"Have a great New Year" is expressed in German (roughly) as "Guten Rutsch" which literally means good slide or skid. This is an accurate description of many New Year's celebratory activities for the typical 20-something Berliner.
Mine was no exception. I woke up in bed today to the roar of Hangoversaurus Rex, mourning the mysterious disappearance of my favorite sweater...as well as the apparent and equally mysterious disappearance of about three hours of the previous night. (Abe filled me in on the details. Apparently I sang. A lot.)
The one thing I do remember, however, is one tiny two word phrase...the only phrase I know in Norwegian...and my epic several-hour struggle not to shout that very phrase at the top of my lungs in polite company.
Den Drittsek. It means "you sack of shit".
We were at a New Year's dinner at the home of a Norwegian, attended by no less than seven more Norwegians. Friendly. Engaged. Charming. Alarmingly adept at foreign languages, including English.
I wish I'd learned the Norwegian translation of "lovely day, today" or "my stars this is some tasty paella" or even "my balls are often itchy". Why "you sack of shit"? It was the only thing...everything I could think to want to say.
"Lydia, how are things at the opera?" Don't say Den Drittsek.
"Hey, do you and Abe want to check out this Bruce LaBruce party later on?" Don't say it.
"Can you pass me some rolls"....Oh lord, please don't say it...
As the night wore on and on and I remember less and less, who knows just how far my lack of tact actually took me.
Only Abe knows for sure, and he's not telling.
Happy 2006.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
VKSP #16: It’s white, it’s wet, and it’s all over me. 2005/12/30
I first saw it in London about four days ago. In total...about thirty flakes of snow over about 8 minutes, resulting in the near collapse of all public transportation, traffic gridlock and monstrous delays at the airport.
Abe and I made it back to Berlin. Really late.
It has snowed in this city for the last three days straight. Now, Berlin is known for it's wicked winter temperatures...and identifiable by the sensation of flash-frozen boogers lacerating your nostrils until blood is drawn...but not for snow, per se. That's more of an Eastern Poland through to Siberia type of phenomenon. For this reason, Berliners seem more than a bit bewildered by this blizzard.
I saw a man staring at his feet (buried only up to his mid-shins as he was) for about 15 minutes at a tram stop last night. Open mouth. Gormless expression. Well, it is Berlin and he could have been high.
The city's public works seem particularly befuddled. Sand? Salt? Shovels? You should see my knees after yesterday.
Still, ask any Brit, American, even Dutch person you see around, and they're all over the moon with joy, appreciative of this white patina covering Berlin's ugly post Xmasness.
Today, I saw a young PoMo mother explain yellow snow to her toddler son for the first time.
Retroactively, it must be said.
Abe and I made it back to Berlin. Really late.
It has snowed in this city for the last three days straight. Now, Berlin is known for it's wicked winter temperatures...and identifiable by the sensation of flash-frozen boogers lacerating your nostrils until blood is drawn...but not for snow, per se. That's more of an Eastern Poland through to Siberia type of phenomenon. For this reason, Berliners seem more than a bit bewildered by this blizzard.
I saw a man staring at his feet (buried only up to his mid-shins as he was) for about 15 minutes at a tram stop last night. Open mouth. Gormless expression. Well, it is Berlin and he could have been high.
The city's public works seem particularly befuddled. Sand? Salt? Shovels? You should see my knees after yesterday.
Still, ask any Brit, American, even Dutch person you see around, and they're all over the moon with joy, appreciative of this white patina covering Berlin's ugly post Xmasness.
Today, I saw a young PoMo mother explain yellow snow to her toddler son for the first time.
Retroactively, it must be said.
VKSP #15: The Holiday Jiggly 2005/12/23
It's come to my attention recently, that I'm suffering from a bit of the Holday Jiggly. You know the feeling, the circulation to your legs gets cut off by suddenly tiny waistbands, puffy pink flesh bows out from every unclothed gap, and general squooshiness replaces all of those beloved bones: cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones, etc.
My main H'mo du jour was also feeling the jiggly...made all the more anxious for the fact that, as Masetto in Don Giovanni, he'll need to strip down to undies and a bra and get rammed from behind by Leporello. "Do my tits jiggle when he thrusts?" he asked. What could I say.
We considered our options, and then decided we needed fitness...in the form of a really upscale club. We decided to do a trial training at Holmes Place, an incredibly chi-chi club tucked away into the same shopping complex as Givenchy, Louis Vuitton, Dior, etc. Apparently they offer discounts to people from the opera.
