[berlin stories] | |||
[©by crysta gonzalez 1999-2001] | |||
[el freitag] | |||
[lebensmittel] | |||
[party time] | |||
[all you can eat] | |||
[bargains galore] | |||
[a day at the park] | |||
[SchwarzSauer] *new* | |||
[hast du feuer?] | |||
[aufenthaltsgenehmigung] | |||
[bassy] *new* | |||
[die nachtigall von ramersdorf] | |||
[berlin] | |||
[home] | |||
Bargains Galore | ||||||||||||||
We all let it happen
sometimes. We call our friends too late on a Saturday,
after they've all gone out somewhere, and we fail to make
a plan. Scheiße. That means standing around alone in a
bar trying to look cool, and visiting pointlessly with
people who don't want to talk to you, because they came
with their friends. That means dancing alone to 'I Will
Survive'. That means feeling awkward, as if you're under
a spotlight, and going home early. Which means waking up
before noon on Sunday. Which means all of the friends who
would be meeting you at a breakfast buffet are all still
asleep, because they did make a
plan, and they were out until 7:00 am. Don't panic. The
weekend isn't ruined. Just pretend you wanted it that way
so you could go to the flea market. Eat something first. You'll need a little substinance to fight the crowds. Besides that, the smell of old grease and bratwurst on an empty stomach may cause severe psychological problems. I recommend heading to the little shoe-box sized bakery for fresh croissants, and maybe a couple of Schrippen (that's Berlinerish for 'rolls'). Then go home, turn on some music, make some coffee, and relax. You've got the whole day ahead of you (see, don't you feel a little superior to those friends who are still in bed at this hour?). After your breakfast, put on some skanky shoes, and head over to Arkonaplatz. Oh sure, there are lots of flea markets in Berlin. Everybody knows about the giant mega-tourist-trap at the Tiergarten S-Bahnhof, and the hugely popular mounds of useless electronic equipment at Treptower Park. Then there's the 'Get-the-hell-away-from-my-merchadise' flea market on Museumsinsel, where they apparently try very hard not to sell anything. Don't make yourself crazy. The flea market at Arkonaplatz is the best for three very good reasons: 1. It's not in the tourist guides. 2. It's near the beautiful Zionskirchplatz, which boasts a number of cafés to head to when it begins to rain (and it will). 3. It's small, thus making it easier to spot the Freak of the Day. No flea market is without its freaks. Where do you think they get those crazy outfits--at the mall? It is a personal challenge to seek out the Freak of the Day, which is never very easy, because the criteria goes beyond mere appearance. Attitude plays a large role as well. For instance, you might spot the tall pale guy with the blue hair who's wearing pink satin hotpants and a lacy bra on the outside of his military jacket, and think to yourself, 'Yep. That's the one.' But wait. What about the woman who stands on the corner each week, covered entirely with her own handmade greeting cards? I am not certain if she sells them, or if this is performance art. What about the relatively normal looking woman who's haggling for used panties? Or the hairy guy who's selling the used panties? You see? Choosing a winner can take a good deal of time and concentration. Of course the standard reason for going to the flea market is to save money, right? The best way to start saving money, is by not bringing very much in the first place. Large amounts of money at the flea market are dangerous. Suddenly it makes perfect sense to buy a green taffeta ball gown and some kind of electronic device with a massive red lever on it. Here are some guidelines. If something (other than furniture) costs more than a cup of coffee, you don't need it. If it is too big to carry home, you don't need it. If you don't have a ball to go to, you don't need it. If the massive red lever doesn't do anything, you don't need it. But a few hooks, or a roll of tape might be useful. Or maybe that stuffed dog with no ears, or that garden gnome lamp, or that thing--what is that thing anyway? Oh sorry. I got carried away. About the time you have spotted the Freak of the Day, and spent your last allotted two marks for some rub-on tattoos, it will begin to rain. This is a perfect time to go over to Zionskirchplatz with your flea market treasures, and find a place to sit down with a milchkaffee, while of course, coveting the guy across the room who bought the garden gnome lamp. That bastard. Who knows when you'll find another one like it? Probably never. That's when you realize it's the hairy guy who was selling the used panties..... |
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SchwarzSauer | ||||||||||||||
My life is perfect
in every way. No, really, it is. I work very little,
sleep a lot, live in the best city in the world, and get
to do pretty much anything my limited budget might allow.
