Urban Nomads

Techno-trance music blast through the white sand filled court, scattered about are industrial scraps-turned-art pieces that make up the furniture and décor pieces for this hipster-artist oasis. The blinding daylight cast a hazy veil across this urban land; my feet kick up small clouds of sand as I stumble my way to a bench. Those damned mosquito bites. As my eyes shift around, I half expected one of the inanimate objects to come alive while “I Am the Walrus” spill through the speakers, alas, wishful thinking.

Giant letters in rusty metal spell out ‘ANDBEAT’ next to a patio. The ambiguity of the sign spoke so honestly of Tacheles, a place that, if described, would best begin with a conjunction. Parts of the surrounding buildings still appear as if it had just stepped out of the shadows of war, with decapitated statues and a fractured façade, the stones reeked of Berlin history: war, wall, and all. However, the coats of graffiti and canvases pointed towards a new direction, a location (however, temporary) for nomadic urban artists and art-seekers alike. A gem in a large city, nonetheless, a secret art garden where even Peaches herself resides (when she’s not in rehab, perhaps?).



I stayed pretty quiet on this trip, mainly because my mosquito bites were irritating me beyond the thought of ants in one’s pants, but also because I felt my talking would be disruptive to the music and the creative energy surging through the air. I was also in one of those states of mind where your thoughts are fleeting and it’s hard to grasp onto them long enough to form them into cohesive sentences and expression (maybe it was just the itching speaking). So, I decided to not fight it and to tour this place lost in my own thoughts.

On the other side of the courtyard, I discovered the shacks where artists have taken their work to be put in an informal type of gallery for the public. I kept my camera in my pocket, but couldn’t find the courage to pull it out. In fact, it was a bit overwhelming for me.

The entire time I was thinking of my friend, Joel. He would probably find his home here. The metal sculptures that were once blank faced pieces of scraps left over from (re)construction have been meticulously welded, bent, formed and shaped into identifiable objects: a woman sitting down, the folds of her skin enhanced her feminine figure, I could almost see her take in a breath; some sort of creature that resembled something from Alien vs. Predator, a bass-treble-cleft-and-half-note-unified-into-one, and other pieces that could only derive from an individual's deep abyss.

Like these pieces of scrap-turned-artwork, Joel is a master craftsman at using what would seem to be useless, to be his medium when he creates his own art pieces. A project Joel started on last summer after he got out of the hospital were these head sculptures. He would go to beauty supply shops and purchase Styrofoam mannequin heads, take them home and from there gives them an identity. He masks their plain surfaces with texture and expression, using leather, fabrics, wires, fake vines and pretty much whatever household item he can find, and stitches them together with hot glue or a year’s worth of staples. Even despite the layers of cardboard that would become this head’s skin, he could work past its stiffness and mold emotions onto their expressions. I can imagine him sitting in the living room ripping, cutting, fitting, gluing away as a way to settle with his thoughts. Once you notice just how detailed these sculptures were, you can tell that it was made with a lot of thought and care, and through his crafting fingers, he found therapy in this.

He would always excitedly invite me to come over and check out a new head he’s made whenever I would come home from school for breaks. I loved seeing his face light up with pride whenever he’d unveil to me his new work.

It’s an unsettling feeling to realize the paradoxes that lie within art. While the piece can be timeless and universal, with the constant shift and change with time, its concept can become either accepted or rejected. This gray area makes it vulnerable for a sense of impermanence to set in. The audience and the artists themselves may feel that the art is outdated, and like most things, you have to keep moving on. Maybe this is part of the reason why these artists are constantly put in the position to have to relocate and find a new home for themselves (aside from issues of legal property and fiscal matters). While I am no Art buff, I do think the generalization out there is that art has an obligation to continuously keep up with the times, and when it fails to do so, it gets left behind, discarded and sometimes forgotten by the greater society. And, perhaps just like the artists that occupy these stations now, art can easily be taken for granted, seen as momentary and marginalized. This may sound a bit too irrelevant with what really is going on, but I feel like it acknowledges the paradigm of Berlin: it is so greatly entwined with its historic past and yet coexists in this current that keeps sweeping it forward in time.

For now this is a realm for escapism. Like how Joel finds solace through crafting, I’m sure that these artists share a similar intimacy with the work they create and the process in which they create it. Whether this place will still exist in the next month will be entirely up to fate, although it truly adds a rich, unique flavor, to Berlin.

