One Night in Hamburg

Sorry as we were to put Berlin behind us, knowing we could not top our night in Pankow led us to the next stop on our itinerary: Hamburg. Here are some facts about the city: it has more miles of canals than either Amsterdam or Venice. It connects Germany, via rivers, to both the North and Baltic Seas, which made it, historically, a most diverse German city, with mariners from Russia, Finland, Thailand and the world over coming here for business, which they still do. It's where the Beatles honed their skills as young British rockers, playing all-night sets at the Star Club on the Reeperbahn, a street named for ropemakers, who were important to the seafaring trade, of course.

Max and I had originally routed our travels through here because there was a big music festival happening nearby. But even as the dollar rose against the Euro while we traveled northwest through the continent (or glorified penninsula, to which I recently heard it referred), our funds depleted at a quicker paces than we had hoped, and to remedy the situation we ditched the 80-Euro concert ticket and booked an overnight bus from Hamburg to Amsterdam, saving one night's hostel fee.

But the Reeperbahn remained as a draw, both for its Beatles nostalgia and for its current reputation as a world center for sin. As it turns out, the Beatles are remembered here basically in billboard form. The true nature of this ropemakers street would soon become apparent.

Passing sex shops, strip clubs, and even the occasional legitimate theater venue, with each block I became more amazed at just how many businesses could survive in a one-mile stretch sheerly on the exploitation of testosterone. Neon signs promised all kinds of unspeakable performances, and if we lingered to read them, heavily trussed and made up girls tried to lure us into some seedy venue or another. We stopped occasionally at a market to pick up a drink for sipping as we strolled, and as we reached the end of the street took note of just how light it was for 10PM; being this far north around the summer solstice has its perks.

But all the better to constrast the still-blue sky with the immensely thick, black clouds approaching rapidly. Before we had a chance to deduce that stable cover was in order, lightning struck, and heavy sheets of rain dropped on the debauched street, as if to cleanse or, more likely, rebuke it. We ducked into the nearest bar that didn't have nudie pictures on the front, shook ourselves of the raindrops and prepared ourselves for just about anything. Still, we were shocked, and not for the last time this night.

We found ourselves in the middle of what I would have called a traditional German sailor bar, complete with booths shaped like rowboats and guides to the various seafaring knots one can accomplish with a single string of rope. I stop short of calling it any kind of typical experience, though, because on the stage an MC tinkered with a synthisizer, playing bizare, dancey, bass-heavy renditions of popular showtunes like "Que Sera," singing along into a microphone whenever he at least thought he knew the words.

It was such a stark contrast to the neon gluttony outside the door that we almost forgot where we were, and if the drinks hadn't been so expensiive we might have stayed for a second round. But we discovered upon exit that the rain had passed as quickly as it had blitzed - it was dark and dry, and the streets were packed with people, mostly men, from all over.

We bustled our way through the crowds, picked out another tame looking bar, and had more to drink. Eventually we talked ourselves into experiencing this unforeseen niche of Europe, for experience's sake. We found a club advertising a striptease, paid a 5 Euro cover and found ourselves in a very old building, with old-timey player-paino music and a very vintage burlesque show taking place. As a woman, complete with archaic coif, danced with fans and feathers, we accepted the waitress's offer to bring over beer.

"That will be 25 Euro. Each."

Quaint as it may have been, forty dollars for a bit of nostalgic titillation wasn't going to cut it, and when she told us we had to buy the most expensive beer the world has ever known or get out, we opted for the latter. Shocked anew at how pricey things could be on this street where just about every human dignity was for sale, we were lured across the alley to another club - another strip show. Assured it was just 10 Euro, and no funny business with overpriced cocktails, we paid the fee and entered what seemed to be a normal, slightly glitzy bar. Then we turned a corner, and in the blink of an eye unturned that corner. Our testimony of just what we witnessed varies in the subtle details. Let's just say Max and I differ on just how many performers were involved in that show. As we made our way hastily back to the street, the doorman tried to stop us. "Big show about to start. You don't want to miss it."

"What show?" we asked, perhaps naively.

"Right there," he said, pointing to a stage deocrated only by a giant motorcycle. "Huge show."

I'll let your imagination run with that, as we did, high-tailing it back to the suddenly very modest street. Suffice to say, we finished the night at your typical, wholesome alcohol and dancing venue: The Funky Pussy Club. Honestly, when you got past the name it was just like any place in any town anywhere, and the drinks were reasonable. We danced awhile, got tired, ate a wurst of some kind, and grabbed a taxi back to our hotel, which, being just two blocks from the bus station, was seedy in its own charming way.