Rent is laughably cheap. I have health insurance. Each
weekend I go out with multitudes of friends. I have a
nifty cell phone. Everything I need is accessible by
bike. As an added plus, I have finally put on those
twenty extra pounds I was so hoping for, thus saving
enormous sums of money on any skimpy new fashions I might
otherwise have invested in, which will be out-dated next
year anyway. Another bonus is that I can easily avoid the
onslaught of advances from handsome witty men I might
otherwise have to endure, thus reassuring myself that
once again, I have prevented any kind of 'relationship'
from creeping up and destroying my quiet time at home
with the cats. Each year at the end of March, however, I take a short break from my life of bliss, and indulge in something I like to refer to as my 'suicidal semi-annual depression' (SSAD). One moment I am reading the paper and sipping on a latte macchiato, the next I am way beyond considering whether to do myself in, but rather, am on to pondering what technique I should use. Jumping from a twenty-foot bridge onto the tracks of an oncoming S-Bahn would be by far the most sure-fire method, but how creative is that? Donating both lungs at once would be very benevolent, I suppose, but after having spent so much time in tiny smoke-filled places, would anybody want them? Perhaps heading over to Kreuzberg on May 1st to taunt a group of intoxicated punks would be more interesting at least for the onlookers. The reason for this sudden change in attitude remains unclear, despite its cyclic recurrence. Perhaps it is due to the 14 months of winter which precede it. Maybe its some unfulfilled wish, like becoming a flamenco dancer or joining a circus. It could also be that it is tax time* again. (*Note: I am referring to American tax time. Even with terms like Solidaritaetszuschlag and Arbeitnehmeranteil am Gesamtsozialversicherungs- beitrag, it is far easier to understand the German tax form than it is to follow the pointless, but mandatory kind from my own homeland. Each year I package all my information up and send it to a woman in Maryland who charges my entire annual salary to fill in the blanks, because I, along with about 500 million other idiots, am far too stupid to understand what they are asking me for, let alone what form to use. And I have a Masters degree....but I digress.). Whatever the cause of my despair, however, I was recently struck by the mad desire to French kiss a light socket, and turned to my neighbor / psychiatrist / dearest friend, Dirk for a little guidance. His advice, 'Shut up and deal with it', was well thought out and in keeping with the basic German credo of medicine and psychiatry. 'Your life is perfect in every way', he said, 'and you sound like a three-yearold.' One can always rely on Dirks professionalism and outright honesty. After dizzily recovering from his brutal frankness, I came to the realization that I had perhaps taken the wrong approach. Then it occurred to me, that there was a time-tested solution just a block away from my apartment. An institution which goes by the name of "SchwarzSauer". The name itself says it all: black sour. At any time of day or night, it is possible to bring your bad vibes to these neighborhood professionals who have served the people of Prenzlauer Berg continuously for more than ten years. This place offers something for all manner of individuals. I have seen extra-terrestrials seeking comfort within its confines. The methods of treatment vary according to the type of depression one is suffering from. The most-preferred tactic for those who are overlywintered, for instance, is to sit outside on the terrace even when it is snowing and simply pretend it is springtime. Those suffering from a nicotine deficiency are generally found sitting inside, under a permanent cloud of bluish smoke. Privacy is not an issue, as in most cases, the personnel will treat everyone with the same degree of indifference. You dont need any kind of special added benefits package prior to admission -- in fact you dont need any health insurance at all. The only thing one must provide is a reasonable amount of patience and 2 for a Milchkaffee. SchwarzSauer is not only a respite for the occasionally suicidal, but also provides a host of other valuable services. Those wishing to meet new people find this practically unavoidable, as the place is invariably packed. Fashion victims need look no further than across the bar to see what kind of thong underwear is currently the rage, as the wait personnel is careful to stay current on these important trends. Information is always available to anyone looking for local activities. Two large windows looking out onto Kastanienallee insure a great source of entertainment, as do the multitudes of neighborhood crazies and street musicians who come in to scream, perform monologues, play musical toenail