Istanbul (Assignment 3)

I often heard "melancholy" as the term used to convey the soul of Istanbul.


From the looks of the colorful buildings and beautiful mosques that stand proudly on Istanbul’s many hillsides, sewn together by the brilliant jade-blue Bosphorous Sea, ‘melancholy’ would seem almost insulting to describe such a vibrant place.

However, at a closer glimpse, one will take notice of the crumbling stones from these graying mosques, the gradual decay of the colorful buildings seemingly built on an unstable infrastructure (and definitely not earth-quake ready, as we are later told by Orhan), and the blatant struggle of a culture stuck in a tug-of-war between a traditional way of life and the imminent expansion of globalization.


One image that my mind constantly flashes back to is Orhan taking us to Kanyon Mall. While many of us were quick to whip out our cameras and began to snap away in awe of the meticulous architectural design of the mall, I found myself slumped against the railing, feeling sick to my stomach. As I stood there, I was overwhelmed at the sight of high-end brand named stores that went on endlessly as the mall curved into an unknown horizon. Air conditioner on full blast to relieve shoppers from the unbearable sun outside, pianist playing beautiful classical tunes to humor the mindless passerby next to an indoor fountain. All of these as indicators of class, wealth and of course, the ability to excessively splurge. The mall was its own world. After a quick walk through (for which I am grateful), Orhan lead us out of the mall and down a hill. When we reached mid-hill, he made us stop and turn around. “I just want you guys to acknowledge this view right here.” We turn to face the direction from which we came. I was utterly dumbfounded at the sheer height and size of the mall that seemingly glared down at us. Like a school yard bully, this mall was adamant with its steel structure and dark glass windows. The biggest shock? Realizing that we were standing in a dilapidated neighborhood made up of slouching buildings struggling to stand up on uneven grounds. What an extreme contrast from where we were just a few minutes ago. From Gucci to grimy in a matter of a few steps. No more Prada and Dolce, just a few local shops selling cheap plastic children toy and used auto parts scattered throughout the street front, with a few Turkish faces peering out at this group of Americans wandering through their neighborhood.

We pace a few blocks when Orhan stops in the middle of an intersection and begins to tell us the history behind the establishment of these types of neighborhoods. The concrete slabs of these buildings were plagued with cracks running throughout its surface, the bright colors were mixed with a heavy gray from years of dirt and exhaust breathing unto its façade. We learn about squatters and their “illegal, yet legitimate” establishment, along with how gentrification has played a role in not only impacting local businesses but also where and how these people live.
While Orhan was lecturing, a crowd of the local neighborhood boys began to congregate in front of us, looking upon us with curious stares and attention-craving smiles. When it was time to leave, one of the boys that Orhan talked to asked in bewilderment when he found out that we were American students, “Why would you want to come here? There is nothing to see!”

An innocent question enough, but the response is burdened with so much to say. I defended myself by biting my lip and continuing down the road. In my sheepish head, I thought up of numerous of responses, none of which I found could be summed up in a few words, none that I knew to say aloud in Turkish.

But an honest question at that, also. After all, tourists come to see the readily available Istanbul, one that offers smiling faces, ice cream men in costumes, and cheap deals on jewelry and clothes, not the Istanbul these local boys were familiar with. This version, their version of Istanbul has to be pushed into unnoticeable corners, shielded by decked out malls.

“Because your neighborhood shows the real Istanbul, a city of paradoxes, where a new western-cultivated world is juxtaposed to the opposite, a world stuck in traditional roots of self-labor and the working class.”
“Because this neighborhood, amidst shack, shambles, and renewed, holds more beauty than an overcrowded strip mall that offers cheap bargains for tourists and generic Turkish
Souvenirs”
“Because this is the Turkey I’ve been wanting to find, the one that hasn’t been overtaken by grand European/American brand; an authentic display of its people striving to survive and preserving the Turkish way of doing things and living.”
“Because this is a huge wake up call to a bunch of American University students who need to witness the spread of gentrification right before their eyes in order to possibly comprehend the issue of social inequality.”

Et cetera, et cetera…

Or simply, “Because there is plenty to see here.”

Perhaps this is where melancholy can be found. It is the feeling of seeing just how incredible, yet, tragic a place is. The understanding that culture is important, and yet succumbing to its disappearance as the western movement continuously makes its way through the streets of Istanbul. A place where polar ends meet just a step away. Melancholy. A sobering state of being. Istanbul.