I should point out that much of Hamburg seems to be rather upscale. Since just about every product that passes into Germany comes through here, it houses a phenomenal number of shops featuring just about every internationally known brand, from luxury to low end, and an impossibly huge chunk of the city center is actually a giant, open air shopping mall. Pretty boring, really, which is exactly why I led with the scummy stuff. After a decent night's sleep, we milled about until we found an internet cafe and waited for the bus, with high hopes for Holland ahead.

Pankow Blues

For all of its extremely foreign splendor, Prague was maybe the whitest city I've ever visited. Going to Berlin, a mere six hour bus ride, proved world's away, as the largest German city is also one of the biggest emigrant destinations of the past two decades, the streets filled with a melange of skin shades, accents and languages, all lending to the sort of extremely cosmopolitan atmosphere you can only hope to find in the most amazing of places.

So I should not have been surprised to experience the unexpected, but that's exactly what happened on our seventh night in town.

So, I'm going to have to jump around in time a little bit for this one, starting back in the year I spent living in San Diego. I made friends with several regulars at my local watering hole, but spent a lot of time in particular chatting over beers with Tom, a Southern California born-and-bred blues drummer who is about as earnest about music as anybody is about anything.

Though he'd just finished getting a degree in music theory that made him an avid classicist, Tom's old blues, rock and roots band still had a fan in the form of a European booking agent, and last summer the Mississippi Mudsharks kicked off a tour of the continent here in Germany (I'm in Hamburg now). When he returned to Ocean Beach in the early fall, he told me he'd fallen in love, and was moving to Berlin in the winter. I might have been disappointed, except of course that I was on a similar path. We traded emails, made loose plans to meet up, and left it at that.

When Max and I arrived late friday, we immediately experienced the first of a few thunderstorms we'd encounter in Germany. If it's raining, it must be laundry day, and between the weather and a couple of additional days working, I did not spend as much time exploring the town as I might of liked. However, on Sunday evening, Tom found us in our hostel bar and led us on a whirlwind tour of East Berlin that left us finally feeling we'd arrived.

The history of a city that had once been forcefully, at times violently, divided is unquestionably inspiring, even given the horrific sequence of events that led up to it. I can remember touring part of Okinawa, back in high school, where Japanese soldiers and people had fled the invading US forces, only to commit suicide by opening grenades in caves or hurling themselves from a cliff. Being forced to mull over the inhuman acts of war - people driven mad by fear, hatred and greed - can be jarring at best. It's not exactly the sort of stuff that makes for a delightful venture through a foreign culture, so I made the deliberate decision not to visit anything commemorating the Nazi regime or their holocaust.

I feel it important to mention because there seems to be a feeling in the world that not to face up to the atroicites of the past is to risk repeating them. I frankly do not feel I need these visceral reminders in my life - as a student of history and rhetoric I understand and am appalled at the willful destruction reaped by those with power, and almost moreso at the willingness of masses to enjoin it at their behest. Stirring up anger at these memories, feelings of righteousness and vengeance, doesn't feel right. Am I really, as an American in 2007, going to come over here and shake my head at a half-century ago?

But the draw to that wall is too alluring. As much for the fact that the Russians seemingly enacted their revenge for 20 million lives lost on East Germany, as that West Berlin stuck out in the middle of it all as an island representing freedom and opportunity, even as it was surrounded on all sides by concrete, barbed wire and snarling hounds. Tom's girlfriend remembers seeing westerners peering over the wall from observation towers, curious at the lives led on the other side. We visited a museum at Checkpoint Charlie that details the great lengths people would go to in order to get into West Berlin, burrowing tunnels and folding themselves inside machines to smuggle themselves past the armed Russian guards.

I suppose a case could be made that it's just dessert for the atrocious policies and unprovoked violence of the 'third reich,' and that it's tough to turn around and sympathise with such a culture's subsequent suffering - but maybe it's also dangerous to do so if we wish to stay on the side of human progress and peace, and avoid the sort of rueful sentiments that separate people to greater degrees than borders do. Living past one's sins, be they personal or national, is complicated work - a great function of religious faith I believe - and facing the stigma of history with both humility and dignity almost impossible.

