Where my October went

This week marks the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. November 9th, 1989 is a pretty important date for me personally since the fall of the wall and the opening of East Germany meant that my mission call to Switzerland was changed to the Dresden mission. It shaped my understanding of German culture and has had a profound impact on the course of my professional development. In the past few years it has become a marker to me of how old I have gotten as my students were born closer and closer to 1989, and their memories of the fall become more and more vague. This year a majority of my students were born after the wall fell and the event that plays a central role in my personal identity might as well be ancient history to them.

At the beginning of the semester I had a conversation with Stephan-- a local high school German teacher who also served in Dresden with me and shares my sense of identity with Wende-Germany-- that we really should do something to commemorate the 20th anniversary. It would help both of our programs and raise the profile of German studies in Utah, and give us a chance to share our experiences. Both of us think big and of course things quickly snowballed until they were nearly out of control. But in the end I think we put on a nice event. I had to coordinate for all of the space at UVU, organize the schedule, arrange for prizes and "schwag" for the participating students. Here are a few pictures of the event. We built a replica wall out of cardboard posters. There were over 150 entrants making a wall nearly 200 yards long. we filled up the Hall of flags at School. I was really pleased with the art work. Some of the students copied things that had appeared on the wall, like this series of weird faces. Others did other historical or political messages in a style that might have appeared on the wall. Others were completely creative.
I like the picture of a butterfly through a hole in the bricks that the German Club president did--thanks Cindy.





I invited the Honorary German Consulate, Charles Dahlquist to participate in our event, and he was very helpful. He provided us with cases worth of material to give away to the students--Over one hundred t-shirts, cases of water bottles, magazines, pens, pins, markers, etc. This necessitated the creation of a "Wheel of Schwag" that we used to give it all away fairly.
It was a lot of fun and my student volunteers seemed to be enjoying themselves. The prizes were a big hit with the students. Over all the event was a success. We had over 500 high school and junior high students in attendance, and things got a little chaotic from time to time. But every one had a good time. KUER radio came and interviewed me, and I made the hourly news, so I only have about 14:30 left of my 15 minutes of fame
This is Mr. Dahlquist and I at the wall. His remarks were very nice and well-thought-out. I was glad that he was able to find time to come and participate.

We had other activities as well. We had a number of presentations given by students and a woman who grew up in the east. She told of life in east Germany and brought back memories of FDJ, the Pioniere, and other youth organizations. It was very good. The student presentations were hit and miss. We showed a movie called Prager Botschaft that told about the crises at the German embassy in Prague, 1989, when thousands of east German refugees fled to Czechoslovakia to escape into the west. It went well until the scene that showed a woman's bare shoulders (that's all, I swear!!) as she sat wrapped in a sheet in bed. One of the junior high teachers promptly panicked, made us stop the movie and wanted to escort her kids out of the theater until we talked her down from the ledge.

Maybe my favorite part, however, was my friend's Trabant. The Trabi is THE icon of the communist era in east Germany and both loved and hated by the people who drove them. There are some great jokes about them here-- (only site I could find in english-the Sun's site has some inappropriate links on it though, so beware) He and I both had the opportunity to drive one as missionaries when the members bought new, western cars and didn't know what to do with their trabis. That worked great for about a month when the general authorities heard about it and shut us down. :-( A few years ago, Stephan found a trabi for sale in Minnesota and bought it. Since then he has used it in his teaching, brought it to mission reunions, and had a general good time with it--when he wasn't spending insane amounts of money fixing it.

It was a real pain arranging for permission to get it in the building, and event more trouble ensued when a couple of police officers got all territorial about it, but we brought in his car. It was a real hit. Kids got to have their pictures taken with it. Sit inside, and look under the hood at it's lawnmower-like engine.At one point in the planning, someone asked me if it would fit through a set of double doors. "Um, I don't think that is going to be a problem," was all I could reply. The car actually looks bigger in this picture because it is just kids behind the wheel. I have a picture at work (not an electronic copy, just a printout) of one of my colleagues in it--then you get a real idea of the scale. The sound the motor makes is the best part. It is only a 2-stroke engine, so it sounds something between a snow mobile and a chainsaw. Listen and enjoy

On what a stone has to say

When I was my son’s age, I discovered fantasy literature in the form of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Tolkien particularly captured my imagination with the utterly realistic world he created. The major contributing factor of this realism of course was Tolkien’s facility with language. Tolkien’s own love of languages, etymology, and literature infected me and played perhaps too great a role in my decision to study language–probably because my own love of reading blossomed in the midst of hobbits and elves on the fields and hills of Middle Earth.

Key to the hobbits’ adventures was a dwarvish map written in a runic script. The runes were a secret and magic script that led the way to treasure and dragons and access to the world learning outside the Shire. True to Tolkien’s own personality, each hobbit that leaves his home becomes in his own right a scholar of the land that adopts him, brining back the language, learning, and history of that land.