Little did I know that the woman sitting just a few feet away from me would soon become my new inspiration.

Dr. Susam, a high ranked board member for the Turkimspor club, quickly drew my attention to her when she first entered the room. She was already so charismatic, and she hadn't even spoken a word. A petite woman with a warm smile and eyes that seemed to be able to read right into you, she spoke in a soft manner but with firmness in her words.

As we sat to listen and learn about this club, I kept finding myself shaking my head in awe. They had done so much in their short time as an establishment. Originally started as a football (er, soccer) club for Turkish boys who would have otherwise been rejected from a German team, Turkimspor would later go onto become an empowering foothold for other underrepresented groups. The club expanded to include migrants outside of Turkey; a woman's team; and would become avid advocates for the gay and lesbian community, along with exposing their young members to the importance of education.

Despite harsh judgments and criticisms (even threats and jeers) from those who have different beliefs from this group, they persist and they do so with pride in what they stand for. Even more so, they hold high standards and expectations that all of their members are to encompass these core beliefs, too.

In their humble club headquarter, which also works as a sportsbar/cafe, I would have never expected that such a place was a central movement for social empowerment.

As the meeting concluded and we began to file out, I managed to give her a handshake and asked her a few questions. She gave me a quick synopsis of her life story.

She was a runner in her younger years, running the 10,000 meters and half marathons was her forte. However, she was forced to put aside her passion when her parents made her stick to pursuing higher education. She was heartbroken, but managed to work through it. She got her PHD at Humboldt and is now a social worker, one of 3 other women on the Turkimspor club board member, and a mom. (She also mentioned something about working for the Social Democratic Goverment of Berlin, but I forgot the details...). "It's hard, I'm very tired all the time, but I love what I do."

Fighting words for a fighting woman.

Cheers!

I often hear this from cashiers after I've made a purchased and muster out "Danke!" in my best wannabe- German.

For some reason, this response always brighten up my day a little. Unlike "You're welcome," 'cheers' has this friendly and celebratory feel to it, as if to say, "Shoot, don't even worry about it, just enjoy your day." It also makes me feel a little bit more like one of the locals, less of a newbie.


On another note, Happy Birthday, Shawn!
Here's a birthday poem I wrote for you:

My mom often said that long hair means a prosperous life,
And while I admire your growing gray strands, I also admire the way you write.
Your emails you pack with wit, humor, and hints
About how our lack of decent foot wear is enough to make your cringe.
So, I packed away my red sandals to be replaced with my puma shoes,
Hoping that my outfit suffices for the Birthday boy and our first day at the school.

You always push us to think beyond, and to step outside the frame,
"A tourist and a traveler, please understand that they are not at all the same,"
And so because of you I've learned to put aside my lens,
To admire the scenery, breathe in the air, listen, comprehend,
Leave my mind to take in the images before my camera shutter snaps,
A digital photo speaks a thousand words, but my memory, forever I will have.

Cheers!

Train talk

There's something quite gratifying about taking the train. Perhaps as a Seattle slicker, I'm too used to driving or taking the occasional Joe Metro, but after staying here for a week and a half, I've come to really enjoy taking the transit system here.

I think it's the combination of the efficiency of transportation and the chance to immerse yourself in people watching, spacing out, or conversing with someone for a moment out of your busy day.

Today, Molly and I took a good 20 minute train ride down to Eastgate mall, and it was pretty relaxing to be able to sit back and trust that the train will take us to our destination without any traffic interruption, and if by some miraculous chance we were to get lost, we just had hop on board to the other side. But, more importantly, it allowed us to simply get to know each other. Instead of one of those water-cooler conversation two acquaintances usually had, we were able to face one another and comfortably talk. We shared life stories and discovered the commonalities between a Dallas girl and a Seattle girl. And, I found that speaking a different language from the locals had a perk, we didn't have to worry about any eavesdropping (at least, hopefully not).

Like coffee and cigarettes, I think trains have that ability to put you in a story telling mood, either within your head or aloud with someone else. Perhaps its the melodic sound of the metal tracks rolling underneath, or the gentle (well, and occasional jerking) rocking that puts you at ease, or simply because the seating layout forces you to face the other person, some of the most interesting conversation pieces can derive from this simple train setting.

