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.
