There Goes the Neighborhood

On my other blog I wrote yesterday about prejudices against Islam. I wrote it there instead of here because this blog has about 3.5 smarty-pants readers, whereas the other has hundreds, many of whom could stand a breath of fresh air or two. Another reason I posted it there is because I think there are a lot of people in the United States who need a reality check about their attitudes. Not that my attitudes are all that great. But to be sure, living abroad teaches you a bit about the world, and a lot about yourself.

I digress. <--are we ever going to come up with a less cliché way to say "I am babbling on and now want to change the subject?" Something a little more refined than "anyhoo"? Ahh, fuck it. Anyhoo. So the other night the 'Stoph and I are dead to the world asleep when someone urgently, obnoxiously leans on the doorbell. And we don't have a nice pleasant "ding dong" leave-it-to-Beaver-keeping-up-with-the-Jonses type modest and melodious doorbell, either. Ours is more of a prison yard siren, or public school recess kind of screaming metal alarm. Danger. It does not occur to me that a friend in need is standing on our doorstep, because no one who knows me would dare to show up without calling if even they were mortally injured. Whoever is at our door can be up to no good. Heart thumping wildly, I shake the 'Stoph.

"Did you hear that?" <--the President of Japan heard it "Mfmblxzzrrphrm." <--affirmative. But he's injured at the moment, so it was up to me to go tiptoe quietly to the door. I peek out the peephole and see no one. Curious. So I go window on the other side of the apartment and sure as apples is apples, there are three young men standing across the courtyard, smoking cigarettes and gesturing toward our building. "Luckily" they did not seem particularly interested in our apartment, but I noticed that they seemed to be conferring only about ground-floor homes. If you've followed my other blog you've likely read about the last time someone attempted to break into our apartment. That guy got away, but I was determined these dicks would not. "Call the police. NOW." The 'Stoph called the cops and the useless bastages showed up about half an hour later, unenthusiastically asked a couple of bland questions, then reluctantly bumbled around the courtyard a bit with flashlights, and left. I stood watch from the balcony until half an hour after daybreak and then went to bed. Relaying the skeleton of this story to a couple of friends, I heard, "I reckon if you moved out of Neukölln you wouldn't get hassled so much."

This is insulting.

The reason we get "hassled" so much is not because of our geographical location, but our physical one. We live on the ground floor in an apartment complex without a security gate. Unlike most residential buildings in the city, any old fool can waltz into our courtyards whenever he likes and case the joint at his leisure.

What my friend's comment meant was, "get out of the poor brown part of town and everything will peaches and cream with sprinkles on top."

I am sick to death of the Turk hate here. I don't want to say that this person hates Turks in the same way a lot of Germans hate Turks, but she, like most white people in this city, view them as undesirable thugs. I have heard of "nice areas" being turned into cesspools of... what, exactly? as soon as a döner shop moves onto the block. What you meant were there were a bunch of extravagant brown people standing around on an otherwise unremarkable street in large groups talking and laughing loudly, listening to "ethnic" music and reminding you of your own plain, stale, dull, uptightness. Hmm, where have I heard this story before?

This town is full, and I mean FULL of petty crime. Anywhere you go, there are bars on windows, graffiti on everything, and bicycles ripped to shreds for parts. Nowhere in this city is safe from vandalism or theft, even in the nicest and hippest parts of town.

What I like about my neighborhood is that there is very little pretense. No one here can pretend the Turks, Syrians, Lebanese, Sudanese, Gambians, Eritreans, Poles and Bulgarians do not exist, or that they do not work, or that they do not speak German. I love my neighborhood and I feel comfortable here.

In 2006, I stayed at my mother's house for a few weeks prior to coming to Germany. It was the first time in my life I had ever lived in a predominantly white neighborhood. I was not comfortable there. I'm not saying I don't like white people, but it was clear that they didn't much care for me. Daily I commuted on a crowded bus with standing room only and not even half-dead, arthritic old ladies would sit down on the vacant seat next to me. That was a shocking dose of reality.

I like my neighborhood because even though sometimes Turkish kids try to break into my home, they will never hesitate to sit in my lap on the train. It's a small sacrifice, really.

I didn't buy a camera for nothing, part four: Not Strong Enough For Abstinence

(Left: Laura epitomising the vibe of the weekend. Unter den Linden, Berlin.)

