tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33969587144990729262024-03-13T17:44:34.152-07:00336 hours in BerlinTrying to blend into the surroundings as much as any stranger with no command of German can reasonably be expected to.Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-59625686241151899472009-12-14T09:02:00.001-08:002012-11-13T13:07:47.459-08:00World of probabilityMy two-week visit to this brawling metropolis began <a href="http://4sectors.blogspot.com/2009/12/man-plan-wheat-beer-berlin.html">here</a>. Blog-wise, it ends on this page.<br />
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My last full day in Berlin was a satisfying one. For one thing, I competently used the S-Bahn to see the southern neighborhood of Treptow. Wow, sure is different down here.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzd8cc_BfV9dk5G8Bs28XQyzjMzZ33_gkDZKMi0QfTjHD1NAETJYCT7HwCaFND7PildvoQIZ_RcCD8TTggxUyxFyYzDsiYR6-Lbjr67UGpHqgIJPU1Qcs2TyeOd0f37WtQuq32p2U7i6w/s1600-h/DSCF2682.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416066853825736722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzd8cc_BfV9dk5G8Bs28XQyzjMzZ33_gkDZKMi0QfTjHD1NAETJYCT7HwCaFND7PildvoQIZ_RcCD8TTggxUyxFyYzDsiYR6-Lbjr67UGpHqgIJPU1Qcs2TyeOd0f37WtQuq32p2U7i6w/s320/DSCF2682.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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I asked three people where the Soviet War Memorial was. Two couldn't tell me and one kept walking. The thing is monumentally large. Was it my imagining, or did their jaws tighten when I said the word “Soviet”? A lot of people’s grannies suffered badly, to say the least, at the hands of the Russian army. Anyway, I struck out ...<br />
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I did have success finding “Molecule Man.” When I saw a picture of this online several months ago, I thought that any city willing to plant this American artwork -- as tall as a football field is long -- in its principal waterway is a city I’d like to visit. It’s been here 10 years now. The artist, Jonathan Borosfsky, reminds us “that both people and molecules exist in a world of probability and that the aim of all creative and intellectual traditions is to find wholeness and unity within the world.” Right on, bong dude! It’s still pretty cool.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvuVynwxwSrp1BpV7Fy4R7Ukd63WPkx-oHFuvg6tEGjdjlTYc9pYrG6-2HPjatWzkMgn5WJn1bX4xb9-vuM2nnXNqHQw96dBpYmyCERk_r_7VacfivFHOk_4-3URAtC3ZTSIQHJFIAtY/s1600-h/DSCF2688.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416067467223039714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvuVynwxwSrp1BpV7Fy4R7Ukd63WPkx-oHFuvg6tEGjdjlTYc9pYrG6-2HPjatWzkMgn5WJn1bX4xb9-vuM2nnXNqHQw96dBpYmyCERk_r_7VacfivFHOk_4-3URAtC3ZTSIQHJFIAtY/s320/DSCF2688.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHf9yeCntU2qj6Rd6uikz36Otzxxwj-nMu3PKfXCLHX2zc-PIhO40-l8La0s0LoEJvql5_39PrvuTKViCbA-25ignSXbKSIV9mqCvTvxbBY4DplDn53925ZSZ0W8PfjDRNBk75OhD0_H4/s1600-h/DSCF2690.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416068338056034722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHf9yeCntU2qj6Rd6uikz36Otzxxwj-nMu3PKfXCLHX2zc-PIhO40-l8La0s0LoEJvql5_39PrvuTKViCbA-25ignSXbKSIV9mqCvTvxbBY4DplDn53925ZSZ0W8PfjDRNBk75OhD0_H4/s320/DSCF2690.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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A Greek girl takes my picture, keen about keeping her distance. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SZX9npCKiIHJ-Fv5DZB2S4TYFTUg8WpPcaJLlQKv_cdQKkNHRPDRijXppbY7UEEEMHeWNsbDumHcxH2ISRIg7WNQi1ss9Z_ah7feZJnCjtojwYwwDxxBFI3pm3NVsKwnZquCUgog2yE/s1600-h/DSCF2692.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416073932281025090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SZX9npCKiIHJ-Fv5DZB2S4TYFTUg8WpPcaJLlQKv_cdQKkNHRPDRijXppbY7UEEEMHeWNsbDumHcxH2ISRIg7WNQi1ss9Z_ah7feZJnCjtojwYwwDxxBFI3pm3NVsKwnZquCUgog2yE/s320/DSCF2692.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Check out these ramshackle pubs, closed for the winter, along a sluice off the Spree. Industrial parks are all around. Scenes like this, the Tiergarten, and all the city's parks and outdoor cafes make me want to visit during the warmer months.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYynozFEgdfGbvhsnmZLM7X-D30GJlPWs3i2ioWNVzqlUruHxTt5lFmEG5rAJE31H3gdKqfmX6G5_iOoOCKB6li76TXKGThWpQAdKV59ag_M4c2NE0R91YTUFPpP3akzLoFtvHPbih_o/s1600-h/DSCF2698.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416074988991195170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYynozFEgdfGbvhsnmZLM7X-D30GJlPWs3i2ioWNVzqlUruHxTt5lFmEG5rAJE31H3gdKqfmX6G5_iOoOCKB6li76TXKGThWpQAdKV59ag_M4c2NE0R91YTUFPpP3akzLoFtvHPbih_o/s320/DSCF2698.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Two-to-one this poster is by Charles Burns. Nobody does creepy-cool better.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB95y4vgG8JJdidDA2aHDZoLvkmBYDWS-WScBmvEJT64JHSLBaJDo-5WAPV5mcxWnMDsOsMLbTEWCoRp4LauR-Nl0VnvWnAAJXwSdgQ_e5wm-cLktjtatxvEQ6HoCbfF1LGsoFo5uRinA/s1600-h/DSCF2704.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416117939707778994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB95y4vgG8JJdidDA2aHDZoLvkmBYDWS-WScBmvEJT64JHSLBaJDo-5WAPV5mcxWnMDsOsMLbTEWCoRp4LauR-Nl0VnvWnAAJXwSdgQ_e5wm-cLktjtatxvEQ6HoCbfF1LGsoFo5uRinA/s320/DSCF2704.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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A prominent public artwork in south Berlin. Enlarge to get the whole effect.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0IdiDmJ3HpgaANejIop5KObmEOVl_RUzJCDD3JcPEf6CfbKDi79EcLQtY0Pi1cpOVG1i0hTQQfoMT2DMguzYwv7ry5L4kYIr0m0vxeiajuIwYtQwutoLI40dkrdZvnudSHWdsO2s1mw/s1600-h/DSCF2705.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416086810236942082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0IdiDmJ3HpgaANejIop5KObmEOVl_RUzJCDD3JcPEf6CfbKDi79EcLQtY0Pi1cpOVG1i0hTQQfoMT2DMguzYwv7ry5L4kYIr0m0vxeiajuIwYtQwutoLI40dkrdZvnudSHWdsO2s1mw/s320/DSCF2705.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Running into the Oberbaumbrucke, Berlin's most distinctive bridge, was a pleasant surprise. It was one of eight inner-city checkpoints after the Wall went up. Forty-six years ago, almost to the day, tens of thousands of West Berliners were allowed to cross here to visit their relatives in the East -- for a few cruelly brief hours. Naturally, no Easterners were allowed the same courtesy.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4R57ZgchKQ_mFyOWfNBC9war3alVfkrXWShiKKJWs7d9rMPVBCrjz4zzUiSIUKoGusV7wkw04ZmZjHylUUq3WXjZ1f0o2oF2vEidPNKldYHRM3iXEcXroO4yusH5272HKKKpYA46wUU/s1600-h/DSCF2710.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416087734549722066" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4R57ZgchKQ_mFyOWfNBC9war3alVfkrXWShiKKJWs7d9rMPVBCrjz4zzUiSIUKoGusV7wkw04ZmZjHylUUq3WXjZ1f0o2oF2vEidPNKldYHRM3iXEcXroO4yusH5272HKKKpYA46wUU/s320/DSCF2710.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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This guy is selling bratwurst from a propane-powered grill strapped to his front. Because it doesn't touch the ground, he's exempt from some licensing and fee requirements. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBb5LCQyTEy06wMDV5-evNWgKuKqNYi4ULurFdzH5UlOggez74G3hoMTtpuSGp1WtdB5O8JjRLIfftpHPQlkPr6mgrW98dMiBJJ6Lp_oNGqjm3uqJ1nFSM7wHLXqKsGUWmdk0gNeJAOqY/s1600-h/DSCF2725.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416088326235968594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBb5LCQyTEy06wMDV5-evNWgKuKqNYi4ULurFdzH5UlOggez74G3hoMTtpuSGp1WtdB5O8JjRLIfftpHPQlkPr6mgrW98dMiBJJ6Lp_oNGqjm3uqJ1nFSM7wHLXqKsGUWmdk0gNeJAOqY/s320/DSCF2725.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Before the evening's performance, I stop for a bratwurst of my own at the grand Gendarmenmarkt. I've had a dozen of these on this trip and never been disappointed. The mustard's always been good. The fries have been great everywhere, too. This is important.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1WFNIxmf63d0wEDflD4NMAYJxtWW2dqrJ7gPcJMUfxWzXctIbGqf-bddfq_Hm1OmRKNKd-8CAcWC2MO6XAoS32GHIJJ_1au7RSS5Zi3rjfDEGn2_J0_PGm-5nRNmijgS9dXFQgblRq9g/s1600-h/DSCF2735.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416090018008678594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1WFNIxmf63d0wEDflD4NMAYJxtWW2dqrJ7gPcJMUfxWzXctIbGqf-bddfq_Hm1OmRKNKd-8CAcWC2MO6XAoS32GHIJJ_1au7RSS5Zi3rjfDEGn2_J0_PGm-5nRNmijgS9dXFQgblRq9g/s320/DSCF2735.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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The Gendarmenmarkt square is hijacked this time of year by a Christmas market. There are some 60 of these schlockfests across Berlin, yet this is the only one I'm aware of that charges an admission fee. I opt out on principle, aiming over the merriment to snap a shot of tonight's concert venue, the Konzerthaus. She's a beaut', perched high to make herself seem more removed from everyday life. It's a theme in the Mitte.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6f2_ElzP1bJ85bOY21oSlIgFyKJtwnr1xSixBnmfN9_0TnmmEATKTVo12rLBXAAZGAL3Xj9xr9NGA67j6_NO0AvFb8ga_X5_6ETML6x3gufmMOayKUyCnDm8FA9JyN0Y5ZZiTyIp0AV0/s1600-h/DSCF2737.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416093038706762354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6f2_ElzP1bJ85bOY21oSlIgFyKJtwnr1xSixBnmfN9_0TnmmEATKTVo12rLBXAAZGAL3Xj9xr9NGA67j6_NO0AvFb8ga_X5_6ETML6x3gufmMOayKUyCnDm8FA9JyN0Y5ZZiTyIp0AV0/s320/DSCF2737.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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That's a caldron of bubbling kale in the foreground, with wurst floating around in it. Kale never looked so good.<br />
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I've got food on my mind, treating myself to a coneful of hot sugared hazelnuts before entering the concert hall. As you can see, I'm to the side of the orchestra, only about 20 feet away. When I saw tonight's program, including the complete songs from Mahler's <span style="font-style: italic;">Des Knaben Wunderhorn</span>, I knew I had to go. Its such a quintessentially Bohemian offering, I expect you have to travel to this part of Europe to to see it performed whole.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWIsXMJ6BYhTr9mtScG4uGUNqqgBOHfW1qCCVadJLjhHCJDtqYLJBoHp45CM8g4wN2TC74K_2jIXTff9q_uz0nXYZU_5bdrsvF0CenNT1HD55HCXbx2Z8RAk4b7zLveG7c9aKv6afh_I/s1600-h/DSCF2746.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416097560032235570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWIsXMJ6BYhTr9mtScG4uGUNqqgBOHfW1qCCVadJLjhHCJDtqYLJBoHp45CM8g4wN2TC74K_2jIXTff9q_uz0nXYZU_5bdrsvF0CenNT1HD55HCXbx2Z8RAk4b7zLveG7c9aKv6afh_I/s320/DSCF2746.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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The hall is barn-shaped with lots of marble exposure, giving it not quite the acoustic qualities of the Staatsoper, Philharmonie, Kammermusiksaal or Komische. It doesn't help that our vocalists, Petra Lang and Hanno Muller-Brachmann, have their backs slightly toward me (my bad), their projections swallowed up in the distance. At the end of the first song in the cycle, Petra looks over at her colleague and smiles as if to say, "Loosen up, let's have some fun." Hanno will have none of it; he needs to concentrate. <br />
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I catch snippets that were later adapted into Mahler's symphonies. Hey, that's No. 2. Whoa, I'm listening to No. 4 now, and so forth. What a solid German orchestra this is, channeling all of Mahler's intense floweriness, his bubbling clarinet passages and fiery crescendos. Is it racist to say he's in their DNA? Having this poem/song cycle in your home would give it that 19th-century German folksiness that's so in style. :)<br />
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Never Boring Bruckner and his No. 1 follows. The symphony has a Saturday-morning-matinee appeal -- I can imagine it as a "Lassie" soundtrack in some stretches -- <span style="font-style: italic;">realization</span> followed by <span style="font-style: italic;">consternation</span> followed by <span style="font-style: italic;">determination</span> followed by <span style="font-style: italic;">exultation</span>. It's a timeless tableau, and Timmy always gets rescued from the mine. On the way out, I take a picture of yours truly, my cheap-ass Christmas card to you.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicAiN0U6M8TSaPSVwjgR7QwDWRigU9o5PmvnRR6Rzbx-Bn-4z5E8I4gEa7HjfdrnT-PV1Oy5Ydgxry3oKwC9qwh72TXb64kAgforJQSFgXWCIUySLDvY0kVDbvvnig9LX1JNmmM57lQlc/s1600-h/DSCF2756.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416115453614393282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicAiN0U6M8TSaPSVwjgR7QwDWRigU9o5PmvnRR6Rzbx-Bn-4z5E8I4gEa7HjfdrnT-PV1Oy5Ydgxry3oKwC9qwh72TXb64kAgforJQSFgXWCIUySLDvY0kVDbvvnig9LX1JNmmM57lQlc/s320/DSCF2756.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Maybe its just my molecules talking, but Berlin looks like a champ to me now. After 336 hours, its architectural incoherence, its mishmash of disconnected neighborhoods seem to tap me on the shoulder, asking me to take a closer look. Back in Prenzlauer Berg I sleep, feeling chased by the clock. <br />
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I wake up before the alarm, toss out my recyclables and head to Alexanderplatz to wait for the TXL bus to the airport. I think back to my first time in Ili's. The barman smiled and pointed to my tie. "You go to a funeral?"<br />
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"Opera."<br />
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He shrugged with unconcern. For some in Berlin, the Unter den Linden might as well be a canal on Mars. <br />
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The city's strangeness has not loosened for me. Like any big place it dwarfs the individual, provoking a range of cultural responses, here mostly youthful and pointed. More than once I wondered: Where are all the grown-ups?<br />
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Smack in front of me, the TV tower rises from Alexanderplatz, its sphere sparkling like a Christmas ornament. A snowflake stings one eye. I get on the bus.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">The end</span>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-24796466418116347432009-12-14T06:19:00.000-08:002009-12-14T06:41:39.978-08:00Things I'll missThe view from my window at night.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7RyjnB_m0x9pVZBhXoIW1RYmJ4UojSQ8PaENTEFbNxdfJHpoUp3vSmEMKdUVZ6khb_kwZXCCl564SM94ISoHA9i6OByWxJ3CfG67siM3a5MoxFs6ZnLp-cPv_K2eG6Rqqf30BSQS8Y-s/s1600-h/DSCF2665.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7RyjnB_m0x9pVZBhXoIW1RYmJ4UojSQ8PaENTEFbNxdfJHpoUp3vSmEMKdUVZ6khb_kwZXCCl564SM94ISoHA9i6OByWxJ3CfG67siM3a5MoxFs6ZnLp-cPv_K2eG6Rqqf30BSQS8Y-s/s320/DSCF2665.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415096828635190866" /></a><br /><br />And by day, watching children wearing impossible amounts of winter clothing toddle around the playground across the street.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTmnIg_TRSSu0MOOCNcKTlfLVl1iqEk8SER4FqgNnDDb-dwR0qv6Sp5uC6Za0xGjqNehFE5xF8ltvpsu245NldODVDPz6zv2lAKk6sxDn9w-flxkpFH4I3STcvpbe1PASKF37BYGtW5M/s1600-h/DSCF2666.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTmnIg_TRSSu0MOOCNcKTlfLVl1iqEk8SER4FqgNnDDb-dwR0qv6Sp5uC6Za0xGjqNehFE5xF8ltvpsu245NldODVDPz6zv2lAKk6sxDn9w-flxkpFH4I3STcvpbe1PASKF37BYGtW5M/s320/DSCF2666.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415097110633023602" /></a><br /><br />The world’s fastest toaster.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rTsauEq14R0SOCidVVzqtwhOgRNjccmh3xJgJDFsbAkljfAWdz4yJ5xkvhuLswRNp9lS0tUBbWzpBOUurnsNQBRtxK5JAaR7p8phTolqMsTQ58-b5YXO9HYr6DWon3kNkbmtdgYKVBc/s1600-h/DSCF2667.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rTsauEq14R0SOCidVVzqtwhOgRNjccmh3xJgJDFsbAkljfAWdz4yJ5xkvhuLswRNp9lS0tUBbWzpBOUurnsNQBRtxK5JAaR7p8phTolqMsTQ58-b5YXO9HYr6DWon3kNkbmtdgYKVBc/s320/DSCF2667.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415097808904731026" /></a><br /><br />Berliners’ playfulness and sense of humor.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvoH9j4svrLpOHSbEQD4P2UXypHGPoIwUZHC6nXKuPZFZdeltMD_FnL6zKXVkuvGS_Pxexw_wf5HZZe80MNFcANNTTn6I13208c0j6kUSfenjhqQD2bWmndKfV57c04uxT_x-50Ro_TRM/s1600-h/DSCF2727.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvoH9j4svrLpOHSbEQD4P2UXypHGPoIwUZHC6nXKuPZFZdeltMD_FnL6zKXVkuvGS_Pxexw_wf5HZZe80MNFcANNTTn6I13208c0j6kUSfenjhqQD2bWmndKfV57c04uxT_x-50Ro_TRM/s320/DSCF2727.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415098219761901282" /></a><br /><br />The bike-a-licious culture here. Note the segregated bike lane, away from the street, theoretically separated from pedestrian traffic. I’m not a big fan of this per se, but once you’ve got the infrastructure, you’re bound to use it. There are plenty of X-Mart Mongooses and so forth on the street, but also a tantalizing number of cherry Batavuses and Kettlers with S-Ram3s, Brooks saddles and lovely waterproof panniers.