basic rights.

There are a growing number of documentaries showing just how much of the American water supply is being privatized and bottled, moved just out of our reach behind storefront displays.  Water.  The stuff we’re made of.  It’s sickening to imagine that day where the poor can’t afford this most basic requirement.

These films have been eye-opening and saddening, but being in Italy brings my anger to a whole new level.  Fountains can be found just about everywhere, and not the kind that you put the kids in front of for a photograph.  Clean, potable water available twenty-four hours a day.  An equal opportunity resource providing a pit-stop for scooters, the wealthy, dogs, the homeless, gardeners, overcharged tourists, squatters, everyone.  I’ve never been to a country that places something so simple yet so necessary at the feet of its people.

The arguments over the rights of American citizens will probably continue forever.  Healthcare, assistance for the poor, help for the unfortunate, on and on and on.  Sharing my opinion on the rest of it is just another internet person bitching into the void.

But water?  Really?

monoculture.

Greece and Italy both share what I consider a big problem – an incredibly strong aspiration towards a very specific type of physical beauty.

While this impossible standard surely moves billions in beauty products and drives fashion forward, it comes with a downright intolerance to those without a sense of style or symmetry for a face.  It’s one giant sexual lottery, and the feeling like your number was picked at birth downright pisses me off.

I’ve seen nothing but “beautiful” women during my time in Rome and Athens, sadly these similarities smear together into a giant lapse of detail.  One of the best characters I’ve come across was a stumbling guy who looked a hell of a lot like Mick Jagger on a train leaving Rome – the sole oddity in a sea of perfection.  We weren’t using the same language but we shared a moment of frustration in not being able to remember the faces we’ve passed.

There are no ironic hipsters.  The goths and punks don’t come out, even at night.  Nerd pride is anything but.  I have yet to see a drag queen.

My mind wanders to the old single women of southern Europe – how do you fit into a society that pronounced you dead at age 26?

Religion?  God might be the only one that doesn’t judge you anymore.

Children?  Do Italian men even acknowledge women past their prime?

Wealth?  Perhaps with the right pair of Prada…

Anti-bulimia PSAs, Lady Gaga non-stop, diversity-is-life campaigns, wrinkle creams and tailored seams.  I never thought a region drowning in history could be so trapped in the shallow end of the culture pool.

God bless the punks of London, the goths of Berlin, the hipsters of Williamsburg, the queens of San Francisco, the nerds of Seattle, Swedish metal fans, and the thugs of Atlanta!

parallel universe.

I was born into a world where family was a bit of a front – hugs were still exchanged, dinners were prepared and shared, but everyone tended to drift off back into themselves once the table was cleared and dishes washed.  I blame equal parts dysfunction to the arms-length nature of my Germanic background for this, and while I've always appreciated the lack of interference from my family into my personal life I’ve often felt like there was something very real missing from my experience on this planet.

They say that visitors to Greece are welcomed as family, and I’ve got to admit I’ve never had hospitality that even comes close to that of the past week.  I’d go as far to say that it’s impossible to have a proper Greek experience without visiting the home of a local.  I’m a bit of an odd duck (understatement) but not once did I feel out of place or out of sorts with this conservative-slanted family that previously judged me harshly, back when I was a complete stranger.

Greek food has been the antithesis of what I was raised on and has been that One Final Barrier separating me from the foods of the world. I'm not sure why many Americans shy away from Greek food in general, and honestly I blame cheap black olives and day-old anchovies for our collective hesitation. Still, I'm damn well into my lifespan and have a bit of regret that I haven't been eating Tzatziki on a regular basis. Greek salad? Why we pick slathered-dressing iceberg in lieu of this simple cooling crispy delight is beyond me. The best watermelon and peaches of my life were found just outside of Athens. Whole fish fried in olive oil slathered in a homemade spicy feta dip? Amazing. The meaty-fluffy lasagna-meets-bechamel Pastitsio made by hand? No words. The sights have been splendid but the food might just haunt me forever.

I was fortunate enough to see several types of Greece: the city of Athens, the coastal town of Patras, the beautiful island of Lefkada, and straight up into the mountains overlooking it all.