Today, Berlin is proud of its (at least superficial) unity. We stayed in Mitte (meet-uh), which means the 'middle', of town. Once a part of East Berlin, it's now testament to the pervasive power of capitalism, with hundreds of shops, clubs and restaurants. But there's a different side to it as well, as it retains a quasi-leftist underbelly. Max and I were particularly fond of a place called Cafe Zapata, which is a large building and courtyard once slated for demolition, but which squatters have turned into bars and artist lofts. The courtyard, or biergarten as it were, is filled with metal sculptures, seating made from reclaimed junk, and young Berliners sitting around chatting over beers, enjoying music. Vaguely postapocalyptic and almost a little too hip, it's nevertheless one of the most free-feeling places I've been. Somewhere between the rusting helicopter husk and the endless unintelligible strings of graffiti, these guys have created their own monument to Berlins wayward past, at once humbled and spirited, reflecting violence and oppression, but optimistic that legitimate inroads can be made towards a more positive future. I'll stop short of saying the place perfectly encapsulates the mood of Berlin, but in a week filled with parks, museums and dance clubs built under train overpasses, it was my second favorite spot to see, and has helped my understanding of this pretty fascinating place.

Of course, the best waited for that last night. The plan was to meet up with Tom for a couple of beers, then head out to a nightclub until the sun came up (which, this being the solstice in Northern Europe, is like 3:30am). We caught the train up to Pankow, an East Berlin neighborhood a little off the tourist path, and found the bar Tom frequents now that he's no longer in Ocean Beach.

The Garbäty is a small place, an eighteenth century building refurbished by hand by the bar's owner. It was packed almost to overflowing by a crowd ranging from twenty to seventy, all of whom were rapt in attention to the rock band performing on a small corner stage. Now when I say all, I mean ALL. I have been to popular concerts back home that cost $70 to get into and still seen people milling around, more interested in chatting than enjoying the music. But in this place, even those of us in seats without a clear view of the stage were caught up in the classic rock covers. These guys rocked it out, even succeeding in putting their own stamp on some Beatles tunes, which I'd previously thought impossible.

After a couple rounds of beers, the band finished up, and Max and I chatted with the one or two English-speakers who greeted us welcomingly. Anya explained to me that, before the wall came down, if you wanted an electric guitar, you built one. 'Stormin' Norman (didn't say where he got those scars and we didn't want to know) enthusiastically brought over a round of tequila shots, toasted 'Prost!' and joked about anything possible.

Then, someone came over to Tom and said, 'So-and-so says they're going to play some if you want to sit in.' So, he jumped up to the stage with a few guys and started jamming out blues tunes. These guys had never played together before, but it worked. It was tight and rhythmic and moving and, as Max says, 'Mind-Blowing.' Tom kept the shuffle upbeat while the guitarist's traded riffs and solos, the yamulke-wearing bass player kept it rolling, and the singer alternated between wailing soulfuly into the microphone and belting out a Delta-style harmonica. It was more fun to experience than I can say, and we whistled, hooted and quite thoroughly enjoyed every minute.

We never did make that dance club, but hey - those are the same the world over, right down to the records played. This was a bit of recently acquired Americana, which might not have worked so well back home, but here has been filtered through reprisals and discovery to get right back to authentic; mournful but upbeat, not for a moment jaded, and just plain celebratory of life'S highs and lows. Man, I wish you could have been there.

The Man Behind the Iron Curtain

After a few days showing Max Barcelona, the two of us had three days to kill en route to Berlin. With no deficit of ideas on where to spend this time, ultimately we whittled it down to someplace we could get a cheap, direct flight to from Barcelona, where we could then find affordable passage to Germany. Italy might have been the top of both our lists, except we agreed there were too many different parts of the boot to choose from, and that this country would require more like three weeks on a later visit, preferably with our girlfriends, as opposed to scruffy each other. Krakow was too complicated to get to, and Moscow too expensive to stay (did you know it’s currently the most expensive city in the world? Even more than New York or London. crazy).

So we found another Eastern European destination: Prague. Admittedly, we knew very little going in. For example, what is their currency? The Crown, or Kroner… even after three days there we’re not sure, and still have trouble adjusting to the exchange rate. What’s the name of the river their famous bridge, the Charles, crosses? The Vlatva? Something like that. And who is this Charles, and why is his name so simple when every other word on the map features long strings of consonants and bizarre shapes over some of them?

So we entered the center of Bohemia blind, stumbling through what is essentially a small city, trying to comprehend just how quickly this country, which had been oppressed in turn by the Nazis and Soviets, had turned things around so rapidly to have become a very Capitalist place, with fancy restaurants and Cosmopolitan interests to go with the occasional provincial attitude. Basically, tourism has had a lot to do with it. Coming out of college I remember hearing stories of $5 hostels and 20-cent beers. Though still cheap by European standards, the cost of living has quite compensated for the years of grey quasi-communism.