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMuksiwYmYtkCVCRu2BDc6jRFd7DiF_7u0O33PqlAHYSrEjFIVgz8qfUbpB4iVPrzTl70ECv0nana4B7r-eYIbQIanCR5GXz2V9NHpmjePYMIej6miBiGpT_iilPdJhSaUUkmEtMzcrw0/s1600-h/DSCF2732.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMuksiwYmYtkCVCRu2BDc6jRFd7DiF_7u0O33PqlAHYSrEjFIVgz8qfUbpB4iVPrzTl70ECv0nana4B7r-eYIbQIanCR5GXz2V9NHpmjePYMIej6miBiGpT_iilPdJhSaUUkmEtMzcrw0/s320/DSCF2732.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415099357652517266" /></a><br /><br />This kid is sitting on the <em>rack</em>, keeping his balance by pressing his feet against the downtube. Do you know how difficult this is? Mom and son make it look easy.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguda8HDIhrJQbFrhYHb5kuA84BqtX8LhUWHWxQ8nF5_b4CrMPKwMoAMer_1-mgSUmw_7eXmneQrQ26zrwa6yxPNOEL85rGU7_D_eFwi5_twIFP5F7F_FlqS3sDsBA2ZCmEuCxG54WJV08/s1600-h/DSCF2236.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguda8HDIhrJQbFrhYHb5kuA84BqtX8LhUWHWxQ8nF5_b4CrMPKwMoAMer_1-mgSUmw_7eXmneQrQ26zrwa6yxPNOEL85rGU7_D_eFwi5_twIFP5F7F_FlqS3sDsBA2ZCmEuCxG54WJV08/s320/DSCF2236.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415100487946039362" /></a><br /><br />How you can get anything you want -- at 5 a.m.<br /><br />How, if you need to communicate in English, all you have to do is cock your head slightly, like a dog hearing a high-pitched sound.<br /><br />And of course, all the cute, well-behaved dogs. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmhmnRhZP9ClmhDd_vQb1z3nNDzzuUnSkJTSk_GYm1NDimfh7jb16buQBbyxnoSuI8WRPgQj2Ji5MhB5P6mCjR0EFYV9k34n6-epa1uPUCqpTSmQ1d-7p7TiiWi6hWdoU9qBbmJvP1U8/s1600-h/DSCF2513.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmhmnRhZP9ClmhDd_vQb1z3nNDzzuUnSkJTSk_GYm1NDimfh7jb16buQBbyxnoSuI8WRPgQj2Ji5MhB5P6mCjR0EFYV9k34n6-epa1uPUCqpTSmQ1d-7p7TiiWi6hWdoU9qBbmJvP1U8/s320/DSCF2513.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415101379076520866" /></a><br /><br />Speaking of which, I met my landlord today for the first time, hours before my departure, bounding up the stairs with his well-muscled Vizsla.<br /><br />And too many other things to mention.Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-37549914106678509042009-12-13T12:57:00.000-08:002009-12-13T13:32:51.073-08:00Berlin by nightAt this time of year, it's almost <em>always</em> night. A condensed look at what I've been up to lately:<br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-9477d61fbf6be3a8 height=285 width=385 contentId="9477d61fbf6be3a8"></OBJECT>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-82573685318133335092009-12-13T09:15:00.000-08:002009-12-13T13:43:26.558-08:00That's Altes, folks!Bitingly cold today (28F as I write this), with lots of perilous icy patches on the sidewalk. I don’t have a master plan, but there are a couple of things I’d like to get straight -- like where exactly do I pick up the bus for Tegel Airport on Tuesday morning, and where precisely is the Konzerthaus, site of tomorrow night’s <em>abonnementkonzert</em>. Neither task took long, and I scuttled into the Altes Museum, below, for a break from the cold. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mF0Gkxsm0wkk20r75QrEciyRBVBajBlO7IkQENq5eXd8YiFrEVJNcR79eZJ8F1sAp1CMZHPwMr5UFvC_zq_3na56eUgqEC6nKrXxMhKtz8NIe9diLa-mugjtX5Dq-jCCnpOzGVEnawA/s1600-h/DSCF2610.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mF0Gkxsm0wkk20r75QrEciyRBVBajBlO7IkQENq5eXd8YiFrEVJNcR79eZJ8F1sAp1CMZHPwMr5UFvC_zq_3na56eUgqEC6nKrXxMhKtz8NIe9diLa-mugjtX5Dq-jCCnpOzGVEnawA/s320/DSCF2610.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414771232087432114" /></a><br /><br />“The Praying Boy” may be this museum’s most famous piece. It’s a Greek bronze work from 380 B.C. that was uncovered in Rhodes in the 16th century, and it’s remarkable for its provenance. Charles I of England once owned him, Louis the XIV had the arms added in the 18th century -- even Napoleon got into the act and claimed him as war booty. Since the arms were a late addition, we don’t know if he ever was really praying or not.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwuFQXmYZXmu_-MkoVxIAdL_fK94VuDFTGBmM-oghZxGZfo2Vwb6EEcNfHloWgKRe-nhx0EpcgN38lBNWHqvpb9-aoUxzuB-IEtgQtttF1PYgwvOpH1g9s47-PxyJwD86O8kRdChYO0_Y/s1600-h/DSCF2615.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwuFQXmYZXmu_-MkoVxIAdL_fK94VuDFTGBmM-oghZxGZfo2Vwb6EEcNfHloWgKRe-nhx0EpcgN38lBNWHqvpb9-aoUxzuB-IEtgQtttF1PYgwvOpH1g9s47-PxyJwD86O8kRdChYO0_Y/s320/DSCF2615.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414774034968687218" /></a><br /><br />This is a detail from a Roman sarcophagus. Not even Adonis’ dogs can keep him from being eaten alive by a boar sent by the god Mars.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRPH_Ew0nVgk3E10dsuS5DZiMmVxlKiVU6yQKtyOYiFwAtmOLQwfhrrzq7x4vXdi1Dj1goZYLkxSmfGvptKbSeWNmsrN0_5QNsLvoCn1Xag6OIBWxr4lUQdnYlpLuMLAs2RneOPcvISU/s1600-h/DSCF2625.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRPH_Ew0nVgk3E10dsuS5DZiMmVxlKiVU6yQKtyOYiFwAtmOLQwfhrrzq7x4vXdi1Dj1goZYLkxSmfGvptKbSeWNmsrN0_5QNsLvoCn1Xag6OIBWxr4lUQdnYlpLuMLAs2RneOPcvISU/s320/DSCF2625.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414774529607663810" /></a><br /><br />The building’s majestic rotunda. This place is not to be confused with the Alte Nationalgallerie, an 8-iron away. Altes = Greek and Roman. Alte = 19th century art. Make a note of it.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SEXaesPncQtg5LGV8YddZbjICznsvRkYX-yvt97rWX83b4K5NKVzyJJE5nkv_2HV_up-gSnOSnsgRFDqXA7LIA2acgIfZ34WSwtqoTf-c4zL6FUQLMMHCnfAhF-XG3f51XB5Xjbtc1k/s1600-h/DSCF2626.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SEXaesPncQtg5LGV8YddZbjICznsvRkYX-yvt97rWX83b4K5NKVzyJJE5nkv_2HV_up-gSnOSnsgRFDqXA7LIA2acgIfZ34WSwtqoTf-c4zL6FUQLMMHCnfAhF-XG3f51XB5Xjbtc1k/s320/DSCF2626.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414775121228273394" /></a><br /><br />Yeesh. I can’t get away from Mr. Smug. There’s a Nespresso commercial with him and John Malkovich on TV every 5 minutes.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCEM_TNQN47cbtclCbB0gZ0LJoVvYXSzsbcMU_uypb9O9pNFI0G3rZO3IEXXwES179bra9rSzamImpE7k5es6CDTeKDV00D1v-zkLzEb3MJ290JMIHtXsm94zr58IkbhJefutMdMreSc/s1600-h/DSCF2633.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCEM_TNQN47cbtclCbB0gZ0LJoVvYXSzsbcMU_uypb9O9pNFI0G3rZO3IEXXwES179bra9rSzamImpE7k5es6CDTeKDV00D1v-zkLzEb3MJ290JMIHtXsm94zr58IkbhJefutMdMreSc/s320/DSCF2633.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414775680999091890" /></a><br /><br />That's a Trabant, a sputtering, smoke-spewing vehicle people used to drive in the old German Democratic Republic. Folks seem to be quite nostalgic for them now.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCse_XMyJWe9qLcZvlHycKGgF-IrK-9ISDz_BTwAbISR-LMy-_jt7IfPvILjuelmLJlA73ORphCXDzhC7DIOJPIpFsEFHxjUOu_Hh2Q-0UQX-EMzETTz7ipqkvsJnSsD_kdCr7mpjEVIY/s1600-h/DSCF2639.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCse_XMyJWe9qLcZvlHycKGgF-IrK-9ISDz_BTwAbISR-LMy-_jt7IfPvILjuelmLJlA73ORphCXDzhC7DIOJPIpFsEFHxjUOu_Hh2Q-0UQX-EMzETTz7ipqkvsJnSsD_kdCr7mpjEVIY/s320/DSCF2639.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414776266091262978" /></a><br /><br />The Russian Embassy. It’s hard to imagine this was the de facto seat of government from 1961-1989, when the GDR was a puppet state of the Soviets.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigf3HG85lSVxiaab8UBjOebpeb2cEM-cdrlQ-uzwGrle2W2Hz0MOQ0m-93otPHRAPY-GSU4q_MFDXFBwAEUKt9kw-mNfWSBnQOUD0gXPjTR3-yVEfwe2f2GgeVi-vpByOhCcdJ1ZRV18/s1600-h/DSCF2643.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigf3HG85lSVxiaab8UBjOebpeb2cEM-cdrlQ-uzwGrle2W2Hz0MOQ0m-93otPHRAPY-GSU4q_MFDXFBwAEUKt9kw-mNfWSBnQOUD0gXPjTR3-yVEfwe2f2GgeVi-vpByOhCcdJ1ZRV18/s320/DSCF2643.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414776713916158402" /></a><br /><br />Today’s real seat of government, thank heavens -- the Reichstag. This is where Angela Merkel goes to work each morning.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsE4MIRorKfr7yD4YlfDq3zXGprRAXE4kfl5wWW3VuSqavPp9gjUCernDS3vCVZx1e-LREZ2Mm0g2pHFSm6NFi68BAvF2JV7H-9ckXBw79F5oXH51xEUplpL6t03cEv6kDHoG9WJsBe4U/s1600-h/DSCF2649.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsE4MIRorKfr7yD4YlfDq3zXGprRAXE4kfl5wWW3VuSqavPp9gjUCernDS3vCVZx1e-LREZ2Mm0g2pHFSm6NFi68BAvF2JV7H-9ckXBw79F5oXH51xEUplpL6t03cEv6kDHoG9WJsBe4U/s320/DSCF2649.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414780749396691666" /></a><br /><br />Icicles on the Reichstag.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MPeQmBDFB44qAXhp-s-YFXFsMwx79ngi7UeUL21lKqTUksEohOqrF8QoeaKqTBjxoZGT0d40t6-A8pKTXU9TujBxxbuQi_kp4p4XgW1AZHqH9635P9c8xmMKuncBovU5sunbaPZdkE0/s1600-h/DSCF2650.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MPeQmBDFB44qAXhp-s-YFXFsMwx79ngi7UeUL21lKqTUksEohOqrF8QoeaKqTBjxoZGT0d40t6-A8pKTXU9TujBxxbuQi_kp4p4XgW1AZHqH9635P9c8xmMKuncBovU5sunbaPZdkE0/s320/DSCF2650.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414777466833854914" /></a><br /><br />I’m walking along the Spree now, the Reichstag’s glass observation dome visible in the background.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiioppQdxniF9JSk0UJFPRthwByPiwgHpp7V52FsKePs06YNAwT07j33dp7htrcArwwA8EPRFVmS4qI1LObXzFCejYAh7buMCTKNSzhvwAhaHxByVdATncX251gPrbelvCSUy8emGAYW70/s1600-h/DSCF2657.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiioppQdxniF9JSk0UJFPRthwByPiwgHpp7V52FsKePs06YNAwT07j33dp7htrcArwwA8EPRFVmS4qI1LObXzFCejYAh7buMCTKNSzhvwAhaHxByVdATncX251gPrbelvCSUy8emGAYW70/s320/DSCF2657.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414777864949544706" /></a><br /><br />Traveling on Sunday sucks because the trains run only about every 10 minutes or so, compared with 3 or 4 minutes on the weekdays. I browse a newsstand while waiting. You may notice Hitler peering at you from the magazine cover at right. Images of him and swastikas are generally illegal here, unless they’re used for satirical purposes.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhILPel9v8IEtQVBS37IYVj_5AriWjmRbD1VYPx96q5NnG_xiBMwzjqfG8mGy81pqqh0AdMSQo2UUxvkWbMuoiGoyJ4pw0S7w4wSg7QxGVhGv4CpRQkWGLVLK5u0VwAMwtvhs-f78IF5-M/s1600-h/DSCF2662.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhILPel9v8IEtQVBS37IYVj_5AriWjmRbD1VYPx96q5NnG_xiBMwzjqfG8mGy81pqqh0AdMSQo2UUxvkWbMuoiGoyJ4pw0S7w4wSg7QxGVhGv4CpRQkWGLVLK5u0VwAMwtvhs-f78IF5-M/s320/DSCF2662.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414778329233839442" /></a>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-33257770880750445172009-12-12T04:14:00.000-08:002009-12-17T03:39:39.306-08:00Hertha 2, Leverkusen 2But it felt like a win for the home team, Hertha, because on the <em>final play </em>against a more skilled Leverkusen side, the boys in blue put in a header from a corner kick to salvage the draw. You can see Hertha's first goal below and hear the fans' signature chant of "Ha Ho He!"<br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-81ecbb3c6a31c756 height=285 width=385 contentId="81ecbb3c6a31c756"></OBJECT><br /><br />Getting to Olympic Stadium is an experience. You travel in a crammed subway car with fans from both teams. When you emerge, you walk through a wooded area for awhile and then see this, the site of the 1936 Games:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxw5Wqldnfh-0ALlRFM_FwHn2QFlEdAcKYPCTmVNeN5O-oyEBpqD_5zFcspbY5P2RurJ9i_QO2Gkgt1npHkaVCLBHjYvpVF9BDdrueraVuXtesAImV14Ubk2CdDeUcY3s-hIORU5MB-hU/s1600-h/DSCF2585.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxw5Wqldnfh-0ALlRFM_FwHn2QFlEdAcKYPCTmVNeN5O-oyEBpqD_5zFcspbY5P2RurJ9i_QO2Gkgt1npHkaVCLBHjYvpVF9BDdrueraVuXtesAImV14Ubk2CdDeUcY3s-hIORU5MB-hU/s320/DSCF2585.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414754202361865634" /></a><br /><br />The sweeping curve of its interior is impressive. The building itself has quite a history. Hundreds of accused army deserters were shot here. In the waning days of WWII, the very young and the very old gathered here for induction into the <span style="font-style:italic;">Volkssturm,</span> the defense of last resort. They got wiped out. In April 1945, battles over the stadium left 2,000 dead, mostly boys of 13 and 14.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqiOG0MbCX6oHbwg0SIqzdhJ7TK0OhpY26AClpjsZx_ZeMe1HA4WPXpaBJUfauX0jrGBrie2T76IaIYcQL7Suo80QeTSkhtv1l_tjtTdF-EJhAslNEzdODBH8inHArUpMpYOF2WghcrA/s1600-h/DSCF2593.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqiOG0MbCX6oHbwg0SIqzdhJ7TK0OhpY26AClpjsZx_ZeMe1HA4WPXpaBJUfauX0jrGBrie2T76IaIYcQL7Suo80QeTSkhtv1l_tjtTdF-EJhAslNEzdODBH8inHArUpMpYOF2WghcrA/s320/DSCF2593.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414754774686784194" /></a><br /><br />In the center of this photo, where the flags are flying, is the equivalent of Hertha’s Dog Pound. They jump around and yell chants all game. I wanted to sit there, but it's pretty exclusive and security is tight. This season, Hertha is the Bundesliga’s equivalent of the St. Louis Rams, and because they’re not very good, the stadium is only half full. Plenty loud though.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BkFnZRWf9bwzd1Hf-j87_yer73RQ3dRq4y2Cg1vSZNAqfS13tNZHWMuwkTyzS_qFvgFsngKnz2Snu1EBPSruCvyryDSapBsIvYUfBZ6drwM4sMQJb2998ChaD-ICxjQveEG98Rwj3e8/s1600-h/DSCF2591.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-BkFnZRWf9bwzd1Hf-j87_yer73RQ3dRq4y2Cg1vSZNAqfS13tNZHWMuwkTyzS_qFvgFsngKnz2Snu1EBPSruCvyryDSapBsIvYUfBZ6drwM4sMQJb2998ChaD-ICxjQveEG98Rwj3e8/s320/DSCF2591.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414755896160971986" /></a><br /><br />To fit in, I buy a Hertha scarf.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWSFycDD3uDCNa1xwpCI-3pu4PbtvU9v03xj0SaeXrp6ALkZPSojr0ahONUsRMLvPYiFt_9yMO1L6RvEsNeifnoAqangU-4mNh6_4tK263-_g9qZUp8YYZa2iEEhbGZUOAOy7sBHAEgCU/s1600-h/DSCF2598.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWSFycDD3uDCNa1xwpCI-3pu4PbtvU9v03xj0SaeXrp6ALkZPSojr0ahONUsRMLvPYiFt_9yMO1L6RvEsNeifnoAqangU-4mNh6_4tK263-_g9qZUp8YYZa2iEEhbGZUOAOy7sBHAEgCU/s320/DSCF2598.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414756499593186930" /></a><br /><br />A group of friends invites me to sit with them in Section 29. They can’t believe an American traveling alone in Berlin would want to come see their shitty team play. Most of all, they want to practice their English. After the game, they take me to a nearby pub and even though most of them are unemployed, they won’t let me buy a round. At far left is Maurice studying my map, eager to show me something. The baby-faced guy in the middle, Frederick, spent a year in North Carolina, so his English is pretty good. He tries to explain to his pals what Bud Light tastes like and struggles to describe it. “Like piss?” I offer, and he responds, “No! Piss has more flavor!”<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXR-VapIvbt79779NfmrlUwakCJVdh_qBBvsW5VBJSAerHP4OjcuBvswtCsEg5S_vIQ6i1a5XOG6BkHOgxXRUZ4vtxYfSUw_dz-AQgkqz95e5UhYHQtPg8cA5WNFW0TEOBnI10CFp9RM/s1600-h/DSCF2601.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXR-VapIvbt79779NfmrlUwakCJVdh_qBBvsW5VBJSAerHP4OjcuBvswtCsEg5S_vIQ6i1a5XOG6BkHOgxXRUZ4vtxYfSUw_dz-AQgkqz95e5UhYHQtPg8cA5WNFW0TEOBnI10CFp9RM/s320/DSCF2601.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414757341556779538" /></a><br /><br />It’s getting very late and we say our goodbyes. Frank accompanies me to the S-Bahn and travels with me partway back to the city center. I was impressed by these young Germans. They were really tight, each seeming to care deeply about the other.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoNNcKx_f1xfxKNPFzkqmsSlQJ8EzGdv51L-rpg_ciJplIHjunTCBqdeCjzw2kyNPqxzwiyyjeT-tz1A3Kjyhley-CAR8yZNY5GQVeS3FG_qSyTqomiPfhIf9Lmf621YS0KaorkKF4A8/s1600-h/DSCF2605.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoNNcKx_f1xfxKNPFzkqmsSlQJ8EzGdv51L-rpg_ciJplIHjunTCBqdeCjzw2kyNPqxzwiyyjeT-tz1A3Kjyhley-CAR8yZNY5GQVeS3FG_qSyTqomiPfhIf9Lmf621YS0KaorkKF4A8/s320/DSCF2605.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414758828630685106" /></a><br /><br />The next thing I know I’m back at Schonhauser Allee. Now <br />I know where to pick up the S-Bahn here -- it’s deep within the Schonhauser Arkade, or shopping mall. I knew I’d figure it out eventually. Too bad I’ve only got a couple more days here.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj11tsVXHMXB9mG381O4uOJs_2Tx0eCddRvhZZdIrY_WvU6TTJgZVCKjTSJWQsMenyAfZopX3mHkxXtrj1nQQT8ecxS6IuXXL0UCpjSeTaPBe8kNDZKo7a0ihsnB-Dk34pFGfNG86ENVu8/s1600-h/DSCF2607.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj11tsVXHMXB9mG381O4uOJs_2Tx0eCddRvhZZdIrY_WvU6TTJgZVCKjTSJWQsMenyAfZopX3mHkxXtrj1nQQT8ecxS6IuXXL0UCpjSeTaPBe8kNDZKo7a0ihsnB-Dk34pFGfNG86ENVu8/s320/DSCF2607.