It was a pleasant surprise then, when I discovered in my courses on the history of the German language, that Tolkien’s dwarvish runes were not original to him, but borrowed from the nordic germanic tribes. For the Norsemen too, runes were possessed of a magic wielded only by the select few. I suppose the magic still holds, even if the secret is widely known: if you put something into writing, you call it into being, and therefore you gain power over it as you make it present again – re-presenting it – in the text. The Norse understood this in a way that we have forgotten.

When I went to Sweden this summer I hoped I would find some of these runes. They were often engraved into standing stones–like Stonehenge in England. The stones themselves had meaning both in the way they were arranged and in the act of erecting them. They stand, like the Norse ideal of manhood. Upright. Proud. Immovable. Strong. Timeless. They are Standhaft. When I see them, my own Viking heritage stirs. They represent all the things we cannot always be, but wish we were, and I wanted to find one for myself.

I had heard of prehistoric Norse cemetery that had been discovered south of Stockholm, and which happened to be within walking distance of my hostel. I set out to find this cemetery on a beautiful June morning; the sun was bright and the air fresh after the rain of the previous day. About a mile down the path I began to see a series of stone circles sticking up out of the forest floor. There were other geometric shapes as well, mostly triangles and quadratic figures. It was a curious experience. The stones themselves are ageless: unshaped by any hand, they seem as old as the earth itself. But at some point someone gathered them together and arranged them, and even this act is removed from me by over a thousand, maybe two thousand years. For all that time they have remained, unmoved, a more constant part of the environment than even the generations of trees that have sprung up and died around them. Their permanence served as a contrast to the transience of the human hands that placed them, and my distance from those people, despite the fact that I was standing on the very place where they must have stood long before. The signposts said they were grave markers, but if there was any significance to the layout of the stones, it remained unclear to me, except that their very placement gave the stones meaning. It set them apart so that they were no longer just stones, but a message–Remember us, even though we are gone, we were here. This was our place. We lived. We worked. We created. We were.

At the time I was only struck by the beauty of their extreme age and their stunning simplicity. I was also mildly disappointed that they lacked any runes–any writing to connect me to them. All these other meanings come to me as I sit and write about them months later, when I realize that they had much to say and indeed were able to say much despite their silence. But at the time I resigned myself to the fact that this was as close as I was going to get to Norse paganism and so I set of in search of the coast and the seagulls.

On my way to the airport, however, I made one final stop at the castle Gripsholm in Mariefeld. The afternoon was getting on, but the day was just as beautiful as it had begun. I knew nothing about the castle except that Kurt Tucholsky used to take his vacations there. However, as I walked around the castle, I was surprised to find these two rune stones standing in the courtyard. I do not know if they have always stood on this spot, or as I suspect, they were moved here by the builders of the castle. It doesn’t much matter to me either way. As I looked at them, I remembered the one with the snake’s head from pictures in my graduate classes. Between the unexpected surprise at discovering them and the delight at touching a thousand-year-old inscription (okay maybe only 900 years) it was the perfect end to my trip to Sweden.

At one time I could puzzle out the sound of the language on the stones from the runes, even if the language itself was beyond me. But now I can’t remember the value of most of the symbols. In English it reads this stone was set up by Tola in memory of her son, Harald. He was Ingvar the Far-traveled’s brother They fared like men far after gold and in the east gave the eagle food. They died southward in Serkland.” According to the marker next to the stone, “Giving the Eagle food” means they killed enemies, and the “Far Traveled’s” expedition to Serkland is mentioned in many other rune inscriptions. These rune stones are therefore Cenotaphs, grave markers erected in memory of one who died far away and whose body cannot be returned home. They represent an absence, a symbol of what is not there.

To me these rune stones and the standing stones that predate them become a metaphor for language. Words are symbols for ideas or objects that are not there. The words we use re-present an absence, and even though the sound or shape of a word is meaningless in itself, the use we put them to–the way we arrange them opens them to an infinite number of possible meanings.

The stones do nothing. They just “stand there.” They exist in the moment of nunc stans (Thank you Scott Abbott), of “standing now” in the present. Yet they carry with them a connotation of extreme age, of events long past, of the people who touched them and placed them and wrote upon them. The language of a good book or a good poem does the same thing for me. The words only exist as I read them–before that they were just marks on a page. But as my eyes pass over them, the words connect me to an author who is absent–sometimes long absent. Whatever other message they might bear, Their texts become a monument that says, remember me. I was here. This was my space. I worked. I lived. I created. I am.

100 miles in the desert

So here are some pictures of my century ride in Moab. I finally have a few minutes to blog about it. It was absolutely beautiful, and the hill wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be--either that or it has already faded from memory. The pace started out really slow, and since I didn't know what the climb was going to be like, and since I had felt realllllly awful all week, so I took it easy too. In all there was about 7000 feet of climbing. The weather could not have been better. For the climb the clouds were out and kept it cool. The sun came out later, but it never go too hot.