clippers, or sometimes even sing. The coffee is fantastic and cheap. You can have breakfast any time of day or night. Theres beer on tap, and a cigarette machine, too. The place is never closed. What more could one hope to find? To be quite honest, there are numerous bars and cafés in Prenzlauer Berg which offer up the same amenities. Some even boast a pinball machine. But for the most part, the others dont hold a candle to the amount of business SchwarzSauer generates. It is truly mindboggling. On a pleasant summer day, the terrace is excruciatingly packed with customers, while at the bar adjoining it, two or three people will be lost amid a sea of empty tables. These people are generally a) tourists b) clueless c) unaware that they are not at SchwarzSauer and d) frustrated that they cant seem to get the attention of the scantilyclad waitress. The reason for its success above all others is unclear, despite the yearround near nakedness of the wait personnel. In its nebulous early stages, there were literally no alternatives, as the former easternblock neighborhood was mostly deserted. At this point however, it has simply become a matter of tradition for its patrons. It is somehow reassuring to walk into the place and see the same people sitting at the bar day after day. The regulars dont really mingle, but do seem to acknowledge one anothers presence. Theres the afore-mentioned extra-terrestrial, adjusting his face while his eyes swivel chameleonlike in their sockets. Across the room is the smiling clone who reads, smiling constantly. I dont use the term clone loosely, by the way. The same guy is reading and smiling at Haliflor, another neighborhood coffee house, every time I pass it. At one corner of the bar is the man with the crazy ducttape outfit which cleverly matches his live-in van parked outside. Then theres the entirely normallooking guy who looks like he might actually have decent employment, except no one knows what it might be, as he is literally always at the bar. The rest are people between the ages of twenty and fifty from all walks of life; the young and trendy who spend hours trying to make their hair look like they just woke up, construction workers covered with plaster and dust, zombies, journalists, and those trying to prevent themselves from swimming with electrical appliances. On that note, I think Ill step out for a Milchkaffee. |
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Hast Du Feuer? | ||||||||||||||
Gesundheit is the
name of the game in this country. The law of the land, in
fact. Evenings at the grocery store are spent trying to
decide between the last two mangled heads of lettuce or
whether to take the four apples that are left, even
though they're a little bruised. That's because the
produce section has been ravaged by healthy people in
search of roughage. Oh sure, they eat snack foods, too,
but you can forget about trying to find anything as
decadent as a Cheetoh. They've invented something that looks
similar, but it is peanut butter-flavored, and is most
effective as a form of punishment. As a whole the Germans
look healthy, too, because in addition to eating right,
most involve themselves in some sort of athletic
activity. Most young people have bicycles to avoid having
to take the U-Bahn, however other sports, such as
swimming, Fussball, basketball, public demonstrations,
and unadulterated all-night rodeo sex are popular as
well. Many precautionary measures are taken to protect the health of the general public. Dangerous chemicals, such as rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, iodine, sodium bicarbonate, as well as heavy drugs, like anti-bacterial ointments and aspirin, can be found only in the local pharmacies, which are generally open from 10:00am to 3:00pm (being closed, of course from 12:00 to 2:00 for lunch). These highly controlled substances are also outrageously expensive, and generally require a prescription. Aspirin come in a blister pack of ten, which costs more than soup and salad at a nice bistro. To avoid addiction or extensive health problems, one-half of a tablet is the recommended dosage. One takes an entire aspirin only during emergency situations, like the loss of a limb, or the inability to aquire a cigarette. Close your mouth. It's shocking, but it's true--these folks love to smoke. Smoking, at least in Berlin, is not just another habit. It's a lifestyle. In fact, most restaurants do not include a "no-smoking" section, although they may have a "no cell-phone" section. People smoke after jogging through the park or playing basketball. They smoke while riding their bicycles and talking on their cell-phones. They smoke while shopping, working, eating, and perhaps showering, although the logistics seem impossible. They smoke while escaping from housefires or filling the car with gasoline. It's difficult not to stare, but coming from