Pickelhaube, Panoptikum and Pork Belly

Is it me, or does the Ostkreuz railway tower look just like Otto von Bismark?  Please note the weather in the photo at upper left.  Berlin is famous for it and it was my constant companion for all but about 4 hours of my visit.  No wonder iconic Germans are so often portrayed in rain coats!  And Pickelhaube!  Pickelhaube is the German word meaning "point bonnet" which is used to describe Otto's chapeau above.  Pickel is the old German word for "point", but you have to admit, this fetching headgear does look a great deal like a metal bonnet with a pointed pickle stuck on top.

I left the apartment Thursday morning determined to make a success of my interactions with the transport system.  I went armed with a flawless understanding of where I was going and how.  And it turns out - *check* - I executed the transfers flawlessly.  What I didn't count on is one of the limitations of doing research on the internet: the lack of direct personal experience can sometimes lead you directly into a blind alley, both literally and figuratively.  I had come across an absolutely fabulous German shoe company by the name of Trippen (to see their shoes is to be amazed by them) on the internet and read that they had a discount outlet in my area which seemed like a good expedition for working on my transportation skills, if nothing else.

Following the arcane route from the bus stop to the outlet store, I passed an encampment of hand built caravans (the European equivalent of homemade trailers in a clandestine park) nestled into a vine and trash and graffiti infested nook where a bend in the railway met some bridges.  No one was stirring, but a mysterious and inimitable sense of being lived in was in strong evidence.  I rounded the corner to find an impersonal looking office complex, the entrances to which all opened off a large internal courtyard, forcing me to consult numerous directories and maps to help determine the precise building and floor I was targeting.  I found myself the protagonist in a deliciously ominous archetypal plot sequence lifted directly from a Nihilist German espionage film when I reached the lobby of the appointed building and walked into a narrow, dimly lit space that was only a tiny bit larger than the opening of a large elevator door.  I giggled a little nervously when the shiny silver door clanged shut behind me and I was surrounded, yea clad even, in a featureless steel box resembling a set piece more than a conveyance.  A shrill hum sounded from the motor as it strained to make its arduous journey to the fourth floor.  I had immersed myself so deeply in fantasy that I genuinely had no idea what would be revealed when those doors at last opened.  Was David Lynch directing?  David Cronenburg, Disney or perhaps even the Cohen brothers?  Ooooh!  Maybe Fritz Lang!  After such a great build up of suspense, what I fond when I exited the elevator was simply yet another ubiquitous door.  Upon opening the door, I found that it led directly into a cavernous open space that was segmented by temporary partitions dividing the floor into several large work areas.  Dark bespectacled women were timidly going about their tasks, occasionally passing each other wordlessly or gathering in small grounds to talk quietly at the margins of the huge work tables.  But no leather, no shoes, no shoe store, no elves - just people carrying stacks of office paper around, trying to make a living.

In thinking about it, I feel sure it was as completely surreal an experience for them as it was to me. All of a sudden, from their point of view,  a whimsical pink haired woman opened the door to their workplace and walked slowly and inexplicably from one faraway end to the other, all the while displaying a mostly bemused smirk, eventually exiting without having uttered a single word.  What a tremendously German experience I feel I enjoyed - bordered on performance art, even.

At the time, it made me a bit cranky, feeling as though I'd failed at a task once again.  By the time I boarded the bus to return to my apartment, I had worked myself into a fine fettle, indulging myself in an internal rant about how grouchy and mean all Germans were (ironic?).  I was disturbed from my pout by the bus driver hollering something at me I couldn't understand.  Several other grumpy passengers interpreted it for me, making the universal sign for bus ticket with their hands.  Now, interestingly, the German transportation system operates on the honor system.  You validate your ticket yourself at the appropriate time and are responsible for it being correct if ever asked to present it.  It's not ever expected that you show anyone your ticket, except for the occasional cranky bus driver that feels like picking on a pink haired woman with a scowl.  I showed him my ticket, which he reviewed with an audible harrumph.  My minuscule victory did allow me the opportunity, however, to sashay triumphantly back to my seat and glower persistently and vehemently until exiting the bus a short while later.  I skulked across the train station on my way back to the apartment and as I approached the picturesquely grungy exit portal, I could see there were three young people accosting passerby for some variation of attention.  When I got close enough to investigate, I found that all three of them were sporting big round red clown noses and were simply telling people about the charity they volunteered for that entertained children in hospitals. My acridly sour mood was suddenly under attack by a gang of street clowns.  I lost all control and beamed ear to ear in an enormous smile.  As I passed through the arch the young female clown practically sprang toward me,  greeting me in proficient English when she found I couldn't understand her German.  With genuine warmth, she complimented my colorful hair and asked me where I hailed from.  Before I could answer though, I had to jump in and say, "Thank you so much for stopping me and making me smile.  I have just been working myself into a tizzy about how grumpy and mad everyone in Germany is, and your beaming smile couldn't have come at a better time."  She replied excitedly, "And thank YOU!  Every single person that's passed by this morning has been frowning.  You are the first person that's smiled at me all day!"