This guy you see here next to me is Steve. I caught up with him at about the half-way point as we came on to the Colorado river road. We were doing about the same pace, so we were able to take turns breaking the headwind for each other. The company made the ride a lot more pleasant and the guy, despite having 20 or 30 years on me, was an animal.








Moab was smaller than it was when I was growing up there. But as soon as I got some of that red dirt under my fingers, it felt like I had come home. I have always wanted to do a ride down the river road in Moab. I have also been thinking for the past few years that I wanted to have some sort of goal for my workouts instead of just riding for fun. The century in Moab was perfect because it gave me an excuse to achieve two goals in one: It was far enough out of reach to be a real challenge, but in a great location that let me return to where I grew up.

I was tired when I finished, but not as bad as I expected. My arms actually hurt more than my legs. Probably a combination of the achy flu I had and the breaking I had to do when coming down the switchbacks into Castle Valley. The only real excitement came ten miles from the end when my front tire blew out violently. It sounded like a gunshot. We were going to boot the hole with a power bar wrapper when the SAG wagon showed up with a new tire. So I went home with a brand-new tire worth $40, that I was going to have to replace soon anyway.



And just so you know, after the ride, we went to Arches where Dallin found what was according to him "the perfect spot" and told his mom to take a picture. Which she did.

my latest ride

This week, in getting ready for the Moab Century Tour, I tried to do a little extra mileage. I did three rides over 40 miles, including this one




and this one. Even though it shows only 37 miles, I went a couple of miles further toward New Harmony than this map shows.

Last week I also climbed to the summit of American Fork Canyon, which should imitate the climb on the Moab Century.
All total I have done over 150 miles this week and over 860 since returning from Berlin in June.

And Now For Something Completely Different

For all of you who wondered what the communists were up to all those years.



Or this Swiss "rocket Scientist" I suppose it could be real.

Poetry and living life

Several years ago, one of my professors introduced me to a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe called “Selige Sehnsucht.” (Maybe blessed yearning). It is one of the staples of German literary history and well known by most in German Studies.

Sag es niemand, nur den Weisen,
Weil die Menge gleich verhöhnet:
Das Lebendge will ich preisen,
Das nach Flammentod sich sehnet.

In der Liebesnächte Kühlung,
Die dich zeugte, wo du zeugtest,
Überfällt dich fremde Fühlung,
Wenn die stille Kerze leuchtet.

Nicht mehr bleibest du umfangen
In der Finsternis Beschattung,
Und dich reißet neu Verlangen
Auf zu höherer Begattung.

Keine Ferne macht dich schwierig,
Kommst geflogen und gebannt,
Und zuletzt, des Lichts begierig,
Bist du Schmetterling verbrannt.

Und so lang du das nicht hast,
Dieses: Stirb und Werde!
Bist du nur ein trüber Gast
Auf der dunklen Erde.

Once again my poor attempt at a translation. Sorry for the lack of rhyme and meter:

Blessed Yearning

Tell no one, only the wise,
For the masses will only mock:
That which lives I will praise,
That yearns for death in flames.

In the cool of the nights of love
That begat you, where you begat.
Falls over you the foreign feeling
When the silent candle shines.

No distance is too far,
Spellbound, you come flying,
And at last, covetous of the light
You, butterfly, are burned.

And as long as you cannot grasp that,
This: Die and Become!
You are but a dreary guest
on the darkened Earth.

There is far more in this poem than I can probably discuss at the moment. Obviously the final stanza makes a powerful statement for roll death plays in one’s life and in one’s existence. The butterfly’s flaming death suggests that it is not just death but the manner of death–the striving toward light–that brings meaning to life.

But the part that has always made me wonder was a claim by my professor that the Greek word for butterfly was psyche , a fact that I have had a hard time verifying, but that may be substantiated here. In Greek mythology (at least as we have this story handed down by the Romans–nothing is ever simple) Psyche is a mortal so beautiful that all the worshipers of Aphrodite have left the temples to go and worship Psyche. Angered, Aphrodite sends her son Eros to make Psyche fall in love with the ugliest thing possible. Instead, Eros pricks his own finger with the arrow intended for Psyche and falls in love with her. The two are married, but Eros refuses to appear in daylight, coming to her only at night. Her sisters, jealous of her happiness, convince Psyche to light a lantern and discover her husband’s identity. In response, Eros flees and Psyche is left heartbroken (and angry at her sisters). Eventually, Psyche must enter into Aphrodite’s service and perform a series of impossible tasks in order to win back her husband. In the last of these, she must descend into Hades and bring back a jar containing Persephone’s beauty. When she tries to partake of this beauty, however, she falls down, as if dead. In the end, Zeus intervenes, and she is reunited with Eros and becomes immortal with him as she joins the other deities.

