Postcard No.1Trees 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.
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.
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.
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