Berlin

Twenty days in a foreign city; that is a strange intermediate status. You are not a proper tourist, but do not really belong either. Perhaps it is a good time to discover something – similar to the state between sleep and waking.

I am taking part in the journalists’ exchange programme Close-Up, during which I, from my perspective as a Latvian, am supposed to write about my impressions in Berlin. It sounds ambitious. That is why I am reversing the prefix. I am curious to see what unexpected things Berlin sheds light on within me and in Latvian culture from a distance.

I had my first contact with Germany sometime in the 1980s when I was a guest in Germany with the dance group Bienchen, of course in the “democratic” Germany. I remember how my mother attempted to explain the division of Germany to me, and from afar pointed at the Berlin wall, now dismantled and sold as souvenirs, in front of which rabbits hopped about in the grass. I could not really understand the concept, but I did like the rabbits. Later, when I thought about it, even I grasped it – aha, just like us – in Soviet Latvia! Some German children have great imported goods – chewing gum and real sneakers – but the others, like me, had sad imitations without the right springiness or real whiteness.

The coordinator of the project put me up in the Heinrich Heine Hotel. Sadly, I was part of a generation that did not get to read poems by Heine in school. It is embarrassing to me, but I want to tell you what we learned instead of the poetry of Heine: in art class I drew a soldier who carried a nest with a dove of peace on the tip of his bayonet and held a little girl’s hand. Of course, she had blonde hair and blue eyes. We didn’t draw others. The worst thing was that I liked this nightmarish, propagandist cliché very much. I was even proud of the result.

Do you want to know something even more absurd? In the 1970s, in the Soviet schools in Latvia, good children were taught in the “A” classes; they were permitted to learn English. The objectionably conspicuous children and those with poor marks were stuck in the classes “B” and “C.” They had to learn German. Back then, no one imagined that they would learn a language not just for the marks, but to actually put it to use. Perhaps I am only becoming truly aware of my grotesque school experiences now, while writing this. I was, by the way, a good pupil and therefore unfortunately do not speak German.

But now that I am in Berlin, I would like to become friends with German. At the Heinrich Heine Hotel, I always tell the cook “the meals are wonderful” or “you’re a great cook” in German. Yet the word with which she describes her omelette always tongue-ties me. We both laugh.

At the breakfast table, when I notice the lines drawn on the serviettes with the words “Inspiration can seize you at any moment,” the idea comes to me to write a Berlin journal: Notes on serviettes, minor moments of my time here in Berlin that somehow surprise me. The addressee is Heinrich Heine.

Saturday, 5 January, Alexanderplatz

When Alfred Döblin’s novel Berlin Alexanderplatz was published in Latvia, I did not yet know that I would be taking part in the journalists’ exchange Close-Up. I was given the book for Christmas. The publishers describe it as “one of the most significant big city novels of world literature.” Early in the morning, as I am pushing my suitcase along, trying to circumvent the bottle corks that remind me that the New Year has just begun, I feel a little like Franz Biberkopf when he was released from prison. Possibly, at the beginning of the year one of the generally most human problems is the “international Christmas tree summit,” or how can I rid myself of my Christmas tree with dignity? One sees different variations: those leaning against letterboxes rather than sticking cut trees in the ground. Where could this grey-haired man be carrying his fir tree? I feel uncomfortable watching him so openly.

The Alexanderplatz I’ve brought along thumps in my pocket and I hope it will be my talisman. Later I learn that the Alexanderplatz station is on my daily underground route. I observe the people, a little with my own eyes and a little with the eyes of Franz Biberkopf.

A delightful family is sitting in the underground train. All of them are dark-skinned and wear lots of braids. The children’s faces are beaming. I would like to take a picture of the family, because they are handsome people. I wonder whether they would understand that. We are so deeply entangled in political correctness that we call black white and white black and no longer call things by their names. I therefore photograph as inconspicuously as possible, as if accidentally, my boots. Maybe I should have simply asked the mother for her permission.




More entries from Undīne Adamaite’s Berlin Journal:

Berlin, 6.1.2013: Sunday Rest in the City
Berlin, 7.1.2013: The Berliners’ Lightness of Being
Berlin, 8.1.2013: At the Tagesspiegel
Berlin, 9.1.2013: A Monthly Portion of Courtesy
Berlin, 10.1.2013: A Play in a Foreign Language Remains a Façade
Berlin, 12.1.2013: At the Theatre in Knitted Caps
Berlin, 13.1.2013: An Intermediate Summary
Berlin, 16.1.2013: Fired with Premium Fuel
Berlin, 19.1.2013: Blind Date
Berlin, 21.1.2013: Old Fashioned and In Demand
Berlin, 26.1.2013: Čus, Berlin!