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.

the opposite of berlin.

Note: my camera is starting to go insane.

Barcelona is everything I thought it would be: beautiful, refined, intelligent, impatient, and passionate.  Since landing here I’ve realized just how much Spanish I’ve had stored away in my brainstem, thanks to one swoony high school Spanish teacher we all crushed hard on.

Even after all of my time in Germany (4-5 separate trips now) there’s a vast difference between learning the formal structure of a language and learning what I call “anticipation” language.  You don’t really need to learn every single word of a language in order to have a service-level interaction with someone, you only need to know the beginning and end of the exchange (hello and can I have the bill pleasantries) and the middle you fill in the answers to the questions you anticipate they’ll ask.  Waiters will ask what you want to eat and drink.  Fast food places will ask if you want it here or to go.  German cashiers will always ask if you have exact change when you hand them a bill.  It isn’t worth letting your ignorance lead you into feeling stupid / embarrassed enough to revert to your native tongue – figure out the questions people will most likely ask you and you will be able to get what you want a good 80% of the time without pulling out the "do you speak English" card.

Back to Barcelona: I can’t imagine living here.  For one I was completely unprepared for the sticker shock – my 30 Euro a night single room with shared bathroom was a steal considering I am hard-pressed to eat dinner for the same price.  The only real similarity to Berlin is the Spanish timetable – lunch in the early afternoon, dinner sometime before midnight, and staying up until sunrise.  The hired buses here that will take me to the SONAR music festival run from 8:30pm until 8am (!!!), the same time my included hostel breakfast starts!  Thankfully my insomnia as of late perfectly matches the lifestyle of Eurotime.

That being said I’ve never been in a place that financially encourages me to go out during the day and have my downtime in the evening.  All guidebook signs pointed to eating out at lunch, where a meal the same size is much cheaper.  I was a bit wary how true this was as I wandered through the Barri Gotic looking for a place to chow down.  After perusing a few menus I stopped stone cold in front of one, instinctively knowing this would be the place.  As I passed through the front casual sitting area of Els Quatre Gats (4 Cats) and into the back room the atmosphere hit me at once, charming my pants off.  Euphemism.

The interior was rich with wood and art, antique chandeliers and waiters in bow-ties.  I climbed to the ring of second-level tables so I could watch the restaurant at work.  Evidently this was one of Picasso’s favorite haunts, and one of his first commissions was designing the cover of the menu.  Years of spiderweb Spanish returned in full-force and I had a great time engaging my waiter, who eventually stopped leading in English.

The Menu del Dia was the recommended way to save money, eating the day’s lunch specialty which typically included two courses and wine or water for a set price.  My eyes bulged at the standard menu prices, cold appetizers starting at 14 Euros and the rest going sky high from there.  For 15,95 (the price of one appetizer at night) I had a feast, and one that surpassed any value I’ve found in all of budget-minded Berlin.  A meal-in-itself plate of creamy carbonara fuselli started things off, followed by a bone-in hunk of roasted pork alongside fatty whipped potatoes and a few rolls, finished by a rich chocolate creme topped with raspberry sauce.  This was accompanied by a bottle of water and a generous pouring of the house wine, which my waiter gleefully refilled for me!  I was suspicious that things weren't all inclusive but I walked out of there smiling like a fool, all carbed up for my afternoon siesta.  My only regret was not having someone there to share it with, as this was far too perfect of an experience to have alone.  I can’t recommend this place enough.

Tonight I’ll have dinner 2 of 2 back in my hallway of a hotel room - fresh watermelon and fatty cured Spanish ham from the outdoor market alongside some soft rolls and ham-flavored Pringles (!!!).  I’m completely sold on the Menu del Dia and am going to save ONE MILLION DOLLARS eating out.  Beyond that I'm excited about the live acts and robot art exhibits starting tomorrow to keep me occupied during the evenings, as my budget and clothing and distaste for house music don't at all match the pulse of this city.

A sidenote about the World Cup – it’s fascinating being in the countries as they play, the fireworks and cheering and boos and unified indication of pain every time there’s a goal really brings the game out of the television, both in Germany’s match last week and today’s here (people got SAD real quick).  CALL A DOC I MIGHT HAVE CAUGHT FUTBOL FEVER!!!!!!!!!!

scientific relief.

It had been a few weeks since I sent the nicely-translated email off to the appropriate government agency.  I took the absolute silence as slow bureaucracy – an inbox stuffed with the pleas of a thousand people in my predicament.  Let us ALL stay just a little bit longer…

An elderly Chinese roommate helped me follow-up on this – it turns out a total of 0 of her friends had gotten a response from this agency, and after a morning of phone tag the next step was to call a direct number and make an appointment directly.  That is, if anyone picks up.

