Postcards/Assignment 4

Postcard No.1

Trees are not in blossom. "Humbolt University is and will always be in construction." -Susanne. Construction on front entrance. Faded statues on top of front entrance. Clear skies. Tons of commotion from hundreds of tourists. Tobi giving an explanation/tour of where we were and what we are seeing. Smells of body odor and perfume mixed with smells of crepes. Can't quite get the angle the postcard was shot at. My feet hurt.



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The way he touched her, he did it with so carefully with precision. There they were two adults sitting legs swung off into the lake in a childlike love affair. He moved in for a kiss. So meticulous. The second his lips touched hers a fire ignited in her eyes. And the moment his lips left hers, he left her yearning for more. Now that’s love.

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Postcard No. 2

Sand. Young African Artist Movement. Makeshift bar/beach. Silence broken by children running around half naked. Bright colors complimented by eye catching art. A big blue office building towers behind the bar. A reminder of capitalism. Lounging students. Jamaican Music. No smell. Blue skies. My feet still hurt.

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It was hot and muggy and there I was bent over so that Kelsey could use my back as a writing desk. Face inches from the sizzling ground I feel, taste, and even smell the heat. There I was ready to give up, pass out from the strenuous weather. And then as if God himself was answering my prayers, Julie tapped me on my shoulder and said, “lets go now.” I was rejuvenated. I felt a newfound sense of strength that could last me the rest of the day. Lo’ and behold, it turned out that this rejuvenated new found sense of strength, only lasted me a good half an hour before I was aching for a moments rest.

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Postcard No. 3

Hitler was just a man. An evil man, but an effective leader. Evil people do not scare me. It’s the following they have. Black and white. No emotion. Whispers in different languages. Camera beeping, a reminder of dying battery. Blue skies. The smell of body odor mixed with deodorant. Ultimate Power Deodorant, my ass! Whispers, chuckles, and camera flashes. My feet hurt.

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He was a thick man with a beard and a ponytail. He spoke in a monotone voice and smelt of frozen pizzas. At the time he was telling us the history behind the Stassi, the Berlin Secret Police, and mentioned their official name. Cranky and a bit exhausted I spat out, “try and say that 5 times really fast.” I was under the impression I had whispered the words but as I turned to see the whole group and this thick man who smelt of frozen pizza staring at me. In his monotone voice he said, “What did you just say?” Oh wee. This is the second time today my attempt at humor has put me in an awkward situation. I should probably stop talking so much.

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Postcard No. 4

A spy camera that looks like a birdhouse. Not just any ordinary camera but it’s a dummy camera. It is made so not to capture photographs but scare people. Remind people that the Stassi is out there. The group kind of broke up and it smells musty and I’m tired. I can hear Lauren and Cassie whispering behind me but I am too tired to pay attention. The objects in the room look straight out of an original James Bond movie. Its musty and my feet hurt.

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Again another scorching day in Berlin. We were on a 50 minute S-bahn ride to the Sachsenhausen concentration camps and there was my stomach, reminding me that I had forgotten to eat breakfast. The ride itself was quite lovely and I spent most of my time blogging. After what seemed to be no more than 15 minutes we were at a train station, only a couple miles from the actual camp. I rushed to the nearby deli to get a sandwich only to find that they only served ham sandwiches. I almost cried. I sat sulking on the train stations front steps watching everyone indulge themselves. I could smell the sweet scent of mayonnaise plastered on toasted whole wheat bread. And I could hear the crispy crunch of fresh lettuce followed by moans of gratification. My life sucks.

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Postcard No. 5

A deafening silence. Blue skies. White clouds. Not a soul in site. The smell of my sweat. Station Z is to my left. We are in a concentration camp but I can’t help but notice the beautiful sky and trees. Michael just walked up with his I-phone camera. Blue sky, white clouds, and green trees. My feet hurt.

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My throat tickled, parched from a lack of liquid. We had 20 minutes before our tour began so Joe and I embarked on an expedition to find something to drink. After a 2 minute walk, over a river, down some stairs, and under a bridge we found a small Weiner stand and luckily they had drinks. I asked how much for a .33 mL coke and the cashier replied 3 Euros. It didn’t hit me at first as I reached into my pockets. Once it registered that I was being asked to pay 3 Euros, equivalent to about 4.50 USD, I stared back at the cashier and asked “3 Euros, are you serious?” He didn’t use any words but let his dark brown glare do the talking. My throat replied to his glare with an itch and I fished through the coins in my pocket, pulled out 3 Euros exactly, and quickly walked away.