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414759659077781906" /></a>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-58589130596238266842009-12-11T08:54:00.000-08:002009-12-11T09:00:29.840-08:00A man of good taste<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQckJz2TyY5x2ZAvMaMapvINjs7jCz1o-DKiNKzGouOnc23qJPlVYYeq1pmJz0lt6_ZZpjI-KOI11HbNgGpxep6-MkSwBDezJlJrJm8JmAOw9JHDOejduqi5GLi9jDSIP_nDc2YLeth8/s1600-h/DSCF2534.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQckJz2TyY5x2ZAvMaMapvINjs7jCz1o-DKiNKzGouOnc23qJPlVYYeq1pmJz0lt6_ZZpjI-KOI11HbNgGpxep6-MkSwBDezJlJrJm8JmAOw9JHDOejduqi5GLi9jDSIP_nDc2YLeth8/s320/DSCF2534.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414024239999499762" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRlWsifbJKkmlGA73Am5-S6srfAsgoN5PbSRuRLV4EXm5trKajic2Ksj7FVaiwG7qFD7u9yIQVh8fFh7pfE7ANG8wOmIAWEI2iIMmj-NA6zETcv5gZYn3JA8OfKduXpF9W2o6Q2DAG2Oc/s1600-h/DSCF2528.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRlWsifbJKkmlGA73Am5-S6srfAsgoN5PbSRuRLV4EXm5trKajic2Ksj7FVaiwG7qFD7u9yIQVh8fFh7pfE7ANG8wOmIAWEI2iIMmj-NA6zETcv5gZYn3JA8OfKduXpF9W2o6Q2DAG2Oc/s320/DSCF2528.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414024105577283138" /></a><br />I spent much of today at the Alte Nationalgallerie, devoted to 19th-century art. No time to dally, I'm afraid. In a couple hours, Hertha BSC takes on Bayer Leverkusen at Olympic Stadium and I'm so there. Are you ready for some <em>fussball</em>?Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-38549942702894844402009-12-10T10:19:00.000-08:002014-03-13T15:59:00.966-07:00The Berlin ZooRemember li'l Knut, the polar bear that captured the world's attention two years ago? Well, he's dead. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFmTQwumkjWEH6xLWx3dy_Ei9jBTFujxzyMYkVtSULlg24ioLxQlizo6DeobXR5ckDGMKLSAFm6DFf4P9FPKk9njD0KHPNBPlE_giTWkZ8jJcNerOAgdrLhydXfja_fMhPea4b1Im-5Q/s1600-h/knut2.jpg"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413678638645383986 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 245px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFmTQwumkjWEH6xLWx3dy_Ei9jBTFujxzyMYkVtSULlg24ioLxQlizo6DeobXR5ckDGMKLSAFm6DFf4P9FPKk9njD0KHPNBPlE_giTWkZ8jJcNerOAgdrLhydXfja_fMhPea4b1Im-5Q/s320/knut2.jpg" border=0></A> <br /><br />Figuratively, of course! Knut just no longer looks like this, having grown into something of a menacing beast no longer fit to canoodle with humans. Whoa, he's really changed. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaDOIMs-9Efay-aXtmNjjTcnRMdpy2uWigtf-bviQ_Ls_VMswDVo8ajiIWZHCKC39BH3Pn3adT4faeIILaAEWUe5gNwy8E1m9Wr19LdAiEPqrwz11_0C47l-rBb7AY4DOkNv8OAAJvzA/s1600-h/DSCF2455.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413678224018675282 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaDOIMs-9Efay-aXtmNjjTcnRMdpy2uWigtf-bviQ_Ls_VMswDVo8ajiIWZHCKC39BH3Pn3adT4faeIILaAEWUe5gNwy8E1m9Wr19LdAiEPqrwz11_0C47l-rBb7AY4DOkNv8OAAJvzA/s320/DSCF2455.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />We're on the prowl for the elusive <EM>eisbaren</EM>. Perhaps we'll find Knut yet. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLN_8BWxPSs-43bdalZXAR4xSbJ62AFBBWpAfBtbFbfq4bGJszo5wg8MHkQU4U-eLoeeyevdShxRqBQohIjrxgGjUbU2waPoqeHnhvZLksB8gRxt3AKm8WopERcFYXeMf5s4nULC1MVog/s1600-h/DSCF2456.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413677996709261618 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLN_8BWxPSs-43bdalZXAR4xSbJ62AFBBWpAfBtbFbfq4bGJszo5wg8MHkQU4U-eLoeeyevdShxRqBQohIjrxgGjUbU2waPoqeHnhvZLksB8gRxt3AKm8WopERcFYXeMf5s4nULC1MVog/s320/DSCF2456.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Well, here's his enclosure, and if I'm not mistaken the sign concludes with something like "Thank you for your understanding." That's never good news. Maybe he's hibernatin'. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTU59AkPo2-iZfy5X2yi7ztU1DQ4qqOM2H5zbFwq9B574U_LxnJgpPUcLB6T4w6-VajrF8KCexucge4XPF9UDF55X5u1UFm8V5Cub-o380QRQNg7PDHX1XcCzleWr-a94rvUtBO0mH_Lo/s1600-h/DSCF2457.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413677758979659426 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTU59AkPo2-iZfy5X2yi7ztU1DQ4qqOM2H5zbFwq9B574U_LxnJgpPUcLB6T4w6-VajrF8KCexucge4XPF9UDF55X5u1UFm8V5Cub-o380QRQNg7PDHX1XcCzleWr-a94rvUtBO0mH_Lo/s320/DSCF2457.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Disappointment breeds invention. Pardon the following reverie.<br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-5c567d8a0b53df15 height=266 width=320 contentId="5c567d8a0b53df15"></OBJECT><br /><br /><br />Yes, yes, otters are nature's comedians. We get it. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbfQENGF64UX6UbEl2JV-yYkDI3fWNr52vnnIUyfNYbY27C0PFYK3Chpe078wT3L5kzbGHAL-8B5bt3BLPMpjH4IM6PRvnizponVYRAWwfaNSqbjLZv2wTs0NZabilsxy7gfKIRAyijM/s1600-h/DSCF2460.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413677626959237778 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbfQENGF64UX6UbEl2JV-yYkDI3fWNr52vnnIUyfNYbY27C0PFYK3Chpe078wT3L5kzbGHAL-8B5bt3BLPMpjH4IM6PRvnizponVYRAWwfaNSqbjLZv2wTs0NZabilsxy7gfKIRAyijM/s320/DSCF2460.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />I know this looks like something out of the International Wildlife Museum, but these are real live penguins, I swear. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_P9dFUo1VRwenSkx1VSdOD0og-spz3xTu2nDwMVEH7T0Fp6RWBSbPTlyw57z2pBq3MtdlmdpVfpvJPrjSzSJTjK007cbrYrU1rxMFOGIetWmeq5wofYOlYnJEwcLQxFMcCjrtux6zEoo/s1600-h/DSCF2461.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413677490225932258 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_P9dFUo1VRwenSkx1VSdOD0og-spz3xTu2nDwMVEH7T0Fp6RWBSbPTlyw57z2pBq3MtdlmdpVfpvJPrjSzSJTjK007cbrYrU1rxMFOGIetWmeq5wofYOlYnJEwcLQxFMcCjrtux6zEoo/s320/DSCF2461.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />A South African sea lion: <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9s_849654k5ycUuuPE7pEJqwC3tetvafuTL3-HGBgq-rTFaibeuTMVj1EsC0N1HaRh0-Av7sA_Qx7N5-zM6VZ9bjWK4GHwyFC7nAtMDwd1gq58RqAEvJdTV95wBX5zvlphFZcy2l2A0E/s1600-h/DSCF2464.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413677328079648162 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9s_849654k5ycUuuPE7pEJqwC3tetvafuTL3-HGBgq-rTFaibeuTMVj1EsC0N1HaRh0-Av7sA_Qx7N5-zM6VZ9bjWK4GHwyFC7nAtMDwd1gq58RqAEvJdTV95wBX5zvlphFZcy2l2A0E/s320/DSCF2464.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />A non-South African, non-sea, lion: <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHt6wZmHpsviYA8jY2hKKYOpnUN9-SEH8PYYKPRN_XslpE8JQwFaM34dQFssEvs8dAaYX5hMbxrmUF0yRUc6JMFMLKUMr0X2ak4gTARBoG6AyfA-UYAnEml3MlsO_HoBxZ4NSu0neYv3A/s1600-h/DSCF2465.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413677121488800146 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHt6wZmHpsviYA8jY2hKKYOpnUN9-SEH8PYYKPRN_XslpE8JQwFaM34dQFssEvs8dAaYX5hMbxrmUF0yRUc6JMFMLKUMr0X2ak4gTARBoG6AyfA-UYAnEml3MlsO_HoBxZ4NSu0neYv3A/s320/DSCF2465.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />A snipey little fellow. Would like to strap him to my waist and smuggle him home. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYbkC7dkNYZueLSMSfAqnJDUHYDBrW5VsEFjuOd8LUKmHi3l-jasJ-zUG6SUfSHDgEtA_d8LcCaHXhKJ6DDJscSN9DX4yi5NEZv0ZJxw31M2n-MaXhYV_mRyx3OOz4SdQP-AOz8QpzLVM/s1600-h/DSCF2467.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413676913759662594 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYbkC7dkNYZueLSMSfAqnJDUHYDBrW5VsEFjuOd8LUKmHi3l-jasJ-zUG6SUfSHDgEtA_d8LcCaHXhKJ6DDJscSN9DX4yi5NEZv0ZJxw31M2n-MaXhYV_mRyx3OOz4SdQP-AOz8QpzLVM/s320/DSCF2467.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />What's black and white and retching all over? <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaFmCUM8mUR1yk8vMztJf803qP5LT6nRTqh9MVZuLtFUEGxArwRtYgd4jbJoo_HqvEn5iSviXoPfGd_ZgAdkorZtUkOP388MLmQyrPPG3xj87-styMw6EzfFHubsXyGKCqYHMgsCP-aM/s1600-h/DSCF2468.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413676730499352242 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaFmCUM8mUR1yk8vMztJf803qP5LT6nRTqh9MVZuLtFUEGxArwRtYgd4jbJoo_HqvEn5iSviXoPfGd_ZgAdkorZtUkOP388MLmQyrPPG3xj87-styMw6EzfFHubsXyGKCqYHMgsCP-aM/s320/DSCF2468.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />I can relate, my man. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8GIXn8MUAZnfgmHkIBdljJJtQXHUSb6hACSMBuesaKHpRYnBQHdvDsMQo0MzmjBtTiZoBOJ5BgOTf7nhHw2tND4X9YkQz3OqR6YCgi8vbJIb1KguJUCDZxrJKnWtQawRuzmBc1ef39Y/s1600-h/DSCF2470.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413676508603283922 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8GIXn8MUAZnfgmHkIBdljJJtQXHUSb6hACSMBuesaKHpRYnBQHdvDsMQo0MzmjBtTiZoBOJ5BgOTf7nhHw2tND4X9YkQz3OqR6YCgi8vbJIb1KguJUCDZxrJKnWtQawRuzmBc1ef39Y/s320/DSCF2470.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Baby elephant alert! <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6Mg3FgPU-VzVVwSy5Iargtl63I0bFBhsxlGpLuv16BAbuvsechCTbUcZB9h1OBV8Qf4bM7z90nm08eQ-Gt4o9zpRLDz9wl8tlk09Br4Sv7oCyBaporhgMoQoqNiOEWyw7g2Keqk_Aec/s1600-h/DSCF2472.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413676347394405554 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6Mg3FgPU-VzVVwSy5Iargtl63I0bFBhsxlGpLuv16BAbuvsechCTbUcZB9h1OBV8Qf4bM7z90nm08eQ-Gt4o9zpRLDz9wl8tlk09Br4Sv7oCyBaporhgMoQoqNiOEWyw7g2Keqk_Aec/s320/DSCF2472.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Hey! Come back! <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLfK69aAaaxncGifsOLZr6kJopJkplJ1QB4mVbKb5qxusRF38_yU1niTlfvDpjVnCBO9VOHYfM2bV6Ocf5na66D8r1_orDI8idD8-umreMQ5hZpI5xa2ReA_x84nN5VSPlxZNa-1mhOI/s1600-h/DSCF2474.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413676062837248210 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLfK69aAaaxncGifsOLZr6kJopJkplJ1QB4mVbKb5qxusRF38_yU1niTlfvDpjVnCBO9VOHYfM2bV6Ocf5na66D8r1_orDI8idD8-umreMQ5hZpI5xa2ReA_x84nN5VSPlxZNa-1mhOI/s320/DSCF2474.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Time for a currywurst. What are you looking at, Fritz? <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6uUDxsUQNMvp1bgBtyvkp9gi_Af2AU6enldnybj3dScRUCpZE4mQNlLAhd1xX6haV5vy2Ythbm0s2jWF6NWCUBxI-bjjrBLcxDiLwo1I3gLDu-RRM2uPrTi9FINoGD8JgFLBrDeHsGDo/s1600-h/DSCF2479.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413685508247328034 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6uUDxsUQNMvp1bgBtyvkp9gi_Af2AU6enldnybj3dScRUCpZE4mQNlLAhd1xX6haV5vy2Ythbm0s2jWF6NWCUBxI-bjjrBLcxDiLwo1I3gLDu-RRM2uPrTi9FINoGD8JgFLBrDeHsGDo/s320/DSCF2479.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />The rain is really coming down now. This is a prized piece of the Wall by artist Kiddy Citny known as "The King's Head." It's outside the Markische Museum. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigicHX7y8HQeW7srwm7LjzlkcxgxfCl6TgE2xNHa5w1h0QysxlK7ptTdAj1uRWrqkiHRxgB70rQj89PdyZ7eanwncmiqd42r7HJheJJ28x3tuJDXkklMz0ScfAuRbZjugCMbUr4Dxer0A/s1600-h/DSCF2483.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413675848723137362 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigicHX7y8HQeW7srwm7LjzlkcxgxfCl6TgE2xNHa5w1h0QysxlK7ptTdAj1uRWrqkiHRxgB70rQj89PdyZ7eanwncmiqd42r7HJheJJ28x3tuJDXkklMz0ScfAuRbZjugCMbUr4Dxer0A/s320/DSCF2483.JPG" border=0></A><br /><br /><iframe src="//player.vimeo.com/video/88721820" width="500" height="333" frameborder="0" webkitallowfullscreen mozallowfullscreen allowfullscreen></iframe> <p><a href="http://vimeo.com/88721820">psibley 18</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user11630988">Sluggh McGee</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><br /><br />I was driven, <EM>driven</EM> I tell you, into this riverside cafe for a Paulaner <EM>hefe.</EM> <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKavOY3EZ09LtDzCIKAe_e0J7R__spS1-7yA2vNMdgNURONxasydteQF3uQzqcsGa5MmPv0o4cwHx4xceO0w2vcddvu0lgjseMUYO7VaeVclEUaUbw27Qx5ajk_yChoWESdnmRmYru_1U/s1600-h/DSCF2486.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413675622396115378 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKavOY3EZ09LtDzCIKAe_e0J7R__spS1-7yA2vNMdgNURONxasydteQF3uQzqcsGa5MmPv0o4cwHx4xceO0w2vcddvu0lgjseMUYO7VaeVclEUaUbw27Qx5ajk_yChoWESdnmRmYru_1U/s320/DSCF2486.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />The show must go on. To Berliners, a freezing rain means nothing, and no thought is given to curtailing this carnival. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh536dAgGbT8UPZmVNDl3DEbsLhvUyIOrtGR_lQ60AQ3yv9wLh0sGQ__0rPtykaVfPdKAmCF9Gf6AP8bFwPE1dbCnFmZ-jOtDoviVC8FUkMWqurti1nT4g7CDV_jYeU41Xqa6btOx-s4rE/s1600-h/DSCF2491.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413675230152262562 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh536dAgGbT8UPZmVNDl3DEbsLhvUyIOrtGR_lQ60AQ3yv9wLh0sGQ__0rPtykaVfPdKAmCF9Gf6AP8bFwPE1dbCnFmZ-jOtDoviVC8FUkMWqurti1nT4g7CDV_jYeU41Xqa6btOx-s4rE/s320/DSCF2491.JPG" border=0></A> <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbEeuh-P6ISTfdZGfznQQdSxIizoMn9ZgQWcp0MGCTvyyGXUpjxq8VdUD9lL5nYDePyk08eYAkx0C48ol4VKPUm91hJWwwBPjpaecq7zv0ZiNWgd2TE3HqZCFQXROdHTlCrHLd1csFiE/s1600-h/DSCF2495.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413675083025795410 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbEeuh-P6ISTfdZGfznQQdSxIizoMn9ZgQWcp0MGCTvyyGXUpjxq8VdUD9lL5nYDePyk08eYAkx0C48ol4VKPUm91hJWwwBPjpaecq7zv0ZiNWgd2TE3HqZCFQXROdHTlCrHLd1csFiE/s320/DSCF2495.JPG" border=0></A><br /><br />I'd like to think I'm made of similarly stern stuff, but peasant that I am, I'm hightailing it back to my warm cave for potato soup and toast. See you tomorrow! But not before 94 seconds of animal goodness:<br /><br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-bd84560bf5724b1e height=285 width=385 contentId="bd84560bf5724b1e"></OBJECT>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-6752691129609080192009-12-10T09:05:00.000-08:002009-12-10T16:30:31.874-08:00'Riding black'Berlin’s public transportation system is justifiably acclaimed. The trains, trams and ferries run on time, they’re all integrated, there’s no excuse not to use them. I’m a fan of the 7-day card, which allows unlimited travel for a week. Having traveled 9,000 miles to get here, it seems silly to now start rationing your trips across town. <br /><br />My card expired Wednesday at midnight, it’s now Thursday morning, and the only place I know where to get another is a newsstand at Alexanderplatz, about five subway stops away. I could spend the 2.10 euros to buy a single ticket to get there, or I can practice <em>schwarzfahren</em>, or “riding black,” under the radar, without a ticket. There are no turnstiles or controls -- we’re completely on the honor system and I haven’t been asked to produce a ticket in the past week, so I confidently hop the U-2. <br /><br />You know where this is going. We pass Eberwalder, Senenfeld, Spittelmarkt, Markische, and we’re pulling into Alexanderplatz, when this guy in the black jacket gets on board. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgitjv7u1gvyXBzCp1HMI3k8fp9IoDYmtBwHXKyh_kJzPLoENmTyqaQV28oh8VUaIBECoR2sBjY4H99B_Ry-p7TP3c6ptKzy-98J2iEOa1_lS1MI1gGFTqYQzYR2kgW-gzBN_Mq_b0JBXg/s1600-h/DSCF2452.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgitjv7u1gvyXBzCp1HMI3k8fp9IoDYmtBwHXKyh_kJzPLoENmTyqaQV28oh8VUaIBECoR2sBjY4H99B_Ry-p7TP3c6ptKzy-98J2iEOa1_lS1MI1gGFTqYQzYR2kgW-gzBN_Mq_b0JBXg/s320/DSCF2452.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413656188085755682" /></a><br /><br />You have got to be kidding me. This is a transit cop. They board your car two at a time, at opposite ends. There’s really no escape. The fine is 40 euros for traveling without a valid ticket. If you don’t have the money, they’ll drag you to an ATM. If you have insufficient funds, they turn you over to the police. I’ve crossed Berlin back and forth for a week without being checked, and now, 300 yards from my destination to <em>buy another ticket</em>, they board? The timing is too great to bear.<br /><br />I blame <em>her</em>, -- remember her? -- the one who gave me the <em>ojo malo </em>the other day.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFTomARx5QmAXL_nm6sSqZ7vbrva7IDTvZFdqjaGsxlrFEgLQu-kKCBActUe1q4BbRY4EhshwOQKGq9KAabuepX2_o8po3dJqVTbOwSN7x5bHMkYMaYvnSiZDhg0flz2Bq7NW9EGozL0/s1600-h/evil.eyd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFTomARx5QmAXL_nm6sSqZ7vbrva7IDTvZFdqjaGsxlrFEgLQu-kKCBActUe1q4BbRY4EhshwOQKGq9KAabuepX2_o8po3dJqVTbOwSN7x5bHMkYMaYvnSiZDhg0flz2Bq7NW9EGozL0/s320/evil.eyd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413655981748139490" /></a><br /><br />Maybe there’s hope. I casually pull out my expired ticket and show it to The Man. He looks at it, looks at me … and moves on. WTF? I’ll never know. Maybe he saw the “Wednesday” stamp and assumed it was recent. Maybe he’s not used to seeing the 7-day cards. They are pretty expensive and I doubt a lot people carry them around. Perhaps he did a quick calculation that I’d spent 26 euros in the past week on his employer and that I was only a few hours in arrears. Don’t know, don’t care; don’t ask, don’t tell.<br /><br />This lady wasn’t so lucky, and she was in my car! She's coughing up 40 euros.