The dark stagnant cloud of I don't know particles that had collected in a veritable helmet around my head began drifting away in fragile whorls as I strode off smiling.  So much so that I noticed tiny yarn guerillas peering out from their perch around a  tree just a little further down my path, reinforcing the powerful smile that had attached itself to my lips.  It's always remarkable to me how much a change in mood can alter what I notice.

Temporal nonsequitur: A few images from the apartment building where I was staying.  Here is the beautiful 1920s tiling in a classic Teutonic color scheme which graced both foyers of the building...

...and the front door as evidence of the omnipresent nature of graffiti in Berlin.  There are an endless number of doorways just like this in every quarter of the city.  I knew Berlin to be one of the great epicenters of street art before I arrived, but I had no idea how continuous the curtain would be.  It provided me a great deal of fodder for musing about what drives such a thing - thought provoking being a good thing when you're travelling by yourself.

A quick visit to the apartment to recalibrate my adventure compass and then I pushed forward because I would not let myself be deterred from the strong force compelling me toward the Designpanoptikum.  I had run across information on the Panoptikum during research for the trip (from a favorite index of the unusual, Atlas Obscura) and could tell from what I'd read about the fellow that ran this place and what he'd put together that it was going to be solid gold pay dirt for me in terms of my own special interests. What I discovered instead was more what I'd term platinum pay dirt, only with lots of little diamonds sprinkled in.

My heart rose into my throat as I passed the display windows flanking the Panoptikum's door.  When I walked into the lobby, it was like surging down a gangplank, returning at long last to your home planet.  Gleaming instruments and Fresnel lenses and dials and chrome and curves and pointy things.  I could hear an enthusiastic soliloquy being given several rooms away and it turned out unsurprisingly to be the voice of Vlad Korneev, the Panoptikum's charismatic creator.  He's famous for his heartfelt and personal tours and it was easy to sense the passion in what he was saying even from a distance.  A motionless Übermensch wearing a silvery proximity helmet stood guard at the entrance to the museum exhorting me to remain standing mesmerized in the lobby until help arrived. I knew with certainty that I was going to love every minute here.

Vlad quickly returned after cutting loose the previous batch of guests to let them wander the 10 rooms of the mind boggling installation on their own.  As soon as he turned the corner and began talking, I fell instantly in love with him.  He had a spirit as bright as burning magnesium and it poured from him with every word he uttered.  His dark piercing eyes are almost impossible to look away from and I felt a little giddy as he gave me a rousing speech about form and function and needing to know that was like a love sonnet the way he told it.  The rarefied relationship he has forged with these incredible industrial objects is readily apparent and his ability to combine them in pleasing and thought provoking ways is top notch. 

Vlad also produces beautifully staged photos that blend technological relics with soft velvety human parts in a sepia toned haze that artfully blurs reality.  A number of his photos were displayed in a separate room of the museum and I found them mirthful and witty, fun to decipher and beautiful to look at.

But instead of me blathering on and on about Vlad and his amazing museum, how about I just show you some photos instead?

Near the end of the tour, Vlad offered to take pictures of several of us as we milled about in a room with a large stainless steel water therapy tub standing on its end.  You know I wasn't going to pass that up!  What an awesome souvenir.

I left the Designpanoptikum positively glowing.  The two ends of the day's continuum could not have been more widely divergent.  I stumbled into a nearby coffee shop when I realized I was famished and enjoyed a restorative cup of dark rich coffee and an sugar dusted Apfelball.