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Postcard No. 6

Huge white room. The first successful reconstruction of ancient ruins. Commotion. Tourists. Different languages. Glistening smiles and cold stares. Never-ending stairs. Statues of ancient gods and myths. Our enthusiastic tour guide tells the tale of these ruins. He has fluent English and has just come back from a vacation. My feet don’t really hurt!

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He wasn’t a beggar. He didn’t look homeless. He had slick thick black hair and a well-groomed goatee. His clothes didn’t look too old and his shoes were intact. He didn’t smell dirty but rather nice compared to the sour smell of body odor and perfume which filled the air. He spoke clearly and looked you in the eye when he was talking to you. You would have never guessed this man was homeless if it weren’t for the homeless magazine he was trying to sell. An honest means of making a living while homeless. I reached into my pocket and gave him all the change I had. I gave him 5.60 Euros not out of charity but to support his effort at making an honest living. He didn’t look it but he was homeless.

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Postcard No. 7

Looking up I see only gray clouds. No sky. The Television Tower, the most recognizable piece of architecture in Berlin can still be seen which means that although it is very gray and cloudy the clouds are not very low. I can hear the tourists talking different languages around me and can smell the Wieners sizzling behind me. I’ve been walking quite a bit and my feet hurt.

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Hundreds of people; tourists from all around the world, and native Berliners sit together in a coliseum like outdoor stone auditorium. A young African-American woman was singing I got a pocket full of sunshine – Natasha Bettingfield and dancing on stage. Her stunning black skin would shine as she turned her hips round and round. In the distance was a man in a purple shirt moving his shoulders in ways I had never seen before. With every lyric he would turn to the left, swinging his arms in an upward motion, while bopping his head to the beat. Roars of cheers from the crowd and the smell of wieners filled the air. Children were running around in the dirt playing with dogs as their mother’s converse off in the distance. Their fathers enjoying a game of pick up basketball and a cold beer, just a few feet from the stage Berlin never seizes to amaze me.

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Postcard No. 8

Useless sprinklers soaking strips of grass. A symmetric building known as the chancellery. Tobi speaking to the group of our plans for the day. Everyone seems tired and looks cranky. It smells like a rainfall just ended. Maybe because of the sprinklers. Black Mercedes with drivers wait behind us. Nice shiny black Mercedes. My feet are sore.

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The rich taste of Chicken. Oh do I love the rich taste of chicken. The name of the place was Chicken Doner. One can only guess what they sell, Chicken Doners. Once you walk in you are hit by an aroma so familiar yet so distinct in its tenderness. Old school hip-hop is always playing, and you always unconsciously find yourself doing a two-step while ordering. First they toast the bread as they cut off succulent slices of freshly broiled chicken. Then after slabbing on herbal and garlic sauce, the chicken is added with a mixture of lettuce and onions. And there is it. Less than a minute and for only 2.80 Euros. Chicken Doners.

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Postcard No. 9

Standing here in front of the door to my apartment, 0581, I fidget through my fanny pack looking for my keys. FUCK! I forgot my keys in my apartment. I’m standing in this empty staircase filled with echoes of doors slamming and people walking. I have to pee! There is this brown door, a solid block of wood that stands between the toilet and me. I think I hear John. My feet hurt.

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I woke up late today. The sun was shining as bright as it did yesterday. The street sounds sail through my window. People are talking really loud. I can hear them laugh. I can hear mothers yelling for their children, as their children run around on fields of pure green grass. Just another weekend in Berlin.

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Postcard No. 10

Headstones. Lots of headstones. I've been to over 100 different mosques and I have never seen a graveyard in a mosque. A big dome and 2 towering minarets. This is definitely a Turkish mosque. It sometimes rains in Berlin. It sometimes even pours. But the sky always seems to be blue. We are sitting here waiting. Behind us is a group of 3 men. 2 middle aged and one older gentlemen. They are definitely Turkish. They look Turkish. I think the are speaking Turkish. And by now I know the smell of Turkish tea. I need to pray. My feet don't hurt.