If there's one thing I've learned from every gym I've ever joined (except for the NYSC on Court and Remsen in Brooklyn Heights), it's that fitness, or at least what heterosexual women know as fitness is only the tip of the iceberg. Gay visual politicking overtakes any other function of any given training center, after a point.
We packed our bags and went to Holmes Place. It was slick, bright, and full of beautiful men strutting in pre-ordained patterns, sending each other cryptic glances. A very tall, very orange man named Stefan (whose tattoos climbed out from under his three-piece suit and up his neck) walked us through. The place seemed totally pleasant, even nice...if not totally overpriced.
I zoned out, staring at the womens' only area, doors to the steam and heat rooms...thinking about the entire box of cookies I'd eaten earlier that afternoon, in celebration of my finally getting my shit together to work out a bit. We strolled. Stefan talked. My man listened.
After what seemed like an abnormally short while, their conversation seemed to be wrapping up, in a "thanks, we'll think about it and let you know" kind of way. What? I had come to confront the Holiday Jiggly, not to wander around with a creature that looked more like living, breathing beef jerky than an ordinary human for twenty minutes.
"Could we do a trial training?" I saw my partner in crime go white. "Sometime?" I added.
We received "redeem for a trial workout" cards and headed toward the door. I was confused, annoyed at having carted my gym shit across Berlin, and curious as to why my man was shaking.
"Didn't you hear", he asked, obviously relieved to be out of there. "I have a muscle shirt".
"Oh." I said. We kept walking for a while.
"That orange guy said that muscle shirts are an absolute no go".
We did the only thing we could think to do, considering the situation. We walked (briskly, give me some credit) to the nearest Xmas market and drank 3 mugs of mulled wine in rapid succession.
Then we went back to his place, ate Pringles and Lasagna, and watched Hustler White.
My main H'mo du jour was also feeling the jiggly...made all the more anxious for the fact that, as Masetto in Don Giovanni, he'll need to strip down to undies and a bra and get rammed from behind by Leporello. "Do my tits jiggle when he thrusts?" he asked. What could I say.
We considered our options, and then decided we needed fitness...in the form of a really upscale club. We decided to do a trial training at Holmes Place, an incredibly chi-chi club tucked away into the same shopping complex as Givenchy, Louis Vuitton, Dior, etc. Apparently they offer discounts to people from the opera.
If there's one thing I've learned from every gym I've ever joined (except for the NYSC on Court and Remsen in Brooklyn Heights), it's that fitness, or at least what heterosexual women know as fitness is only the tip of the iceberg. Gay visual politicking overtakes any other function of any given training center, after a point.
We packed our bags and went to Holmes Place. It was slick, bright, and full of beautiful men strutting in pre-ordained patterns, sending each other cryptic glances. A very tall, very orange man named Stefan (whose tattoos climbed out from under his three-piece suit and up his neck) walked us through. The place seemed totally pleasant, even nice...if not totally overpriced.
I zoned out, staring at the womens' only area, doors to the steam and heat rooms...thinking about the entire box of cookies I'd eaten earlier that afternoon, in celebration of my finally getting my shit together to work out a bit. We strolled. Stefan talked. My man listened.
After what seemed like an abnormally short while, their conversation seemed to be wrapping up, in a "thanks, we'll think about it and let you know" kind of way. What? I had come to confront the Holiday Jiggly, not to wander around with a creature that looked more like living, breathing beef jerky than an ordinary human for twenty minutes.
"Could we do a trial training?" I saw my partner in crime go white. "Sometime?" I added.
We received "redeem for a trial workout" cards and headed toward the door. I was confused, annoyed at having carted my gym shit across Berlin, and curious as to why my man was shaking.
"Didn't you hear", he asked, obviously relieved to be out of there. "I have a muscle shirt".
"Oh." I said. We kept walking for a while.
"That orange guy said that muscle shirts are an absolute no go".
We did the only thing we could think to do, considering the situation. We walked (briskly, give me some credit) to the nearest Xmas market and drank 3 mugs of mulled wine in rapid succession.
Then we went back to his place, ate Pringles and Lasagna, and watched Hustler White.
VKSP #14: The most wonderful time of the year… 2005/12/19
When the night sky becomes shot through with red and gold lights, and the air I breathe bears the scent of cinnamon and clove nearly as strongly as that of stale cigarettes, it can only mean one thing.
