streets. In addition to this ingenious practice, bike lanes are also outfitted with special bike traffic lights, which are just kind of awesome.

Indeed, American city bikers would be amazed at the attitude towards bikes here. Do you have to lug around a 5 Lb. U-lock? No. Bikes are usually locked up with a very thin chain, and if people are just going into a shop, then they don't even bother to lock it up; and when they return to their bikes, they are still there! Bike theft happens here, of course, but not to the same, depressing degree as in Philadelphia, Chicago, and, I imagine, other American cities. So, to any future travelers to Berlin, get a bike!

Tip: You can rent a bike here, but it is expensive, and you usually are then riding a bike with some kind of obnoxious advert on it. It's better, I think, to buy a bike. There are two options:
1. Die Flohmärkte (flea market): you can buy a used bike here, but the quality is sometimes suspect and the bikes may have been stolen. The second option is better.
2. There are two bike stores that sell used bikes for cheap.
Froschrad (Frog Bike) -- near Görlitzer Bahnhof in Kreuzberg
"Used Bike" -- near Schönleinstr Bahnhof also in Kreuzberg.
There are plenty more stores, however, these two have come well recommended.

Mein Haus

Das Haus ist eine Maschine zum Wohnen.
--Le Corbusier, 1922

From the airport, my first stop in Berlin was a stop at my new home. I had received little information on what to expect at my residence: Would I be living with a family? A couple? An individual? Would there be other students living with me? What would the quirks be of my new host family? Fetishists? Nudists? Cannibals? In Berlin, the possibilities are endless.

I found my building easily enough; I walked through the entrance to a large foyer. To the left was a flight of stairs and to the right I saw a courtyard behind the building with a garden, bicycle parking, and several different cans for recycling and trash. It's near impossible to get people to recycle in Philadelphia, let alone get them to throw their trash into a garbage can at all, but here people fastidiously separate their recyclables, and they even have citywide composting. I thought to myself that soon enough my vegetable scraps would be decomposing somewhere in Berlin. From the foyer, I took this all in, thought once more of my scraps, and then trudged up the many flights of stairs to meet Wilfred, with whom I was to live.

Wilfred is a soon to be retired college teacher of history, law, Spanish, and English (the German education system is entirely different from the States, and even though I've had it explained to me on more than one occasion, I'm not exactly sure how it all works). But I knew I would like living here when I found an entire hallway lined with books and films. I descried Goethe and Schopenhauer and books with Geschichte and Wissenschaft in the titles--you know--proper books. Since moving in, Wilfred and I have had numerous discussions, bei Kaffee oder Bier, concerning politics, culture, or American music and film. It's really quite nice; however, I hope by the end of my stay we can hold the majority of these discussions auf Deutsch.

But it is not only us two. Today, I met his son, Luka for the first time. He just returned from Fußball camp (he plays center striker, btw)--and he seems like any other 11-year-old boy, because, although he was polite with me, chatting and answering all the obligatory and mundane questions adults ask of children, he also politely asked his Vater and me if he could stop talking and just return to his computer game already. We obliged. Wilfred and Luka are leaving next week to tour Amsterdam on bike for a week or so, and then will bike through the city of Essen (I think) in West Germany. Oh, to be a Berliner!

The apartment itself is lovely. My room is large, and decked out with a nice desk, bureau, TV, reading chair, and all other kinds of amenities. I'm already as comfortable here as at home. The living room and kitchen are both nice, letting in lots of light and the crisp Berlin air. Other than that, everything is as you would expect it to be: there is electricity, hot/cold water, a washing machine, a dishwasher, WiFi, etc. etc.--it's not like I'm doing field work in the middle of Central America! Yet, there is one grievance, which I'll address in a later post, but it has been named affectionately (by the Brits, I think), as the problem of "the continental plate."


Finally, I was sold on living in Berlin, and in this apartment in particular, when, upon my return from the grueling placement exams at the Goethe Institute, Wilfred offered me dinner: freshly made pesto from the purple and regular basil growing on his balcony garden. So, we had pasta with pesto, red wine, and, finally, a toast to my next two months in Berlin.

A Lengthy Journey

Süßer Friede,
Komm, ach komm in meine Brust!
--Goethe, Wanderers Nachtlied

Hallo! Willkommen auf dem Blog. I arrived in Berlin on Monday, the 4th of July, after an arduous, soul-crushing journey.

I had left Philly on Sunday morning, taking the MFL Subway to 30th Street to catch a bus to New York. I arrived there two hours later, taking yet another subway to Jamaica Station, where I caught the JFK Airtrain. A mere eight hours later, after soaring over the Atlantic, I touched down in Berlin, where I met with another bus, another train and, finally, I reached mein Haus. (While I was waiting for the bus at Tegel Airport in the mist, I snapped the photo above.) Although I had arrived, finally, at my house on Berliner Strasse in southwest central Berlin, I had to go over to the Goethe Institute for reception and placement exams.

Two more trains. U-Bahn. S-Bahn. I detrained at Alexanderplatz (which wasn't the right stop) and realized that I had forgot my directions from the train station to the school. Thus my first interaction with Germans was asking them whether they were familiar with Neue Schönhauser Straße (Kennen Sie Neue etc. etc.?). Turns out, most were not; nevertheless, I found it! (I assure you this was an exclamation point moment.)

But then I found out that I had to take at least two hours of exams: standardized, written, and oral. By the end, my head was aflame. Exhaustion, jet lag, the strangeness of it all made curling up on the table of the nearest beer garden seem like a logical thing to do.

But, more importantly, I had made it. I am here--I am in Berlin.