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Tonight was the night John learned to fly. We found ourselves at YAAM (Youth African Art Market) in the wee hours of the night. After spending some quality time with our new Jamaican friend MuMu we decided to mingle with a few adolescent German teenagers. They were particularly gifted in the craft of skateboarding. As they went up and down the pipe, they would flip their boards forward and backwards, clockwise and counterclockwise, tricks only seen in Tony Hawk Skateboarding videogames. Captivated and fascinated John quickly jumped to his feet, took a skateboard, and ran to the top of the quarter pipe. I repeatedly yelled for him to remember to lean forward. And lean forward he did. As he slowly leaned into the quarter pipe, everything seemed to be going smoothly. In a split second the board slipped out from under him and he flew. For a split second time froze and John flew; now has the battle scars to prove it.

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Postcard No. 11

Berlin is known for its art. Especially graffiti. This tag has been up since the day we arrived in Berlin and to my surprise its still up. I can hear the U-Bah trains running and people yelling to be heard over the trains. Till this day its surprises me how clean the U-bahn stations are. I love the public transportation system. I love Berlin. And to top it all off my feet don’t hurt!

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Luna was an angel. A slightly older model but she definitely had her angel like characteristics. Her hair long, blonde, and wavy swayed with the wind as she shook her flawless body from side to side with the music. Her smile could knock any man off his feet and her outfit, a sexy undercut bathing suit, was satin with black lacing. You could smell the scent of her Britney Spears Fantasy fragrance from miles away. I fell in love for the first time, and every time I close my eyes, Luna, my angel visits me in my sleep.

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Postcard No. 12

Sitting here in the humid shade listening to Orhan give us a history lesson of the ancient Ottoman empire. We are all tired after a full day of traveling and a sleepless night due to humidity and mosquitoes. Sitting down I rest my head on the tree behind me and stare to my left. Is it a mosque or a church. All I see is a guard. All I smell is body odor. All I feel is sweat. My feet hurt.

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I could feel the beat inside of me. Thump after thump the rhythm inside of me slowly translated into a tapping foot. The strobe lights flickering on and off slowly translated into head bopping. Without a moment notice my hips began to violently jerk around and around. It was then I realized that a woman, slightly taller than I was, had her hands on one hand on my left hip and the other on my right butt cheek. She was about 40 and smelled of Chanel perfume. Her hair was short and curly and her smile as big as the moon. I was scared but obliged. After a few minutes of horrendous dancing Cassie, Natalia, and Lauren finally found me. I subtly flashed a horrified look in their direction. They laughed but after allowing me to suffer for only so long, they danced their way over and rescued me. Only in Istanbul.

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Postcard No. 13

The wind cancels out the humidity. After a hours of sitting in a bus we can finally stretch our legs. Everyone is happy and in awe of the view. No view is as breathtaking as an Istanbul horizon. Sky scrappers, houses, office buildings and mosques. For some reason it smells like peaches. My feet are fine.

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Mosques in Istanbul have the ability to mesmerize the mind. Gigantic structures with enormous domes and towering minarets. But what is equally if not more captivating are the acts performed within their walls. Straight lines after straight lines, called saffs, of men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, toe-to-toe. Hundreds of men moving as one, standing, bending, and then bowing. Peaceful and serene. Amazing and inspiring. I am proud to say that I am one of this hundreds of men. I am a Muslim and if those who generalize us as extremists and terrorists can see these hundreds of men, standing in straight lines, shoulder-to-shoulder, toe-to-toe, moving as one, they would see the word Islam itself means peace.

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Postcard No. 14

Busy. Bustling. Loud. The first 3 words that pop into my head when I think about the famous Turkish Spice Market. Red. Blue. Green. Pink. Different colors blur into one. Men yell from their stands and it smells nothing like spices. It smells like fish and fruit. Bodies bump into one another and John sticks out like as sore thumb and my feet are doing A-OKAY.

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Arriving home felt I sighed in relief. I found Berlin just how I had left it. I only knew about 3 or 4 words in German but listening to the echoes of German, which filled halls of Berlin/Tegel, was calming. Upon arrival we walked through a narrow glass hallway from the airplane to customs. The customs officer was an old man with white hair. His teeth were yellow and dirty, from smoking I suppose. His eyes were grey and his stare piercing. He smelled of cigarette smoke, a smell a longed for while in Istanbul. See, I don’t smoke but I missed the distinct smell of the hand rolled cigarettes. He asked me for my passport, of which I happily obliged and then after a few seconds he let me through. I was finally home!

