Jan & Feb 2006: Germany

No place like home

What is it that makes us call home, our home? Is it simply the pace where we were born, where we were raised, were we spent the longest period of our lives or is it the place that gives us the strongest sense of belonging, feeling of safety or is it the close proximity to family and loved ones? I am sure each individual has their own definition as I sit and contemplate mine:

The car turns into “Landwehr” street, continues along its circular bend and my house comes into sight. Although I have not lived here in 10 years, warm feelings of belonging fill me and fond childhood memories surface. We park the car and walk through the garden toward the house, the same path which I have walked, run, or biked thousands of times. Although I have not been absent long the shape, layout, proportions and dimensions of the house and garden seem to change every time as I compare what lies in front of my eyes to the picture of my memory.
Three steps to the doorway and I am inside the house, my house. Although I have no physical possession in the house, it is still my house, not though ownership but via association of memories and feelings. I make my way up one flight of stairs and enter thought the first door on the right, my room. Few of the objects in the room still belong to me, but still a warm feeling, a welcoming embrace greets me. I AM HOME!


Impressions from Germany

What is it that defines the German culture, makes it unique, distinctly German?

It could be the German language, filled with logically structured and complex sentences, idioms, many dialects and regional differences. But there has to be more, much more.
The small size of the country entails a close proximity to almost everything. Shops in walking distance, public life occurring in the streets, bicycles sharing the road with cars, ubiquitous public transportation, trains leaving on time (showing little mercy to late arrivers) and arriving on time.
The rich history of Germany has undoubtedly shaped it people and is visible everywhere: thousand year old cities, many hundred year old buildings next to modern structures, two men sharing the subway bench in front of me, one reading Goethe’s Faust, the other jamming to techno music on his MP3 player while sipping a beer brewed by the ancient German Reinheitsgebot (Purity law). History is everywhere; in fact it is so abundant that it seems to blend into everyday life.
Then there are the clichés about Germany: castles along the Rhine River, the Oktoberfest, home of the one and only Autobahn filled with speeding BMWs and Mercedes, inventor of the printing press, Goethe, Kant, Einstein, Berlin and its former Wall, Carnival in Cologne or the beer garden culture of the long summer nights.
Then there are the more subtle things: Germans’ daily coffee and cake in the afternoon, the wine connoisseurs, the 4 way recycling on every corner and accordingly 4 different waste bags in every home, the German obsession with travel in search of sunshine and adventure or the strong German social system, which although having weakened still has to be one of the best in the world.
And what would Germany be without its strong virtues inherited from the Prussian empire that have allowed it rebuild itself from the ruins after World War II to a leading economic power in record time: orderliness, structure, punctuality, reliability and cleanliness. The strong political interest that the common population seems to share and along with that might come the (sometimes overly) critical view of the world. Germans like to complain (constantly pointing out things that can still be improved) but they also like the enjoy (may it be at the football stadium, carnival parade, sauna spa or at the beer garden).

Prost and cheers to Germany.

4 – 11 February, 2006: Fieberbrunn, Austria

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And the snow keeps falling

One foot in front of the other. Easier said than done. With every step, with every attempt to advance I sink deeply into the waist-high powder snow. I take another step forward, first pulling my foot out of its current hole, which is not easy to do when standing in waist-high snow and then moving my foot forward hoping that it will find stronger support than the previous step. I am breathing heavily and am starting to sweat despite the freezing temperatures and the slow pace.
Taking a short rest, I look around and admire the gentle descent of millions of snow flakes. The trees around me are completely covered with snow, branches bending down from the heavy load until occasionally they bend so far that the entire accumulation of snow slides down. Behind me there are only about 10 meters of footprints, not much for 10 minutes of hard walking. Having decided to snowboard down the “scenic” route through the forest rather than taking the marked ski-slope, I quickly realized that my forest route ended in a dead-end next to a small creek and the only way to return to the ski-slope was to unbuckle my snowboard and carry it up a 20 meter hill.
I resume my involuntary walk and my progress is no faster than before. I take step after step while the snow simply keeps on falling effortlessly in comparison with my struggle to walk through it. This marks day 5 of the snowboard trip and it seems that it has been snowing non-stop since the first day. In fact, it has snowed so much that I am not sure I have ever seen so much snow. Everything is covered by a thick blanket of white. On the sides of the streets walls of snow now are piled up, roofs are overflowing and I am loving every moment of it. I love the way it looks, it feels and most of all I love the unique feeling of snowboarding in deep untouched powder snow.
Finally I reach the ski slope and once again my feet regain a solid foot-hold. 20 meters travelled; not much for 20 minutes of work. I buckle back into my snowboard and begin my descend of the mountain. And the snow keeps on falling.



The Dance

Below a sea of white unfolds and stretches several hundred meters until the ski slope takes a turn to the right. The ongoing snowfall and slight fog leave limited visibility making it difficult to see its contextures, hills, dips, patches of ice and making the horizon merge into the mountain without any distinction. Few people are in sight and evidently prefer to warm their cold faces with a cup of hot chocolate or Knödel soup leaving the vast mountain deserted and yielding all the space in the world to the few remaining skiers. I shift my weight and lean forward, bending over as if diving toward the valley, pushing my face toward the snow. My body’s decline steepens and for a moment I feel as if the gravitational pull would cause me to fall into the while blanket below, but I have come to trust the strong support of my snowboard, whose edge presses strongly into the snow cutting along a long round curve. I feel the strong centrifugal force in my knees and know that the board will hold and guild me smoothly around the curve. My face continues to approach the snow, the surface below flying by, my body seeming magically suspended in the air giving me a rush of excitement. Cold wind and snow hit my face but the excitement induced heat radiating from me is too strong to even notice the chill. My snowboard has now cut around the curve and its momentum pushes my body back into a straight position. Again, I lean forward this time pushing my back into the mountain initiating the next curve. The dance continues.