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWh9BTYRAJrsZ_DYmLN027UFCi6uyPWeH2EH5p8XxwSV-t-hvKglvTBZ4THEJRLMocJZrTJb8trcFFQFaXXEYx-vu_UJK8eEetDZfmxuyD00zuaswRC2aETVxcriA0XJFzYRYDFq-KtNY/s1600-h/DSCF2453.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWh9BTYRAJrsZ_DYmLN027UFCi6uyPWeH2EH5p8XxwSV-t-hvKglvTBZ4THEJRLMocJZrTJb8trcFFQFaXXEYx-vu_UJK8eEetDZfmxuyD00zuaswRC2aETVxcriA0XJFzYRYDFq-KtNY/s320/DSCF2453.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413655838209305506" /></a><br /><br />Lesson: If you’re in Berlin and gonna ride black, don’t be like her and try to talk your way out of it. At first she shrugged her shoulders and started making excuses. Then she started rummaging through her stuff in an unconvincing show of innocence. No. Carry around an old ticket and produce it as if you don’t have a care in the world. At least you’ve got a fighting chance.<br /><br />When I resumed my journey, a guy hopped on board and started playing “Those Were the Days” on the accordion. To set the cosmic scales right, I dropped 50 cents into his cup. Phew!Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-85201017070205436322009-12-09T17:26:00.000-08:002009-12-10T08:14:54.909-08:00'Die Zauberflote'<A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlRIBWdtP0AVRmZ_kY_ADmH-M3fUR1EWCyMSqzuVbLOVxietq8UMuZ3cr4v3Ul0WG9XJOhx5-Yje3sjL4pAxshys9eHQ5cX-wvl8-JkTqCJH-oMftT3_fHKI5iHZe64bNoAIXsZFcT8w/s1600-h/Zauberflote.jpg"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413413353267049314 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlRIBWdtP0AVRmZ_kY_ADmH-M3fUR1EWCyMSqzuVbLOVxietq8UMuZ3cr4v3Ul0WG9XJOhx5-Yje3sjL4pAxshys9eHQ5cX-wvl8-JkTqCJH-oMftT3_fHKI5iHZe64bNoAIXsZFcT8w/s320/Zauberflote.jpg" border=0></A> Notes from “The Magic Flute,” Dec. 9, 2009, at the Staatsoper in Berlin: Have I mentioned how much I hate this place? It’s been destroyed by bombs and fire three times and rebuilt each time, and this is the best they can do? As I mentioned earlier, the sightlines are practically nonexistent from the sides, it’s hot, there’s no legroom -- basically, when the doors shut behind you, it’s like being on an American Airlines flight. <br /><br />This was an old-school production, and I mean that in a good way. The set designs, particularly the starry sky heralding the arrival of the Queen of the Night, resemble the pictures designer Karl Schinkel drew up in the early 1880s. Other scenes, mostly with an Asia Minor motif, achieved depth by layering painted gauze. Gigantic columns, temples, altars, smoldering tunnels into the earth -- they all showed up and were lifted away in seconds. By comparison, the sets in “Die Fledermaus,” in this same venue six days ago, took forever to swap out. <br /><br />Everything I know about “Flute” I got from P. Craig Russell’s lavish comic book (no, you can’t borrow mine), so the plot was familiar to me, but I didn’t realize until tonight the vocal demands made on the Queen of Darkness (Ana Durlovsky) and Sarastro (Christof Fischesser). Durlovsky has to hit an F7 at one point -- that’s singer-speak for the upper limit of human capability, and baritone Fischesser obviously stretches things in the opposite direction. Clearly, Mozart was amused by these gymnastics. <br /><br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwc3d5uaRunpUq9UEad9eNIR1hPGih09T6kRKjwNYqoi5mZ_x7yb-ntpzH_Xo1C8-PXQ2sIfDI-vvYfJEQwW2DCdUloxDFAC6purS1INxf6lB6_zc3tYEEsWWOIdSTLI8qkJ-O0zsh3Q0/s1600-h/Papagena.jpg"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413414939479883074 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwc3d5uaRunpUq9UEad9eNIR1hPGih09T6kRKjwNYqoi5mZ_x7yb-ntpzH_Xo1C8-PXQ2sIfDI-vvYfJEQwW2DCdUloxDFAC6purS1INxf6lB6_zc3tYEEsWWOIdSTLI8qkJ-O0zsh3Q0/s320/Papagena.jpg" border=0></A> <br />The Three Boys had just the right measure of sweetness and mischief, casually tossing glitter on the crowd as they exited the stage, and a ton of other really young kids, like 4 or 5 -- Papageno’s offspring -- also seemed to delight the audience, as did the menagerie of flute-tamed, Sendak-type beasts that lolled around. At the curtain, some boos rang down for Durlovsky and I think I know why. When she made her first appearance, she sang a string of ascending sixteenth-notes and bended them (not sure what the right term is) rather than articulate them to the crowd’s satisfaction. She didn’t have this problem later in the night; there are just some demanding pricks in the upper rows. Not as tough a crowd as Milan I’m sure, but in mostly polite Berlin -- a city in which pedestrians wait for a green light with no traffic in either direction -- it’s a notable divergence from the norm. <br /><br />Well, that’s my last opera this trip, unless I decide to go to Strauss’ “Woman Without a Shadow.” From a singer’s perspective, it’s 10 times the meat grinder “Flute” is -- more than four hours long, necessitating two intermissions. And it would be my only remaining opportunity to visit the Deutsch Oper (yeah, there are three opera houses here). In the parlance of the NFL, let's call it a game-time decision. (Staatsoper photos)<br /><br />A pretty good view of the conductor and cast is below. If you look closely, you'll see the Three Boys slyly tossing their magic dust onto the folks in the front row. I don't know why I save these. Maybe just to remember the <em>zeitgeist</em> of the moment.<br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-d5a40ea9771a42 height=266 width=320 contentId="d5a40ea9771a42"></OBJECT>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-32374806539867862302009-12-09T04:59:00.001-08:002014-04-09T11:29:03.735-07:00Hey, Berlin! You ought to be in picturesChristmas season is in full swing, shopping's at a full tilt, and warm, fuzzy feelings are busting out all over. Most of these shots were taken in the Tiergarten area near the zoo. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying a cup of dandelion tea and the BBC, watching the neighbors haul a small Christmas tree up three flights of stairs to their apartment.<br /><br /><iframe src="//player.vimeo.com/video/90156947" width="500" height="333" frameborder="0" webkitallowfullscreen mozallowfullscreen allowfullscreen></iframe> <p><a href="http://vimeo.com/90156947">dec.9.slideshow</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user11630988">Sluggh McGee</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-2686180692566083122009-12-08T17:04:00.000-08:002009-12-09T05:25:19.955-08:00Light and fogOK, let’s get cracking. These automated bottle recyclers are in a lot of grocery stores, but you really have to look for them. They’re marvels of technology, really. Once you insert a bottle, two rubber rollers hold it in place and spin it around. A diode scanner takes a picture of something (a bar code?) and decides whether it’s a legit bottle or not. I dropped about eight bottles in here, and the only one it rejected was a Tyskie, a Polish beer I bought at a corner store. No clue what the criteria is. Press the green button and out comes a store credit.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijgTzgvdv6CA_9dlJLCFGKnWV7EY1dLuh1hmIIJSEAHnWj0otnt07D0A3JNpeIFh53Bf6ajAY-HttU9six5ErNV-4AUH3uCUUt-2ncJQGfs1xUhyJjXrcjRRirmasKw_-5kLgVjbu8rw/s1600-h/DSCF2389.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijgTzgvdv6CA_9dlJLCFGKnWV7EY1dLuh1hmIIJSEAHnWj0otnt07D0A3JNpeIFh53Bf6ajAY-HttU9six5ErNV-4AUH3uCUUt-2ncJQGfs1xUhyJjXrcjRRirmasKw_-5kLgVjbu8rw/s320/DSCF2389.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413048758661592514" /></a><br /><br />I headed down to Kurfurstendamm, which is the closest thing to a city center that the former West Berlin had to offer. Here’s KaDeWe, billed as the biggest department store in continental Europe. I suppose that careful wording means Britain has a bigger one? The gourmet food section is supposed to be jaw-dropping.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCNBiTO6oTnDG6F9K-vPpBy54P0V-DrYjTTMn2pgRqCePb9vGfPP-9JvnfVsSze0fLkmsVACmybxCuWHMp0R-huiCnZoVoRZ5VzUDd0cO4L9vxZOSRHYYxxtp9cd2hnGrfrXQCIjZeMQ/s1600-h/DSCF2399.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCNBiTO6oTnDG6F9K-vPpBy54P0V-DrYjTTMn2pgRqCePb9vGfPP-9JvnfVsSze0fLkmsVACmybxCuWHMp0R-huiCnZoVoRZ5VzUDd0cO4L9vxZOSRHYYxxtp9cd2hnGrfrXQCIjZeMQ/s320/DSCF2399.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413048636452403026" /></a><br /><br />The little green man wearing a coat and hat is something of a cause celebre. He’s certainly a boon to souvenir hawkers. The story goes that Berlin is intent on making all its traffic signals conform to a standard that doesn’t include this little guy, so there’s a save-the-green-man-with-the-hat campaign afoot. I’m sure it’s a manufactured controversy, but I fell for it and got a magnet.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04UrvdD-5q-04j5tDZVl8CkttARCDlXDqqvMXlo8Qb3XNDU8NFhdtFtb4MsfFNlg-Gcqf4PMRYxkm6yYiYTH2G40lguIX9CRQWikawgrWrgHtOmpQp-em_ewrW9XvzNIWTeqSQgWGldk/s1600-h/DSCF2400.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04UrvdD-5q-04j5tDZVl8CkttARCDlXDqqvMXlo8Qb3XNDU8NFhdtFtb4MsfFNlg-Gcqf4PMRYxkm6yYiYTH2G40lguIX9CRQWikawgrWrgHtOmpQp-em_ewrW9XvzNIWTeqSQgWGldk/s320/DSCF2400.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413048489265321938" /></a><br /><br /><em>Frische fische </em>and lots of other things for sale at Wittenbergplatz. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWWaeV7AxTSn2pMlPo6C8-FnGBMzQVGcgkAZW5w2CJhcQbxwOByQH21VJ6mCesyPweg6ZZck54pGIR9LeAEDDrlqArkxq0OEbdBGSyanxRPrUXj6O8-hXFjFLMowzPIdLSEMY4DkeZKI/s1600-h/DSCF2402.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWWaeV7AxTSn2pMlPo6C8-FnGBMzQVGcgkAZW5w2CJhcQbxwOByQH21VJ6mCesyPweg6ZZck54pGIR9LeAEDDrlqArkxq0OEbdBGSyanxRPrUXj6O8-hXFjFLMowzPIdLSEMY4DkeZKI/s320/DSCF2402.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413048349045339746" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYF19eTJpvQd9GPwYByROnpixWHz9N4tWETfR53Mt4pjQlz67O2o5H0X4464IyIuT12ITc_HDlp5eqgWvgRF5PULNKjhngNiM1td8gaO78gkBT8292QkzfN2FF7mNQsvV04m-_SFRfu8/s1600-h/DSCF2403.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYF19eTJpvQd9GPwYByROnpixWHz9N4tWETfR53Mt4pjQlz67O2o5H0X4464IyIuT12ITc_HDlp5eqgWvgRF5PULNKjhngNiM1td8gaO78gkBT8292QkzfN2FF7mNQsvV04m-_SFRfu8/s320/DSCF2403.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413048182986730722" /></a><br /><br />How’s your German? Yeah, mine, too. I find it helps not to focus on the words too closely, and just try to do some free association. What about this one? <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGzzkmmMKL3d2f5_X-LammqjmrIw8D08KX-e0OvN7hM0E4CM47kklyEy7NuoZ4GZG1oyxveggFPwPmKwyr7ce1zcYDYO6rRA-fzx_O2IJTHtHuASOh8rM27-RP-C_MUrJNU6hAkPe3kps/s1600-h/DSCF2401.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGzzkmmMKL3d2f5_X-LammqjmrIw8D08KX-e0OvN7hM0E4CM47kklyEy7NuoZ4GZG1oyxveggFPwPmKwyr7ce1zcYDYO6rRA-fzx_O2IJTHtHuASOh8rM27-RP-C_MUrJNU6hAkPe3kps/s320/DSCF2401.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413048022612245186" /></a><br /><br />Yeah, eatin’ and drinkin’. I think that’s pretty close. And what do you think they sell here? <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI27WCGwE71574xY9ew8JGtxBanmMWhxGvRxF8qupMT0riUioig25_Df27HHfb03jvKPAKeHkqE7JetA2spty2un0QLGksAg-PasMphJudMtH64eyb8TOsEf0DWCM-HUCPrFrPtvD6xFM/s1600-h/DSCF2390.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI27WCGwE71574xY9ew8JGtxBanmMWhxGvRxF8qupMT0riUioig25_Df27HHfb03jvKPAKeHkqE7JetA2spty2un0QLGksAg-PasMphJudMtH64eyb8TOsEf0DWCM-HUCPrFrPtvD6xFM/s320/DSCF2390.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413049053099920050" /></a><br /><br />Blooming plants, for sure! So when you see an establishment like this selling <em>gluhwein</em>, I suppose that means … <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs44KruWDrV593mfvqUIXAch_MAlnn3wTPbv2Yg_0V3wJzpjPmBNSr_U8RkvuTAbOyoua7YXJDZZCPnTpUpp3Y-ueFfe58iSMPdX1g5KbJEQ-tfxG219Spmx1ZPXQpKODxgW0iHj22UJM/s1600-h/DSCF2409.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs44KruWDrV593mfvqUIXAch_MAlnn3wTPbv2Yg_0V3wJzpjPmBNSr_U8RkvuTAbOyoua7YXJDZZCPnTpUpp3Y-ueFfe58iSMPdX1g5KbJEQ-tfxG219Spmx1ZPXQpKODxgW0iHj22UJM/s320/DSCF2409.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413046620909640610" /></a><br />Yeah, wine made from glue, mos’ def. Seriously though, this is a nasty concoction. I don’t know how it’s possible to fuck up hot spiced wine, or maybe I just drank from a bad batch, but this stuff would be roiling in my innards for a good while. Lesson: Stick to wasser or bier.<br /><br />Overlooking the festivities is the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, which was blown to ruin by Anglo- American bombs. In the late 1950s, when West Berlin authorities proposed to remove the shattered tower, there was a public outcry in favor of preserving what was left of the church. And so it remains -- a lasting reminder of how much of the city looked in 1945. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwC-dJy8gd_0ShBoArEFxRObaG1YAde3UyNWxPx-L_3C6WSyloQUFKSq6-MZ4wfUqLwZRT3bsBoYvf2ajqByh5QzhmGWvdfliOqLRtXJQRIGeJTX9S7wIQfHzLcF1SgGDB8XSCpaMe2k/s1600-h/DSCF2408.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwC-dJy8gd_0ShBoArEFxRObaG1YAde3UyNWxPx-L_3C6WSyloQUFKSq6-MZ4wfUqLwZRT3bsBoYvf2ajqByh5QzhmGWvdfliOqLRtXJQRIGeJTX9S7wIQfHzLcF1SgGDB8XSCpaMe2k/s320/DSCF2408.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413046409535973010" /></a><br /><br />Here’s a view of the modern interior. The stylized Jesus reminds me of the one at the main cathedral in Dresden -- another German city that was blown to smithereens. I took a seat for awhile just to slow down time for a bit when an organist started playing.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEAJKLlK93TCpaN4SkQEORT62SAkd995uHZFW18W45B-feKd3-8FT63ZGxr-ij-fVDpXCoktkciF9I6vMVnGRMGt8p7OnQ7O1oD5qLsxFTN1CIZY5A3DWhVGoubu8XBfBtRU5wH5Aa3HY/s1600-h/DSCF2410.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEAJKLlK93TCpaN4SkQEORT62SAkd995uHZFW18W45B-feKd3-8FT63ZGxr-ij-fVDpXCoktkciF9I6vMVnGRMGt8p7OnQ7O1oD5qLsxFTN1CIZY5A3DWhVGoubu8XBfBtRU5wH5Aa3HY/s320/DSCF2410.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413046209473562130" /></a><br /><br />It wasn’t a formal performance; I think it was a music lesson of sorts, actually, and what I heard sounded less liturgical and more like “The Abominable Dr. Phibes.” Judge for yourself: <br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-eecc4a58a438fc4d height=266 width=320 contentId="eecc4a58a438fc4d"></OBJECT><br /><br /><br />What is it with Gypsies? I have no reason to think they’re bad people, but they’re cliquish, they refuse to assimilate, and though seemingly young and healthy, work is beneath them. This one was wailing mournfully -- not for redemption or inner peace or for bad deeds done. No. For money. That’s it. Just money. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOy3coA28dVq1yyq-375RU5Y5goOk3YErLVZbPYHoGjZhlgL7tcwNlBkUcGjs-qgQbVWBDyxa-JP8ALbMU3oX9o6sJGMykFuz1dG_G0HpHUySPSDHTFEWafsvtySB5bSaA7mx5Vc7hX9Q/s1600-h/DSCF2415.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413045022396325058 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOy3coA28dVq1yyq-375RU5Y5goOk3YErLVZbPYHoGjZhlgL7tcwNlBkUcGjs-qgQbVWBDyxa-JP8ALbMU3oX9o6sJGMykFuz1dG_G0HpHUySPSDHTFEWafsvtySB5bSaA7mx5Vc7hX9Q/s320/DSCF2415.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />After the Wall was built, Western investors really turned their attention to this area. I can’t think of a single global retailer that isn’t represented on this street. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5pJv0dSfZdSpGYjy1Dgx1GELT8nkHqlLaVbXNavLCabwh8zW__wzS_OFOljkPKvhI8HaG84C7PCo2cMM9aCnJBWu4orVnTuGPFpqco14MD8sodKWTIB39MSNbNe0uPImN8BjDfz2N5Y/s1600-h/DSCF2419.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413044862981993346 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5pJv0dSfZdSpGYjy1Dgx1GELT8nkHqlLaVbXNavLCabwh8zW__wzS_OFOljkPKvhI8HaG84C7PCo2cMM9aCnJBWu4orVnTuGPFpqco14MD8sodKWTIB39MSNbNe0uPImN8BjDfz2N5Y/s320/DSCF2419.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Some notes on tonight’s concert by pianist Pierre-Laurent Aimard: It was held in the Kammermusiksaal, which has the same in-the-round configuration of the philharmonic hall, but smaller. I first learned of Aimard a couple years ago when I downloaded some radio shows from DimeADozen. I thought he was really good in a clinical, professorial way, and I expected the night to be a pleasant diversion. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6aKVOP83fBTJ1G3hE01S6sjmQoyOOelLXands-jW9FUSj3oXB7cCVsKJSY3aD3NbHNDj5CLWrv71Rkv6xjH5wBCYpYT0k1qedY4uF-pDl9M7qDszL8dEc7Y5RfCKBX4LjenDAVve7wo/s1600-h/DSCF2422.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg6aKVOP83fBTJ1G3hE01S6sjmQoyOOelLXands-jW9FUSj3oXB7cCVsKJSY3aD3NbHNDj5CLWrv71Rkv6xjH5wBCYpYT0k1qedY4uF-pDl9M7qDszL8dEc7Y5RfCKBX4LjenDAVve7wo/s320/DSCF2422.