Greeks admit that even though there are plenty of laws in their country, they never seem to apply to individual citizens.  I love the concept of social governance, taking care of your flock, and logical anarchy.  This is illustrated by one of my favorite moments in Greece:  Our multi-car caravan arrives to a full parking lot in front of a popular oceanside restaurant.  Stuck in a cul-de-sac with nowhere to go, the sassy aunt stops in the middle of the circle and gets out of the car.  Puzzled by this blatant act of illegality, she responds with a shrug and says “I don’t see the problem.  Everyone can get out of their parking spaces.”  Sure enough we arrive back to the car a good two hours later, sans ticket and sans towing.

Currently I’m in Rome until the 19th, then back to Berlin and back to work.

blindness in three parts.

Since returning from Barcelona I’ve been playing guide to a growing family of old friends.  While the work progress will get annihilated for most of June and July, it’s certainly nice to be able to play tourist in my own city for a bit.

This past week has involved a good bit of blindness – both observing it in other people and having it fall across my own eyes.

1: logical blindness

My new favorite bar borders the busy and hip Boxhagener Platz.  This dark-themed space has a bit of an edge and plenty to do: three pinball tables, 20 cent foosball, and a pool table.  The music is good and the people are always drunk ‘n friendly.  I find myself clinking glasses with strangers quite often, which can be a rare treat in this city that frequently ignores you.

I got into locked horns with my guest over something utterly arbitrary.  He’s the type that never ever backs down from an argument, and views verbal withdrawal from such a situation as some sort of personal affront.  If you can’t convince him of something then the burden is on you to admit to a fault of your own – there is no such thing as agreeing to disagree and moving on.

We were knee-deep into Pilsner that perfect night, us catching up and me taking him around my favorite bits of Berlin.  As the discussion started locking down I realized how much the search for truth can really blind a person to what really matters in life: ignoring the infinite facts we all obsess over in order to simply enjoy the moment.

I used to be one of these people – arguing endlessly over something that should be blatantly obvious.  I can’t stand that personality trait in people any more, the logical equivalent of a religious war.  I find it funny that quite often it’s the most scientific-minded people that engage in this sort of anti-social behavior; atheists mocking belief only to engage in their own pedantic zealotry.

The wool over his eyes turned that night of blissful revelry into complete disrespect of the place and moment I was attempting to share with him.  I gauged the amount remaining in my glass, chugging it down as indication of both my anger and disgust.  Without another word I walked alone through those swinging doors and back into the quiet night.

2: blindness to evidence

In order to stay within the Schengen for more than 90 days you need to convince a country why you should be allowed to.  Coming to study seems to be the easiest, getting a proper employer to move that paperwork comes a close second, doing it for business requires an enormous sum of money, leaving the most common way for someone on their own: going the freelancer route.

But you need proof – proof of health insurance, proof of savings, proof of income, proof that you won’t become a social parasite and that you are at least trying to contribute to the land you’ll be living in.

I had spent at least a few sleepless nights and multiple trips to the copy shop to ensure my stack of proof was solid.  Overwhelming them with evidence is how my roommate instantly got hers – stacks of everything from bank statements to contracts to diplomas to letters from colleagues and friends.  I even pre-copied my passport for them and had a summary sheet that detailed everything I was worth.  I was feeling confident by the front gates that day, doubly-so after seeing the bright smile of my Craigslist-hired translator that has done this several times before.

He was surprised I had an appointment – typically people show up hours before the office opens, a machine holds the tickets for the day and people fight over them, only to wait hours for their chance at staying.  Unfortunately I had no idea where I was supposed to go, but thanks to a young German man getting an earful from an American (HOW DOES ANYONE WORK IN THIS COUNTRY?!) I found my room.  I pleaded to an unnamed deity that this polite English-speaking office worker would be in charge of my fate.

After waiting a bit our number was called, and we entered the small office with the shared desk.  As my judge and jury sat down she looked over her glasses, staring at me in blank apathy.  I could feel the discomfort radiating from my translator as he cut me off a few times trying to be helpful.  I didn’t understand most of what was being said, I could only read the rising emotion in my mercenary’s voice.  The ogre in front of me didn’t care about my stack of paperwork.  Anything in English she dismissed as suspicious, easily forged, not even worth looking at.  Bank accounts, letters of current contracts, my resume, my diploma - none of it mattered to her.  Out of my twenty-odd pages of photocopied evidence, she kept a total of three.