a land where smoking has become the ultimate taboo, it seems oddly inticing, daring--even risqué. Because smoking is such a part of society, the availability of cigarettes is staggering. Keep in mind that the shops in Germany must, by law, close at 8:00pm, after which a certain few convenience stores are allowed to open until midnight. After that, one can forget about buying milk, water, bread, condoms, tampons, cat food, chocolate, or any other potentially necessary items, unless one finds a gas station nearby. One must simply be organized enough to aquire these things beforehand. However, cigarettes are always accessible, due to the convenient vending machines, which are located on the street, every one-hundred meters or so, to insure that no one has to endure the next eight hours without a smoke. Many who are immersed in the hazy blue world of smoking prefer to roll their own cigarettes. It is apparently cost-effective to do so, but more importantly, it is an impressive skill--a dying art, so to speak. As of yet, there is no Olympic competition for cigarette rolling, but there is little doubt that the Germans would win in such an event. Those who are well-practiced roll cigarettes that look perfect, while amateurs generally prefer to buy the store-bought ready-mades. It is by no means necessary to learn such a skill, but those who make their cigs from scratch get to carry cool accessories to enhance the experience. Old metal tins, rolling papers in colorful packages, worn leather pouches--these items help to define one's personal style as much as the type of tobacco they choose to smoke, and the variety is vast. The act of "lighting up" is, of course, essential for anyone who smokes, and despite the number of candles in any given bar, the most often asked question still seems to be "Hast du Feuer?". It is a strange phenomenon to be sure. Although the Germans are known for being organized, no smoker is looked upon as an idiot for not having a lighter in his caché of smoking accessoires. By not having one, he or she has the perfect excuse for speaking to a stranger, an act far more appealing than using a candle. Besides, the fire from a lit candle is considered to be unhealthy, and is generally frowned upon in a social setting. A few industrious businessmen have capitalized on the evident shortage of lighters by going from bar to bar, selling them from a briefcase. The selection is mind-boggling enough to appeal even to a non-smoker. Upon being asked, the vendor will gladly give a thorough demonstration of each and every one of the fantastically designed lighters he has brought with him, from the fire-breathing deer to the naked woman with the flaming crotch. He will have extras tucked away in case the display model is worn or scratched. The prices are also variable, and one can generally find a few bargains in the mix. In addition to cigarette lighters (some of which are quite massive), these clever salesmen also have butane, batteries, key chains and laser pointers on hand. Where they keep it all is a mystery. There are those who do try to quit smoking from time-to-time. Of course, the definition of "quitting" varies from person to person. It may simply mean that they've quit buying cigarettes, preferring to borrow them from others for financial reasons. It's not uncommon to hear one explain how he has just quit smoking while at the same time rolling a wad of tobacco into a perfect tube of paper, quitting, to him, being only a theory. For some, quitting smoking means to "cut down", essentially, going from two packs a day to only one pack, becuse that isn't really considered "smoking". Those trying to quit are generally in a very bad mood. Pay attention to the warning signs, as these people are potentially violent. If the guy next to you at a cafe keeps lighting his fork, do not smoke in front of him. Avoid anyone who collects pencil shavings at the office and rolls them into post-it note paper during meetings; and if you see someone crawling on the floor looking for half of a cigarette, do not under any circumstance, offer him your fire-breathing crotch. |
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Bassy | ||||||||||||||
My childhood was
spent in a hot, dusty village in west Texas, where water
was scarce and rattlesnakes and pistol-waving religious
fanatics were numerous. This little town, called Buffalo
Gap, consisted of one gas station / grocery store combo,
one elementary school, one traffic light, eleven acres of
land designated for the legal sale and consumption of
alcoholic beverages, and three churches. I am telling the
truth. In keeping with the standards of our community, my
family attended one of these said churches several times
a week. It was here that I learned of the evils that were
lurking about in the big wide world, and what kinds of
things to avoid if I didnt care to roast in hell.
