Berlin and the Beast

We left Hamburg late. We got to Berlin late.

Darkness overtook us at first as we ventured up, up the Hauptbahnhopf's many layers. Confusion had struck us like a match -- well flamed and exciting at first, then slowly it eased away. We randomly jumped on an S-bahn, which happened to be the right one, then randomly hopped on an undergroun, which again happened to be the right one, then randomly exited and happened to see our hostel across the street. After traveling for a while one looses the greater anxieties of reaching a destination and, instead (at least in my case), takes a more Taoists approach. The hostel was new and eye-painfuly modern. It was a hip place, save for the twenty-something american tourists that littered the lounge area. They all seem to make things plain.

It was strange that night. I had spoken to a certain teacher of mine, a Mrs. Matz, for those in the know, and she said she would be at the hostel at exactly the same time with 12-13 high schoolers in tow. So, this causing the most anxiety of the night (for those in the know know why), I wanted to quickly check my mail and then procure a pint at, perhaps, another locale. While writing a blog spot at the computer and with Dave hovering gingerly over me, I heard a, 'Hey.' A colloquial greeting that one can only familiarize with a common background. 'Hey,' Dave responded and so it began. Every now and then a high schooler would venture up and ask us the same standard questions, 'Where...?' 'How...?' 'What...?' And us being kind and gentle people responded pleasantly and in turn asked our questions, 'Where...?' 'How...?' 'What...?' Most sentences consisted of a few 'awesomes,' and at least one or two 'crazys.' But as aprubtly as they had come so too did they leave, I saw not of Mrs. Matz, for she was sleeping off a headache in an unknown room somewhere in the hostel. I must say this disappointed me a little (the shock, I know) because it would have been interesting and most certainly blog worthy to perhaps procure a pint (one of my favorite expressions, as you can see) with my former teacher in this foreign land. But it was not to be and the night dragged on before us as we, ourselves, searched for an interesting pub (and found none) and thus wandered the night away.

The next morning did not greet us with heaps of sunshine like that of Groningen (Is he being serious? How could you know how the weather in Groningen? What a cruel, cruel game this author plays.). It was a tad rainy with hints of wind. After another in a series, in a series, ina series of slow mornings we were out the door by mid-afternoon (our pride is palpable if we make out before noon!). Our first stop was the wall.

It was drab and dreary as we walked slowly along this grea artifice. Fitting, I suppose, as per the memories (those which I do not possess, but others may have) this monument eokes. It os littered with graffit/art which lends to the peculiarity of the structure. It stretched on, further than our eyes could see, to some unknown destinaton. We walked only about a block of it before it started to drizzle. This interrupted our befuddled and bedazzled daze and shook us into moving to Museum Island.

Museum Island has Museum's. We went to a few of them. What more can I say?

Now for my best Tom Wolfe impression!!!!!!!!

Later that night....

We had just finished eating a peculiar dinner at an italian restaurant where the pastas are comprised of three noodles and the pizzas are as huge as a giant pizza man's head (?), when we came upon and old building. Scott mysterious friend had told us about this place...this Tacheles...but from his vague description (mall-like was uttered I believe) we were unsure of this building that we gayed longingly at from across the street. It was tall...maybe 5, 6 stories...It had an unmistakable broken-ness to it that one could only associate with crack-dealers or struggling artists. As we moved slowly toward this lightly litted entrance we saw peppered with graffiti that was delicately placed upon white walls with one shady man slowly smoking a chalk-white cigarette...we hoped for the latter.

We were timid prey slowly approaching the watering hole. Would this quench our thirst satisfiably???? Would there be a predator waiting serenely beneath the murky surface????

The building looked dead save for that lone smoking figure hovering around the gaping entrance. The first sign of life, however, came to us as we slowly made up the brightly tagged stairs. It was the sound of brass. A brass sax to be exact!!!! And the blower of this horn stood above us as we inched our weary way up the stairs to the first floor. It was an impromptu band of sorts that greeted us on that landing. Comprising of the aforementioned horn-blower (a blower of horn, if you like)...a bass player...guitar strummer...and a bongo beater...all these loosely dressed boys were surrounded by buckling and swaying and moving and grooving hipsters that sent good, good, good, good, vibrations to us the O So Unseasoned members of this strange and somewhat secret side of The Den of Lions (Berlin!!!). The sax-man blew hard into unsatisfiable baby, all the while kicking, throwing, moving, pushing, shoving his feet back, back with bended knee like a prancing dancing show horse. The hipsters moved without err to every hard-hit banging beat. After standing...sagging... a while (Yes, attempting to look IN) we figured we could only go up.

Up, Up, Up!!!!!

Each floor was covered wall to wall with bright, colorful, interesting, frustrating, stupid, brilliant graffiti. It was brightly lit so as to enhance the glow of the art work...and to the on-looker (i.e. outsider) at ease. Along with the walls one could find art work (works of art, if you like) in almost every room in this beast. Work that ranged from the strangely sublime...to the satisfyingly surreal...to the sadisticly sickening. All, however left an impression (Indeed, one woman I overheard upon leaving, 'Well, I've seen it now I never have to see it again.')

We grabbed a beer on the top floor and gazed cooly over the sparkling buildings of Berlin. We felt IN now. We had been there a little over an hour. We had heard the jazz man blow...we had talked with the artists...we had scoffed and smiled sheepishly at the naivety of the Bourgeousie, As far as we were concerned this Tacheles belonged to the night...and we owned the night.

But this night...this our property...waned, and the adrenaline induced surprises were gone. Our cool-ness...chic-ness...anti-establishment-ness turned into sleepi-ness after the second beer. We figured this was the time to leave this creature to its own devices. We listened to the sax man blow a little while before we ventured down those stairs that had carried us here in the first. Back then we were so naive...we thought...What a different world it was three hours ago!!!! We were but children before Tacheles...now we were (almost) men. And these men had another spot to conquer...another world to see...These men were on an adventure...these men were to live...to breath...to experience. These men were to go to Prague.

!!!!!!!!