On my recent trip to Germany, I ran into Psyche once or twice and it got me to thinking. In the Berlin museum of art, there is a statue in one of the stairwells of Pan consoling Psyche. It is hard to imagine the debaucherous Pan of having very pure intentions in his efforts. The statue is intensely sensuous and seeing it, I wanted to warn her against what the old goat had on his mind. But Psyche is more resourceful than one might think looking at her and I suspect that in the end her beauty (so often a stand in for goodness, a trope I have no desire to deconstruct at the moment--and excuse me for using the words deconstruct and trope in the same sentence) will save her again.

My second encounter was a family grouping outside the Zwinger in Dresden. Here, Psyche, Eros, and presumably Aphrodite appear to have reconciled and the happy end seems assured. I wonder at the placement of the statue and what the sculptor intended with his composition, but I like this one, too. There is also this representation that I found on the web that is intriging.

In both sculptures, Psyche’s butterfly wings are clearly visible, establishing the connection that I had wondered about earlier. The word “psyche” in Greek means breath or air and has by extension connotations of spirit and soul.

So in this context, the figure Psyche becomes a symbol for the longing of a mortal soul to be joined with the divine, and the efforts one will take, even if it means descending into death to do it. The more I learn of the story, the more impressed I am in Goethe’s ability to weave the various elements of it into his poem. For me there is something vividly mystical about the poem and the mythology in the idea that the soul, psyche, wants to be united with the heavens. At first reading, Goethe’s poem may seem to be a justification for suicide. But in reality, I think it is an appellation for life lived to it’s fullest, for a Thoreauean effort to suck the marrow out of life and live deeply and deliberately so that in the end, we will not discover that we have not lived at all.

On How I am Living in a Different City Than My Students part 3

Note, Part 2 is below and should be read first.

4. Sometimes it is not the place you see, but the way you see it that makes all the difference. One day on my way home from the school, I took a different route and came across and artist’s shop. They had a small, inexpensive watercolor kit that was nevertheless of really high quality. I bought it and some paper with the goal of painting some of my favorite spots in Berlin. So far, weather and schedules have conspired to limit my excursions to just two, the first of which ended in such a total disaster that I never got past the sketch before giving up in despair. My second attempt, however, was much better. On Pfingsten , the day of Pentecost, which is a holiday in Germany, I sat down on a bench at the Gendarmenmarkt, resolved to get my money’s worth out of my paints. I carefully but roughly sketched out the Französische Kirche, which is one of two matching churches facing one another across the square. I pulled out my paints and prepared my brushes, then I began to paint. In the center of the square was a man with a violin accompanied by a woman on a keyboard. They played Mozart and Vivaldi, but also Elvis and the blues. When they played Schubert’s Ave Maria, however, a group of Italian tourists spontaneously broke into chorus and gave perhaps the most beautiful impromptu concerts I have ever heard. The sun was warm, the air pleasantly cool and I was able to concentrate on the neoclassical details of the church on my paper and soak in the music, absorbed in the experience. I painted and listened to conversations around me, amused as some would come up behind me and watch me work for a while. When one father tried to take a picture of his family, I volunteered to take it for him so he could be in the picture with them. “Yes, thank you,” he replied in German, “and from an artist, no less.” As I was finishing up, a woman, sitting on the next bench, asked if I had painted all of the architecture of Berlin. I had to admit that it was the first time in ten years that I held a brush in nearly ten years. My results were far from what I would call art, and show, I think, just how long it has been since I tried to paint. But for me the experience may have been the highlight of my stay in Berlin.

5. Some of my tour stops are about exploring memories from past stays in Berlin. During my second week in Berlin I went down to the Botanical Garden in Dahlem. One of my students and some of his friends tagged along. There are times when living in the city can be too much. Too much noise, too much traffic, too much of people everywhere. Places like the Botanical garden are perfect for escaping for a while.



We walked around the gardens for an hour or two while I tried to keep up with Harmony at flower photography, while the students called me “professor” in British and Swedish accents, and tried to find German words that I didn’t know (a Wachtel is a quail). When they were tired, they went on their way and I stayed behind for my own tour of Dahem. The Freie Universität is in this area, which is where I spent most of my time in 2001 and 2002 while I was working on my dissertation. I really like Dahlem. It is quiet, classy, and peaceful. We had expatriate friends that lived up the street from the University. Their house was large and luxurious–a perk from his company for living abroad. As I walked past, I saw a placard on their front gate announcing I was now standing in front of the Sudanese Embassy in Berlin, and I tried to imagine how the interior must have changed from the lego-strewn, love-filled place that I had known seven years ago.