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Postcard No. 15

It’s a beautiful sunny day. Much like every morning in Berlin. There is not a sound to be heard or a soul in sight. A light breeze rocks the trees and swings alike. If beauty had a smell it would be the sweet smell of freshly cut grass and flowers I smell right now. I have a feeling that today is going to be a good day. John just finished making eggs. Its go time! My feet are fresh.

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I was in a dark hallway. And off into the distance I could see 2 lights. Soon the lights grew larger and a train came into view. Inside this train was a boy. This blonde haired blue-eyed boy was about 15 years of age. He was reading a book. The dusty book was a picture book. In this picture book was an advertisement. In this advertisement was a Japanese woman dressed in traditional Japanese attire. Her attractive white face was complimented by her flowing hair, which was also complimented by her sweet scent. For some odd reason she was wearing bright yellow headphones connected to bright yellow walkman in her left hand. In her right arm she caressed a big brown wooden mirror. This big brown mirror had an intricate mural painted on its back. I woke up confused.

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Postcard No. 16

Every time I look at the Television Tower it seems to have gray clouds hovering over it. This I expected today because there has been a storm brewing. Because of the rain it’s really empty out here. It smells like rain and it looks quite dim. This is a side of Berlin I have never expected. My feet are sore.

Blogs

Blog 1: Crossing the Berlin Wall from west to east, he was pulled aside into an empty room filled with echoes. It was an attempt to recruit him as an informant. His recollection of his time in Berlin in the late 1970s seemed to be the narrative of a James Bond movie, with secret police, conspiracy, and deceit. It was a long flight and I had an empty stomach. A stomach, which ached like a broken heart after a first love. Aisle 37, my aisle, had only 2 seats, one of which I occupied. To my left was Wolfgang, a lanky German with a gut hanging onto a tray cluttered with empty wine bottles. The cabin, dark and filled with sleeping old women and cranky children, was silent for the first time. A deafening silence which kept me up. The airplane itself was moaning and groaning as a result of the turbulence. Everyone continued to sleep. Rather irritated, I closed my eyes in an attempt at sleep. Yet, all I could think of was Wolfgang's drunken recollection of his experiences in Berlin, awkward and yet fascinating.

Blog 2: Every morning I wake up and pull the purple curtains apart welcoming the sun into my dimly lit room. Everyone morning I watch the same old man fix up the red dirt tennis courts across the street with precise white lines. At the end of every day its white lines fade away into the dust. But every morning, at the same time, this frail lanky old man re-chalks these white lines. Perfection. A simple yet intriguing link between Berlin’s unforgettable past and new found sense of freedom. Artistic freedom. A freedom to express one’s identity. Bright colors, dark colors, paintings, graffiti, abstract, people, objects, The East Side Gallery, the diversity of artistic expression. After a few hundred feet and a few hundred photographs my artistic gas tank was empty and I wanted to escape the sun. Collapsing onto a patch of damp green grass, I was yet again reminded of the towering influence of capitalism. My stomach churned in disgust and my eyes filled with frustration. Looking for some sort of comfort or sense of hope I stared into the river. It was there on a building, abandoned but very much alive with presence, that I found my comfort. “O2 FUCK U” A deserted watchtower in the middle of a park. The juxtaposition between the tower, a symbol of war and oppression, and a simple green park, a place for a picnic. This is Berlin, Germany, juxtaposition in itself.

Blog 3: Memory in Berlin. Every exhibit we see, every monument we visit, and every tour we attend is an attempt at preserving Berlin’s history. A successful attempt at preserving the memories of Berlin. The walls behind me, showered with bullet holes, tell a story of Berlin. They tell the story of a man, his following, by some considered a hero, but by the majority of humanity considered a psychopath. Ahead of me is barren land, under construction, and fenced off. A gray sign with white words in what seems to be Times New Roman font glistens under the heat of the sun. It reads “Topography of Terror.” Today was not the day to wear jeans and the moist sticky denim wrapping around my inner thighs serves as a continuous reminder of my poor judgment. This was the home of the Gestapo Headquarters. The very place that the holocaust was planned. The voices of those who lost their lives come in whispers brought by the wind and I can’t help but cringe. My face starts to heat up and my eyes start to burn. Why is this place, a place of hate, the headquarters of the secret police of the Nazi’s, memorialized?