I stopped on the way home at a wonderful grocery store I had discovered in the huge shopping center near my apartment and scored a gorgeous tray of pork belly for my dinner.  I found the prices of pretty much everything but real estate and gas ($8/gallon) to be surprisingly low in Berlin, putting US prices to shame.  This much pork belly in the US would probably have run around $10-15 and in Berlin it set me back less than $3.  But then the Germans do love pork, a concept I endorse heartily.

A short while later I feasted on a delicious dinner of haricot verts (tiny French style green beans) sauteed with wild mushrooms and lightly pan fried pork belly strips that had been dusted with seasoned flour.  Absolutely delicious!

Here at the end of the day, I reflected on the drama and the joy and everything in between and saw that it had managed to turn the tide of my discomfort.  I was finally on top of the trip to Berlin instead of being pulled along by it.  And  there were still three days left before I had to return home!

Just Another Hick at the Wall

"Tell your story" the sign urges

Wednesday was a humbling day.  I departed with the intention of visiting three different art venues, armed with an elaborate set of written instructions as to what trams and buses and trains to take, with careful notes about where the connections were and how to find them.  The confusion began, however, as soon as I attempted to locate my very first bus stop.  I asked for directions at the nearby S-Bahn station and the woman at the information desk and I managed to zero in on an answer, even though neither of us spoke the other's language.  After a short bus ride and walk, I arrived at my first destination: the East Side Gallery.

The East Side Gallery was established in 1990 along a 1.3 kilometer segment of the Berlin Wall that was preserved for just that purpose.  It displays over 100 works of art painted by artists from all over the world as a memorial to freedom.

The very first image I encountered as I arrived at the wall was that of Zippy the Pinhead which felt a bit like running into an old friend thousands of miles from home.   

As I walked along the sidewalk taking in the images, I experienced a flood of thoughts but I'm sorry to report that not many of them were positive.  Maybe it was the cold, dank day.  Maybe it was the throngs of tourists that clotted the walkway.  Maybe it was the awkwardness of a space dedicated to freedom directly across from an enormous Mercedes-Benz office tower, a ginormous arena for high dollar events and a five story tall ultra-pink depiction of a pink I-phone.

But honestly, I think it was because I was so disappointed in the art.  I'd only been in Berlin for a couple of days and I'd seen WAY better art on underpasses and roll up doors and train station walls all over the city.  Sure, there were a couple of stand out pieces like the delightful amanita mushroom DJ with drugged out eyes above.  But by and large it looked like a bunch of goofy hippies got ahold of a huge stash of paint and held a festival one weekend to paint the wall.   I know I sound harsh, and I've argued with myself about it extensively trying to delve into why I had that reaction - but I really can't come up with anything better than most of the art didn't do anything for me.

I think it's tempting to feel put off by the tremendous amount of tagging and graffiti and vandalism that has been layered onto the art, but that's not what bothered me for the most part.  In fact, I think it mitigated my reaction in general by diminishing how overly precious it all seemed.

Some of the graffiti is immensely annoying, though.  One moron had gone along the entire length of the wall and added bloody red commas to any eye he/she was able to reach.  That struck me as probably the most immature and senseless way to leave a mark there is - even worse than just scrawling your initials.

I've experienced a similar feeling at many of the Burning Man events I've attended when some inebriated idiot gets hold of a megaphone and proceeds to try and prove they're the funniest and cleverest spokesperson ever.  They never are and unfortunately there's no escaping them. For example: below is one of the most iconic and well loved images on the entire wall.  It's a painted reproduction of a famous photo of communist leaders Leonid Brezhnev and Erich Honecker exchanging a kiss. 

"Faggot$"??  Really??  That's the best thing you can think of to deface a beautiful piece of art work?  People just wear me out sometimes.

I walked the 1.3 kilometers back to the bus stop from the other side of the street hoping the perspective would improve my mood.  Unfortunately, it was on that walk that I passed close enough to the windows of the ground floor of the Mercedes-Benz building that I could see a real live woman smiling demurely while stroking the back seat armrest of a 300,000 Euro Mercedes G3.  It made feel sort of disgusted, actually.  Humans sure seem to have a long way to go before we're civilized, if you ask me.  Bah!

That dark cloud of social psychology must have obscured my vision because I spent the next half hour walking a grid around the area where the bus stop I needed to find was supposed to be located.  I even saw the exact bus I needed to take, and walking up to it with great relief was aggrieved to find the off-duty driver picnicking in the front seat.  Damn it.

