they reminisce over you...
I just watched Lost in Translation. It’s one of those pieces that aren’t really pieces of art as much as they are pieces of a broken mirror in the street, and when you walk up on them, you’re surprised to see your reflection doesn’t move even when you do, stuck on the glass. A concise, personal statement. It was Berlin all over again, a discomfiting, brilliant fiasco, a low-budget short-set trip based out of a hostel and aided by Manuela.
I wandered through S-Bahn and U-Bahn stations and around vacuous city blocks in East Berlin in scorching heat until I found the hostel. Leaving the Pergamon, I found myself at a souvenir stall run by Pakistani immigrants who possibly knew my aunt, so it was niceties all round. At the Kaiser Wilhelm were a crew of street breakers, who were also doing some crazy things with bicycles and skateboards. On the way back were a set of traditional Vietnamese dancers performing in the S-Bahn.
Ritual politeness was a necessary aide at the souvenir shop but a recipe for disaster at the hostel where I met a wack Swiss guy who (a) scared off Manuela (b) had food in the kitchen, yet apparently didn’t stay at the hostel but with friends in Berlin (c) unilaterally decided he was my tour guide and (d) encouraged me to steal bicycles with him before he left and promised to meet me at the club later.
At about twelve, I was at the mural-remnants of the Berlin Wall. At 12:30 I was on the S-Bahn across town and spoke briefly with Annie. I’m not sure why that happened, but it did. At 1, it was the Brandenburg Gate, which was beautiful. At night, it’s much more accommodating and easier to ignore the self-castrating development that surrounds it. I walked half-hour back to the hostel, not a jacker in sight. No crazy Swiss guy either.
The second day was a frustration with the Goya exhibit (lines still too long) and spent wandering Museum Island. The fountain in front of the Berliner Dome was occupied by two girls, who couldn’t have been older than 14, getting absolutely soaked in true wet t-shirt style while a photographer snapped away and tourists just sat and stared.
On the S-Bahn to the other hostel where Manu was working, my ticket was checked by S-Bahn inspectors. This was the third time in two days I’d had my ticket checked (the first two times the inspector was the same guy). In Berlin, the inspectors work undercover in twos and threes. They get on and have a silly little chat, then as soon as the train is moving they whip out their badges nd sweep through the car. They’re easy to sniff out, and will give you real nasty looks when you hand them your ticket while they’re still pretending to be Austrian tourists.
Shopping behind the hostel, I accidentally wandered into a punk shop doubling as a skinhead bar. Naturally, I stubbornly went meticulously through their stock of NOFX tees and Danzig hoodies, and even entertained the thought of browsing records, but could feel six pairs of eyes burning holes in the back of my head, so I decided to let the sun torch me instead, figuring skin cancer was a much less certain proposition than skinheads.
Walking out to the Tiertegarten, a massive urban park bisected by a huge boulevard, my feet were killing me, so I skipped the stroll and S-/U-Bahned to Alexanderplatz and then back to the hostel. No desire for touristy stuff. No inspectors.
Showered for the second time that day (did I mention the bloody heat wave? Holy f***) and back to the Wall. Only this time I stepped through a gap in the Wall onto a fake beach constructed on the bank of the river. Met up with Manu, and a couple of Australians (Lindan and Lucky), plus this bizarre Egyptian photographer, Ahmed.
Several drinks later, Linda procured a shisha, which leading to incredible amounts of smoke pouring out of the Austrian girl, against a backdrop of the Berlin Wall (only with graffiti, not government-commissioned murals on it) and a giant rocket ship made out of corrugated iron. Manu and Ahmed walked through the crowd, surveying people as to where to go that night. As it finally turned dark, Ahmed led us back to Alexanderplatz to the consensus East Berlin hotspot that night. Before we went in, at midnight, Lucky insisted on changing, and dropped his pants in the middle of the square, much to the amusement of the doorman.
Twelve stories up, we found ourselves in a bizarre, deserted IDM club. Within an hour, it was packed, meaning nothing but sweat was dripping down us thanks to the freshly arrived crowd and some very bouncy hard house. Within an hour, we managed to successively lose Linda, Ahmed and Lucky. After another hour, Lucky reappeared. So did Ahmed soon after. Linda never came back…still don’t know what happened to her. We left Ahmed there and walked home, through empty shopping streets and club districts whose cafés had as many prostitutes as patrons. At five-thirty, showered for the third time that day and went to bed.
Friday was a disaster, both in Berlin and Amsterdam. Fucking Ku'damm. Fucking train. Fucking jennifer & coke.