At the university, whenever I was tired, I would come out of the library and watch the construction of the new library being built. It seems everywhere I go, someone wants to build a new one, but they only finish when I leave. I walked in and had the eerie feeling of deja vu for a place I had only ever seen in architect’s drawings. I wandered around, taking pictures, and looking for the Celan collection I had spent so much time working with in the old library.

6. From the library I crossed the street and walked to a nearby park. One of the things I like about Berlin is the endless possibility of finding little hidden spaces that come upon you unexpectedly. They can be like the Stasi exhibit I found across the street from my current apartment, or a statue entitled “Phoenix” I found once when I took a different way home, or they can be like this garden park. On this occasion I knew what to expect, since I had found this space years ago. In the middle of the park there is a small pond where ducks and other birds will gather. It is off the road and surrounded by enough trees that it creates a satisfying sense of isolation when one sits on its banks. I would come to this place whenever the library became too oppressive or whenever I needed to think clearly. If I brought a writing pad with me, I often got some of my best writing done. Usually however, I just came to sit and think. And that is what I did this time. Under a willow tree next to the water I sat and remembered my year in this place: about the freedom I felt at not being tied to the Army, the freedom to work on a project with relatively few distractions, the freedom to reacquaint myself with a country I already loved.
Sitting next to the water I also remembered the difficulties of that year. I remembered the guilt I felt at what I was putting my wife through. Being in a foreign country with the responsibility of dealing with two young children contributed to a spiral of depression that made my wife’s experience very different to my own. It altered her personality and put a strain on our relationship as difficult as any we have ever experienced. I sat at that pond seven years ago and missed my wife. I missed the wife I had married and wanted her back. So I sat and wrote about all the things I wanted to change and about the guilt I was feeling at what I was putting her through and about my anger and frustration that her difficulties were affecting what was supposed to be a perfect year. I wrote about the guilt I felt over that anger. Mostly I wrote about how I missed my wife and wanted her back. Then I folded the paper with my thoughts on it into a paper boat and set it out on the water. I sat and watched as the ink bled into the water, washing the words away as the boat slowly became water logged, then fell apart and drifted below the surface.

Memories of that day seven years ago color the experience this time too as I wonder why it is that my time in Germany is always tempered by the costs that coming here have one the one I care for the most. Once again I miss her and feel guilt over what I put her through as I set sail again in the hidden places of Berlin.

On How I am Living in a Different City Than My Students Part 2

This is the last day of the study abroad program. I have mixed feeling about the effectiveness of it and on the experience that my students have had. I cannot say how good their experience has been. I just know that in many ways it has not been the same as mine. For at least a couple of weeks now I have felt like I am in limbo between being a tourist and being a resident of Berlin. While I enjoy seeing museums and grand buildings and the big sites of Berlin–they are after all what gives the city its character–the parts of Berlin that I really love are the hidden spaces that the tourists never see. My students, even when I try to describe the things that interested me during the week, can only star back, smile politely, and say “well, that sounds really nice.” Here are some of my tourist hotspots of Berlin, that I can recommend to almost no one. One spot or the other may be of interest to some, but I would be surprised to find someone who would want to be with me for the whole tour.

1. Being the bookworm that I am I like to find spots related to the things I have read. No one else seems to get this, which is fine, as I have found these spots are best visited in the privacy of my own literary geekiness. While my parents were doing the Sound of Music tour in Salsburg, I climbed the Mönchberg in the center of town, looking for the spot where Peter Handke’s alter ego threw the body of the nazi grafitiist over the edge. In Leipzig I thought it was cool to eat lunch in Goethe’s old college dive, the Ratskeller, which figures prominently in Faust . Last week in Berlin, I went to the short end of the Sonnenallee. The novel Am kurzeren Ende der Sonnenallee, by Thomas Brüssig, is about a young man who grows up on this street, the last 200 meters of which happen to be on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall. A few years ago they made a film about it, which was showing on Alexanderplatz the first weekend I was here. The other day I found the Sonnenallee on my map and decided to go visit. I couldn’t get anyone to come along. Probably just as well. The street looks very different to what it did 20 years ago, I am sure, but the wall zone has been turned into a nature preserve. It was green and beautiful. The trees, which have to have grown since the fall of the wall, were surprisingly tall. There was a marker showing where the wall went through, and a brief placard that verified the spot I was seeking.

2. In a final effort to bring culture to my students, I dragged as many of them as I could to a production of Iphiginia auf Tauris by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. The play tells of the last generation of the line of Tantalus, the son of Zeus and one of his mortal flusies, who, in an effort to impress the gods, cuts up his son, puts him on the broiler, and serves him to the entire company on Olympus. It did not go over well, and he is punished by being placed neck-deep in a pool of water. Only, every time he gets thirsty, the water recedes to just below his reach. When he gets hungry and reaches for the fruit just over his head, a wind will blow that just out of reach too. Hence the meaning of something being tantalizingly close. Anyway, the generations between Tantalus and Iphiginia are similarly laced with tales of sex, incest, violence and revenge. Iphiginia in the play is in the land of Tauris, near the Black sea. Diana has taken her there because her father, Agamemnon, tried to sacrifice her to Diana to gain favorable winds as he leads the Greek armies in the Trojan war. Iphiginia’s brother, Orestes, is being hounded by Furies (harpy-like vengeful spirits) because he killed their mother, who had in turn killed Agamemnon because she was having an affair with Agamemnon’s uncle.