Xmastime. And that can only mean one thing...
Regretting the coat purchase I made six weeks ago as my broke ass shivers on a windy street corner.
Let me also add a quick story about a trip Abe and I made to the Outlet Mall near his parents' house in Garrison NY last summer. It is relevant, I swear. Wait for it...
As per usual, Abe and I were bickering bitterly throughout the entire adventure, as is generally the case with us when either career or personal/textile/garment-related aesthetics come into discussion.
I believe we were shopping for pants. His, specifically.
At one point, we went into the Barney's Outlet store.
He began thumbing listlessly through a rack of brown, khaki, fatigue, sand, and tan cargo corduroys, occaisionally throwing me one of those adorable, yet cerebellum-melting glances that, on one hand say "sweetie, I need a hand--please come over here and lend me your expert opinion", while also saying, with equal emphasis "you controlling bitch, if you even try to come over here spraying your overblown, castrating judgements like usual, I will make the rest of this shopping expedition a living hell".
While contemplating this age-old conundrum of going or staying, my eyes fell upon a rack supporting two perpendicularly hung rows of pure magic.
The Michael Kors coat. Winter 04/05. Wool, black or red, warm. Perfectly formed with a high neck, very long arms, over-knee fall length, and one sturdy, yet elegant zipper breaking the unmarred perfection of the outer shell (the pockets were inseam, coyly hidden). There it was...in my size.
$200.
$200.
$200.
I left it. My financial situation, as usual, looked about as good as the prospects for gay marraige in Texas. Anyway. The day was for Abie. Abie's pants. Sure, he probably wouldn't ever speak to me again, but at least his sweet cheeks would end up perfectly situated in reasonably-priced denim.
Since that day, I have regretted leaving the coat. A miserable, aching, and certainly cold regret.
Two months after I came back to Berlin, I bought a coat at H & M. Vaguely 1950's in shape and Oscar the Grouch colored, it turns out to be the perfect coat for a dry, brisk, late autumn day.
Not the wet, dark, biting Taiga that is a Berlin winter.
I am grateful for the fact that, since buying the coat, I have lost a few pounds, allowing for extensive layering. Still, as I feel the unrelenting mini-turds of wet snow sink through coat, sweater, sweater, turtleneck, shirt, tank-top, finally hitting unappreciative skin, my mind returns to that which I was too dumb, cheap and proud to buy.
Now I know that Christmas ghosts aren't necessarily menacing, faceless appartitions or sprightly fairies...they can be fabulously cut woolen shells filled with down and lines with nylon. They can haunt you while you shop for groceries and toiletries you could've done without...and appear on Berlin's slender glamor girls, who probably payed EU 1000 for the honor.
On long dark nights, the Michael Kors coat is there. At least one generally wakes up from a nightmare come sunrise. Not me. By tomorrow morning (at which time hopefully the green H & M coat will have dried out sufficiently...reclaiming its charming "crusty asshole of a dog carcass lying on Arizona asphalt for a week" odor once again), there will be no release from its perfect, clean, classic red or black wool grip.
Only 5 more shopping days.
Xmastime. And that can only mean one thing...
Regretting the coat purchase I made six weeks ago as my broke ass shivers on a windy street corner.
Let me also add a quick story about a trip Abe and I made to the Outlet Mall near his parents' house in Garrison NY last summer. It is relevant, I swear. Wait for it...
As per usual, Abe and I were bickering bitterly throughout the entire adventure, as is generally the case with us when either career or personal/textile/garment-related aesthetics come into discussion.
I believe we were shopping for pants. His, specifically.
At one point, we went into the Barney's Outlet store.
He began thumbing listlessly through a rack of brown, khaki, fatigue, sand, and tan cargo corduroys, occaisionally throwing me one of those adorable, yet cerebellum-melting glances that, on one hand say "sweetie, I need a hand--please come over here and lend me your expert opinion", while also saying, with equal emphasis "you controlling bitch, if you even try to come over here spraying your overblown, castrating judgements like usual, I will make the rest of this shopping expedition a living hell".
While contemplating this age-old conundrum of going or staying, my eyes fell upon a rack supporting two perpendicularly hung rows of pure magic.
The Michael Kors coat. Winter 04/05. Wool, black or red, warm. Perfectly formed with a high neck, very long arms, over-knee fall length, and one sturdy, yet elegant zipper breaking the unmarred perfection of the outer shell (the pockets were inseam, coyly hidden). There it was...in my size.