The movie wasn’t as intense as The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, because it was only 100 minutes, not several hundred pages, long. But it was apt nonetheless. It said all of the above in an hour and a half. It made me write it down, which I haven't done in a long time. Feels strange to write like this.
I wandered through S-Bahn and U-Bahn stations and around vacuous city blocks in East Berlin in scorching heat until I found the hostel. Leaving the Pergamon, I found myself at a souvenir stall run by Pakistani immigrants who possibly knew my aunt, so it was niceties all round. At the Kaiser Wilhelm were a crew of street breakers, who were also doing some crazy things with bicycles and skateboards. On the way back were a set of traditional Vietnamese dancers performing in the S-Bahn.
Ritual politeness was a necessary aide at the souvenir shop but a recipe for disaster at the hostel where I met a wack Swiss guy who (a) scared off Manuela (b) had food in the kitchen, yet apparently didn’t stay at the hostel but with friends in Berlin (c) unilaterally decided he was my tour guide and (d) encouraged me to steal bicycles with him before he left and promised to meet me at the club later.
At about twelve, I was at the mural-remnants of the Berlin Wall. At 12:30 I was on the S-Bahn across town and spoke briefly with Annie. I’m not sure why that happened, but it did. At 1, it was the Brandenburg Gate, which was beautiful. At night, it’s much more accommodating and easier to ignore the self-castrating development that surrounds it. I walked half-hour back to the hostel, not a jacker in sight. No crazy Swiss guy either.
The second day was a frustration with the Goya exhibit (lines still too long) and spent wandering Museum Island. The fountain in front of the Berliner Dome was occupied by two girls, who couldn’t have been older than 14, getting absolutely soaked in true wet t-shirt style while a photographer snapped away and tourists just sat and stared.
On the S-Bahn to the other hostel where Manu was working, my ticket was checked by S-Bahn inspectors. This was the third time in two days I’d had my ticket checked (the first two times the inspector was the same guy). In Berlin, the inspectors work undercover in twos and threes. They get on and have a silly little chat, then as soon as the train is moving they whip out their badges nd sweep through the car. They’re easy to sniff out, and will give you real nasty looks when you hand them your ticket while they’re still pretending to be Austrian tourists.
Shopping behind the hostel, I accidentally wandered into a punk shop doubling as a skinhead bar. Naturally, I stubbornly went meticulously through their stock of NOFX tees and Danzig hoodies, and even entertained the thought of browsing records, but could feel six pairs of eyes burning holes in the back of my head, so I decided to let the sun torch me instead, figuring skin cancer was a much less certain proposition than skinheads.
Walking out to the Tiertegarten, a massive urban park bisected by a huge boulevard, my feet were killing me, so I skipped the stroll and S-/U-Bahned to Alexanderplatz and then back to the hostel. No desire for touristy stuff. No inspectors.
Showered for the second time that day (did I mention the bloody heat wave? Holy f***) and back to the Wall. Only this time I stepped through a gap in the Wall onto a fake beach constructed on the bank of the river. Met up with Manu, and a couple of Australians (Lindan and Lucky), plus this bizarre Egyptian photographer, Ahmed.
Several drinks later, Linda procured a shisha, which leading to incredible amounts of smoke pouring out of the Austrian girl, against a backdrop of the Berlin Wall (only with graffiti, not government-commissioned murals on it) and a giant rocket ship made out of corrugated iron. Manu and Ahmed walked through the crowd, surveying people as to where to go that night. As it finally turned dark, Ahmed led us back to Alexanderplatz to the consensus East Berlin hotspot that night. Before we went in, at midnight, Lucky insisted on changing, and dropped his pants in the middle of the square, much to the amusement of the doorman.
Twelve stories up, we found ourselves in a bizarre, deserted IDM club. Within an hour, it was packed, meaning nothing but sweat was dripping down us thanks to the freshly arrived crowd and some very bouncy hard house. Within an hour, we managed to successively lose Linda, Ahmed and Lucky. After another hour, Lucky reappeared. So did Ahmed soon after. Linda never came back…still don’t know what happened to her. We left Ahmed there and walked home, through empty shopping streets and club districts whose cafés had as many prostitutes as patrons. At five-thirty, showered for the third time that day and went to bed.
Friday was a disaster, both in Berlin and Amsterdam. Fucking Ku'damm. Fucking train. Fucking jennifer & coke.
The movie wasn’t as intense as The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, because it was only 100 minutes, not several hundred pages, long. But it was apt nonetheless. It said all of the above in an hour and a half. It made me write it down, which I haven't done in a long time. Feels strange to write like this.