Like most people with an ounce of willpower, I sometimes feel the need to shake up my routine a bit to see if I can go without something upon which I feel dependent. Usually this includes cigarettes, television, eating late at night, and certain annoying people. What it does not usually include are sex and alcohol. Cos I mean, who in their right mind would willfully deprive themselves of either?

Whether or not I'm in my "right mind" remains to be seen, but 31 days ago I decided to go 45 days without drinking. The reasons seemed so clear in the beginning. I wanted to lose weight, which was proving difficult given the empty calories in alcohol and compounded by the late-night junk food I was in the habit of consuming after drinking my weight in beer. I wanted to see what sort of things I would do with my free time, what I would do for fun, how I would cope in social situations. I wanted to know what my brain felt like after a month and a half of leaving away the dum-dum sauce. I wanted to see if I made any more art, or was more productive, or dreamt up any new and fantastic ideas.

The arbitrary 45 days came from some stoopid article I read on Yahoo health about breaking habits. I can't remember what the fake patient in the article was giving up, nor does it matter. This is why the internet is bad for your brain, folks. All I saw was "45 days and you're cured forever of whatever it is you can't seem to give up! On the other side of that wall is permanent and everlasting salvation!" This is the same part of my brain that files cancer-fighting foods ("eat broccoli twice a week and you'll pretty much never die of anything, ever!"), weight-loss tactics ("eat equal parts celery and vegemite three hours before bed and watch the pounds melt away!") and job-interview tips ("always use positive wording, even if it makes you sound like a candy-coated dimwit!").

When I gave up smoking a couple of years ago, I made a paper-link chain like the one pictured above out of of construction paper, and, like the one above, I wrote a nice little "inspirational" psalm each day to motivate myself to keep at it for another day (obviously the direct result of having two 12-stepper parents). The chain pictured is my drankin' chain. Of course on the link in the foreground is written "I drank this wknd."

So, I made it 28 days without drinking. The reasons for abstaining had started to seem so distant and unimportant, and I caught myself on several occasions daydreaming about all the incredible and super-fun stuff I was gonna do after my 45 days were up. Unfortunately, the fantasies you create about a thing of which you've been deprived are always 10 000x more exhilirating and exciting than they ever were in real life. Maybe that's the reason no one gives up alcohol or sex--the reality of it once you get back on them is just too disappointing.

After three beers, I'm starting to have a little bit of fun. Yes it is broad daylight. You can ask me later why I decided after a month-long hiatus to defile my poor stomach with beer instead of something pleasant like champagne or cider. It tasted like shit.

It's rare that I look anywhere near fancy enough to sneak into opera houses and use the toilet while posing as a paying customer.

After drinking some beers we decided to meet up with Cookie and Graham and go see our friend Brigid "Dessie's Got To Do the Rage" Lynch at her new job, Silberfisch. Silberfisch is a horrible horrible tourist bar, waaayyyyy too expensive for sensible people and directly on the Ho-Stro'. All the people in the background are on an organised pub-crawl, and I do mean all. Every night, several groups of 100 people come into this bar and pay €6 for a beer. That's like eighty bucks U.S.D.

Smooches.

See, I kept trying to get drunk and love everything, but it wasn't working. All I could do was my same chin-up pursed-lip thing that pisses off homophobic people so badly.

The pub-crawlers are getting a bit worked up now, probably high off the sugar from the "complimentary shots" the bar provides them day in and day out.

Here's our polite picture

Here's what we really look/act like

This god guy is guarding the DJ booth.

Laura is hardcore and stole two beers off a table freshly evacuated by the pub-crawlers. I guess you do sixteen bars in a night and you're bound to forget something somewhere.

We were supposed to go to some gay ladies' bar and get our homo freak on, but after five beers I was so disgusted, grossed out and even hungry that I had to ass out and go home. Not once during the entire night did I get wasted with wild abandon, forget my name, dance with a stranger, or do anything I regretted. I totally could have had just as good a time, and even better, stone sober. OK. I have concluded my experiment and am going to finish off the remainder of my 45 days sober as a judge.

Fast forward to Saturday night. I got on the wrong train and wound up in the middle of nowhere. I was so pissed off at myself that I almost wound up going home, but I was persuaded to stay out.

700mL of vodka and six hours later I am back at my house after the evening's festivities, taking about 48299318703 pictures of myself in front of the entrance to my house. You see what I'm pointing at? Me neither. I forgot that I'd taken these until the next afternoon.

Deep in thought about uh... what the neighbors are thinking

I know. It's bad. Really bad.