$200.
$200.
$200.
I left it. My financial situation, as usual, looked about as good as the prospects for gay marraige in Texas. Anyway. The day was for Abie. Abie's pants. Sure, he probably wouldn't ever speak to me again, but at least his sweet cheeks would end up perfectly situated in reasonably-priced denim.
Since that day, I have regretted leaving the coat. A miserable, aching, and certainly cold regret.
Two months after I came back to Berlin, I bought a coat at H & M. Vaguely 1950's in shape and Oscar the Grouch colored, it turns out to be the perfect coat for a dry, brisk, late autumn day.
Not the wet, dark, biting Taiga that is a Berlin winter.
I am grateful for the fact that, since buying the coat, I have lost a few pounds, allowing for extensive layering. Still, as I feel the unrelenting mini-turds of wet snow sink through coat, sweater, sweater, turtleneck, shirt, tank-top, finally hitting unappreciative skin, my mind returns to that which I was too dumb, cheap and proud to buy.
Now I know that Christmas ghosts aren't necessarily menacing, faceless appartitions or sprightly fairies...they can be fabulously cut woolen shells filled with down and lines with nylon. They can haunt you while you shop for groceries and toiletries you could've done without...and appear on Berlin's slender glamor girls, who probably payed EU 1000 for the honor.
On long dark nights, the Michael Kors coat is there. At least one generally wakes up from a nightmare come sunrise. Not me. By tomorrow morning (at which time hopefully the green H & M coat will have dried out sufficiently...reclaiming its charming "crusty asshole of a dog carcass lying on Arizona asphalt for a week" odor once again), there will be no release from its perfect, clean, classic red or black wool grip.
Only 5 more shopping days.
VKSP #13: Pomo Sapiens 2005/12/14
I’ve just gotten back from a place called the Hotel Bar (generic title, yes, but also concise, irreverent, sceney and thereby securely pomo). I went to hear my good friend Tommy’s brilliant sister, Alex, sing.
She sang. She was fantastic. As the final chord of her last song died, I turned around and immediately realized that Dorothy was no longer in Kansas.
It was one of those scenes. Hard to describe, but I’ll try. In a room full of people that are so obviously, unquestionably, practically exhibitionalistically “creative types”, I always find myself isolated.
Stranded.
Girls with artfully spiky (or spikily arty, whichever you’d prefer) hair, wearing painstakingly effortless scarves—a vast ocean of short men with wild, greasy hair and varying degrees of painstakingly effortless facial hair. All milling around ballad night at the Hotel Bar with vacantly pleasant expressions that tacitly say “don’t talk to me unless you run a gallery or a gig bar…or if you’ve got some green.”
The infuriating part of the evening, is that I knew a good few of the people there. I’d been introduced before by Tommy or others (at which time they’d all produced a heroically tolerant courtesy…which on this lot can look like anything from a “this speculum might be a bit cold” expression to…well, Terry Schiavo).
As I spoke to Alex (God bless the woman for her company at that moment) after her set, two prime examples approached [Alex] to congratulate her. As they were waved on toward the email list (without so much as a glance in my direction), I said (loudly, yet cheerfully) “It’s nice to see you again”.
No response.
I caught the female of the species by the arm as she passed again, and repeated my phrase, louder. She turned, with a pitying look that said “Sorry if you’d think I know you. I surely don’t know you. Look at you.” The look had an accent. It was weird.
Me (the gist): Yeah. Hi. We’ve met. At your place. We watched THX-1138 together. And all of the special features. We ate Xmas cookies, I played with your dog, wore your guest house slippers…
(Dear reader…I was one of only two guests on that occasion.)
She sputtered artily for a second without ever looking remorseful for her oversight. I grabbed my coat.
Sometimes Berlin can look like a freakishly inverted incarnation of high school. The tragically misunderstood THEREFORE (unassailably) artistically potent have transmogrified into a thin, pale, spiky, blank-eyed overclass…sort of like the jocks and sluts of yore, I guess. The rest of us…the ones who sell out to the man (read: have institutional jobs), smile when introduced to someone, and wear color…
Well, I don’t know what you’d call us—but I’ve definitely been here before.
On a positive (and definitely unpomo) note, I discovered online banking today. Yup. To celebrate, I bought myself a big bag of Xmas potpourri and put some in every room of my apartment.
