When I was a child I played football (you people in ‘merica need to get with my hip new EU lingo, I’m talking soccer!). I was downright terrible at football. The ball? Boy I could kick it. I could kick it so far out of bounds it would take a good 5 minutes to go find it. My hands? My hands were so powerful that they would swat away anything that came close to my precious face. Funny enough the coach never appreciated such talents, and so a fullback I became.
I couldn’t pass up the chance to see a proper European match, so I met up with Mr. Hat and his German friend to go deep East into Hooligan territory. What immediately struck me upon the opening of the S-Bahn doors was the legion of Polizei waiting for us upon our arrival. They formed a single-file line down the long stairs and spilling into the station. Atop the pile of armored brutes was a camcorder on a long stick – evidence of our sober non-violence recorded for future episodes of The Most Boring Footage In the History of Berlin, a very popular show in Korea.
It became a little more obvious as time went on why they were there – supporters of the other local team arrived en masse, surrounded by police in a V-wedge formation, and led to their seats. Such preparation was a bit of a pity, really - while the first twenty minutes of the match were exciting enough to justify the entrance fee, the lack of hostility was appalling! I would have easily paid twice as much for a few flying bottles and a round of tear gas. The one thing that stuck with me after this match was the deep vocal chant of ONION BEAR LEAN, which clearly explains why all of the vegetable-based mammals in this city bend a bit to the left.
After this match Mr. Hat and I parted ways, only to meet back up with one of my elderly Chinese roommates for a night of live music. Show 1 of 2 was dubbed String Thing, an experimental performance involving a bunch of violin-shaped objects. While we were a good 5 minutes late the small room contained 40 chairs and only 4 people sitting in them. The foreshadowing here can also be applied to restaurants around the world – if no one is present during prime time, chances of suckage increase exponentially. The show began shortly after we took our seats and basically involved an impromptu jam session … ahhhh … “experimental”. The band was led by a man playing a series of paper bags while everyone else wildly let loose on their chosen instrument in a manner God never ever intended. Mr. Hat sat patiently and eventually leaned over, whispering “I think we have ourselves a Jazz situation”. I nearly burst out laughing, swallowed back the tears, and properly composed myself until the lot of us could make our escape. Our favorite audience member was the man who came in, found a seat, and immediately got up and left.
After drowning our musical wounds in a bowl of Vietnamese goodness we arrived to Show 2 of 2 at a bar called Schokoladen. THAT’S RIGHT IT IS A BUILDING MADE ENTIRELY OF CHOCOLATE! Either that or an old chocolate-factory-turned-squatter-art-culture-bar which will be formally evicted come June. Her Name is Calla was already performing and I must say this show was an incredibly moving surprise. One part Radiohead to one part Silver Mt. Zion - these sweet-faced British youth sang ballads of quiet heartbreak, layering instrument upon instrument over and over again until you were left with sound so thick it filled your gut and weakened your knees. Not only was I an instant fan but I literally have no clothing here in Berlin - I was eager to put petrol in their van with a shirt on my back. After some banter with the band I finished my drink and headed out into the street. As the door was closing behind me the wind whispered “Americans are always the first to arrive and the first to leave”, said to bring the Brits and the Germans just a little bit closer. I didn’t mind.
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