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413056500327531506" /></a><br /><br />He opened with Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 6 in attack mode, with almost Gouldian tempos. Sure doesn’t sound French, I thought, with little of the tempered roundness that characterizes French musicians and French orchestras. Boy, is he good though, buoyant and full, executing this nifty crossover move where his left hand reaches for the higher registers. <br /><br />He proceeded to do some piano figures from George Benjamin. I figure they must be friends, being about the same age. I say this because any time you hear Benjamin’s name, it’s in association with Aimard. I don’t know of anyone else who plays Benjamin. This was a pleasant surprise. The 10 pieces were modern, impressionistic and highly textured, with apt titles like “Knots: Fast and Crisp,” and “Around the Corner: Flowing.” Accessible and not at all pin-headed.<br /><br />I couldn’t have been the only one at intermission dreading the Stockhausen to follow. At least the Klavierstuck 9 was brief. Look, if a modern man in middle age can’t fully appreciate this stuff, isn’t it time that this atonal garbage is hauled out to the curb? During some passages, a good five seconds would elapse between notes. I could hear myself swallowing. Yes, this work, like Benjamin’s, was also impressionistic and highly textured, but the difference is that Benjamin’s figures have a playful humanity, while Stockhausen’s anti-melodic approach borders on the nihilistic. The human mind searches for patterns. I closed my eyes and sought out geometric shapes, landscapes, memories, the sounds of human speech, anything that would contextualize the notes coming from the piano, and they defied all attempts to do so. And I think that’s precisely the point. Next, please.<br /><br />Variations on themes from Beethoven’s Third Symphony, the “Heroic” one, followed. I know the symphony as well as I know “Happy Birthday,” and I’m still not sure where some of Aimard’s themes come from. Hence the term “variations,” I guess. But boy is this guy good. An assured touch, light on the pedal, always digging deeper and darker. When it’s over, some numb nuts in the audience get up to leave. What’s the matter? Gotta catch the 10:30 airing of “The Nanny”? (That show is on here constantly).<br /><br />Aimard returns for an encore, as I knew he would. He tells a joke in German and launches into a shimmering Debussy prelude dripping with nostalgic longing. He sounds utterly French now, and I think to myself, he’s just pulled off a hat trick -- he’s covered four centuries of the classical repertoire --equally at home in all of them. He concludes the Debussy with quiet sensitivity, a thick fog of melancholy settling over the room. Handkerchiefs dab at moist eyes, a gaggle of 13-year-old French kids, yet immune to these subtle shadings, whoop it up for their countryman. It’s cute, sad and beautiful.<br /><br />We exit the hall into real fog, the tops of buildings now invisible, trying to hang on to what we’ve heard. As with anything beautiful, you try to preserve it as long as you can before having to let it go. And then you buy the CD.<br /><br />I take the long way home and run across this store display. I guess these are Bauhaus designs. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkqRSkoqk9yvYt7pf9RyotfILKarpRBoZg9By4MC5HiRSHERjuugiA8oVuM0yWNkIJEv-NSMSn-ru1ekdICNDhl6_mrZbySouNUVv-612ajbTCtZrPnx2qfmsnbt79i5lHuRt2MZRCMw/s1600-h/DSCF2424.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413044722550876946 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkqRSkoqk9yvYt7pf9RyotfILKarpRBoZg9By4MC5HiRSHERjuugiA8oVuM0yWNkIJEv-NSMSn-ru1ekdICNDhl6_mrZbySouNUVv-612ajbTCtZrPnx2qfmsnbt79i5lHuRt2MZRCMw/s320/DSCF2424.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />This is a $5,000 chair. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvoHCF3XwUBYf8iqI-dFQFhx98S208EZF-MGggX5QAO8FC7BFXXLAcsfBE7uNRrcUm3klLudncjXtIPE7CUjyEjBUkdAErGIUx1A1-UXYjkh9ddgvUHvwI_BKJj9B_YLMaGL0pBexIChg/s1600-h/DSCF2425.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413044497677851186 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvoHCF3XwUBYf8iqI-dFQFhx98S208EZF-MGggX5QAO8FC7BFXXLAcsfBE7uNRrcUm3klLudncjXtIPE7CUjyEjBUkdAErGIUx1A1-UXYjkh9ddgvUHvwI_BKJj9B_YLMaGL0pBexIChg/s320/DSCF2425.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />As I turn around I see a strange glow in the sky at 10:30 p.m. It takes awhile for me to realize it’s the lights from Potsdamer Platz lighting up the low clouds a mile away. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVzXQX8KmKRuYo63ta7PYVtzhkuVnW2Xo8agLGRUkrDQ7N8KM27p1sdC03woVp-eVZB1EJFZlkHaNLMW3-3vY9UdEYBawIZk4fnbbIRikP2-ec5zbJSVyYCW0Fijp71zzsx2rP-J6yO78/s1600-h/DSCF2426.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413044352241423762 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVzXQX8KmKRuYo63ta7PYVtzhkuVnW2Xo8agLGRUkrDQ7N8KM27p1sdC03woVp-eVZB1EJFZlkHaNLMW3-3vY9UdEYBawIZk4fnbbIRikP2-ec5zbJSVyYCW0Fijp71zzsx2rP-J6yO78/s320/DSCF2426.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Here’s some of those retractable barriers I was talking about. If you’re going to truck-bomb the British Embassy, you’ve got to get past these. Good luck. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVqycU4-XovJo-7mH2uC3FgGQ4byrPANGPgRH_I7cPCryVv5ujP93Tz3Gf1UCYUGwctXfYjOPW5BnzboJSZWu-1whaOeZnS-bbKvcYux3_yH5hsiVu7per9mPkA2kRecpxDyNf-p9hxao/s1600-h/DSCF2427.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413044209724587650 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVqycU4-XovJo-7mH2uC3FgGQ4byrPANGPgRH_I7cPCryVv5ujP93Tz3Gf1UCYUGwctXfYjOPW5BnzboJSZWu-1whaOeZnS-bbKvcYux3_yH5hsiVu7per9mPkA2kRecpxDyNf-p9hxao/s320/DSCF2427.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlQ6PwPBtafuHt-4g2VywN-fdytqJf8KGmb4Y1tVNYGGbFpobuZKRrxmR4EzaNUFRaVYkdKw-SHwBUJNyyHMwudSGktpFmMsGnxUgR5clfEDyMEXWjiI4uBrPdQoS_ToL-UF97mLF1nQ/s1600-h/DSCF2428.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413044061055742802 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlQ6PwPBtafuHt-4g2VywN-fdytqJf8KGmb4Y1tVNYGGbFpobuZKRrxmR4EzaNUFRaVYkdKw-SHwBUJNyyHMwudSGktpFmMsGnxUgR5clfEDyMEXWjiI4uBrPdQoS_ToL-UF97mLF1nQ/s320/DSCF2428.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Hardly anyone is on the streets now. I stop in front of the Brandenburg <em>Tor</em>. <br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5nU-nmqCKm3rPRcRoFpA4vahTfrSXxx11IMmPs-kN-781gThxmfZVeX1GV727TM36caE6Zth7W5lgUEHdJS0MUiX59z-D_LcVNLMyuf8s_oew4MgQSAEDyGy4WsHyIejIf_MgwsOwDM/s1600-h/DSCF2431.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413043911747920354 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5nU-nmqCKm3rPRcRoFpA4vahTfrSXxx11IMmPs-kN-781gThxmfZVeX1GV727TM36caE6Zth7W5lgUEHdJS0MUiX59z-D_LcVNLMyuf8s_oew4MgQSAEDyGy4WsHyIejIf_MgwsOwDM/s320/DSCF2431.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />And take a stroll down Unter den Linden.<br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yXDEybzn3IyxjMC96FPetdCbOxPKOyVzgiM0Lq2XhxGqbPuwUwmDHWDZWDDtHCR2Jqpc1apQjYtSBnh6qURwPJ9HqVsIILJTGsNhsm9RtPitPrZlmrkduEgOEKZgkWdtURcDfa5B0XE/s1600-h/DSCF2433.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413043758335549794 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yXDEybzn3IyxjMC96FPetdCbOxPKOyVzgiM0Lq2XhxGqbPuwUwmDHWDZWDDtHCR2Jqpc1apQjYtSBnh6qURwPJ9HqVsIILJTGsNhsm9RtPitPrZlmrkduEgOEKZgkWdtURcDfa5B0XE/s320/DSCF2433.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Back home, the doner kebab place around the corner is open, thank goodness. Far from wailing for a handout, this guy approaches his job with the robust passion of a Pierre-Laurent Aimard. If everyone did likewise, wouldn't that be a merry Christmas?<br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0c6TOhgWZ2Eg_r2g9sty_whJzzklwZfl5C2hndXuUAp_Z2VTSL6iCcGQ4Ms1aI5oFznXqtmkYgxtWxNSugurq7Mv9_Psp9OayRriBXXTsyus-UyRh2TmRioqoCTyOSuS6nLDngP9-0FE/s1600-h/DSCF2434.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413043605642914962 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0c6TOhgWZ2Eg_r2g9sty_whJzzklwZfl5C2hndXuUAp_Z2VTSL6iCcGQ4Ms1aI5oFznXqtmkYgxtWxNSugurq7Mv9_Psp9OayRriBXXTsyus-UyRh2TmRioqoCTyOSuS6nLDngP9-0FE/s320/DSCF2434.JPG" border=0></A>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-80338635960432736452009-12-07T17:40:00.001-08:002016-07-11T14:52:22.356-07:00Lost and found<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpGEYjE5DaxLfQAGpF5chwdNS1DlyJS9MD6hzCSrFgz3MjgJtywjVcKGzMhNZLnk_0MuPAqHmMT9jCkD1IS8V0VVnYIhxVuAnJ7gOjsniA28J1SMlYHAKPLcZSrKoieVWhcOOiM1DIy9s/s1600-h/DSCF2299.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412685817269113778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpGEYjE5DaxLfQAGpF5chwdNS1DlyJS9MD6hzCSrFgz3MjgJtywjVcKGzMhNZLnk_0MuPAqHmMT9jCkD1IS8V0VVnYIhxVuAnJ7gOjsniA28J1SMlYHAKPLcZSrKoieVWhcOOiM1DIy9s/s320/DSCF2299.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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My goal today was to figure out the city’s S-Bahn, the main component of its above-ground transit system, and I failed. The lines I seek aren’t where I expect them to be, and in some cases, I cannot figure out where the trams stop. The timetables are impenetrable, at least for me, for now. The drill is familiar: By the time you figure out a deceptively easy wrinkle about how a strange city works, it’s time to go home, which is OK, because it gives you an excuse to come back.<br />
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For now I’ll stick with the subway (U-Bahn) or in Monday’s case, walk my feet off. Won't you join me? This is my street, below. For being in a city known for its round-the-clock rowdiness, this neighborhood is enveloped in an almost interstellar silence at night. Or maybe my walls are just really well insulated.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJCSwI2NEDQIAQY6LgaKrxCqqDKPQ9C07eWrBxBXYKs8AkBWeRftF8KWT5GltuivrRQMhv9yB8alFMd10f6rWvnlS6vy0rO_l6IA2LeHcASd3UGu6OAuYcdI1o0k1ZiLW8ujU8NcGQjv8/s1600-h/DSCF2278.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412685515348395762" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJCSwI2NEDQIAQY6LgaKrxCqqDKPQ9C07eWrBxBXYKs8AkBWeRftF8KWT5GltuivrRQMhv9yB8alFMd10f6rWvnlS6vy0rO_l6IA2LeHcASd3UGu6OAuYcdI1o0k1ZiLW8ujU8NcGQjv8/s320/DSCF2278.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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We're walking south now and ... whaddya know? It's Konnopke's Imbiss, perhaps the city's most famous currywurst vendor. Currywurst is Berlin's signature snack -- basically a hot dog with curry-infused ketchup. It puts me in mind of the old Reese's Peanut Butter Cup commercial, where a guy carrying a jar of peanut butter and a guy eating chocolate both round a corner and collide, serendipitously mixing the ingredients together. Ketchup + curry: Who knew? Former German Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder once had a currywurst here. And of the city's nearly 200 museums, one is devoted to currywurst.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUTUKJArOAG_2B8SJ6nFcvol4FiOMIMQI8IudGcys1VE2bYV5aLHWyJJGnTpM8-4ziQcrMCHECmpCo7Ien1R9lCrQFSd-zKa2kACFhoTAZwaoqfdJ5QxyaTjKE2x5ahiNpSQ0hviX_TVQ/s1600-h/DSCF2280.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412685260814126578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUTUKJArOAG_2B8SJ6nFcvol4FiOMIMQI8IudGcys1VE2bYV5aLHWyJJGnTpM8-4ziQcrMCHECmpCo7Ien1R9lCrQFSd-zKa2kACFhoTAZwaoqfdJ5QxyaTjKE2x5ahiNpSQ0hviX_TVQ/s320/DSCF2280.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Hm. Something tells me I won't be staying here anytime soon.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZX2skoE-IsT-Bj3dTEV2QU3RSmIJ4ZyY4zrt3QnGtJB0ocTOfccyXSO1ZxenQ2962LlggudHROD2BU9g-tV4pJ5XEk_ln0udhjndsEySeFzDsbMJZfLNGxK-RE8PwQz89UvxavRzfCpY/s1600-h/DSCF2282.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412684882945987410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZX2skoE-IsT-Bj3dTEV2QU3RSmIJ4ZyY4zrt3QnGtJB0ocTOfccyXSO1ZxenQ2962LlggudHROD2BU9g-tV4pJ5XEk_ln0udhjndsEySeFzDsbMJZfLNGxK-RE8PwQz89UvxavRzfCpY/s320/DSCF2282.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Yeah? Well back atcha, buddy!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6AVqbTTcvNz1WO5ZawEFg3ru0mk_pAf0mHpj9aVWmtL5BhVeiUFSOR9MPsX3NtTmgCUCCGANKu2pTfOMpOIgOKi9ruQEFHSyQF5UnPDIu9EnQ6fPdgsDOcxDHQdFg4uF_4UhvsKTXrs/s1600-h/DSCF2283.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412684659944131058" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6AVqbTTcvNz1WO5ZawEFg3ru0mk_pAf0mHpj9aVWmtL5BhVeiUFSOR9MPsX3NtTmgCUCCGANKu2pTfOMpOIgOKi9ruQEFHSyQF5UnPDIu9EnQ6fPdgsDOcxDHQdFg4uF_4UhvsKTXrs/s320/DSCF2283.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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I'm lost now, but pleasantly so. This seems to be one of Berlin's most vibrant areas, around Rosenthaler Platz. Lots of bustle, and a good place to do some Christmas shopping.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgfkpyAH97-gscQsUkZ_Wf-M4IIwnQ72IrreBX__aiMa0o-5bkzFK1Y8Q0BSqlZRzgXkPeWVe2mdBt39jULtUtBtgI1TeH3zCDqTaKQH7bS-EcQ3LZ4FyEMY8ZrAfDZpDGCeq4WbqI74/s1600-h/DSCF2284.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412684419910714498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgfkpyAH97-gscQsUkZ_Wf-M4IIwnQ72IrreBX__aiMa0o-5bkzFK1Y8Q0BSqlZRzgXkPeWVe2mdBt39jULtUtBtgI1TeH3zCDqTaKQH7bS-EcQ3LZ4FyEMY8ZrAfDZpDGCeq4WbqI74/s320/DSCF2284.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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This comix store was pretty good. I spied Kim Deitch's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" here, as well as "The Basil Wolverton Bible." The $35 price tags helped me resist the impulse. You can get them a lot cheaper back home (hint-hint).<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8emHAeVJ50V1oPSzFimObQMR2GVsRzGMtvG8wd7DeY99RS7egY9zauyfLIMHqh2E9fGXkxDFf6boNSFFdV2awoV2HPwH3zMzVtx3DIlkehHTPxukBVxTMSKeRxAz8cqDnl69vd8rLfk/s1600-h/DSCF2285.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412695787365565522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8emHAeVJ50V1oPSzFimObQMR2GVsRzGMtvG8wd7DeY99RS7egY9zauyfLIMHqh2E9fGXkxDFf6boNSFFdV2awoV2HPwH3zMzVtx3DIlkehHTPxukBVxTMSKeRxAz8cqDnl69vd8rLfk/s320/DSCF2285.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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The Hackeshen shopping complex. Lots of swanky stuff.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSnyeY4AboweSsmLaIC0k60v1-_qPEGnZtdhnE-etuLfI2IQTDnaan7GxsbmGVYeo-MhvdNlIUgSBGX7T9DL_WA-72gIGNu2Ka2ae4V_SntPLgnnvSt7iIFpYH0cABvYnuzUDDtHbHXs/s1600-h/DSCF2286.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412684091872902626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSnyeY4AboweSsmLaIC0k60v1-_qPEGnZtdhnE-etuLfI2IQTDnaan7GxsbmGVYeo-MhvdNlIUgSBGX7T9DL_WA-72gIGNu2Ka2ae4V_SntPLgnnvSt7iIFpYH0cABvYnuzUDDtHbHXs/s320/DSCF2286.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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So I'm funneled by the hand of God onto Museum Island, which was on my to-do list anyway. Slow travel: You get there, just more slowly. This is the Alte Nationalgalerie, and if you'll double-click, an equestrian statue of King Friedrich Wilhelm should be visible. I'm not sure if it's Wilhelm I, II or III, however. Probably Wilhelm I, known as Frederick the Great, who ruled when Berlin was the royal capital of Prussia. But Prussia belonged to the Polish crown. It's confusing. Maybe I should pay a visit and clear this all up. [edit: It's Wilhelm IV. I didn't know they went that high! Museum Island was his baby.]<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27ONGRGGZMQiujzOZMHIBzZiXvjH0KxlPs9ATErDsyIwUTgeTM9bcioQqMxgjsAUokm4OWY5g2KMh87CjVS2UpbJQlLID92azRyXaS6aHKXJrR8qSjcZOs_zHwxGYm3U8jv95U4RaNwI/s1600-h/DSCF2294.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412682791778590450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27ONGRGGZMQiujzOZMHIBzZiXvjH0KxlPs9ATErDsyIwUTgeTM9bcioQqMxgjsAUokm4OWY5g2KMh87CjVS2UpbJQlLID92azRyXaS6aHKXJrR8qSjcZOs_zHwxGYm3U8jv95U4RaNwI/s320/DSCF2294.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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The Germans love their <em>kinder</em>.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0riNQiSHoazqyNtywc9VlkzvsVqyOg0r206bHuHmmRSxNr9V4U0530g_xOa2eSmImf11uDdf1PS7f_GgJNJ-v7-51MiZ4LEm0Q8eK5mq6C_9b3a86JeYmPc3NrUGFcamy_5_u0CmYoC0/s1600-h/DSCF2295.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412682557560689586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0riNQiSHoazqyNtywc9VlkzvsVqyOg0r206bHuHmmRSxNr9V4U0530g_xOa2eSmImf11uDdf1PS7f_GgJNJ-v7-51MiZ4LEm0Q8eK5mq6C_9b3a86JeYmPc3NrUGFcamy_5_u0CmYoC0/s320/DSCF2295.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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A look south. The Berliner Dom bathed in precious December sunlight.