Blog 4:The unknown. The unknown is defined as not within the range of ones experience or understanding; strange; unfamiliar. A dark, musty, humid room. A bomb shelter that is not bombproof. Its dark rooms filled with artifacts, which tell a different story of Berlin. Air Raids. To my left is an old rusted helmet transformed into a old rusted pot. And to my right was a tire and shoe. A rubber tire cut into the shape of the bottom of the shoe and used as soles. Genius! In front of me was a sign dimly lit by the 4 light bulbs scattered around the room. It’s read, “All the things you can make out of your daddy’s old uniform.” The group starts to move to the next room and I follow with a smug smile plastered across my face. Who thought that this dark, musty, humid room could tell such a story?

Blog 5: A mixture of memory and emotion somehow stuck in the 1940s. Sitting on an S-bahn train we speed past a few dwellings between fields, in some places scattered with trees and other barren, in some parts flat and in others rugged. It was a scenic ride. A lovely ride. It was the last ride many victims of the Nazi’s took before they died. I stare into my computer screen in an attempt to find some sort of comfort from such a wretched thought. But I don’t see letters and I don’t see words. I stare harder and harder, my eyes burning from the lack of moisture. They burn but I keep myself from blinking. And then I see it. I see the letters, the people, the victims of Sachsenhausen. I see the words, their stories. I find comfort in knowing that these people and their stories will never be forgotten. We just pulled up to our stop and I put away my laptop and I-pod, strap on my backpack, and just as the doors slide open and the automated voice screams “Aussteigen Bitte,” I take a deep breath. I think I’m ready.

Blog 6: A beautiful clear blue sky and a deafening silence. I close my eyes and take it all in. For a moment I forget where I am. Then I open my eyes and I am hit by a slew of emotions. Anger. Hate. Sadness. Disgust. Fear. Remorse. Awe. Shame. I found comfort in believing the victims of the holocaust will never be forgotten. But have some already been forgotten? It was not only Jews, who were persecuted, but also homosexuals and communists amongst other groups who did not agree with the Nazi cause. My feet hurt from all the walking and I take a seat on the soft green grass and close my eyes. I close my eyes in an attempt to remember those others but my feet hurt.

Blog 7: White walls aligned with white marble. The room smells of an eerie cleanliness and the echoes of hundreds of voices fill the air. Scattered through the room and amongst the hats and cameras are old mean looking men dressed in light blue uniforms complimented with navy blue pants. They must be security. The Pergammon Museum was the first museum to ever successfully attempt the reconstruction of the ruins of an ancient empire. Just like the Pergammon Museum the German people hold this gift, a power if you will, to reconstruct their lives. Recycling 80% of the rubble from the war, Berliners were able to rebuild their homes, schools, offices, and transportation systems lost with in the war. The German ability to reconstruct over and over again speaks monuments of their resilience. Tobi was explaining to us about the German problem with their identity. What did they have to be proud of? Their Resilience.

Blog 8: Hertha played Hannover today and for 18 hard earned Euros I was able to watch the epic season opener of Berlin’s beloved soccer team. The afternoon started with an everlasting S-bahn ride to Olympic stadium. A ride filled with drunken soccer buffs and sweet old ladies. Everywhere I turned I saw blue and white stripes. The team’s colors I assumed. Upon arrival to the stadium old men incapacitated by alcohol, just a few feet from the stadium entrance, greeted us. What a scene. The rest of the afternoon, I believe, is not appropriate for this public blog. But lets just say that a few pilsners, dancing the cupid shuffle to German country music, and high fiving a toddler after a goal, which I never saw, the afternoon was quite pleasant.