Oh hey, there's the Brandenburg Gate. Oh hey, there's a Starbucks right next to it.

My first night in Berlin, I met an Italian guy who was staying at my hostel and he invited me to go down to Alexanderplatz with him to check out the night scene.

While the liveliness of the plaza was exciting, I started to notice something...things began to look familiar. To my right was a Dunkin Donuts, to my left, a Burger King, up ahead, a McDonalds? Wait a minute, I thought to myself, am I still in America?

It's a bit daunting to consider the extent of globalization nowadays. Virtually every street corner in Seattle houses a Starbucks, and even thousands of miles away, a similar phenomenon has occurred.

Ironically, I placed myself at that Starbucks corner last Saturday morning, and I sat and stared out towards Bradenburg Gate. Next to me, a construction site was in the process of repaving a road, the heavy scent of the asphalt mixed with the morning heat, and the sound of drilling and pounding echoed through my ears.

It was pretty vacant for a Saturday morning, a change of scenery for me because the last time I was in the vicinity, thousands of Tourists milled about. On this particularly quiet morning, at least, compared to other days, I found myself wondering in amazement of how 20 years can do so much to a place. To think that it was impossible to walk through the columns of the Gate two decades ago, people now do it without a second thought to it. This historic place that is home to pivotal moments in history now has a money sign labeled to its face. Costumed guards stand at faux attention, where, for two euros, tourists can capture this "authentic" German moment on their digital cameras. Just down the street, a five star hotel with fast food chains neighboring it offers these tourists the comforts of good ol corporate America comfort.

Perhaps I'm old school, but I like the classics. I wouldn't mind not having the American commodity outside of America, after all, I'm traveling outside of America for a reason, right?

What if you minus-ed all of the glitz and glam of the 21st century? Perhaps the dense smell of gas exhaust would be replaced with the scent of trees and dust from cobblestones. Perhaps instead of a venti, double shot, non fat, no foam mocha latte, a local cafe that serves fresh espresso with home baked croissants might stand on the street corner.

Or maybe, I'm just over romanticizing what Berlin should/could be. After all, Berlin did get ridiculously bombed during the war, so rebuilding something of contemporary day is what's suitable.

Still, I had so much hope for authenticity.

Yo Amy, what's that you're writing in?

Meet Junior, he's my mini-pocket-sized notebook I had initially started taking notes in while wandering through Berlin. I actually never planned for Junior to be my "it" booklet, in fact, it was by pure luck that I even had him in my backpack with me because I had only packed my laptop with me for this trip.
It was given to me by my friend, Stacy. At least, I think it was. And our relationship started out mutually, I was just going to use him as a phone number/email/quote book, and his size was perfect enough to not be a nuisance to carry around. Needless to say, the amount of notes I wanted to record in Berlin increasingly grew, leaving me to part ways with Junior and move onto something that can provide more for me. Hence, world, I now introduce you to...

Perg.
I actually just purchased her from the Pergamon Museum yesterday, so she's pretty new, but so far we've managed to skip introductions and have jumped into the nitty gritty with no problems. In truth, I saw a beat up version of this at first, and I actually wanted that one because I liked how it seemed to have "character," but the cashier lady switched it up.

I've had an interesting history with writing journals. Like most angst-driven teens, I started keeping blogs and journals throughout middle school and high school, confessing candidly into these things, working my logic and emotions out as I pieced words together.
In high school, I got into poetry and spoken word, enjoying all of which came with writing poetry: playing around with the English language, breaking conventional grammar and rules and being able to reveal raw emotions. I started keeping a journal to record my (shitty) pieces in, and used it to inspire my idea for my senior project(incorporating spoken word into English classes to improve and increase student writing). By the end of high school, I had a cumulative of 4 journals. All gifts from teachers. All of which hinted towards or even encrypted with the notion for me to continue writing. It was thoughtful, but then I felt somewhat obligated, and at the same time, a little bit scared to have this laid upon me. By the time summer rolled around, I felt drained of my creative juices, uninspired and felt that I've had a healthy amount of angst-release. Since then, I've had a "dry spell" with my writing, and so for the most part, those pages have guiltily laid empty.

Buying this journal was a spur of the moment, and I've actually come to really enjoy it, --I think the whole ownership aspect of it gives me this sense of obligation and even a bit of pleasure to know that I, personally, have bought and am committing to writing in this, daily.

And while it's still fairly new, I think I will manage to build a history with it.