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0g2dSWmeUMYk2tDm9SNvCxhXflUCm7NO8ZKNZDTNRCKfp0aHKmwaS4hzgANiRI-8nDsQPTAbO-j-nKjmA4t3DGfGzw7yctJqiyEf4L13XKbOfmJWl2IZYO4DzMvVJ2lex1ltmlJCiTk/s1600-h/DSCF2296.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412682347828010594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0g2dSWmeUMYk2tDm9SNvCxhXflUCm7NO8ZKNZDTNRCKfp0aHKmwaS4hzgANiRI-8nDsQPTAbO-j-nKjmA4t3DGfGzw7yctJqiyEf4L13XKbOfmJWl2IZYO4DzMvVJ2lex1ltmlJCiTk/s320/DSCF2296.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Uh-oh, a line at the Neue Museum of somewhat contemporary art. You know, where they show the <em>neuer</em> stuff. I'm outta here.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1LO9u6R4A7pBT18gdX9_K3kECdEjlSscZdhKtCvpc-CCX8gE9jtzMgyKxPUAMWzDRrmbeK4VYzj6RB0yKuS0Vkm4eJfoWcw6f1pemhO4y0MHVj0aZyNKrTmEdbk1z1M4RBWP6FIYy1g/s1600-h/DSCF2297.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412681756707592594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1LO9u6R4A7pBT18gdX9_K3kECdEjlSscZdhKtCvpc-CCX8gE9jtzMgyKxPUAMWzDRrmbeK4VYzj6RB0yKuS0Vkm4eJfoWcw6f1pemhO4y0MHVj0aZyNKrTmEdbk1z1M4RBWP6FIYy1g/s320/DSCF2297.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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A lion screams his head off while a man bites his neck. I feel like I'm back at the comics store.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LOps7tTxP_ncgx-8VPLSoYzs44ySnt4nrfLh7BAsgKYZwAyKaL0zt-Lj-cMSjum_Ga0lRFLeTfvsSOMT67AG60wyn23HwSih2oyycrR9ng68EeXgagW6D6LTeff8r5WINShvQNDocUE/s1600-h/DSCF2298.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412681417835387458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LOps7tTxP_ncgx-8VPLSoYzs44ySnt4nrfLh7BAsgKYZwAyKaL0zt-Lj-cMSjum_Ga0lRFLeTfvsSOMT67AG60wyn23HwSih2oyycrR9ng68EeXgagW6D6LTeff8r5WINShvQNDocUE/s320/DSCF2298.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Now we're in business. The amazing Pergamon Museum. Some of the most monumental works of antiquity are here, like this one: The Miletus Gate (185 B.C.) -- the entryway to the Roman market at Miletus. The Allied bombing raids during WWII put some cracks in her, but she's been patched up.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixrn52_FtuapA8xSZNDXdpS0v12FxeoJLoWXZxTB7mmUWJN92QpogLmqHteotCEafBC-w2LEF6aftV0d4q7FupsoN2qkhSWyo9tP1wBLVmFLGt4nx5qy9P_uFWtpO6SPPydzKjpOs-JcQ/s1600-h/DSCF2323.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412677404217996098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixrn52_FtuapA8xSZNDXdpS0v12FxeoJLoWXZxTB7mmUWJN92QpogLmqHteotCEafBC-w2LEF6aftV0d4q7FupsoN2qkhSWyo9tP1wBLVmFLGt4nx5qy9P_uFWtpO6SPPydzKjpOs-JcQ/s320/DSCF2323.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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A detail from the Procession Street in Babylon, built during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar II (604-562 B.C.) The street ran through the Ishtar Gate and ended at the bridge across the Euphrates. The lions were the sacred animal of the goddess Ishtar. This wasn't an abstract concept to these folks. There really were lions prowling around outside Babylon! Museums in Toronto, Detroit and New Haven, Conn., were also able to snag some of these lions.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1uHTJd7bUDLBusYpDzUDeHvLkvqO1hhuj8ESBwrxmoICw5ygcRLnGfhxPKwXuPz1pG8zbZQYjExp-0j2hhE0TIMImklXiY09fUniuPbXY9pq4EQ6-00dsVTL0csaX4RvM_9tbg8VvD4/s1600-h/DSCF2327.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412677064809008242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1uHTJd7bUDLBusYpDzUDeHvLkvqO1hhuj8ESBwrxmoICw5ygcRLnGfhxPKwXuPz1pG8zbZQYjExp-0j2hhE0TIMImklXiY09fUniuPbXY9pq4EQ6-00dsVTL0csaX4RvM_9tbg8VvD4/s320/DSCF2327.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Walking down Procession Street, even the most jaded Babylonian had to be in awe of what he would see next: the Ishtar Gate. The glazed bricks look as colorful as ever. Incredible.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWjlIV4l0YgvpUmd4vB_nv4VRhm_1ZfOvnWb_ImgRJ2J-vdrFmjFAjx5z9W_fdzbdwh2NARP73-tbSSu4mPxfDQfArIsMlXpq5AyPnv9NdmVOBKU0Ecz4XjGV28qWiss-e4-CJzBhDIFw/s1600-h/DSCF2333.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412675410280871810" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWjlIV4l0YgvpUmd4vB_nv4VRhm_1ZfOvnWb_ImgRJ2J-vdrFmjFAjx5z9W_fdzbdwh2NARP73-tbSSu4mPxfDQfArIsMlXpq5AyPnv9NdmVOBKU0Ecz4XjGV28qWiss-e4-CJzBhDIFw/s320/DSCF2333.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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The Great Altar of Pergamon (187 B.C.). This massive temple was dug up at the ancient Greek city of Pergamon, which is now part of Turkey. It was once considered one of the Seven Wonders of the World, but somewhere along the line got kicked off the list. (Damn you, Lighthouse of Alexandria!) Is there a CNN/USA Today poll for this kind of thing?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkD7bgNxo-XhMgNtkBxWZg6DQGWcm5kNFxfPHhBLvUlx93HzO5EhidsNkDmaMpLAicfCmI5HYQXrK1Y3U6kjfF7jy-4qsPwJ758lBznCtCCncZwcohs7ib3beZT9zb8z8sb5vKUiAcpV8/s1600-h/DSCF2313.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412675778104925938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkD7bgNxo-XhMgNtkBxWZg6DQGWcm5kNFxfPHhBLvUlx93HzO5EhidsNkDmaMpLAicfCmI5HYQXrK1Y3U6kjfF7jy-4qsPwJ758lBznCtCCncZwcohs7ib3beZT9zb8z8sb5vKUiAcpV8/s320/DSCF2313.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Nobody knows what went on at this temple. Surely there were some kind of sacrifices made to the goddess Athena. She's the faceless one in the frieze fragment below. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNhLYTAedIbGU3CgGz3qL0GyqrelLshVK19bZMAZtmkIMxUBpTD5jA6TOPRgy492mzag_0xCcCXgFAE6i8flQ5tFgGi_qM5Pwv5hDUZ-gfpTLnIAlk3B7tDyCLHp9nXjYe3HR0US3WR0/s1600-h/DSCF2311.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412677618201237298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNhLYTAedIbGU3CgGz3qL0GyqrelLshVK19bZMAZtmkIMxUBpTD5jA6TOPRgy492mzag_0xCcCXgFAE6i8flQ5tFgGi_qM5Pwv5hDUZ-gfpTLnIAlk3B7tDyCLHp9nXjYe3HR0US3WR0/s320/DSCF2311.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Your host smiles vacantly while the Spree River snakes around the Bode Museum on Museum Island.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFOOjMGlTgt2IMFWN6Gkj4cS4XjCjXpJDBJABwe_VdPNCP1NoduDAZMX7n5GSxAsLldW-6WBWi726S0yYR5UxZirUuTmaTzE87rMxJVUAgYR4abebJ8W0ygrZ5axkIIz1suCGatnVwb4/s1600-h/DSCF2370.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412675033566120274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFOOjMGlTgt2IMFWN6Gkj4cS4XjCjXpJDBJABwe_VdPNCP1NoduDAZMX7n5GSxAsLldW-6WBWi726S0yYR5UxZirUuTmaTzE87rMxJVUAgYR4abebJ8W0ygrZ5axkIIz1suCGatnVwb4/s320/DSCF2370.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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We're on Oranienburger Strasse now, heading northwest, and this is the Neue Synagogue. I overheard that it's no longer in use because of war damage, but if that were the case, 90 percent of the city couldn't function today. Hard to get solid information. At any rate, it's a museum now.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQho21ymRX1-xLn3TXsemHi7hYK9pvSJia-VVhyfNf_I5u62mrmutlamt5ggbYBUn62EHzK6GGAhQTLbkn9RivFVOmp_du3Khgp420AggGJk9QfDVddqj45Sr2_LR5FHMPZ68oftCvyk/s1600-h/DSCF2371.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412674770030868034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQho21ymRX1-xLn3TXsemHi7hYK9pvSJia-VVhyfNf_I5u62mrmutlamt5ggbYBUn62EHzK6GGAhQTLbkn9RivFVOmp_du3Khgp420AggGJk9QfDVddqj45Sr2_LR5FHMPZ68oftCvyk/s320/DSCF2371.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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Time for a well-balanced lunch.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgInSG0SGLtsjg1PATguEvpOiDUFmjw6tEUXBBwcQOyLAuj3ATexJf8VZ-Vguhrr4_LUGzZqrD9LJ6nrWb7ILWSKWQcgSzDv_VywZQqNfiHYzxpFfxmNtXf7wWGZrOsstNt6VQ18-l498U/s1600-h/DSCF2380.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412674453676766914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgInSG0SGLtsjg1PATguEvpOiDUFmjw6tEUXBBwcQOyLAuj3ATexJf8VZ-Vguhrr4_LUGzZqrD9LJ6nrWb7ILWSKWQcgSzDv_VywZQqNfiHYzxpFfxmNtXf7wWGZrOsstNt6VQ18-l498U/s320/DSCF2380.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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On the next block is the Zapata Cafe complex -- a notorious party spot where drug-addled vampires party the night away. I popped in to take some pictures, but they're too fucking depressing to share, and besides, the place smelled a lot like Hotel Jurine. Hey, thanks for coming along! If you're not museumed-out and would like some more views of the Pergamon, there's an image dump below, accompanied by Howe Gelb and Isobel Campbell.<br />
<iframe src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/90733751" width="640" height="426" frameborder="0" webkitallowfullscreen mozallowfullscreen allowfullscreen></iframe> <p><a href="https://vimeo.com/90733751">pergamomnon</a>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-70807485195887971342009-12-06T12:03:00.001-08:002014-04-13T16:35:05.592-07:00Just the way you like itToday's image dump is a mish-mash of disconnected elements, out of order, with utterly no context or meaning to anyone but me. At least the song is good.<br /><iframe src="//player.vimeo.com/video/90156944" width="500" height="333" frameborder="0" webkitallowfullscreen mozallowfullscreen allowfullscreen></iframe> <p>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-42527402013482354742009-12-06T08:50:00.000-08:002009-12-06T12:26:36.387-08:00Human Race 1, Armies of Darkness 0<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubtc6AsG8bH8ctyNFdmSxUqiHeo_a1Up3IMxXS84N4ReDyYNBwwEx5_R6BU_z6NBEVuzUnvu0WWPd4jxfodffv1NmghsuS8Y1bF4StHgda2sZO78aiq4rEqwtHv8qbjihZtqSO30OsQs/s1600-h/DSCF2255.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubtc6AsG8bH8ctyNFdmSxUqiHeo_a1Up3IMxXS84N4ReDyYNBwwEx5_R6BU_z6NBEVuzUnvu0WWPd4jxfodffv1NmghsuS8Y1bF4StHgda2sZO78aiq4rEqwtHv8qbjihZtqSO30OsQs/s320/DSCF2255.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412167088945298370" /></a><br />I went to an Antonioni retrospective at the Arsenal theater, which is on the bottom floor of the Filmhaus complex. Paris has about five of these types of cinemas showing classic films in their original versions. To my knowledge, Berlin lags in this regard, but what city wouldn’t by comparison? <br /><br />To me, “retrospective” means “a look back,” but it hardly seems appropriate to suggest that most of us are revisiting these short films from the Italian master. We simply haven’t seen them before. “People of the Po Valley” (1943-1947), “Netezza Urbana” (1948), “Lies of Love” (1949), “Superstitions” (1949), “The Villa of Monsters” (1950), “Vertigine” (1950) -- any of these ring a bell? Of course not, and how impressive of the Arsenal to collect them for our delectation.<br /><br />Of these “Lies of Love” (or “L’Amorosa Menzogna”) was supremely amusing. It depicts the phenomenon of low-brow “picture books” in Italian society. They’re like comic books with thought and speech balloons, but the images are of actors photographed in various poses. Antonioni takes us through the process in 11 hilarious minutes. <br /><br />“Superstitions” -- also about 10 minutes in length -- was also worth the price of admission. We’re shown the cobweb of mythology and juju that grips small-town Italy. In one scene we see a grandmother drinking an infant’s urine in the belief that it will help her arthritis. I left the theater with a better feeling for the director. He’s an amusing smartass, and I came to understand the sensibility that led him to later create “L‘Avventura,” “La Notte,” “L'Eclisse“ and “Blow-Up.”<br /><br />The audience was mostly people in their 20s -- heartening to see -- half of them drinking from bottles of beer. Berlin seems to have no laws governing the use or purchase of alcohol, save an age limit. People drink on the street, in the subway, in the cinema. Nobody’s obnoxious about it; it’s no more remarkable than carrying around a Snapple back home, and public drunkenness is rare.<br /><br />The next morning, I rode/walked on a rainy pilgrimage to the Kulturforum to see the second-most-acclaimed orchestra in the world, and perhaps the best. The Berlin Philharmonic was playing a rare 11 a.m. concert and I was going to be there. I got to my seat 20 minutes early, my heart nearly beating out of my chest. You’re in Europe, I thought. You’re in Berlin. The Berlin Philharmonic is about to be at your feet. And it occurred to me that, you know, anything is possible if you just make it so. I remembered sitting at my computer on Halloween night, ready to pounce when the tickets went on sale. By the time I woke up the next morning, the show had sold out. This is truly one of Europe’s toughest tickets. Sitting on planes for 12 hours is excruciating, and this is the payoff.<br /><br />The orchestra takes their seats and Mehta emerges from stage left. He’s in a good mood. We all are. If you’re ever to take in new information, embrace a cultural experience, read a book, watch a film, do it at 11 a.m. I’ve always believed this. By nightfall, the day’s thousand little injuries prevent you from fully appreciating whatever it is you’re about to absorb.<br /><br />First up is Schubert’s Symphony No. 3, a young man’s symphony, played with more delicacy than I expected. It’s one of the first pieces I ever acquired when I started collecting classical music 25 years ago, and it still inspires. Any unpleasant chore is more gracefully endured by sticking this in your CD player.<br /><br />Next was the manic suite from Bartok’s “The Miraculous Mandarin.” The orchestra’s size had nearly doubled during the brief interlude since the Schubert. More drums, horns, violins. The bass section has tripled. We now have a piano, cymbalists, a harp -- about 90 performers in all. The string section launches the work, a million killer bees buzzing inside my head. The brass section follows, roaring like a column of Panzer tanks. Now we’re getting somewhere. By the time the galloping finale arrives, we’re at a turbo-charged pitch. Mehta jumps for emphasis -- he's airborne! -- and the blaring conclusion is met with ear-popping shouts and applause. Mehta, ever the showman, trudges off stage, waits a long moment, returns, and the applause has not dimmed. He points to the brass section. He leaves again, comes back. And again. This goes on for awhile. The ovation is now nearly 4 minutes long, and the violinists are slapping their scores with their bows -- praise for Herr Conductor. It’s only halftime, and I feel like the Cleveland Browns have won the Super Bowl. Score: Human Race 1, Armies of Darkness 0.<br /><br />Down in the foyer, I ask a bartender wearing a Santa hat for a beer. She hands me a Pilsner Urquell and a tulip-shaped glass. That’ll work.<br /><br />The Beethoven Violin Concerto is next. Refreshingly, our virtuoso is not one of the flavor-of-the-day lions or lionesses of the classical scene, but his name <em>is</em> Leonidas -- Leonidas Kavakos, a tall guy, about 6-feet-4 with a thick beard, could use a haircut, in his early 40s with a hint of a paunch. He looks like the annoying guy at your work who always takes your parking space, not somebody who’s about to break your heart over and over again. He tears into these ascending and descending ladders like an angel on meth, and you’re reminded what excellence is: a limitless range of emotions, unbearable exquisiteness -- and no fuckups. It’s a mature work compared with the Schubert, and Kavakos is the right guy. <br /><br />When it’s over, people start to exit, but our Greek friend isn’t done. He wants to give us a treat -- an unscheduled solo performance not on the program. Sounds like Paganini, I think. But no, it’s too achingly sublime. I may never know, but that’s part of the gift. A haiku written in sand.<br /><br />I exit the hall in a daze, not quite speechless enough to ask an Asian guy to take my picture with the Kulturforum in the background. He snaps it, but not satisfied, wants to see the final result. “Allow me to confirm,” he says leaning forward while we look at the 2-inch-square image. “Perfect!” I say, and he beams. Pretty much sums up the day.<br /><br />Feeling invincible, I stop at a casino a block away and sit at a roulette game. I pull the lever and win 8 euros (12 Yankee dollars). I love Berlin.Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-46498324368464914732009-12-05T08:16:00.000-08:002009-12-05T08:47:27.162-08:00Iron Curtain<em>"To put in crudely, the American foot in Europe had a sore blister on it. That was West Berlin. We decide the time had come to lance the blister of West Berlin."</em><br />--Nikita Krushchev, recalling 1961<br /><br /><em>"What are you staring at? Never seen a wall before?"