We did find some cheap beer, and shrugged our shoulders anytime one of the impossibly tall, beautiful, high-cheeked girls would ask us questions in incomprehensible syllables. Ultimately, the joy of the place whittled down to some crazy, creepy castles and churches, evidence of some bitter winters I suppose.

I wish I could say that I learned a lot about the Czech Republic, but it was about as foreign a place as I’ve encountered since Japan, and other than a souvenir bottle of absinthe I have taken away fairly little of it. I did, however, get a good amount of work done. It’s an exciting life, isn’t it?

Adios España

Disculpe! Once again I have been remiss in updating the ol’ blog—in fact I am now two countries removed from Spain, both sequentially and geographically. I will write about Prague and Berlin (my current locale) sooner than later, and promise more than a couple more posts in the next week, and even a few photos, I think.

But, for now, here are some reflections on my ten weeks in Barcelona. It’s easily the most elegant city I’ve ever visited, inhabited by sophisticated folk who, at times, party maybe a little too hearty. Las Ramblas, also known as Ciutat Vella (Catala for Old City), are a prime example of this.

Described by my subletter as the “dense warren of streets below l’Eixample” and above the Mediterranean (apt I thought), it’s a fascinating labyrinthine hodgepodge of medieval through 18th century architecture, with narrow, cobbled brick streets and alleys winding every conceivable direction. A smattering of museums, churches and landmarks dot what is otherwise a heavily-touristed gothic urban playground. At odd hours of the night, revelers from the world over indulge on tapas, sangria, paella and single cans of beer sold at every turn by South Asian immigrants for 1 Euro (a much better deal than any of the bars offer).

As I have discovered in too many of my global wanderings, prostitution runs rampant on the streets, in this case mostly African girls, who are as beautiful as they are strong and predatory. Often in my meanderings, one of these lovely ebony women would spot me from a block away and chase me down, grabbing my arm and soliciting me with the sort of sex-service lingo that I can only imagine they learned from sailors on shore duty (as humorous as they are, I will let your imagination run wild on this one). A simple “No,” usually would not suffice, however firmly stated, and the tricky part was extracting myself from their vicelike grips. As powerful as some of these girls are, however, they are not as scary as the brick-built German six-foot blondes Max and I stumbled across last night while searching for an East Berlin dance club. Like I said: everywhere.

I did, however, spend plenty of time in nearby Barceloneta, a small, triangular neighborhood stretching along the town beaches. A short walk and a shorter train ride from my apartment, an afternoon on the sand took over my siesta hour as a retreat from work and the Vegas-like atmosphere of the Ramblas. The Mediterranean, of course, is flat, so my normal interest in the ocean was not met, but on non-crowded days I found no deficit of relaxation.

I should point out to anyone who doesn’t know: I am not your typical tourist. I don’t visit museums for the most part, I don’t stand in line to mill about any famous landmarks, I don’t take walking tours, bus tours or bicycle the streets. In Costa Rica I did not visit a volcano nor hike through a rain forest preserve. My interest is more in seeing the people of a local culture do their thing, to eat what they eat, and to figure out what they do for fun. This may be a boring way to travel—I don’t know—but I have little interest in shopping and less in being photographed in front of places made famous by postcards.

In ten weeks of Spanish living, I fell into a sort of easy routine. On weekdays I would wake up and head down to the local café, where I’d order a coffee and small sandwich on a brioche. There I would sit on the terrace, sipping two or three cups and writing in a notebook—a story, or maybe even a book that hopefully one day will be read (I still like it anyway). I’d then go home to fit in a few hours of work before heading to the beach or taking a walk around different neighborhoods. Then I’d come back to work some more until later in the evening, when I’d go out to a local bar to play pool with my roommate, or seek out a tapas bar, or some small café bar where they had relatively cheap beers and low key music. Occasionally I’d meet up with some fellow expats and discuss anything that might come to mind over beers and wines. For example, it would appear that immigrants from Latin America are considered excessively polite here, using formal requests rather than the familiar demand, “Da me” (gimme).