“She was one of the worst I’ve ever seen”, he said.  I have until September 27th to prove my case, to translate everything into German, to move all of my money into Germany, to basically put a lot more work into a place I’d probably leave come December.  Dejected is an understatement – I’m not sure if it was my hair, my smile, that she had a bad week, or if she’s just sick of Americans. 

To her I was not the man sitting across from her at that table.  I represented something else entirely.

3: blind discovery

I’m glad the last blindness came as it did – reclaiming one moment lost during that first episode with my good friend.

The unsicht-Bar is an expensive restaurant in central Berlin.  Like most pricey places you spend a few leisurely hours, eat a few courses, and enjoy a few drinks.  What makes this place different is that you dine in complete darkness.

We were warmly welcomed within the near-empty entrance, even after being a few minutes late – one of the perks of dining out on a Monday night.  I picked the non-specific poultry offering and he braved the complete surprise.  Our blind waitress came out and gave us the lowdown: no inclines, no bones, no light.  I expected some sort of light-absorbing dropcloth or life-draining beaded curtain, but it only took a few sharp turns to go from well-lit into a long empty nothing.

Sounds of other diners discussing their own meals in German and Russian was a bit surreal.  There was nothing at all familiar in this new environment.  I joked that we didn’t expect ice in our Leitungswasser (tap water) but she brought out huge mugs of it to accompany our wine.  It only took me 30 minutes to knock mine completely over, sounds of a waterfall in the distance… luckily not right in my diner-friend’s lap.

The first course was salad – your basic bitter lettuce-y affair with a few soft pieces I swore were hard-boiled egg.  (You can see a list of what you ate after the dinner, these nubs turned out to be papaya.)  I liked the play with bits of texture leading to guessing and how it forced everyone involved to discuss what they are eating.

Next came the soup, of Thai-influenced coconut and chicken.  This had a disappointing amount of mystery (read: none) but it was easily the tastiest of the courses.  Leaning over to try and get a spoon from the other person’s bowl into your own mouth was an adventure in hilarity.

The main course!  Chow-pal correctly guessed his lamb and my chicken, while juicy, was a bit boring.  Alongside this roasted breast was thin cheesy pasta and a vegetable mix.  The pasta was a nice surprise but I found myself swallowing a bit of chicken a little too large, and I started choking on it.

Then the game went away entirely.  I was choking in the complete darkness.  These were a few really strange moments I had with myself – if this turns bad, what are my real options?  My alarm turned to relief as I threw the contents of my throat back onto my plate.  The joke in response was quite fitting: “hey, if I have to do the Heimlich at least we’re in the right country for it.”  I enjoyed how there were zero repercussions for my action – embarrassment can’t exist in a void.

I skip the rest of my now-slurry entree and attempt to mop up a bit of the water covering the other side of the table. Our waitress arrives soon after with a refill of wine and the final course: dessert.

DESSERT!  I realized my silverware had been taken away – I’m not sure if it was by accident or by evil but we both found ourselves with a plate of messy and no way to eat it.  Some sort of warm berry compote was on my left, a squishy form sat in the middle, all ending in a small bowl of ice cream.  I started unrolling the fat pan-crepe and scooped the berries up, delighted at the variety of texture and temperature.  After a handful or two of ice cream I felt something give way OH MY GOD THE BOWL IS MADE OF CHOCOLATE!  That was the singular moment of pure joy, where your assumptions are not only changed but the reality in front of you disappears entirely.  I gleefully finished the rest of my plate while my disappointed compatriot lamented about his lack of edible dishware, even after his mystery shot of liqueur.

I really, really enjoyed this experience.  Would I pay 50 Euros for this food if I could see it?  Probably not.  But an experience like this should be had regardless of the location – it seems these darkness restaurants exist in most big European cities.

On Friday I fly to Athens, travel to the mountains of Greece with a very good friend and end our trip at what I’ve been told is a bit of oceanside paradise.  After that I meet up with yet another radical dude in Rome to putt around yet-another-country-I’ve-never-been-to.  While this won’t put code on the table these should be an incredible few weeks.

nightlife, redeemed.

I followed the map straight to the water, oddly enough the bit of Barcelona I hadn’t even seen yet.  The bus pulled up and an odd mix of people climbed aboard, all of us excited to see the lineup of the evening.

We rode down the coast a bit, through a series of shipyards on the left, cliffs to the right.  A tiered graveyard cut out of the rock was what stuck with me - having a grave with a view kind of messes with my mind.