I'm sure only the most profound statements were going through my mind. For some reason it was of the utmost importance to capture the morning light filtering through the uh, smog.

This one makes me LOL because I look so saaaaad. And wasted.

The best part of the night however occured at about 4 in the morning at Hackescher Markt, where we comandeered a couple of chairs and a table from a bar that had been closed for hours and "interviewed" strangers with my camera. I took about ten videos but this is the only one that made the cut, guess why? Turns out shit is way funnier when you're off your ass on vodka.

I'm now of the opinion that I absolutely never need to drink again in my life, but the first thing I've got to do is just get through the remaining 15 days or so. One day at a time. Easy Does It. Keep coming back, it works. Blah blah 12-Step cliché blah.

I didn't buy a camera for nothing, part three--decorating special

(Left: Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the vainest of them all? A mirror fit for a very flamboyant queen)

Today has been an interesting day. Of all the photos posted here, there are none of the most important place I visited; namely, the U.S. consulate. With all the cameras and police and security and Marines, one gets the feeling that taking pictures is not so welcome. We've all heard of the would-be terrorist whose ruthless, murderous plot was aborted because some fucking nosy meddling busybody responsible citizen alerted the FBI that an "Aaaa-rab looking gennilman" was taking pictures at Disneyland or of interesting architecture at Citibank or something.

I noticed that the two security officers working the front booth were both black--not African-American, just African. I couldn't help but wonder if they were put there because no one else would take the job, or because the powers-that-be didn't want to risk wasting perfectly good white lives in the case of a bombing or shooting. Of course the diplomat in me has a slightly less race-card pulling theory, that maybe black guys are just the biggest, baddest, scariest motherfuckers in the world and that any terrorist wanting to start trouble would take one look at these guys and beat a hasty retreat back to Syria. Either way you (I) look at it, putting your only two black employees in the way of danger you yourself are not willing to face smacks of Vietnam-era recruiting and age-old mercenary tactics. Put some Russian dudes in there, they already know how to use automatic weapons, you only have to pay them in vodka and they don't live past 55 anyway.


But to be sure, middle-eastern people are nuts. Just check out the kind of pointless shit they put in their houses. What is the purpose of this thing? I mean it's pretty, but no one is fooled into believing it's wrought of pure gold and adorned with precious stones. You think it's a store that sells decorations for restaurants but you're wrong. This is the kind of mess that Ahmed Q. Muhammed has in his house. Right next to the eyebrow wax and goat cheese.

Someone really has to tell these people that the days of Byzantium are gone, gone gone. Now the only people who over-decorate are those who are overcompensating for a lack of actual wealth i.e. residents of trailer parks, prostitutes, working-to-middle class black people, etc.

The Arabic writing means something like "Super Imperial Royal Gilted Home Decor For Those of Discriminating Taste."

You think you're just on a train to another broken-down part of the city, but you're wrong.

You are actually on your way to ancient Rome. Or wherever those kind of columns hail from. Evidently it's not just Turks and blacks who overdecorate. Columns in the subway station?

Super 70s. Love this train line all the way to Rathaus Spandau and one day (hopefully soon) will make a photo special out of all the crazy 70s-style stations.

Even the graff kids have love for Bäääääärlin (Berlin's mascot is a bear)

Gluing that stuff takes dedication and effort. This is what I call good vandalism.

Random pointless shot. Jannowitzbrücke.

Aaahh, Görlitzer Park. It looks so innocent and green here, but this is the very same park I wrote about in a different blog. Just because they reseeded the grass doesn't mean that about twenty feet to the right of this frame there aren't about sixteen dudes waiting to sell drugs to little kids. True story.

He's so sweet and clearly loves his photo being taken.

That's a bit better, you just have to catch him off his guard.

I was like "get yr dirty fawkin feet off me" and he was like "my feet are cleaner than your mouth" and I was like "fuck yo feet nikka!"

His feet evidently think they're funny.

Two things come to my attention. 1) I need a new jacket, because I am wearing this one in pretty much every photo I've been in within the last year. 2) I need to quit smoking because holy shit will you lookit that smoking toof.

Looks nice, doesn't it? A calm and quiet place where residents of our buildings can sit and listen to the birds chirping. Unfortunately people who live in our building can sit on their patios and do the same thing, so the majority of people who sit on our lovely benches are loiterers casing the joint and/or pissing in our bushes. They do however know "who the fuck I am" and when they see me coming they know there is going to be trouble.