I finally gave up with a grimace of resignation and caught the same bus that had brought me there so I could at least return to my apartment and figure a new and different route to my next destination.  But by the time I was able to sit in front of my computer and figure it out, it was simply too late to start for the next venue since I'd barely have time to look around before it closed.

It was time to stop beating my head against the wall of attachment and make a truce with my schedule.  I made a quick trip down to the nearby grocery store and got some ingredients for a satisfying and delicious dinner (salad, sausages and kartoffelpuffs!) and a nice big bottle of Gluwein.  Tomorrow would bring another opportunity to take on the trains.  And win.

Finally, Ich eine Berliner!

Practically every time in the last several months that I've mentioned to someone that I would be going to Berlin, my fellow conversant would reply emphatically: "I LOVE that city!"  It was clear to me before I arrived that Berlin is indeed one of the world's truly great metropolises, teaming with a dynamic variety of people and food and things to see and buy. I quickly discovered that it was in fact so robust a destination that I'd definitely have some trouble selecting what to do with the time I have here.  So in a sort of pick-something-out-of-a-hat technique, I randomly selected a few items from the list of attractions I'd made and set out to do as many of them as I could before giving in to exhaustion.

The first thing to tackle was beginning the process of familiarizing myself with the trams, buses, subways and trains that web the city in a marvelous but extremely complicated transportation system.  When I rode the tram to the station nearest my apartment, my task was to transfer to the commuter rail (S-Bahn) which sounded easy enough.  It was not, however, and I ended up walking around for a good half hour before discovering the entrance on a completely different street than the one where the tram had dropped me off.

Which turned out to be a fine thing, because it was lunch time and I was hungry and there at the entrance to the S-Bahn was the Curry Piraten (please note the crossed bones on the Piraten flag are sausages).  Berliners are famous for their love of a dish called currywurst.  What is currywurst you ask innocently?  Take a pretty decent grilled frankfurter, slice it in 2 inch segments and throw it in a paper dish.  Next slather the mound of meat nubbins in copious amounts of ketchup and then for the finishing touch, take a huge shaker of yellow curry powder and douse the whole conglomeration liberally.  Think I'm making that up?  Well I'm not.  And I've since discovered that there is a currywurst stand about every 100 feet or less throughout the entire city.

It seemed the perfect dish with which to begin my culinary adventure in Berlin.  I ordered mine with Zwiebeln (onions) and Brot (bread).  Want to know what it tasted like?  A bunless hotdog with ketchup and the vague suggestion of a hint of curry.  While it certainly wasn't bad tasting, I sure didn't find myself getting very excited about it either.  It makes me wonder if Vienna sausages come in curry flavor...?


I wolfed down my currywurst standing at a tall table cheek to jowl with busy Berliners on their lunch break and then hurried to the S-Bahn platform for a quick journey over to Charlottenburg Palace.

Charlottenburg Palace is one of the older structures in the city (remember not many buildings survived the Battle of Berlin in 1945) and I was headed to one of the palace's peripheral outposts that has been turned into the Brohan Museum of Art Nouveau and Art Deco.  When I stepped up to the counter to purchase my ticket, I was excited to see a notice for an exhibition I knew I would love - original posters by Alphonse Mucha exhibited side by side with album covers and concert posters from the 70s which were also adjacent to images from recent Japanese Manga novels.  That may sound a bit odd, but it makes perfect sense insofar as both of the modern iterations borrow heavily from the late 19th century poster work done by Mucha.  Sorry - no pictures - just an agreeable review.

When I finished up my tour of the Brohan, I walked across the street to the courtyard outside the palace when I saw that there was a busy Christmas market in progress.  Eastern Europeans really love Christmas and they have huge fairs with special foods, decorations and gifts to help celebrate.  Berlin must have at least a dozen of these large markets and luckily I had stumbled upon one in full swing.

I walked around for a little bit to get my bearings and see what was being offered.  The first item I decided to try was a nice steaming hot mug of Gluwein, which is essentially the German version of mulled wine.  It was a cold misty afternoon and the Gluwein really hit the spot.  I strolled around looking at pigs roasting on spits, hand knitted mittens, mounds of candy and Christmas decorations for a good while.  The second item I decided to buy won me over on visuals alone: candied grapes!  And I'm talking about the same sort of candy you find on a candied apple - hard and sweet and red.  Doesn't it look fabulous, though?