I noticed the date (7 days legally left in Berlin), calculated my investment (3 hours already spent on redial),  and furrowed my brow at the “opening hours” of this entire nonsense.  Three days a week this office was open, for a total remaining window of 18 hours, minus lunchtime and smoking breaks.  Oh, and my German-speaking roommate had to be here when someone eventually picked up the phone.  I was already 1/6th through my chances of staying and it was starting to drive me crazy.

This morning the answer of “hallo” a mere 20 minutes in startled me.  I said every German word I know in a semi-coherent ramble so she couldn’t hang up the phone, in order to get it in the hands of someone capable of having a conversation.  Success!  On June 28th I learn exactly what it would take to stay in Germany, complete with a hired Craigslist translator.

It’s a strange paradox – being light enough to gather my things within 15 minutes to go anywhere in the world, yet having the decency of being a roommate that gives advance notice + physically being here like I said I would when Visitor #1 arrives in a few weeks.  I don’t exactly want untethered freedom and the isolation that comes with it - this is my life and not my vacation from it. Sanity and grounding are hard enough to maintain as-is.

This weekend was the Lange Nacht der Wissenschaften (long night of science) in Berlin.  It’s kind of like an art walk, but science, on steroids.  12 Euros get you a day pass on the transit and admission to anything found inside one thick book of events.  It was great to break my heads-down routine as of late and just nerd out.  From checking out a hydrogen filling station to wandering around Humboldt University to doing laps on a zippy electric standing trikeboard, the options were a bit overwhelming.  The last-minute stop turned out to be the highlight – a hospital exhibit.  Once we got off the bus and found the building we still weren’t certain we were in the right place.  The multi-colored fluorescent tubes over the door and exposed brick doesn’t exactly scream ONCE-STERILE ENVIRONMENT.

We walk into this gorgeous bombed-out building and end up in a huge spacious area with crumbled half-walls dividing up the space.  Looking up gets you a view of the new construction, the bare concrete foundation of an added second level, with hundreds of pieces of rebar hanging from the ceiling like the remnants of some archery competition held for people confined to hospital beds.  My ears finally caught up with my eyes and the beyond uncool Kraftwerk-ian beats filled my head.  The DJ must have been at least 50 years old, his vinyl collection spread across the table featuring the entire gamut of 1980s music we Americans were never exposed to.  This was just the lobby.

As we continued into the actual museum (rows and rows of tumors in jars, brains in jars, slices of OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT in jars) it was obvious that the lobby with said DJ and the two bored women drinking from a box of wine was the place to be.  We found a perch and just listened to the bizarre beats, admiring the brickwork and counting the rebar.  Most moments out feel like they could happen in just about any city – others, like this, are quintessential Berlin.  I do hope they let me stay here.

asleep.

I’ve been asleep since that night.  The warm welcoming summer has turned cold grey march-for-may.  Working + Fall From Heaven 2 + bedtime movie treat are the foundation of my new daily routine.  It feels a bit like sleeping.  Productive slumber which is fantastic but a bit dull all the same.

But get this, I’m asleep on a MERRY-GO-ROUND.  If my blue ostrich catches up to the green goat Residency Permit I can stay here for the rest of the year.  A TOUGH RACE INDEED the green goat won’t pick up the stupid phone or email me back so I can make an appointment and I’ve only got 2.5 weeks left on my Schengen.  Worst case scenario should involve hiring a translator to sit for 6 hours with me in a room full of other people that also can’t speak German worth a damn.  My haircut might fuck things up but there’s no reason they wouldn’t want me this charming young lad!!!  More to the point: my paperwork is coming together nicely.

If I fall off the ostrich I suppose I’d go to Manchester.  The city keeps coming up in conversation, craigslist room prices aren’t bad, and the British are legally obligated to house Americans in situations like these.  I have to stay somewhere near Europe through 2010 – I’ve got an England / Ireland festival in each of [September, October, December].

Next stop is Barcelona for SONAR, in 2 weeks.  I’ll get back to fun living soon.  For the moment life continues from inside a pillow fort.

SIMPLETIMES ERGONOMICS

The horrific ergonomics of this little laptop were really getting to me.

IMPROVEMENT ADDITIONS

This thin-ish too-wide + swiveling 17 Euro laptop stand accompanied by this Microsoft (!!!) superthin curved bluetooth keyboard (German layout!) have made a world of difference. I never thought the day of the portable curved keyboard would ever be here. This thing is half an inch thick and the battery life is fantastic! Also it looks really nice next to a tub of cherry yogurt.

Praise your tainted name, lord and savior Microsoft!