Holidays (Again!)
Weather: Summer’s gone, Winter’s not here yet
CD: Jimmie Rodgers
Two weeks vacation. TWO WEEKS! And work only started up in the beginning of September! Is it the European system? or the perks of “academia”? (Kindergarten surely falls into the upper echelons of education.) As the German saying goes—It’s sausage to me: I got out there with my empty pocketbook and threw my weight around.
The two weeks kicked off with a celebration of Germany’s Reunification. Before the obligatory visits to the Reichstag and Brandenburg Gate, we jumped into a special tour delving into the underworlds of Berlin—namely air raid bunkers from the war nestled into subway walls. The strategic position near the subway stations spared them from the de-nazification/de-militarization destructions that rid the rest of the country of its military infrastructure immediately following the war. A chilling sense of claustrophobia greeted us once the large green door had been deadbolted shut. A sign above the door, unmoved for over 60 years, ordered that the door was not to be shut until the sound of the first bomb making contact could be heard.
We, a group of about 30, cramped ourselves into a room that once protected the lives of several hundred people. Stories were told of people standing on the stools in order to reach the oxygen that clung to the ceilings while waiting out the bombing raids—so many people had crammed themselves into the rooms that the life giving material was quickly exhausting itself. It was always seen as a bad sign when the cat that was brought in keeled over from asphyxiation. All this was witnessed in a pale glow of war neccessity: the walls were painted a phosphorent green, allowing a shade of light to filter into the room once the electricity was cut (think of a glow-stick as an interiour painting scheme).
Later in the week I visited the Stunde Null exhibition chronicling the every day life of a Berliner immediately following the war. Fascinating. Think about it: you wake up from the horrible nightmare that was National Socialism, walk out of your bunker and are immediately greeted by 75 million tonnes of rubble. There’s no home to speak of, and even if there was, there wouldn’t be anyone there. All men between 16-45 were either dead, prisoners of war or missing. What do you do? In no way am I condoning the actions of Nazi Germany, nor am relating the plight of the Germans to the incredible pains they caused throughout all of Europe, but it is a remarkably fascinating history of determination and Macgyver-isms (ever use a gas mask as a kitchen utensil? Or a tire as a shoe?).
And as for what to do with 75 million tonnes of rubble? You build a mountain. Or two. Or three. They’re scattered on the outskirts of the city; up to 100 meters high. I hear they make excellent sledding runs during the winter.
The Kaethe Kollwitz Museum also landed on the “Things to Do” list. Once again, not exactly the heart-warmer of the year, but well put together and singed with artistic sincerity. Her son died in the Great War, prompting her to direct her energies into anti-war themes, usually involving a mother weeping for her children. It should come as no surprise that her sculptures litter the plazas and fields of Berlin.
Rembrandt also happened to be celebrating his 400th birthday in the fair city of Berlin. I was expecting way too much from an exhibition that could never deliver. Hoping to finally see the Prodigal Son, I left with absurd expectations unfulfilled. Even then, however, I was touched by the colors and emotions pouring out of the frames; understanding Moses’ dissapointment as he returned from the Mount with the Ten Commandments in his hands; realizing the momentary flourish of laughter emmenating from his son’s off-hand hours in the studios. The man was a genious, but I hardly see it as my place to point that out.
Day trips reaching out into the Wild Wild East filled out the weeks. An early mornings mist brought about a Romantic vision of a gutted Monastary peeking out from the heavily wooded Brandenburg countryside. Sun managed to echo off the hallowed walls, dripping from the mists that hung in the air. A bit further down the tracks was the city of Schwedt, a dying example of the mass exodus from the former East Germany, yet still an example of beauty in its own way. Die wahre Lebenskust besteht darin, im Alltaeglichen das Wunderbare zu sehen.