Blog 9: Hate has no limits. His words ring true with every memorial we visit, every tour we embark on, and every museum we explore. He rushes into the room with beads of sweat running down his forehead. He is late. He takes his seat at the head of the table while shuffling through his bag looking for something. He is unorganized. He pulls out a laptop and projector, and as if dazed glanced around the room searching for something, a projector screen I presumed. He was unprepared. Thick beads of sweat continue to flow down his forehead, and as he reaches up to readjust the bridge of his glasses, I get a good whiff of a mixture of B.O and salt. The B.O probably because he forgot to put on deodorant. And the salt from the thick beads of sweat running down his forehead. This should be an interesting presentation. To my right Cassie cannot stop laughing and at the end of the table Sally sits, head tilted back fast asleep. If you listen very carefully you can actually hear her snoring. Finally, after a prolonged uncomfortable silence our presentation on Right Wing Extremism begins. Hate has always taken various forms, but has a certain familiarity in its obscurity and blatancy. Hate has no limits. His words ring true with every memorial we visit, every tour we embark on, and every museum we explore.

Blog 10: I was angry. I was frustrated. I didn’t think I could write. Actually I still don’t think I’m any good at it. That was a couple of weeks ago but Shawn told me that anyone could be a writer, you just have to practice. I’ve rewritten all of my blogs Shawn; hopefully you can see some effort and just maybe a bit of improvement. Here is my final blog entry: 5:30 am finally came and after a long awaited rest I turn to my left to see Robert fast asleep. His loss. I’m cranky. Joe’s tired. Daniel is wide-awake, humming with excitement. And John, he’s just happy old’ John. As the elevator doors open we are welcomed by a sweeping cold breeze and black sky; a reminder that sunrise is quite a ways away. I could smell, feel, and taste the excitement in the air. The hookah bars are closed but the everlasting smell of hookah fills the air. At the Polis (Police) station next door, the same guard is standing in the same place we left him hours ago, slouching from the weight of the MP5 automatic machine gun on his right shoulder. I smirk and in between puffs of his cigarette he smiles. We continue to walk into the darkness. The night sky, a blanket over Istanbul, was scattered with stars. The moon was nowhere insight, hidden by the towering buildings on either side of us. We walk through dark alleys and side streets but I am not afraid. I know that these men walking beside will be there for me. My thoughts of companionship are interrupted by the sky slowly starting to light up. Sunrise isn’t too far away now. As we make a left into yet another alley I notice a silhouette of a body lying on a bench. I stare harder into the darkness only to find that the silhouette is a boy cuddled up in his T-shirt. The boy was 15 years old at the most. He is just a kid; another reminder of the ever-present vast social divide in Istanbul. Thoughts start to race through my head. How is it possible that a boy can be forgotten, left to fend for himself on the streets? My face starts to burn and my eyes start to water. Only the sight of mosques, with their pillars lit, reaching for the sky instills some sort of hope within me. The Athan, the call to prayer, playing from numerous mosques echoes through the air and seeps through my ears into my being. I am at that moment reminded that with no hope there can never be progress. That if I never have hope for that boy lying on that bench, he will always be on that bench. We finally reach the bridge and we are greeted by the smell of raw fish, which is indicative of the fisherman preparing their rods, bait, and themselves for a long day of fishing. Upon arrival to our vantage point we are greeted by a thunderous lightening storm off to the SE of the horizon. A quick flash of lightening followed by deafening cracks of thunder. A captivating lightening storm whose ruby read clouds swirled with the wind. John hobbles with his camera in an attempt to capture a flash of lightening. After a few attempts he gives up with a grunt, only to find the moon ever so pure hovering above us. The sky was only slightly lit but the moon stood so vivid and distinct. To the east a mixture of yellow and orange peaked from behind the horizon. Dawn had broke. Against the brightly colored sky buildings, mosques, power lines, and rooftops were like shadows. The sky turned as pink as sea of cotton candy. We stood there admiring what only Istanbul could offer. We took pictures, danced, and fooled around. It was the end of a perfect night. It was Daniels birthday and I hope he enjoyed it. By the time we left, pink had become a pale yellow mixed with blue. Just like Magic.

Assignment 3

I like to think of myself well traveled and independent, but in reality I have only traveled abroad once without family and that was only for 10 days. It was because of this reality that this summer I decided to study abroad in Berlin, German with an excursion to Istanbul, Turkey.