I’m really looking forward to waking up to something other than the smell of my own halitosis tomorrow morning.
Night night.
She sang. She was fantastic. As the final chord of her last song died, I turned around and immediately realized that Dorothy was no longer in Kansas.
It was one of those scenes. Hard to describe, but I’ll try. In a room full of people that are so obviously, unquestionably, practically exhibitionalistically “creative types”, I always find myself isolated.
Stranded.
Girls with artfully spiky (or spikily arty, whichever you’d prefer) hair, wearing painstakingly effortless scarves—a vast ocean of short men with wild, greasy hair and varying degrees of painstakingly effortless facial hair. All milling around ballad night at the Hotel Bar with vacantly pleasant expressions that tacitly say “don’t talk to me unless you run a gallery or a gig bar…or if you’ve got some green.”
The infuriating part of the evening, is that I knew a good few of the people there. I’d been introduced before by Tommy or others (at which time they’d all produced a heroically tolerant courtesy…which on this lot can look like anything from a “this speculum might be a bit cold” expression to…well, Terry Schiavo).
As I spoke to Alex (God bless the woman for her company at that moment) after her set, two prime examples approached [Alex] to congratulate her. As they were waved on toward the email list (without so much as a glance in my direction), I said (loudly, yet cheerfully) “It’s nice to see you again”.
No response.
I caught the female of the species by the arm as she passed again, and repeated my phrase, louder. She turned, with a pitying look that said “Sorry if you’d think I know you. I surely don’t know you. Look at you.” The look had an accent. It was weird.
Me (the gist): Yeah. Hi. We’ve met. At your place. We watched THX-1138 together. And all of the special features. We ate Xmas cookies, I played with your dog, wore your guest house slippers…
(Dear reader…I was one of only two guests on that occasion.)
She sputtered artily for a second without ever looking remorseful for her oversight. I grabbed my coat.
Sometimes Berlin can look like a freakishly inverted incarnation of high school. The tragically misunderstood THEREFORE (unassailably) artistically potent have transmogrified into a thin, pale, spiky, blank-eyed overclass…sort of like the jocks and sluts of yore, I guess. The rest of us…the ones who sell out to the man (read: have institutional jobs), smile when introduced to someone, and wear color…
Well, I don’t know what you’d call us—but I’ve definitely been here before.
On a positive (and definitely unpomo) note, I discovered online banking today. Yup. To celebrate, I bought myself a big bag of Xmas potpourri and put some in every room of my apartment.
I’m really looking forward to waking up to something other than the smell of my own halitosis tomorrow morning.
Night night.
VKSP #12: Things I like about Xmas. 2005/12/13
Xmas is fabulous. I like how at Xmas, you can be hungry and full at the same time. Here are some other things I like:
I like Tangerines, and their bastard cousins, like Clementines, Mandarins and Satsumas.
I like the fact that I can get retarded in public in broad daylight with the assistance of Gluhwein.
I like Lebkuchen. I do.
I like the fact that Xmas cheer in Germany basically entails being ever-so-slightly less of an asshole.
I like that with so many Xmas revellers in the streets of Berlin, you don't notice the stacks of drunk and disillusioned punks, with their hungry and badly-behaved pit bulls.
I like the fact that Santa Claus is known as the Xmas Man here.
I like that the German Xmas Man has an evil counterpart, Knecht Ruprecht, who gives kids coal.
I like that the brothel next door to by building has incorporated some Xmas deko into its display.
I like that, if you squint your eyes and clear your mind, Berlin actually looks like a fun, inviting city at Xmastime. Well, almost...
I like that buying ugly shit you'd never want is a Xmas market obligation.
I like mugs shaped like boots.
I like that Berlin's student pomos are leaving the city to be with Mami and Papi on the Rhine for Xmas.
Did I mention that I like Lebkucken? I really do.
And I love the fact that I'll actually be spending Xmas in London with my sweetie and some very good friends, and not in Berlin at all.
OOoh, I just shifted on the bench at the cafe...and recieved a choice Xmas glare from a man wearing a cloche, space-boots and three belts.
I like...
I like Tangerines, and their bastard cousins, like Clementines, Mandarins and Satsumas.
I like the fact that I can get retarded in public in broad daylight with the assistance of Gluhwein.
I like Lebkuchen. I do.
I like the fact that Xmas cheer in Germany basically entails being ever-so-slightly less of an asshole.