</em><br />-- Berlin Wall graffiti<br /><br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-38db5f740ef71dcc height=266 width=360 contentId="38db5f740ef71dcc"></OBJECT>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-78696004775386628552009-12-05T07:22:00.001-08:002009-12-06T20:29:03.904-08:00Hello, world!Got an early start on a clear, cold day to find the sun rising on Die Welt. When I saw this from quite a distance yesterday, I thought, "Cool, the newspaper office." But it turns out it's just a gigantic promotional balloon.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXpaKYRcY0EV0ZoxYcf9E6_jWoIVgt5PEXLHw74MAKAznC9L0hPELHtkWXavpcgE-3N3uHBQI2X7ZYtZJVINuuWvvMoItVayKAvbxK_LSzPyqUYOIXZ6epnXKWbB_vO1qBZrf3rgXfEM/s1600-h/DSCF2206.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXpaKYRcY0EV0ZoxYcf9E6_jWoIVgt5PEXLHw74MAKAznC9L0hPELHtkWXavpcgE-3N3uHBQI2X7ZYtZJVINuuWvvMoItVayKAvbxK_LSzPyqUYOIXZ6epnXKWbB_vO1qBZrf3rgXfEM/s320/DSCF2206.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411773981118212418" /></a><br /><br />About 6 acres have been set aside between the Brandenburg Gate and Potsdamer Platz for the Monument to Murdered European Jews. The rectangular shapes appear to be all about the same height, but the monument is actually situated in a bowl-like depression, so the slabs in the middle are actually about 7 feet tall. I appreciate the plain talk implicit in "murdered," and the monument is just as stark. Simple, moving, and utterly without <em>schmaltz</em>, as the survivors might say. Oh, the Germans. You just can't stay mad at 'em!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuRk0idI71VzdV4pItyLmHu0b2pVeLonYcr0eZOdKKi8HmpTso364z8VCJRCjzf-wBcQ5iI1LJiyqaZSkCsvkEhyphenhyphencLjFTiA5FRvtRuY9tH19Dtktkk9AVjr0ZxePNlhyukkQMS9HDlPA0/s1600-h/DSCF2187.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuRk0idI71VzdV4pItyLmHu0b2pVeLonYcr0eZOdKKi8HmpTso364z8VCJRCjzf-wBcQ5iI1LJiyqaZSkCsvkEhyphenhyphencLjFTiA5FRvtRuY9tH19Dtktkk9AVjr0ZxePNlhyukkQMS9HDlPA0/s320/DSCF2187.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411780774989108338" /></a><br /><br />Tourist kids use the area to run around, scream, and play hide and seek, which is forgivable. So what's EasyJet magazine's excuse for doing a freaking fashion shoot here? Words fail me.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7tBadqIhgQRsafyLxBflH9obnGwv4aA2pZ6KH7-NSx06eJVTVthDgZtuDSbat5VXSKLBsoYtLWVp7hPHWxw-0ZDE0fWq_K-zZANxRpW-K4za8MYh6QtV56HljAFzt5PvwdamFXyIYec/s1600-h/alg_easyjet.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7tBadqIhgQRsafyLxBflH9obnGwv4aA2pZ6KH7-NSx06eJVTVthDgZtuDSbat5VXSKLBsoYtLWVp7hPHWxw-0ZDE0fWq_K-zZANxRpW-K4za8MYh6QtV56HljAFzt5PvwdamFXyIYec/s320/alg_easyjet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411783093987239554" /></a><br /><br /><br />"Excuse me! Excuse me!" If you respond to this, you'll be hounded by scads of these Gypsy girls running some kind of scam against English speakers. I guess they figure the Germans are hip to it, so they don't bother. If you acknowledge you speak English, they pull out a card and give you some song and dance about their lost sister or some such crap, and how if you give them a euro, you'll be <em>saving a life</em>. I hesitate to tell a Gypsy to beat it, because I'm afraid they'll curse me or give me the evil eye, so I just pretend not to speak English.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbFQXpV7gWpNIEJahLHOtOah_4ge0p-QHkviryoXanTqCjZuQVRTRSF1qXz0EAof2V6hzJw0gVJoDbWTj_-SLipJae35cCo7P_wCwC0kro7yp9pflYVhpeLgX3eVM2XhZh54g45QuR8I/s1600-h/DSCF2226.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbFQXpV7gWpNIEJahLHOtOah_4ge0p-QHkviryoXanTqCjZuQVRTRSF1qXz0EAof2V6hzJw0gVJoDbWTj_-SLipJae35cCo7P_wCwC0kro7yp9pflYVhpeLgX3eVM2XhZh54g45QuR8I/s320/DSCF2226.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411773459709598130" /></a><br /><br />Every time I come home from the Mitte on the subway, I get off a stop early and walk, and this is what I see. Berlin's mascot is this cute bear, and he's everywhere.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyn6Aq6shijwT5tINGaXxn7txuu6ury3Gn-VpdELwsJhjQ5bxHSXDzUC6YR76ry1reE1CgAhuOlu9XUeYFkCEIZ20y2TpMvcIrsR4GNK_sMKsNT5TXpgT9JcO6REY63eyMqoNTDsmMl4/s1600-h/DSCF2229.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyn6Aq6shijwT5tINGaXxn7txuu6ury3Gn-VpdELwsJhjQ5bxHSXDzUC6YR76ry1reE1CgAhuOlu9XUeYFkCEIZ20y2TpMvcIrsR4GNK_sMKsNT5TXpgT9JcO6REY63eyMqoNTDsmMl4/s320/DSCF2229.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411773281773536402" /></a><br /><br />One of the reasons I disembark at Eberwaldstrasse is because of this place, Ili's. I guess it's my official hangout. They have the best doner imaginable for just 2.50, they leave you alone and always have soccer games on a big screen.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKeclgB_pw-0dRIdh_bZF5akxPfpGgyU9gFNZSMy0gb2_VNAXOBelMGD3P-2KXziv7umFig1oTXlDB2lneRmS02LjOx353plqTq9jWdQrd9dqKtOJ5tw0mYW1cqq0gcKnNOWEa6L_c0RQ/s1600-h/DSCF2234.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKeclgB_pw-0dRIdh_bZF5akxPfpGgyU9gFNZSMy0gb2_VNAXOBelMGD3P-2KXziv7umFig1oTXlDB2lneRmS02LjOx353plqTq9jWdQrd9dqKtOJ5tw0mYW1cqq0gcKnNOWEa6L_c0RQ/s320/DSCF2234.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411773095486236674" /></a><br /><br />Tomorrow's a big day. The mighty Berlin Philharmonic is performing some Schubert, Beethoven and Bartok at a Kulturforum matinee. Our old pal Zubin Mehta is guest-conducting while Simon Rattle gets a tan in California. If you're up at 3 a.m. Saturday in the Mountain states (5 a.m. Eastern), you can catch the concert at the remarkable Digital Concert Hall (berlinphilharmonie.de). Pinch me; I'll be in the fourth row.Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-49002367287203590162009-12-04T08:00:00.000-08:002009-12-04T11:17:20.969-08:00OK, it's officially coldConsiderably chillier today and fixing to snow. Nighttime has arrived again, and it’s just 4 p.m. I mentioned to my landlord a few minutes ago how remarkable I found this and she said, “Well, it’s Berlin in December.” Well, duh, aren’t I stupid. I could have jabbed back by remarking that winter's not for another two and a half weeks, but life is short. Spent the day wandering around, getting lost, in no hurry to see or do anything, no interest in <em>going</em> anywhere. Just checking things out, getting the lay of the land. That’s the beauty of slow travel. Remember the old movie “If It’s Tuesday, It Must Be Belgium”? Suzanne Pleshette, seven countries in 18 days? That’s for suckers.<br /><br />Three observations, before I forget them: I had read there is a lot of dog shit on the sidewalks here. Not so. I had heard about a plague of graffiti on the city. Nope, far less than Brussels or Amsterdam; about the same as Paris or Tucson. Berlin has no alleyways to speak of. I don’t know if this is an urban-planning decision or what. Trash is picked up in the courtyards of all these Jugendstil-style walkups -- maybe that has something to do with it.<br /><br />Went down to the Brandenburg Gate. Security is uber-intense there because of all the embassies. A woman with a gun stands on the sidewalk "guarding" the Russian consulate. Hey, mix in a salad, Olga! There are stanchions in the street that retract electronically into the ground to allow approved vehicles to pass. And of course, you can’t so much as spit on the sidewalk without being detected by closed-circuit TV. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq4G7-67HY9xIl25JGRU_0RsrD9LAlAnw0R2wjPW83JVcUEb5KP3iIcTX9nMjnpYBFzHqV_gPH9zhmvm-urZxnBgMrEguo7wo5QWOFgAcb5yUxzt2QmOdckNEgB90lGvyE6jRIjcjen7o/s1600-h/DSCF2183.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq4G7-67HY9xIl25JGRU_0RsrD9LAlAnw0R2wjPW83JVcUEb5KP3iIcTX9nMjnpYBFzHqV_gPH9zhmvm-urZxnBgMrEguo7wo5QWOFgAcb5yUxzt2QmOdckNEgB90lGvyE6jRIjcjen7o/s320/DSCF2183.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411411851650889186" /></a><br /><br />It’s by this thicket of trees, just several yards away from the gate, where Reagan delivered his “Tear down this wall” speech, not far from where Obama addressed Berliners during his run for president of <del>Europe</del> the United States.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUchjtuY1MPKSlhB4O2waPEhBTKSHTxu_Zo4buD9fkLgp9lMKgA-6aJQ5ldulBbSSMgx25gPTekHoNUBDD9bhW1ved85zQ-jYKsrgHg5Dx_93T4zPcYwjSpOwzTLFaxEstzlqJQdBxV_0/s1600-h/DSCF2186.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUchjtuY1MPKSlhB4O2waPEhBTKSHTxu_Zo4buD9fkLgp9lMKgA-6aJQ5ldulBbSSMgx25gPTekHoNUBDD9bhW1ved85zQ-jYKsrgHg5Dx_93T4zPcYwjSpOwzTLFaxEstzlqJQdBxV_0/s320/DSCF2186.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411412095098588498" /></a><br /><br /><br />From there I walked to Potsdamer Platz, which is a maze of upscale shopping. The deeper I walked into it, the more I lost my bearings.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXNbYBi7Q-wMd3M1-BCl-pmbOpHPz_s27yQBdVjnxesRp5zG2LtMYkUnNOe1yOWZcBm7A16vFRFqJx_4PEwzpiQ4YsyDaYnbb8XPOwHQjDTakk7DYZ3UDJqZPJvZD2RCjxjrKMVoN7qs/s1600-h/DSCF2188.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXNbYBi7Q-wMd3M1-BCl-pmbOpHPz_s27yQBdVjnxesRp5zG2LtMYkUnNOe1yOWZcBm7A16vFRFqJx_4PEwzpiQ4YsyDaYnbb8XPOwHQjDTakk7DYZ3UDJqZPJvZD2RCjxjrKMVoN7qs/s320/DSCF2188.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411412716270941282" /></a><br /><br /><br />It's also home to the slightly surreal Sony Center, -- the company’s European headquarters -- where I found the Filmhaus, which contains a movie museum and cinema.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhevjhQ_BhbSn_NDJFh75oiFi-fAT9vRtdgs2Wp6tXghAUAabkptHGwLUOZzsHBeHG8OoLBlkdP9jNW1e5L-fEEO3GZ6GDBXvpYE-50Bsu3ArZMtCP2CFzRjtU8pZpdo6jozZRk0bEZp0k/s1600-h/DSCF2190.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhevjhQ_BhbSn_NDJFh75oiFi-fAT9vRtdgs2Wp6tXghAUAabkptHGwLUOZzsHBeHG8OoLBlkdP9jNW1e5L-fEEO3GZ6GDBXvpYE-50Bsu3ArZMtCP2CFzRjtU8pZpdo6jozZRk0bEZp0k/s320/DSCF2190.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411412932760711298" /></a><br /> <br /><br />They’re showing Antonioni’s “L’Avventura” tonight, which seems like a good idea. And it’s where I spotted this very cool Bunuel poster, below. Or maybe I’ll just go see “Inglorious Basterds” instead. It’s tough making all these decisions.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_87YDEdyronMizQb7nLF7AXuZoXODWG_r27qCRrmPcc9uVhuWf8nsKboVpG7gqXNjlXwqfYH2V_6xHBVbIiCpFPOLP8_CWJtJxZNPXNE8PbykSnwjdwYt317K4Fzei4-3xxsWidXban4/s1600-h/DSCF2191.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_87YDEdyronMizQb7nLF7AXuZoXODWG_r27qCRrmPcc9uVhuWf8nsKboVpG7gqXNjlXwqfYH2V_6xHBVbIiCpFPOLP8_CWJtJxZNPXNE8PbykSnwjdwYt317K4Fzei4-3xxsWidXban4/s320/DSCF2191.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411413170405476178" /></a>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-22617463639469541192009-12-03T18:09:00.000-08:002009-12-03T19:38:16.463-08:00'Bat'-ter up!<A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin9-chpI7Z7wA2W6rZ9tca9Cj_ubwUnwIVT9tK-oe5aXE6z19xOHkGTvYgpOCrhKe0QUnkvMP3ncQQjGvpWFH2rYmgrmLTSnsaCHgCRYVHS0PFQh45gsUmWjn0-grz8W0Cqd6AYezWQkA/s1600-h/fledermaus-540x304.jpg"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411209399048997138 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin9-chpI7Z7wA2W6rZ9tca9Cj_ubwUnwIVT9tK-oe5aXE6z19xOHkGTvYgpOCrhKe0QUnkvMP3ncQQjGvpWFH2rYmgrmLTSnsaCHgCRYVHS0PFQh45gsUmWjn0-grz8W0Cqd6AYezWQkA/s320/fledermaus-540x304.jpg" border=0></A> Observations from “Die Fledermaus,” performed by the Berlin Staatsoper on Dec. 3, 2009: Mehta came out looking pissed. He didn’t acknowledge the crowd and rapidly launched into the overture. Berlin audiences have given him a rough time. Maybe he’d rather be back in Bombay or Tel Aviv, or playing the Hollywood Bowl or something. Anyway, it’s the kind of operetta you’re familiar with, even if you’re not. Many of its duets and larger choral pieces are familiar in other contexts -- movies, advertisements, etc. <br /><br />First, the Staatsoper: Compared with the Komisch Oper, the singers are better, the orchestra is better, the Web site is better, the tickets more expensive, the clientele better-dressed. The building positively creaks, to the point where I didn’t feel entirely safe sitting 60 feet above the floor. The U-shape of the hall is so narrow that many of the sightlines suck. The upside of that configuration is that the acoustics are superb. During a duet in Act 3, a high-pitched vibe note was produced by a member of the orchestra raising his mallet no more than a quarter-inch and letting it drop. The sound penetrated my head way up in the nosebleeds. <br /><br />The plot is difficult to summarize quickly, but the backbone of the performance is formed by a rave party (a ball, in Strauss' time) held at the home of Prince Orlofsky (played by Stella -- that’s right -- Stella Gregorian, pictured above) in Act 2. When it was over, a few loud “boos” were shouted from the audience. As luck would have it, one of the complainers was a woman two seats to the right of me, and given the crystalline acoustics of the place, it drew a lot of attention. I had been warned about this in the German papers, and I respect it. When you buy your ticket, you purchase the right to boo, and the act <em>did</em> end with an extended waltz number in which nobody on stage -- I counted 130 singers and dancers at one point -- seemed to know what they were doing, dancing spastically to their own rhythms while a guy rolled around on skates. But part of me wonders if the booer to my right was intent on making a scene regardless, even if Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau had been exhumed and was singing the lead role. Honestly, if the theatrical narrative frayed a bit at the end of Act 2, shouldn’t the composer, Strauss the younger, be the one to blame? Speaking of exhumations, woman, why don’t you dig him up and smash his coccyx for good measure? Another part of me wonders if she yelled at the top of her lungs because … well this is awkward, but Mehta isn’t exactly “white.” You know, if you go to Prague, you want to be able to relay your impressions of the city without constant reference to Kafka. It’s lame and shallow to do so. In that spirit, I was intent on reporting on my trip to Germany without ever having to mention National Socialism or the SS, but you know what? These people <EM>make you </EM>do it. <br /><br />“Die Fledermaus,” or “The Bat,” is really a semi-opera, with lots of spoken parts that went over my head, though I got some jokes involving the recession, Botox, McDonald’s and the difference between Koreans and Japanese. God forbid you put yourself before an audience without a raft of references to current events. The toe-tappingly familiar choral bits were best; the dancing too laissez-faire for my taste. If Memorex decides to revive its “Is it real, or is it Memorex?” campaign, it could do worse than to hire Adele, played by Christine Schaefer. That girl has a got a high roof to her mouth, as Andy Griffith would say, and is up to cracking a few glasses. I’m going back to this concert hall in a few days for “Die Zauberflote,” with much better seats, so that’ll be a new ballgame. Below, the cast, and nary a brickbat.<br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-3202cd0c7fabdd8c height=266 width=320 contentId="3202cd0c7fabdd8c"></OBJECT>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-5528663770918274322009-12-03T06:10:00.000-08:002014-04-09T11:34:22.219-07:00I'll take the Mitte for the block, pleaseSorry for the "Hollywood Squares" reference. Unless you liked it, of course! This blog entry is brought to you by Kostritzer schwarzbier, a light and refreshing black lager with just a hint of toastiness. Schwarzbier: When you want to be black.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCYJ15qz0Dh93-HegB25C_FOJKv9VM6-Q1-YtXJrnndUwtdCYEa4n6p5VtvIAgiKZMjgR3tVsz3cAZaFWlP798ZUSyzSu8qpTY5dADz2Iq95IKOtXMWH3u-OIlaX0_tfOo4_HAsqRt8Y/s1600-h/DSCF2168.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCYJ15qz0Dh93-HegB25C_FOJKv9VM6-Q1-YtXJrnndUwtdCYEa4n6p5VtvIAgiKZMjgR3tVsz3cAZaFWlP798ZUSyzSu8qpTY5dADz2Iq95IKOtXMWH3u-OIlaX0_tfOo4_HAsqRt8Y/s320/DSCF2168.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411014757600749746" /></a><br /><br /><br />Hey mom, I made some new friends! Meet Mr. Marx and Mr. Engels.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78N-Y9DA4tYS2ofWsHLlP5fuN5y8BRcLg0XsTee9aHxNkfk2l7a31Jo0YR_ofaU6tSqfpupDgW4MtIPbMhdzabA3TrX42DzUl-1vyW45nLdm_kj5-4WznpIEUiBR2sw4Q-hLUu8wBpEg/s1600-h/DSCF2166.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78N-Y9DA4tYS2ofWsHLlP5fuN5y8BRcLg0XsTee9aHxNkfk2l7a31Jo0YR_ofaU6tSqfpupDgW4MtIPbMhdzabA3TrX42DzUl-1vyW45nLdm_kj5-4WznpIEUiBR2sw4Q-hLUu8wBpEg/s320/DSCF2166.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411014434980313442" /></a><br /><br /><br />The almost comically colossal Berliner Dom, a Protestant church meant to be Germany's answer to St. Peter's in Rome. It was built when Hitler was only a child, but its sheer size fits in with the Fuhrer's desire to fill Berlin with enormously oversized structures that would eventually transform the city into a showplace of pure might. I understand the interior is splendid, but you have to buy a ticket? To enter a church? Martin Luther would never stop throwing up.