It didn't taste like much of anything but sweet, sweet, sweet.  The fresh grapes added a really interesting texture to the mix, though.  I wish I'd thought to stick my tongue out in a mirror and see how red it was!

After a bit more ambling about, I realized I was already pretty tired and ready to go back to my apartment and recuperate.  I'd forgotten how much energy it takes when absolutely everything involves a new concept.  I stopped at a grocery store near my apartment and selected some items to cook for dinner.  I was amazed when I saw a number of different products on the shelves labelled "Trader Joe's"!  It's in the same exact font as the chain in the States, too.  I'll have to investigate that interesting arrangement when I return home.

By the time I'd prepared my dinner, done a little writing and organized myself for the next day, it was well after midnight.  And let me tell you, it sure felt good to crawl under that duvet.

Time for Tacos and T-Bana and then off to Berlin

I really enjoyed my lodgings at the Jumbo Stay hostel.  It's not often that something as out of the ordinary as a jumbo jet hotel is executed so cleverly and well.  Quirky places are often great fun to visit, but in my experience they're rarely bastions of sophistication or luxury.  The Jumbo Stay manages to hit that exceedingly small target by resisting the temptation to Disneyfy its product and instead creating an air of tongue-in-cheek mirth while being well appointed and comfortable.

After enjoying some breakfast in the sleek flight deck lounge, I checked out and returned to the Stockholm airport to stow my luggage while I ducked back into the city for a few last stops before flying off to Berlin around 5:30 p.m.  When I got back to town, I made a connection to what's referred to locally as the T-bana, Stockholm's lavish underground rail system.  The T-bana is remarkable for much more than its cleanliness and efficiency - more than 90 of the 100+ stations are themselves large public installations of art.  The first station to include art was opened in the early 50s and the number has rapidly expanded throughout the 5 decades which followed and there are now even special exhibition areas in various stations across the city.  It was really nice to have such a typically dreary space thrumming with the energy of art and I have to say, the beautiful natural rock walls make for a lovely canvas. 

I took the T-bana back to the Gamla Stan to indulge in my international margarita custom at a place called the Taco Bar which advertised itself as "A Small Piece of Mexico".  What I found when I arrived was an elegant little pub with a garish but extensive menu.  I ordered a classic margarita (4 ounces, $15) and a taco plate.  Even ordering the tacos was an exercise in delicious irony: I selected a pair of "Pink" (duh!)  tacos which featured shredded meat, feta cheese and pink pickled onions, and the "BBQ Texas" (again, duh!) taco with shredded beef, red onions, cheese and fresh cilantro.

I took a seat in a booth tucked cozily into a sweeping corner of curved glass and enjoyed watching the constant foot traffic of frenzied shoppers passing by outside the window.  The margarita was decent, rimmed in table salt and thankfully shaken by hand instead of frozen.  The waiter brought me a basket of chips and announced, "A warm starter for you."  A gelid lump of guacamole puree and a dish of salsa fresca that boasted the flavor of bland marinara.  Fortunately there was a bottle of Tabasco on the table so I was able to tweak the taste of it a bit.

By Texas standards, the tacos were competently prepared and flavorful if not quite authentic, but I feel compelled to upgrade my review substantially when comparing my meal to other foods I've eaten in Sweden.  Not my favorite cuisine, by any means.  I was actually just grateful there weren't any lumps of fish flesh swimming in a mysterious sauce when I bit into the flour tortilla.  On my way out, I spied a lonely looking bowl of jalapeno slices on the bar, perched there like some sort of exotic snack.  It made me wonder if it was in fact decorative and if not, how long that little bowl would last.
 

After a bit more strolling about through the narrow alleys and cobblestone streets of Old Town, it was time to return to the airport and take an uneventful flight to Berlin.  After arriving in Berlin, I hauled my bags on to the bus and into town, where I took my first ride on the S-Bahn (the commuter rail line) to an area of the city called Friedrichshain where I'd be staying for the next week.  My friendly hostess Susanna showed me around the lovely apartment and after a ritual unpacking of my things, I took one of those nice hot baths that feels like getting 5 new lives in a video game.  Time to tackle Berlin!