These included lying, stealing, adultery, murder (unless,
of course, it was a matter of military duty, capital
punishment, or seeing to it that nobody set foot on your
own private property), smoking cigarettes, and worst of
all, dancing. Musical instruments were tolerated outside the church, but never within its confines. There were no apparent restrictions concerning matters of personal grooming, as two particular standards remain forever unchanged in the state of Texas : a.) The bigger the hair, the closer to God, and b.) Every old barn looks better with a fresh coat of paint! At the age of seven, my perspective on the world changed dramatically, as I was invited to friends house to play. First of all, I had never been inside a trailer (or mobile home) before, and was only aware of their lack of permanence and ability to attract tornadoes even when the sun was out. Secondly, I had never before set eyes on a creature like my friends mother. She stood no taller than I, smoked like a diesel truck, and used language that would have embarrassed a sailor. Despite her big hair, I knew right away that these were not "church people". The thing that would utterly make me question my beliefs, however, would happen over the course of time, as I would spend a great deal of my days playing at my friends home. Her father, the tallest, skinniest, meanest-looking cowboy I have ever seen before or since, talked me into standing on his feet, as he glided across the living room to the droning tunes of Tammy Wynette and George Jones, which always seemed a part of the atmosphere in that household. This is how, unbeknownst to my family, I learned to dance the two-step. During those renegade teen-age years, while my friends were out fornicating or experimenting with drugs, my biggest thrill was to sneak out of the house and go down the street to the town square, where on summer nights, live bands would play outside, while hosts of cowboy boots would shuffle across the sawdust-covered pavement to tunes like "Walking the Floor Over You" and "Lovesick Blues". Although I was a bit of a hippie in those days, I loved dancing the "Cotton-Eyed Joe" and the "Schottische", and being guided to and fro by some tall, half-witted farm hand. I only got caught once, but it was a rather humiliating situation, as my whole entire family showed up to witness me tongue-kissing a smoker, after which, I was escorted home by the whole lot of them. Thank God we werent dancing at that moment! Now, I am not generally homesick for Texas. On the contrary, I am happy to be far away from those well-armed zealots and conservative attitudes. Having lived in other places, my life has been enriched with culture and the acceptance of new ideas. I find Berlin to be the most tolerant, agreeable city I have ever lived in -- a place with something for everybody. It is for this reason I should not have been so surprised to find a genuine honky-tonk just a few blocks away from my front door. For those of you who may not be familiar with the term "honky-tonk", I will do my best here to explain. It is not just a bar, but a seeedy one, with dim lighting and a certain degree of tackiness. Honky-tonk denizens are, for the most part, tattooed truck drivers with bad teeth and big-haired women with names like "Tammy" and "Candy". These are the places my mother warned me about, while reminding me of how my reputation would be ruined if I ever set foot into one, which is exactly why they remain so fascinating. Therefore, I was ever so excited to find this place, Bassy, which calls itself a "cowboy club", despite the apparent lack of cowboys. Bassy is, of course, not exactly like being in Texas. For one thing, people still smoke in there. For another thing, it stays open until the not-so wee hours of the morning, so your fun time can last till the cows come home. The music is not strictly country & western, but a fun mix of boogaloo, mambo, blues, rock & roll, bluegrass, folk, beat, and rock-a-billy, generally recorded between 1950 and 1965. Classics such as "Sixteen Tons" and "King of the Road" can be counted on, as well as exotic foreign language versions of "Bonanza" and "These Boots are Made for Walking". One of the DJs, who goes by the name of Maya Lansky, has begun introducing gems from my past, like "Cotton-Eyed Joe" (which no one knows how to dance to, to my dismay), and "Orange Blossom Special". Nobody in their right mind would think of playing anything from George Michael or Britney Spears, which is all the more reason to love this place. The only Tammy is the owner, who can most often be seen in his cowboy hat and undershirt, looking like an even manlier version of George Clooney. Yes, his name is Tammy. No ones ever approached him about that to my knowledge. The first time I set foot in Bassy, I felt right at home. A mean - looking stuffed Coyote stands guard above the door, near a short row of old metal lockers along the wall. Adjacent to these stands the bar, where two people are trying their best to quench the thirst of the masses. One is a very cute baby-faced girl in an old beaten-up hat, and the other is either an equally baby-faced boy, a guy with two-toned hair, or a handsome man about my age with a knowing look in his eye. Next to the bar, on a small platform, is