Istanbul, a city of history. The home of the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque. Valleys dipping into the Bosporus and horizons littered with the domes of mosques. This is all I knew of Istanbul. It may have been partly due to my inexperience that I packed so lightly. I brought 3 t-shirts, 1 pair of jeans, 1 pair of shorts, a towel, a pair of socks, the shoes on my feet, and myself. All of which I would soon learn the hard way were no match for the conniving mosquitoes of Istanbul. Flying to Istanbul was as if we were going on vacation, escaping the hustle and bustle of “home,” Berlin, and taking a break from blogs and postcards, the craziness of the world. I did not know what to expect in Istanbul, but I had some idea of the culture. See we live in a part of Berlin called Kreuzberg. Kreuzberg is the home of a substantial part of Berlin's Turkish community, a community that holds the largest population of Turks outside Turkey. Oh do I love Döners, a Turkish meat sandwich. And yes, we have experienced the oh so flattering charm of drunken Turkish men. I did not know what to expect in Istanbul but I had no preconceived notions of Turkish culture, no cultural lens.

Our first day in Turkey was nothing but a vacation. A vacation from home. Home being Berlin. As of now Seattle is nothing but a distant memory. Oh, it’s also where my parents live. On this trip I am a Berliner. It may not be my country but what one realizes after spending time in the “real” Berlin, not “tourist” Berlin, is that Berlin is a mixture of international culture and identity. You don't have to be born and raised in Berlin to be a Berliner. I am a Berliner not a Kruezburger? I don't think that is a word but Kreuzburg, although a significant part of Berlin is submerged in Turkish culture and identity.

We visited the famous Blue Mosque a gargantuous piece of history. What struck me was the deafening silence that resonated from such a massive piece of history and focus of tourism. Flaubert put it best when he wrote of the “black hole … infinity itself.” The chaos of the crowd was drowned out by the “fixity of a pensive gaze.” This very same idea of the “melancholy of the antique world” rung true at most other historical sites and contemporary slums. It rung true in the vast malls and also the depths of Istanbul's valleys.

Coming back to Berlin I had butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Although our experience in Istanbul was thorough and fun, I had enough of Istanbul to last me for a while. I just wanted an extra change of socks; boxers would have been nice as well. I was tired of looking for banks in an attempt to exchange Euros for Liras and dealing with confrontational drunk Turkish men. I was definitely relieved to be home. On the U-bahn, the U8 (Wittenu), a tourist approached me and asked me for directions to Olympic Stadium. Without hesitation I told him to ride the U8 and get off at Alexaderplatz, then transfer to the S-Bahn, line S5. He thanked me and I smiled. It was then I officially endowed the title of Berliner on myself. From then on I noticed tourists walking around snapping pictures, shopping, and trying to figure out directions. I wasn't one of them anymore. I am a Berliner.

My Journal's Story

The story behind my journal, how, where, why I chose it is a simple story. Nonetheless it is an epic narrative. It goes like this:
For some odd reason, my whole life I had a fascination infatuation with school/office supplies; especially 1 subject wired notebooks. For as long as I can remember the elation I felt while school supply shopping was equivalent to the ecstasy a child would feel while opening presents on Christmas day or blowing out candles on his or her birthday.
As if it were fate I ended up working at Staples, “The Office Supply Superstore,” in an attempt to raise money for my study abroad trip to Berlin, Germany. With no exaggeration I would sometimes sneak off into the Office Supply (OS) section of the store, walk down all the aisles and take notes of supplies I would probably need to purchase for the following school year. I would even write down the prices, calculate the total, and also calculate the amount of hours I would need to work in order to have enough money to purchase the supplies.
On the Business Machine (BM) side of the store, the side I worked on as a technician and technology associate, I would jot down model numbers of the printers, scanners, and laptops I would use as an entrepreneur and consultant in the future. In fact, I once even studied all accouting software in order to find the software that would best suite a profession I would not enter for about 5-10 years.
A little creepy? I know. But it made life just a tad bit more bearable, and as we all know we have to find these small things otherwise life would be pretty much pointless. Anyways enough rambling; lets get back to the story.
As I mentioned in the first sentence of the story my most beloved school supply was a 1 subject wired notebook. About 1 week before I departed on my quest to explore the world beginning with Berlin, I was assigned the task of tagging sale items on the OS section of the store. As if it were god answering my prayers the price of 1 subject wired notebooks dropped to an astonishing $ 0.33 from $1.30.
Next thing I knew I was walking out with about 24 notebooks, in all colors. Till this day I am in disbelief. So I bought my journal, a purple 1 subject wired notebook, from Staples, my employer, for $0.33 cents.
It turns out the notebooks will be on sale till September 4th.