Out of this family soap opera Goethe makes Iphiginia to the height of Greek civilization and culture. Through her grace she is able to tame the barbaric (in comparison to her own family?) King Thoas, and cure her tormented brother of his insanity. The play is a discourse on enlightenment, western civilization, and ethics. Very deep and interesting topics. The catch? There is absolutely no action in the play whatsoever. Pure talking heads. While I could appreciate the subtleties after having read the play a few times, I am certain that my students could not. Oh well, what are five more people in the world turned off to the German classics? For me, however, it was fulfilling a wish I have had for a very long time to see one of the German classics produced on a German stage. I will do it again every chance I get.

3. For my kids I took a side trip down to Lichtenrade and the Föttingerzeile where we lived while I was on Fulbright. Behind our apartment there is a sandy playground with a slide that my oldest son used to scare us with by climbing clear to the top. He was two at the time, so it was a pretty big accomplishment, and would have been a long way to fall had he slipped. I took some pictures of the park and the apartment, trying my best not to look like a terrorist or a voyeur as I did so, then I sat down and remembered what it was like to live there. I thought of the friends we made, of rushing with the baby stroller and kiddy board on Sunday mornings, trying to make the bus to church. I thought of my wife’s efforts to make the best of the situation, even though she was often alone with the kids, with little contact with family and friends at home. I think, despite some of the hard days, we both have fond memories of that apartment and that corner of Berlin.

Around the corner from our house, back on the main road, I found a bookstore that wasn’t there seven years ago. It was small and as one might expect, filled comfortably to the rafters with books. After looking around for a few minutes, leafing through a number of books, I found the new work by Daniel Kehlmann called Ruhm (fame) I picked it up and asked the woman running the store if she had read it or his other, more famous work Die Vermessung der Welt. She had read Vermessung but not this one. We talked for a moment about Kehlmann, about other authors we had both read, and about living in Lichtenrade and her new store. It is a rare thing to find a Salesperson in a bookstore that is also willing to converse about the books she is selling and that knows her way around the literature as she did. For me it was one of the best finds so far on this trip, and it is perhaps fortunate both that her shop opened after we left from Fulbright and that it is far from where I am currently living, since my luggage would have been and would be significantly heavier than it was and is if I could visit her shop more often.

On How I am Living in a Different City Than My Students

During our first week here I went with a small group of my students to Potsdamer Platz, just south of the Brandenburg Gate. We were headed to a movie at the Sony Center, a semi-open plaza with a round, tent-like covering far above and a lit reflecting pond with a dancing fountain below. When one steps into the enclosure, the street noises melt away

underneath the splashing of the fountain and the Gerede of the natives and tourists gathered there. It was dark, and as entered, we looked up to see the illumination on the cover change from blue to a deep lavender, reflected also in the lights in the fountain.






“Dude!” says my student, “I hate America, and I am never going back. Why don’t we have anything like this?”



















Doctor Packer shrugs and goes to buy his ticket.





















On Sunday, I listened as one student spoke over the internet with his family about his experiences here. His voice was full of excitement and enthusiasm as he described the things he had seen and the places he had been. His words piled one on top of the other as thoughts seemed to come faster than he could utter them. One story interrupted the next, pushing past it, before the first thought could be completed, only to be cut off again by another description, itself impatient for its turn. His descriptions were so certain, so absolute: Germany is like. . .You can never find. . . Germans always. . . They were the impressions of a person discovering a place for the first time, and I enjoyed seeing Berlin from his fresh perspective, even as I fought not to correct him, to tell him that everything we think we know about a culture turns out to be wrong at least part of the time. I remember having similar impressions of Germany when I was first here as a missionary 19 years ago. I have learned that I didn’t always know what I thought I knew. I remember not feeling culture shock upon arriving in what was left of Communist East Germany. To me, that was just the way Europe was. I had no expectations and so I absorbed my surroundings as they were. It wasn’t until I entered West Berlin--which confronted with Rolltreppen and Mikrowellen in a country where I thought they did not belong--that I remember feeling any culture shock.