the DJ stand, where the likes of Maya Lansky, Captain Twist, and DJ Mytch keep us all smiling and flailing about. Forrest Gump wanders around in his plaid shirt and high pants, keeping the place in order by picking up the stray beer bottles, trying to avoid being trampled or maimed by the rowdy dancers. The walls are decorated with old rusty signs and pin-ups from a time when women were still proud to have hips. At the far end of the dance floor is a stage, where live bands come each week to perform. I have seen a wide range of interesting musicians, from "Heinrich der Wolf" (the German Johnny Cash) to "The Tiki Tiki Bamboos", a Japanese surf band whose male members wore afro wigs and flowered dresses. When the bands are finished playing, those who are so inclined spend the rest of the night up on the stage playing "Kicker", what we Texans, amusingly, call "Foosball". Oddly enough, as an American, I have never been inclined to claim any kind of national pride. What for? I was simply born there. Even more specifically as a Texan, all chances of this said pride were squelched the minute our current president took office. I was very proud to leave its boundaries and discover worlds beyond. Only since my discovery of Bassy, has it occurred to me that there is also something positive about my heritage. Through its extreme prudishness, my homeland has produced a wonderful by-product: the veritable "den of iniquity", which has been re-created in good old Berlin--a place I can still sneak off to in the night, sporting an old cowboy hat without shame (I even get in for free if I put it on!). I can even feel a little bit delinquent, as Bassy is an unofficial locale. Its everything a honky-tonk should be. A revised European version, sort of, where men can even dance together unharrassed. Perhaps this is the thing that keeps me going, week after week, to a place where the songs of my childhood take me back to my roots, and Johnny Cash is the patron saint. Yahoo! |
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Aufenthaltsgenehmigung | ||||||||||||||
Deutsch is by no
means an easy language. In fact, under the right
circumstances it can be used as a means of effective
punishment. Not knowing how to commu- nicate, however, is
rather frustrating, and the pre- sumption that "they
all speak English over there" is, in a word....
wrong. When a person plans to stay for an extended time
in Germany, it is only logical that he or she should
learn a few basic sentences before venturing over. It's
good to be able to ask for direc- tions to the restroom,
how much something costs, and what in the world that
thing on your plate is, but more importantly, one is
expected to understand the rules and regulations
concerning one's stay. The running gag is that no one,
not even the Germans themselves, can possibly understand
the laws concerning foreigners in their country. Here's a quick overview, for those who wish to give it a try:
Despite the madness, many foreigners do come to live in Germany. The reasons vary, of course, but be it for love, money, or education, the starting place is the same for everyone. Well, sort of. At the Auslaenderbehoerde, one realizes that to the German bureaucrats, not all foreigners are equal. There are two waiting areas; one for people from wealthy countries, and one for people from poor countries, and apparently, the rules regarding length of stay differ according to which waiting area one enters. An American, for instance, after five years, has the right to live and work freely in Germany without a limited visa or work permit, while someone from Vietnam must wait seven years for this right. The foreigner, upon receiving his or her Aufenthaltsgenehmigung, must pay a fee for it, which also seems to vary according to the limits attached, how long one has lived in the country, or how the processor is feeling that day. After receiving a visa, one is then faced with the difficult task of finding work. This requires a good deal of patience, given the ever-increasing unemployment rate. The surprising scarcity of jobs is attributed to several aspects of the German lifestyle: overqualification due to long-term studies, great unemployment benefits, and the fact that nothing is ever open. Because of the unemployment rate, the citizens naturally have priority to any job available. The good news is, few of them would actually apply. One word of warning: almost every field of work requires three years of study, despite the banality of some. Experience matters little without having completed an "Ausbildung", even if you're a chimney sweeper. Having cleared the hurdle of finding a job, here is what you will need to do to get the Arbeitsgenehmigung. Step 1. Step 2. Step 3. Step 4. Step 5. Step 6. Step 7. Step 8. Step 9. Step 10. Step 11. Step 12. Step 13. Step 14. Step 15. Step 16. Step 17. Step 18. Step 19. Step 20. In the event that you should change jobs, repeat steps 1 through 20. |
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Die Nachtigall von Ramersdorf | ||||||||||||||
I'm not what one
would call a celebrity spotter. During my days in New
York, famous people were on every street corner, but not
that I would notice. My friends and colleagues were
always a little annoyed at my lazy enthusiasm. What?