We cut back into the mainland and drove on through a vast wasteland of an industrial park.  I wanted to jump off and wander around these monstrous shells of manufacturing, storage, and transport – that is, until the bus let us off in front of a mammoth.

The lot of us were on the first bus out and it would be an hour still until they let us in.  I love how universal the behavior is during times like these – everyone looks for the nearest convenience store and starts drinking.  Luckily there was a gas station across the street, so I stocked up on tall cans of beer and another bag of my newest weakness: jamón potato chips.  Meaty science was never so crispy!

After a failed conversational attempt with a red-headed Irish couple I spread out in the soft grass and watched the sky open up above me.  To my left were two guys doing lines off of a mirror, discussing the mafia’s involvement in the South American drug trade.  Hey, at least they were topical.  To my right was a large group switching to English whenever they wanted to exclaim something.  I wasn’t sure if they were doing it to include the rest of us or if yelling in English is just more fun.

The doors eventually opened and I wandered around this vast open complex appearing to be the size of a full-on sports field.  Well, a sports field with three stages and BUMPER CARS!

I had a fantastic time, transforming my whole outlook on this festival.  Hot Chip and LCD Soundsystem were both high-energy and incredibly fun, me and another tall dude kept wanting to “take it outside, out-side, out-side” (Hot Chip lyrics leading to a fake fight), a few Spaniards asked me to solve a bet about where I was from (FOR THE LAST TIME I AM NOT A GODDAMN GERMAN) which led into her dismissing my fears about her hometown Ibiza and him letting me sip WHISKY from his flask!!!  Downtime conversation was wonderful thanks to a new friend from St. Petersburg who single-handedly got the band Air to start smoking again.

The crushing crowds eventually returned but there was no sense of posturing this time - everyone was there to dance first, be seen second.  I was drenched and exhausted, the last sardine packed into that 4am bus – making it through the string of disinterested prostitutes, a fun interaction with a frail old man, and back to my room.

Tonight: Jónsi, a second sighting of the Fuck Buttons, and rising up from the grave of my musical past The Chemical Brothers.

I get it, Barcelona, and I love it.

i don’t get it, and I’m trying.

Those were the first words out of Trish Keenan’s mouth, well, right after “fuck off then, go home”.  I kind of have to agree with her, I’m not feeling this festival - oversold and built to milk money as efficiently as possible.  I completely missed Caribou due to the venue being crammed full of people.  Crammed as in I couldn’t get close enough to even see the band, and I’m well over six feet tall.  Instead I checked out the robot exhibits (which admittedly were pretty cool) and showed up an hour before Broadcast began to claim a space and sip my tiny beer.

Barcelona at night makes me terrified of ever being trapped on Ibiza.  Machismo is obviously the game du jour, and it all feels quite testosterous.  It’s a shame the day and night feel so drastically different.  This is one of those cities I really wish I had a local to prove things aren’t what I see.

Also I think the Scots and Irish are both on the American team.  No self-respecting European will accept a swig of my contraband whisky, and I’m starting to get offended.

immune to kidnapping.

Today’s Menu del Dia was found in the once-seedy El Raval district.  I gauged the quality of the food inside by the lack of tourists and the sheer size of the owner.  Big men know how to eat!

I opted for the Uruguay combo – a meat-and-onion empanada, a plate of flesh (split and grilled chorizo, some tough mysterious cross-section of animal, and blood sausage), potato salad, bread, a huge dulce de leche cookie, all washed down with a beer and coffee.

Turns out the owner is a mathematic philosopher - articles about his books dotted the plain, well-worn walls.  As I was wrapping up the unfinished half loaf they served me I fully believed in the power of a heavy lunch to completely ruin your day.  There’s no choice BUT to take a siesta after you’ve been stuffed to the brim with meals like these.  HOW DO THESE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE GET ANYTHING DONE BETWEEN 3PM AND 8PM?!

Marcos looked at me as I was paying and returned my “muchas gracias” with a knowing “danke schön”.

I gave him a wide smile.  He was convinced he pegged my origin.  Now I know I can one day visit Iran and not get kidnapped for being an American.  I really wish I had this back-and-forth on film so I could bring it to my visa appointment as proof I belong in Berlin.

I’m still laughing about it, half a mile later.