Berlin: Stepping through history

“What was your original face like before your parents were born?” asks an ancient Zen koan in an attempt to engage the mediator in self inquiry.
Standing on a tower overlooking the grey remains of a piece of the Berlin Wall that has been left behind as a monument to history, I cannot help but feel deeply touched seeing so clearly how one Berlin was once split into two artificial halves, exactly here, how an arbitrary line was drawn through the destiny of this city dividing countless lives.
It must have been close to here where my mother secretly escaped from East to West in 1958 along with her mother and sister. As these cold images of the Berlin Wall meet my eyes, I wonder who I would be today if my mom’s escape had failed? Who would I be today if East and West had never been divided and my mother had never tried to escape at all? What would be my face, had history not taken its path?

30 Jan - 2 Feb 2006: Berlin, Germany

San Remo Upflamör:

Rubbing against each other like people in a crowded market, the river Spree is covered with thick sheets of ice. The river does not seem to move. Sheets of ice are locked together so strongly by the freezing temperatures that even the current underneath cannot displace them. However, the water below continues to display its life flowing ever so slowly. It is night time but due to the thick cover of clouds not a star can be seen. It is only the light reflecting off sporadic street lamps or illuminated windows that casts a spark on the ice.
We are located on top of a bridge looking down, a bridge which used to mark one of the many boundaries between East and West Berlin. As we casually stroll across the bridge on this quiet and chilly night it is almost unimaginable that exactly here less than two decades ago one of the most fiercely controlled and defended border lines of this planet was located; a dividing line between two philosophies and marking the centre of the cold war; and today there is just the river Spree and both sides frozen in union by connected sheets of ice.
But such heavy thoughts are not on our minds this night as we make our way across the bridge and enter a small bar, San Remo Upflamör, a welcome escape from the cold.
I look up from the Berlin activities guide "Zitty" to contemplate the different options for the following day. Among the two pages of events Berlin has to offer on a regular weekday I pay particular attention to: the immigration exhibit in the German museum of history, an African music performance with buffet, Salsa music with instructions, the museum of photography is holding a Helmut Newton exhibit and my sister is intrigued by a Tango offering.
Two light bulbs straight ahead catch my attention, one is yellow the other one pink, both are covered by a layer of dust, which mutes their flickering impact on the eyes. As I continue to look around the room it is hard to miss a huge flower paining surrounded by an even bigger frame measuring at least 2 meters in diameter. The flower paining looks distinctly out of place much more fitting for a museum for ancient art. Then there is the menu, a collector's item as well. Each menu is handwritten, some items more legible than others. A dog to my right has been barking for at least five minutes, though his bark seems to blend in with the music, until the owner finally approaches to quite him down. The music becomes audible again: an eclectic collection of 80s rock, African drums, modern lounge and some alternative music do not seem to follow any common theme but only add to the uniqueness of the atmosphere.
Laughter around me brings my attention back to the table and we continue on with our conversation while outside the Spree continues to flow ever so slowly.

http://www.sanremo-upflamoer.de/


Die Weinerei:

The day is cold and grey, in other words a fairly typical day for German winters. Scattered ice and snow patches continue to fill the streets. Despite the unfriendly temperatures, life on the streets of Berlin continues. After a walk across the city passing innumerable cafes, boutiques, kiosks, bars, shops, Döner stands, street car stops, bakeries and an occasional walking sausage salesman, the cold seems to finally have penetrated our bodies. A revitalizing stop is urgently needed. Our guide Kati leads us to "Die Weinerei" (the winery).
Immediately a warm and cozy atmosphere greets us. Candle light on all tables makes the room appear in gentle soft light. After equipping ourselves with a drink and a large plate of warm, pleasant smelling vegetable soup and passing the semi self-service counter we enter the main room. I can only describe it as a mixture between lounge, cafe, bar and living room, but mostly living room filled with comfortable couches and furniture that even my grandmother would describe as old fashioned. Instead of curtains, old neck ties hand in one window. A stuffed monkey and Pumuckl hang from the ceilings and the red and yellow lamps are in serious need of dusting. Gentle French salon music plays in the background and an eclectic mix of guests is engaged in conversation, reading or simply relaxing.
After finishing our soup Kati tells us the story of "Die Weinerei" and that this is the second attempt to operate a cafe by somewhat socialist principles. The first Weinerei, supplied each guest with a glass for which is asked only 1 Euro (1.20 USD). Guests were then free to refill their glasses as they pleased with delicacies like wine, cappuccino or tea. Upon departure guests were merely asked to make a voluntary equitable donation to the cafe commensurate to the services received. Unfortunately this first Weinerei failed and had to close, allegedly due to abuse by tourists. The second version of Weinerei had slightly modified its operating principles but still maintained the essence of the spirit. Today guests have to pay for each drink but can still choose from a wide assortment of wines, coffees and teas, prices ranging from 1-1.5 Euro. Supposedly this new approach seems to work better. I certainly wish them the best of luck.
As I sip on my wine, I reflect on how terrific it is that in a city that once marked by the division between communism and capitalism, today 16 years after the fall of the wall, one can still encounter attempts to sustain the socialist spirit in very creative and refreshing ways. We resume our waking tour of Berlin and leave "Die Weinerei," the warm soup comfortably settles in my stomach and makes a great souvenir from the cozy lively place of communal friendliness. Outside a cold wind strikes my face and immediately reminds me of the cold realities.