Gwenyth who? I would ask. Really? That was Barbra? To
tell you the truth, I've never seen any famous person do
anything to set him or her apart from us normal folks,
and I guess that explains my lack of interest. The
performers who did catch my eye, were those whose names
nobody knew. These were the street preachers, the
free-lance UFO spotters, and the countless others who
were simply written off as "crazies". My
favoite of these was a woman, who for all practical
purposes, I will call Sadie. I first saw Sadie sitting in a diner on 57th and 6th Ave. She began in a normal tone, explaining to the cook that the sign was crooked. "If you'd just raise that chain on the left one link, it would be straight. Just one link. Right there on the left side. You see? It's crooked now. But if you'd just raise it one link then it would be straight." Her voice escalated. She then made a dramatic transition and began reminescing about Easter, referring to it as a "moveable feast". Her enunciation was perfect, as was her projection. Everyone heard her very clearly. It was at this time that she left in a theatrical fit of anger, throwing the door back open to exclaim "I'll bet every tit and pussy is a moveable feast for you!" My heart raced. I wanted to give her an ovation for this performance. Afterwards, my Sadie sightings became highlights of my life in the Big Apple. Say what you will about the deranged. In my view, crazy is relative, and the line between normal and crazy is a thin, fragile one indeed. If a mad outburst in a public space is uncomfortable, consider this discomfort as a break from the norm, and a reminder of who we are. This is the salt and pepper which spices up an otherwise overcooked and flavorless society. It puts things into perspective a bit. For instance, is it really sane for someone to spend the largest percentage of his or her life doing something mundane? Probably not, but most people accept a boring job which they hate, yet continue doing for thirty years. What about this obsession with celebrities? Do we really need models to aspire to, as if we weren't okay already? The so-called crazy people in our society laugh in the face of our rules and principles, and for this they have my utmost admiration. They may be worried that snails are taking over the world, but I've never once heard any obsessing over their thighs. After my move to Berlin, I soon began scoping the neighborhood for unusual people. Aside from my own personal "freak of the day" contest at the Sunday flea market, I would also spend warm afternoons sitting at outdoor cafés, watching the melànge of neighborhood denizens go by, and being pleased by the mix. Once, while sitting at one of these cafés, I witnessed a woman around sixty-five years old, wearing barbie-doll pink from head to foot. She smiled cocquettishly, and then began stomping her feet and scolding everyone there, for what I still don't know. She screamed and pointed at each of us, ending her enthusiastic outburst by lifting her skirt and mooning us all. I haven't seen this woman since but I am still admiring her for having that kind of nerve. It is this sort of thing that keeps me wondering why on earth Madonna is famous. Would she do that? I don't think so. Not in pink. I love Prenzlauerberg, because the people are so colorful and so accepting. The mentally ill sort of blend in to the already circus-like atmosphere, so instead of being shut out, they sort of become mascots for the neighborhood. There's the guy with the second-hand clothing store who speaks in tongues and screams at potential customers that his shop is "not some flea market", as he hangs the merchandise outside in the rain. There's the very serious man with the beard who looks very angry, but who wears a little flowered house dress over his normal clothes each day. There's the small drunkard with the thick black monobrow, who staggers up and down the street balancing a beer can on his head with perfect ease. Then there's the most famous of all, "die Nachtigall von Ramersdorf, bekannt aus Funk und Fernsehen". This is his introduction. It means "The Nightingale from Ramersdorf, of radio and television fame". The "Nightingale" is about seventy-five years old. He is never seen without his signature wig and a nice lip color, although he no longer has any teeth. He wanders into cafés and bars, not only in Prenzl'berg, but all over the city, and introduces himself. Then he sings old German show tunes in a lovely falsetto--even taking requests from time to time. After each performance, he asks for spare change, and anyone who refuses to pay up is then loudly reprimanded. He is famous, don't you know! I have often heard the nightingale sing. Not at Barclay Square, but at many of the local hangouts, and even in a furniture store where I was working in Charlottenburg! I have also had occasion to speak to the nightingale from time to time. Once, he admired my handwriting as I was making diary entries at a local café. It was then he explained to me that he was indeed very famous and had spent his life on stage and screen. The last time I saw the nightingale, it was in the evening, on the corner of Eberswalderstrasse and Kastanienallee. I was walking home from a friend's house, when he stopped me to ask for some spare change. Always being one to support the arts, I dug in my pockets, but found no change. I explained that I only had my keys and a lipstick at present. "A lipstick?" he asked. "What color?" I said, "it's very dark", as I presented him with the half-used tube of Vampy Red. He took it from my hand in a flash, his face lit up like a child's. It made my day. I could hardly wait to tell my friends that I'd given my lipstick to a real celebrity! |
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