Now, things are different. I remember. I remember. I have used this phrase a hundred times in the last weeks. The city I am living in is different than the city my students are living in because for me the city has to pass through the filter of all that I have experienced in Berlin. This is the same thought that I have been trying to express since I arrived. The images that my students are experiencing in raw form have to negotiate the layers of memory that color my perceptions. Movies at Potsdamer Platz for me mean spending time with the young couples from church. They mean eating spaghetti ice cream in the Arkadien and teaching Britta that popcorn is to be saved until after the previews are over. When I pass under Brandenburg gate, I remember my first experience on the 3rd of October, 1991–one year after the reunification–when a Russian soldier tricked me into paying an extra 5 Marks for a stacking Matroschka doll and a soviet watch that broke two weeks later.

I keep sharing these memories with the students, even though I know they don’t get it. Berlin hasn’t acquired the level of depth for them yet that it has for me. Sometimes I find myself holding back, resisting the urge to share something that I know about a place, about the way it used to be. In the end, my memories are not repeatable (nicht zu wiederholen) for them, and I am left wondering if they are richer or poorer for that lack.

On the Dificulty of Experiencing the real Germany

I had a culture class today with my students in Berlin. The first question I asked them was to tell me the most remarkable thing about their stay so far in Germany. They made comments varying from having to pay to use the public toilets, to the great art we have seen in Berlin and Dresden to the street music played in the subways. All of them were great answers. Then I thought myself about the most remarkable thing I have experienced. For me it was Sunday dinner with a family I came to know in 2001 when I was here last.

I have explained to whoever will listen that Germans are like their bread. They tend to be hard and crusty on the outside. In other words, one of my students remarked that on the subway, no one talks to each other, they stare ahead, or at a book, but they seem to avoid eye contact at all costs. I think this is a defense mechanism to living so close on top of one another that they establish a sphere of privacy about them that can be difficult to pierce. But German bread is only crusty on the outside. Inside it is fresh, and warm, and contains a great deal more flavor and substance than American bread. I think the analogy holds true for the German people as well. Once you succeed in getting past the tough exterior, they are warm and generous beyond what one would normally experience in America. The German word Freund is so much richer than the English equivalent. There is an intimacy in German Friendship that suggests a closeness akin to family. This is what I experienced this weekend. Two families shared in the birthday of a 13 year old daughter, who has grown into a beautiful and accomplished young woman since I saw her last. They invited me into their circle and it felt as if I had always belonged there. Instead of making a big deal of me as their guest, I felt as if I were a natural part of the event. I felt taken for granted–not in the usual negative way that phrase connotes, but as one whom they took for granted as belonging–a friendship resumed as if there had been no break.

I don’t know if my friendship means as much to them as their friendship means to me, but it does not matter, really. For me it is enough to know how privileged, how fortunate I am to be a part of such relationships-not just once, but many times over with many families. I want my students to experience Germany and come to appreciate it the way I do. But I don’t know how to recreate the relationships for them that I have had the good fortune to have made while I have been here. It is not something that anyone else can create for them. Some experiences have to come as they will.




Oh and Dresden was amazing too.

A bird in the hand. . .

Peter Handke in his collection of essays "Noch einmal für Thukydides" (once again for Thucydides) writes about short Geschichten. In German the word Geschichte means both"history" and "story." Thycydides is of course the great classical historian of the Peloponnesian war and the father of modern historical writing. Handke's Stories treat small happenings and observations of daily life as if they were as importants as the great wars and events that we normally think of as History. And indeed as he describes it, the butterfly in his garden or the hour between the last Swallow and the first bat in the evening are the actuall great events that, in the end, will have more influence on us if we let them than the presidential campaigns, the battles in far-off lands, or the lives of the "great and powerful" men and women in the news.

One of the things I was looking forward to most about coming back to Berlin was the food--especially the Bread. the rolls here-Brötchen--are a thing of majesty and wonder. The first one I ate last Thursday made the whole flight over here worth the price. One the morning of my first full day in Berlin I awoke very early, still affected by jet-lag. From a brief workshop through the Study abroad office on photography, I knew thea sunrise was the "golden hour" for taking pictures, and, since it was an unusually sunny (for Berlin) morning, I left my apartment with my camera in hand to pass the time before the bakery opened and I could enjoy my first German breakfast in seven years. Out the door and to the left. One block down past the British embasy and then to the left again and you will stand on Pariser Platz right in front of Berlin's Propylaea, the Brandenburger Tor. Its four-horse Quadriga, placed on top the gate by Friedrich Wilhelm II in 1791, and which was promply looted by Napoleon when he invaded Berlin in 1806-and consequently replaced upon Napoleon's defeat in 1814, is a central icon of the city. If you stand directly in front of the Gate, one sees Victoria atop the Siegesäule--the victory column-- at the center of the Tiergarten. Both the gate and the column remind the Berliner of their superiority over the French. From this point John F. Kennedy stood in front of the Berlin Wall and eloquenty declared to all the world affinity for the people of Berlin and his love for Jelly-Filled Pasteries.