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3iXwdE98BZnZ0P_-ZHOwOxuXXvqVaYho1e4dvuWSruAB2tXzpyJHVwAjYZerjukKR87oqx1cDkBN-f0lcfTzDMmOJJe4UY603l5zOAxGoF48PQKLh2LiAWCkL1wj28urHaxGyku1svNo/s1600-h/DSCF2158.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3iXwdE98BZnZ0P_-ZHOwOxuXXvqVaYho1e4dvuWSruAB2tXzpyJHVwAjYZerjukKR87oqx1cDkBN-f0lcfTzDMmOJJe4UY603l5zOAxGoF48PQKLh2LiAWCkL1wj28urHaxGyku1svNo/s320/DSCF2158.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411014256909251058" /></a><br /><br /><br />The Berliner Dom again, framed by the columns of a nearby museum.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3dUsp2eKhygPq_MaZnPMPdWsNmRY8htwBfI7iWeQXUQGWRtiY2HIRmXK3-NJmjaEVEgkBUlxMmCF9aqDYc2PjKT4upc0U-EC5fxBXmFLa5YDiHcVPjsrLeal-5nWaoWUcGjsW8SzzlU/s1600-h/DSCF2156.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3dUsp2eKhygPq_MaZnPMPdWsNmRY8htwBfI7iWeQXUQGWRtiY2HIRmXK3-NJmjaEVEgkBUlxMmCF9aqDYc2PjKT4upc0U-EC5fxBXmFLa5YDiHcVPjsrLeal-5nWaoWUcGjsW8SzzlU/s320/DSCF2156.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411014083506808034" /></a><br /><br /><br />I think we can all agree this horse-on-lion violence has gone on too long.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQB3bcuHh9qfkt0-R8QoyoT1XNfWipNKK5XvwM6N2acu4xX0YVxt3LH_F2V7iG3K1QJ2OKW7vsp8qjeixeh_JKzlsks3yQd5DnEYTZZD4k3IzmjqN-nSTjd3-rnzSxdJBoz9Ka6SFhYX8/s1600-h/DSCF2154.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQB3bcuHh9qfkt0-R8QoyoT1XNfWipNKK5XvwM6N2acu4xX0YVxt3LH_F2V7iG3K1QJ2OKW7vsp8qjeixeh_JKzlsks3yQd5DnEYTZZD4k3IzmjqN-nSTjd3-rnzSxdJBoz9Ka6SFhYX8/s320/DSCF2154.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411013905044265938" /></a><br /><br /><br />No, I didn't buy it, but I was tempted.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk1SyJm0jHPzvkvG2MWn_JyFtpsHs5OUFCVJPT4c-Ew1k7NB9Yrdc8qbbkwh3QSJBlK-aZkOTK7q_AkXP__hcHtRg6w5p1FoK8gTPAbH71cunraYWoEOoRit2w6LARPA3jzOFw9L5ANKA/s1600-h/DSCF2151.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk1SyJm0jHPzvkvG2MWn_JyFtpsHs5OUFCVJPT4c-Ew1k7NB9Yrdc8qbbkwh3QSJBlK-aZkOTK7q_AkXP__hcHtRg6w5p1FoK8gTPAbH71cunraYWoEOoRit2w6LARPA3jzOFw9L5ANKA/s320/DSCF2151.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411013727144342498" /></a><br /><br /><br />One of two Christmas markets I visited today. Lots of tasty things to eat and drink. And skating rinks! I think I'll go for a spin later, if I can get the cashier to watch my stuff.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6wWJus_k0iqm-iOIpqaN2mdTNUdZMYFzbifNg77U8aEKvjer1ambkaUGvRzwzFv2Xj31_4JkG9XNlC0W2HJXbIPEtPR2w7sV8V5SgRP3oOTJIqP2wtUIbejrzvuSB9EcxuRwJie0YEz0/s1600-h/DSCF2150.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6wWJus_k0iqm-iOIpqaN2mdTNUdZMYFzbifNg77U8aEKvjer1ambkaUGvRzwzFv2Xj31_4JkG9XNlC0W2HJXbIPEtPR2w7sV8V5SgRP3oOTJIqP2wtUIbejrzvuSB9EcxuRwJie0YEz0/s320/DSCF2150.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411013546305395746" /></a><br /><br /><br />Like many of the public buildings in Berlin, the Staatsoper, site of tonight's "Die Fledermaus" is on the Unter den Linden ("Under the Linden trees") in the city's middle, or "Mitte." It seems ancient compared to last night's sleek Komische venue.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrx3212fZtzjY-2UHt_Aglg-qAk6X0OhoZ47Z9yjzIvHiaqyhD-MjGYahIlmRnypYtOqljxs5_qfPUJNzR3fCpJZkUKab9JY2UuUVnnM2Xwe_Vq_nOnbyEQJXDpgohrKvxgPlBy3cRPRk/s1600-h/DSCF2149.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrx3212fZtzjY-2UHt_Aglg-qAk6X0OhoZ47Z9yjzIvHiaqyhD-MjGYahIlmRnypYtOqljxs5_qfPUJNzR3fCpJZkUKab9JY2UuUVnnM2Xwe_Vq_nOnbyEQJXDpgohrKvxgPlBy3cRPRk/s320/DSCF2149.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411013364284748066" /></a><br /><br /><br />Humboldt University. I think Marx went to school here. Back me up on that.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7WZabjXtaTV2qNp7ao_w3A13wtdeeI_6RAyYO7LlHWdj1pyNLfnvwQ9F5Xu8Hd4b-MEfRUAaMEeg71ZaC0mNyHMtkccAwjI5aqBBwf5AXVYQwyUfEB6E1W6KTVFDl46DAlzMONVuPLk/s1600-h/DSCF2148.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7WZabjXtaTV2qNp7ao_w3A13wtdeeI_6RAyYO7LlHWdj1pyNLfnvwQ9F5Xu8Hd4b-MEfRUAaMEeg71ZaC0mNyHMtkccAwjI5aqBBwf5AXVYQwyUfEB6E1W6KTVFDl46DAlzMONVuPLk/s320/DSCF2148.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411013108757006290" /></a><br /><br /><br /><em>Certainement,</em> there is a Galeries Lafayette in Berlin.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNow5KzMEVuAcEUDPga_e1YDV67bFcVK6_wmXvgy7pQ4Hnb-X9sbOm-CJHiaDnWL73a70PNa9u6inQef6iAlwKZNUdATQSMfX2NPDMc7SJ9SJ5WAh5rtNluvw549HGJCqInziNEbjsI4/s1600-h/DSCF2145.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNow5KzMEVuAcEUDPga_e1YDV67bFcVK6_wmXvgy7pQ4Hnb-X9sbOm-CJHiaDnWL73a70PNa9u6inQef6iAlwKZNUdATQSMfX2NPDMc7SJ9SJ5WAh5rtNluvw549HGJCqInziNEbjsI4/s320/DSCF2145.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411012786919790514" /></a><br /><br /><br />I think I found my grocery store on this street. It’s called Netto, where I bought some eggs and bread, along with a 16-ounce bottle of beer that cost 35 cents. Oh, and something called “Sana,” resembling margarine. (I’d love to have been in the room when that pitch was made: “It’s the capital of Yemen, sir. Bound to be a big hit.") The German yeasts have always been something of an enigma to me, and I can’t honestly say there’s a German beer that I’m crazy about, but maybe that will change on this trip.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1t6kqKjeF0_UIG0fFCzuSv4SDmpz2MpXLhdNysQe-WEe_WOd0wU5TrF9a9A51VBihs9tb7oCWwpkj4D-a_dJSh3PkNHQp_ho2VOqeHUKA6WUHwgI-1rso5nMrMGrKYfE-wKVsO82uTiI/s1600-h/DSCF2143.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1t6kqKjeF0_UIG0fFCzuSv4SDmpz2MpXLhdNysQe-WEe_WOd0wU5TrF9a9A51VBihs9tb7oCWwpkj4D-a_dJSh3PkNHQp_ho2VOqeHUKA6WUHwgI-1rso5nMrMGrKYfE-wKVsO82uTiI/s320/DSCF2143.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411012525168716738" /></a><br /><br />Today's image dump is below. The singer is Evelyn Kerr, a housewife in Northern California. Do not ask me how I know this.<br /><iframe src="//player.vimeo.com/video/90156948" width="500" height="333" frameborder="0" webkitallowfullscreen mozallowfullscreen allowfullscreen></iframe> <p><a href="http://vimeo.com/90156948">dec.13</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user11630988">Sluggh McGee</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-85361017003151353682009-12-02T15:34:00.000-08:002009-12-02T16:50:01.709-08:00Watch out, she's got a gun!Pockets of buildings like this dot the neighborhood, neglected for the past 65 years. Some have bullet holes from the Russian invasion in 1945. To recap: President Roosevelt, inexplicably smitten by Uncle Joe Stalin in Yalta, agreed not to march into Berlin before the Russians did. Witnessing this, Churchill correctly predicted a Cold War. He pointed to the Russians’ abandonment of the Warsaw citizenry to Hitler’s goons as proof that Russia would go on to seize Poland after Hitler was buried. Which it did. Followed by the annexation of Eastern Europe, the building of the Berlin Wall, and the political sickness that gripped this place for 30 years.<br /><br /><A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzYBU33PV135STdRSSKXAVcxHfCpb5kO_vtiFHBfAHdgr-jPxUoH96A6_KDSevFB2r2QMajA2_XnvuqDHNrUiRk_GQ8wrHWrxXU_8aEd8Z1DZTIRxs_o08FfbDjIjSXGEQKALbwIPP3o/s1600-h/DSCF2127.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410794632022809714 style="FLOAT: center; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzYBU33PV135STdRSSKXAVcxHfCpb5kO_vtiFHBfAHdgr-jPxUoH96A6_KDSevFB2r2QMajA2_XnvuqDHNrUiRk_GQ8wrHWrxXU_8aEd8Z1DZTIRxs_o08FfbDjIjSXGEQKALbwIPP3o/s320/DSCF2127.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Anyway, this building. It overlooks the S-Bahn tracks behind my building. There is a bridge there where you can watch them glide by, whisper-quiet. Come to think of it, the neighborhood’s main drag, Schonhauser Allee, has a Chicago-y feel to it because of the elevated S-Bahn tracks that run its length. <A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEwBV11LNrF3jUqFDzy9tUYgiq64xGHw5VmseYtxPL_NUITbzKmBtAD3clDq2yjcO65GAmxpYHUOdXneCzMbewxKDXiK7-LLFbSsz_yd10MGfXp2eVJbWuA-inJOtXw3C-ek3GcDXgQ4/s1600-h/DSCF2129.JPG"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410794996990793202 style="FLOAT: center; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEwBV11LNrF3jUqFDzy9tUYgiq64xGHw5VmseYtxPL_NUITbzKmBtAD3clDq2yjcO65GAmxpYHUOdXneCzMbewxKDXiK7-LLFbSsz_yd10MGfXp2eVJbWuA-inJOtXw3C-ek3GcDXgQ4/s320/DSCF2129.JPG" border=0></A> <br /><br />Which brings us to tonight’s “Armida” by Christoph Gluck, a seldom-staged and recorded work. The story is conventional enough: Armida tells a group of Crusaders about being deposed as queen in a gambit to snare her lover, Rinaldo. He says fuck this, I’m going with my Crusade buddies, and Armida goes nuts, extracting her revenge. But we’re in Berlin, where director’s theater or “Regietheater” is in the ascendance -- meaning the story is a picnic of mutilation, torture and nudity. And Rinaldo isn't going on the Crusades; it looks like he's heading to the gym. Some bemoan this Tarantino-ization of the opera house, but I’ve got an open mind. That’s Armida in the blue powersuit getting her pistol-whip on. (Photo from Operachic.com)<A href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9MUCdY4zERifgR6Qulj80hl61vlJU0q23ktbCZbKTAYgVnZmDCSZU2WowLydQb0XlmZKL_zo_GGROAzaCm-hf4W7kAZDVocHg4X7WwnAw-o71blxFeZdWFkGPMeM0EaKBy4U4IwUUhiQ/s1600-h/armida.jpg"><IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410795663952041298 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 136px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9MUCdY4zERifgR6Qulj80hl61vlJU0q23ktbCZbKTAYgVnZmDCSZU2WowLydQb0XlmZKL_zo_GGROAzaCm-hf4W7kAZDVocHg4X7WwnAw-o71blxFeZdWFkGPMeM0EaKBy4U4IwUUhiQ/s320/armida.jpg" border=0></A> It was a kerr-azy performance, made all the more bizarre by the ultra-orthodox score by Gluck -- baroque on the cusp of classical. This is what I saw: 1) An old woman in a wedding dress shuffles on stage, only to have her eyes plucked out by Armida and a pal of Rinaldo. The woman lies on stage for several minutes with blood oozing out of her eye sockets. 2) Fifteen naked men do pushups while two pairs of men wearing boxing gloves spar and a blood-drenched dude wearing a goat mask watches. 3) Act 3 opens with Armida strutting onto the stage wearing a bustier and panties, carrying a 9 millimeter semiautomatic. Rinaldo follows close behind, wearing Speedos, sunglasses, and a live albino python wrapped around his body. So, what of "Regietheater"? I think good art can result from discordant elements. If this "Armida" had been staged in period costume and norms, would the opera house be even half full? And though it was played with warm workmanship by the 40-member Komische Oper orchestra, this is a middling musical piece by a guy who thought <em>Mozart</em> was radical. On the other hand, if this theatrical staging were accompanied by the sounds of Berg or Stockhausen, it would be unbearably modern, its sharp edges making for a long night. Only a half-glass-is-empty observer could see this as an abduction of opera, rather than a liberation of it.<br /><br />I tried to surreptitiously record video of Armida strangling a dude with a phone cord while singing an aria, but all I got was the railing in front of me. As small consolation, you can see video of the cast taking their bows below.<br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-e20dae8db0a8318f height=266 width=320 contentId="e20dae8db0a8318f"></OBJECT><br /><br />Tomorrow? "Die Fledermaus," directed by the Swarthy Lion himself, Zubin Mehta. Preceded, I hope, by some touristy stuff.Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-10942910948057375672009-12-02T15:11:00.000-08:002010-11-30T22:41:18.562-08:00Watch out, she's got a gun!Pockets of buildings like this dot the neighborhood, neglected for the past 65 years. Some have bullet holes from the Russian invasion in 1945. To recap: President Roosevelt, inexplicably smitten by Uncle Joe Stalin in Yalta, agreed not to march into Berlin before the Russians did. Witnessing this, Churchill correctly predicted a Cold War. He pointed to the Russians’ abandonment of the Warsaw citizenry to Hitler’s goons as proof that Russia would go on to seize Poland after Hitler was buried. Which it did.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQK-wbHDScJmjYESJxaFWJlZ4hw5LM92wik_neck2mAaK2hX6FgmaoE3UH1EHJfZQPw_wDZbviVxZ5xdwAFljKFUELvIevMU8OpF1TPCShDSQHtOSIYtczD_pvQMy_xMV4BylF7e9p2M/s1600-h/DSCF2127.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410782455191684962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQK-wbHDScJmjYESJxaFWJlZ4hw5LM92wik_neck2mAaK2hX6FgmaoE3UH1EHJfZQPw_wDZbviVxZ5xdwAFljKFUELvIevMU8OpF1TPCShDSQHtOSIYtczD_pvQMy_xMV4BylF7e9p2M/s320/DSCF2127.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Anyway, this building. It overlooks the S-Bahn tracks behind my building. There is a bridge there where you can watch them glide by, whisper-quiet. Come to think of it, the neighborhood’s main drag, Schoenhauser Allee, has a Chicago-y feel to it because of the elevated S-Bahn tracks that run its length.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQ1Ze54mZTcb8XPFJGTZ_pPZfuDu_HTC4fY4qBATnMZnKHTekuSGIdPn0VL8nHSVuktO_bQwYwgLCfaByabSKdzyNfib8L6MAacP4U7PcSnK8G-Tro1wGfzsGR3P4T6a8-KkBB2rSr_Q/s1600-h/DSCF2129.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410783132746146578" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQ1Ze54mZTcb8XPFJGTZ_pPZfuDu_HTC4fY4qBATnMZnKHTekuSGIdPn0VL8nHSVuktO_bQwYwgLCfaByabSKdzyNfib8L6MAacP4U7PcSnK8G-Tro1wGfzsGR3P4T6a8-KkBB2rSr_Q/s320/DSCF2129.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Which brings us to tonight’s “Armida” by Christoph Gluck, a seldom-staged and recorded work. The story is conventional enough: Armida tells a group of Crusaders that she's about to be deposed as queen. This is a gambit to snare her lover, Rinaldo. He says fuck this, I’m going with my Crusade buddies, and Armida goes nuts, extracting her revenge. But we’re in Berlin where director’s theater or “Regietheater” is in the ascendance -- meaning the story is a picnic of mutilation, torture and nudity. Some bemoan this Tarantino-ization of the opera house, but I’ve got an open mind. That’s Armida in the blue powersuit getting her pistol-whip on. (Photo from operachic.com).<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vpFszm2PzW5x4Pw6f2xQM6lqBy7-BxFSQqTokUgFfupDlgfc_xIx17S16S6negS-3CYvmVojaTaL99DglFATX5wFwu0gpWsxYPgsZgDbc_kjB0heX3CaYkN5eL4ivizYykZcX2DGsTs/s1600-h/armida.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410784887537083266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 136px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vpFszm2PzW5x4Pw6f2xQM6lqBy7-BxFSQqTokUgFfupDlgfc_xIx17S16S6negS-3CYvmVojaTaL99DglFATX5wFwu0gpWsxYPgsZgDbc_kjB0heX3CaYkN5eL4ivizYykZcX2DGsTs/s320/armida.jpg" border="0" /></a>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-26352076171453206042009-12-01T09:18:00.000-08:002009-12-01T10:01:43.091-08:00A man, a plan, a wheat beer -- Berlin!Time's march is cruel in less-obvious ways. Consider the delicious anticipation of your vacation. "In 72 hours I will be sipping a Campari on the Rue de Rivoli" -- that sort of thing.<br /><br />Well, what do you do when the Rue de Rivoli is at your feet? You despair, that's what. Once your vacation has begun, it's like an undertow pulling you out to sea. You've lost control of your trip, and only when the ocean spits you back onto the beach can you go home.<br /><br />I'm in a 100-year-old apartment building in northeast Berlin. View a low-budget tour below. Tomorrow, Gluck's "Armida" at the Komische Oper, and I better well visit the grocery store, too, before I starve.<br /><br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-9ea43b490810744f height=266 width=320 contentId="9ea43b490810744f"></OBJECT>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3396958714499072926.post-76217562848426247782009-11-24T17:24:00.000-08:002009-11-24T17:27:44.185-08:00The countdown beginsComing Dec. 1.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0668rxQy_5zhVE7vauVz2vBARf2kweEUmhchuL5zn9lQ1IA9S_PFOdSNnn2mekj-zCqGHvGY-5CTb42pyUd5cS8Z5M4M_wSCpxz01IP5fRbLC57_NU8Y1oIbiRZLOG2Df4_gtL8yOvgU/s1600/336.mascot.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0668rxQy_5zhVE7vauVz2vBARf2kweEUmhchuL5zn9lQ1IA9S_PFOdSNnn2mekj-zCqGHvGY-5CTb42pyUd5cS8Z5M4M_wSCpxz01IP5fRbLC57_NU8Y1oIbiRZLOG2Df4_gtL8yOvgU/s320/336.mascot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407846148740226178" /></a>Slugghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02051121686285670516noreply@blogger.com3