And, hopefully, by the end of this trip, perhaps Perg will inspire me to keep writing, prose and poetry, and I will finally have the courage to open those journal pages and start giving those empty pages the long overdue attention they need/deserve.

Somber.

In sixth grade, I read Elie Wiesel's, Night. I remember getting goosebumps as I read the words that recounted horrifying events I could barely fathom in my 11 year old mind. In middle school and my freshman year of high school, I would come to revisit the text several times, all the while the goosebumps would appear once again as the familiar, yet newly enlightening, heart wrenching story unfolded. But of course, like the third party I was, I was viewing something from the outside, I was placed at a distance in which I could only empathize to a certain extent.

However, there was that one specific phrase that stood out to me the multiple times I would read it, a line that that always echoed in my head from time to time as I've contemplated about Germany. It wasn't until visiting the Sachsenhausen concentration camp that I realized the magnitude of that single sentence, the actual weight of a single simple description.

Roughly, I remember the line as: And up above, the sky remained a magnificent blue.

And walking through that vast plot of land with the sound of the wind passing through the trees, the lonely interruption of gravel crunching beneath tourists' feet, that line repeatedly rehearsed itself in my head. Seeing the blue sky with friendly scattered clouds made me somewhat angry. And while I don't mean to sound like a righteous, all-knowing American, (and this may sound like a broken record) but I couldn't believe that such a thing had taken place where I was standing, that something so horrifying could exist beneath such a forgiving sky. It was hard to accept the brilliant day when you are treading the same path that so many victims of an inhumane crime had tread, most of them up until their final point in life.

I found myself having to recollect my breath and emotions several times. It is here that so many have made movies, written countless of texts and literature on in an attempt to preserve a significant part of mankind's history, and yet the feelings are completely different when you're actually within the walls of the scene of the crime. It is barren. It is heavy. And while tons of tourist groups surrounds you, desolation sets into your bones.

It was sobering. A feeling that I was a bit relieved to encounter. Here was the bit of truth I was waiting to unearth on this excursion. This brought blood and air to these stories I had only read and seen film productions on, the ghosts of the past looming in front of me.

Adam, the tour guide, brought up something that just can't be repeated enough, "There is no conclusion," especially to such a chapter like this, or any other narratives within history with similar (or perhaps even different, but nonetheless) tragedies or outcomes, that to simply let things gather dust as a way to brush it under the rug is begging for history to continuously repeat itself. (And history will prove that it's still prevailing, with incidents like in Cambodia, Rwanda, Darfur...)

And while I am still working through my thoughts and this overwhelming feeling, I'll admit that it's given me a surge of motivation, this feel to be more active within the humanities; it's reassured me that my initial desire to be involved with the social sciences is still blazing somewhere within me. And by no way am I attempting to turn this post into a motivational speech, but it's hard to walk away from seeing blood stains from actual victims years ago and let apathy take over.

At last Wall, we meet.

I'll admit that the sudden long stretch of wall that appeared out of nowhere took me by surprise. I didn't expect such a monumental piece of history to be placed so nonchalantly at roadside, squeezed next to hipster beach clubs and a decked out sports stadium. But perhaps, surprise is just the element suitable for this wall, after all, it was literally built overnight, and by morning, Berliners were divided. And even though this stretch of wall is just a fraction of what was, pacing alongside it, I got that sense of restriction, with the wall looming above me, blocking part of the sky from my view, I tried to imagine this as my daily life. Would I get used to it? Would I ever feel frustrated at this stubborn barrier? Even when I knew that I would eventually reach the end of the wall and finally see the other side, just knowing that my peripherals were limited was enough to make me impatient.

However, that's excluding the factor of the art on the wall. Which, is fittingly enough, another part of the surprise element.

The amount of color and images meticulously painted on certain sections of the wall brought a whole new feel to this concrete barrier. It was now a canvas of expression rather than restriction, and to experience this transformation was pretty wild. It was uplifting, in a way, to see a negative concept that was built out of warfare and resentment to be turned on its head and now a place to inspire unity.

It was also quite a charm to come across several of the artists, and even witness them in action. One of the artists from the UK, Peter Russell, mentioned something that I found rather intriguing. When asked to explain his art, he answered, "“You know what they say when artists are asked to explain themselves? They are mute.”

Lost in translation, or perhaps, development of understanding and freedom of interpretation? I'm an optimist.