Through the gates and again to the left one comes to a field filled with row upon row of concrete blocks, all the same size but each of a different height, none precisely erect. When one walks between the perfectly-aligned rows, precise in typical German fashion, the ground below falls away, first to one side, and then to the other. Between the blocks it is both completely open and utterly confining at the same time. It is the new Holocaust memorial, and the early-morning shadows create a contrast of dark and light that parallels this memorial with the Gate and the tower that reminds me of the two sides of German culture that interest me so much. Both reflect opposite sides of the Hubris and glory, the neo-classic past and the stark post-modern present that give rise to the complexity of Berlin and Germany and make it worth exploring.

One more left turn and the sun is directly in ones face. A long sidewalk, trees along the road and, to the other side, an East German Plattenbau–the prefabricated apartment buildings that arose in the GDR in the 60s and 70s. These too have been rebuilt and sanitized of their socialist past until they are as invisible as the now-absent wall. Turning my back to the sun, my shadow creates an A-frame silhouette, long legs and short torso. I like the image the shadow makes so I include the Selbstporträt with the other photos.

One last turn to the left and the bakery is finally open. One Vollkornbrötchen, a Semmel, and a Sesambrötchen and my breakfast is ready. Atop the trash can is yesterday’s paper with an essay from a journalist who spent November 9th, 1989 doing tango at a Tanzabend as the wall was coming down. At my feet is a finch, which hops closer and closer, hoping that some of my breakfast will fall. I throw a piece down to her, which she snatches, and ungratefully flies away. The journalist wanted to study ecology in Mozamique before the wall fell. Instead he travels, and describes the most beautiful morning of his life in the Himalayas. The bird comes back. This time landing on the bench next to me. I hold out my hand with another piece to her. This time she bounces hesitantly forward and takes it directly from my hand.








In the tradition of Handke, this is my history of the first Brötchen in Berlin.

First thoughts in Berlin

Berlin 7 May, 2009
I told myself that I was going to start writing a minimum of twenty minutes every day starting with my arrival in Berlin. Well I am here and now I will start writing. There are a lot of impressions that I could write about but the most remarkable thing will have to be first. Seven Years ago when I was last here in Berlin, There was a girl, whom I do not know that I saw several times in the City. Today I saw her again. Am Potsdamer Platz. It might seem strange that I could be so certain that I would recognize a complete stranger after seeing her again across a seven year time span. But I know it was her. The girl is, for lack of a better term, an African albino. I don’t know if that is correct, but it is the only way I can describe her. She had pale white skin and blond hair that did not look as if it had been bleached. Her hair, both today and seven years ago, was braided up into corn rows. And even though it was blond, it wound up on itself in infinitely tight African curls. Her facial features too were unmistakenly African, with a broad nose and beautiful high cheekbones. Her eyes were pulled slightly together–as if there were also an Asian Grandmother as well. Perhaps it is exactly because she was so striking that I am sure that it was the same person from before. I would like to say that she looked older than I remember.

It strikes me just how racist my description sounds. I don’t know what to say in my defense. Is noticing heritage racist? I wouldn’t call her beautiful. Is that assessment related at all to her mixed race? Certainly I have known women from every corner of the world and of every shape and size that I would consider beautiful. I would not consider her ugly–although I have known ugly women from every corner of the world too. She was just–striking–and it was so strange to see her again. Which leads me to my second impression: Berlin is a city of dauer im Wechsel in a constant state of change. The city is always new, and yet always the same. Full of energy, full of youth, Berlin seems to be constantly reinventing itself. But it hasn’t changed at all at its core, I believe, since it was the capitol of the Weimar Republic. Otto von Bismark, The Siegessäule, Rosa Luxumburg, Potsdamer Platz Hindenburg, Döblin, Alexanderplatz, Hitler, Willi Brandt, JFK, Eric Honiker, the wall, Checkpoint Charley, the Ampelmännchen, Brandenburg Gate. Berlin layers one identity on top of the next, adding one to the other; evolving, and never changing.

This is What I Love About Mac Computing

I have to begin this post with a confession: I am an equal opportunity computer despisor. I think Macs and PCs can be equally annoying--just in completely different ways. For simplicity's sake, I stay with PCs just so I only have one type of annoyance to deal with. Recently, however, I had a discussion with a friend of mine that is whole-heartedly in the Mac camp. This video made me think of him and his love of the "simplicity" the Mac revolution has provided us.
It reminds me of a video I found some time ago that you can check out Here.
I just wish computer programmers and designers didn't assume they know better what I want than I do.

So Now I'm a Deconstructionist

I decided it was time to finally bite the bullet and rip out the shower in my basement so that I could re-tile it. So got out the Hammer that I inherited from my grandpa and started whacking at the walls. Of course, once I got into the walls, I discovered that the shower in the upstairs bathroom was leaking down onto the circuit box. Bad.
And now We really can't use either one of them. So in true deconstructionist fashion, my modernization project has turned essentially meaningless.