On Sundays, when my local café was closed, I’d wake up and walk to one of the nearby Gaudi buildings, where cafes would still be open for the tourists, and I could sit and admire the architecture. These will be my lasting images of Barcelona, even when it’s flavors have faded from my memory. Though I never managed Spanish well enough to really assimilate into local culture (and they’re not the friendliest of peoples anyway), I do feel as though I understand a small fraction of the character of the place. For living in a country that has so recently gone through Catholic, fascist and socialist regimes, and whose unity to this day is strained between rival languages and political factions, they seem to set aside their petty human differences and fascinations to behave with a semblance of dignity, perhaps a latent response to the Party Mecca their city has become for the UK and the rest of Europe. And the US, of course. And their own youth on weekends. In the end, I don’t think 99.99% of the Spanish people were terribly sorry to see me leave.

Penultimate BCN Post

I am not a very good catholic, which is probably due to the fact that I gave up the church almost twenty years ago, as much for a lack of interest as for the opportunity to sleep late on Sundays and avoid the heavy perfumed air of the Masses (I have allergies). This is also probably the reason I was surprised this morning to find just about every business in my neighborhood closed.

I actually had to do a little bit of research to figure out that the reason is Pentecost, which comemorates, essentially, the birth of the church and the descension of the holy spirit, signifying the objective salvation of mankind, etc. etc. I should note that the one business on my block actually open is the chicken roaster on the corner, and I have never seen it so crowded, with a line out the door. I can only surmise that there's some connection to salvation and to fowl cooked on a spit. I might go for a wing later.

In the meantime I apologize for the recent lack of updates. Between a heavy dose of work, plotting the next stops in my Euro-itinerary and a short trip to Portugal, I have been too busy to write. Actually, I have been writing a lot, creatively, so that in years to come I may say with absolute sincerity that I found inspiration on the sun-toasted streets of Barcelona. Another truth is that, having adapted to the Spanish lifestyle, I haven't really found a single theme to wax clever about; just a bunch of smaller events I will recount here.

"Wait!" you might say, "A trip to Portugal and you haven't anything to say for yourself?" Well, it's hardly Portugal's fault that my surf trip to a small fishing village about 50 miles north of Lisbon proved rainy and windy, with one afternoon of sun and a couple of brief moments of bliss in the ocean during the four days spent marvelling that any culture could eat more pork than the Spanish. Nor is it Portugal's fault that my flight out was delayed a great many hours, forcing my most lasting impression to be of the Lisboa Airport. Ultimately, it was a less-than-thrilling trip, Lisbon itself underwhelming in the shadow of Barcelona's splendor, with rundown buldings prevalent and a language that made me grateful to find Spanish speakers to converse with. The public transport was good. Now let us close the book on Lisbon.

I have also hooked up with a small group of literate expats (a local online group), giving me the opportunity to discuss politics, art and literature at a bar into the late hours over beer and wine. We even comingled with some locals interested in practicing their English, so I had some interesting bilingual conversations about local customs (and prejudices), particularly the relative rudeness of Spaniards vs. those from Latin America (their words, not mine). I am also told that my Spanish improves once I've had a few drinks in me, which could make travel through Germany difficult.

I also received a visit from the one and only, famous to this blog, Roy Dank. His vacation began with a DJ gig in the Ramblas and concluded with a series of cold showers, as our hot water heater went out. Amid sporadic siteseeing, a poorly timed illness and some fine meals out, one highlight was arranging a barbecue on my patio to show Omar and neighbor-friend Raul how we Americans like to play with fire. Though the Catalan sausage, lamb ribs and veal were substituted for burgers and hot dogs, los hombres were fascinated by my grilling techniques, and vowed to embrace the American custom as their own this summer.

But, like I said, most of my time has been spent at work, which will continue to be the case as I move on. In a few days my buddy Max arrives, and a week from tomorrow we are off to travel the east and north. Though unsettled at the moment, I believe our trip will go like this: Prague, Berlin, Hamburg, Amsterdam. Hamburg may be replaced by some unforeseen alternate, as the idea of visiting as many distinct countries as we can seem exciting, and we're anticipating a number of days spent in berlin. But, either way, it should be a good time.

Then Max returns home and I go on to Ireland, with possibly a stop in Scotland if I get my act together. From there I will travel to Seattle to meet my lovely girlfriend (her absense on this trip is the reason I am skipping Paris). She and I will drive down to Portland, then on to Ashland, Oregon, and finally I will conclude my travels, arriving home in San Diego in late July, settling in the SoCal city once again, for a while, to surf and be in a relationship (not necessarily in that order). At least until Hawaii beckons with its sweet siren song and turquoise waves.