I like that with so many Xmas revellers in the streets of Berlin, you don't notice the stacks of drunk and disillusioned punks, with their hungry and badly-behaved pit bulls.
I like the fact that Santa Claus is known as the Xmas Man here.
I like that the German Xmas Man has an evil counterpart, Knecht Ruprecht, who gives kids coal.
I like that the brothel next door to by building has incorporated some Xmas deko into its display.
I like that, if you squint your eyes and clear your mind, Berlin actually looks like a fun, inviting city at Xmastime. Well, almost...
I like that buying ugly shit you'd never want is a Xmas market obligation.
I like mugs shaped like boots.
I like that Berlin's student pomos are leaving the city to be with Mami and Papi on the Rhine for Xmas.
Did I mention that I like Lebkucken? I really do.
And I love the fact that I'll actually be spending Xmas in London with my sweetie and some very good friends, and not in Berlin at all.
OOoh, I just shifted on the bench at the cafe...and recieved a choice Xmas glare from a man wearing a cloche, space-boots and three belts.
I like...
VKSP #11: The Bomb 2005/12/09
One time I got stopped by a camera crew in the street. It was right after the London transit bombing. They were interviewing people to ask if they thought it could happen in Berlin.
I went off on a rant about how, no, it would never happen here, and how dare Berlin feel so important that they deserved to become a big nasty symbol of Islamic terror. I went on to describe how terrorists hit either a.) big western centers of international commerce and culture (New York, London) b.) western cities with big disenfranchised northern African a/o middle Eastern populations (Madrid) c.) or Eastern centers of percieved Western privelege and decadence (Amman, Bali, etc.)...and that if the terrorists had half a brain in their heads, and were seriously interested in a German target, they'd hit Frankfurt (the money) or Munich (the big romanticized heart of German national culture).
They didn't put me on the air.
Last night, people started coming to the opera really, REALLY late for their rehearsals. One breathless mezzo came in talking about how Unter den Linden...the huge commercial center of Berlin (and the street where the opera is located) had been cordoned off by police, and how everyone on the street had been evacuated (besides us, unfortunately).
The Christmas markets, the stores, Humboldt University...as well as the dress rehearsal at the Staatsoper---all closed down.
A bomb, they said. Fuuuuuck, I thought. Bleeding Murphy's law. I should've kept my mouth shut. Oh, how my karma had doomed Christmas in Berlin!
It was, indeed, a bomb. But let me continue.
Some construction workers tinkering on a project (an underground parking lot on UdL) were boring through concrete when they stumbled across a live explosive from...
1945.
Apparently this happens a lot. They find an old bomb, or anti-personnel-explosive from WWII in the subway, or under a playground, or in the basement of a shopping mall, etc., etc., then call in the army to remove it, and then drive it deep into Brandenburg where they can explode it with robots in a field.
Pictures of the bomb were in the papers today. It's about the size of a human torso, and quite badly rusted. Apparently the metal on the head had decayed down to only a couple of milimeters in thickness.
That means, just one tap with a hammer and pow, Berlin's center becomes a crater.
If only W could invent a time machine, eh?
God I spend too much time in this buttfucking internet cafe.
I went off on a rant about how, no, it would never happen here, and how dare Berlin feel so important that they deserved to become a big nasty symbol of Islamic terror. I went on to describe how terrorists hit either a.) big western centers of international commerce and culture (New York, London) b.) western cities with big disenfranchised northern African a/o middle Eastern populations (Madrid) c.) or Eastern centers of percieved Western privelege and decadence (Amman, Bali, etc.)...and that if the terrorists had half a brain in their heads, and were seriously interested in a German target, they'd hit Frankfurt (the money) or Munich (the big romanticized heart of German national culture).
They didn't put me on the air.
Last night, people started coming to the opera really, REALLY late for their rehearsals. One breathless mezzo came in talking about how Unter den Linden...the huge commercial center of Berlin (and the street where the opera is located) had been cordoned off by police, and how everyone on the street had been evacuated (besides us, unfortunately).
The Christmas markets, the stores, Humboldt University...as well as the dress rehearsal at the Staatsoper---all closed down.
A bomb, they said. Fuuuuuck, I thought. Bleeding Murphy's law. I should've kept my mouth shut. Oh, how my karma had doomed Christmas in Berlin!
It was, indeed, a bomb. But let me continue.
Some construction workers tinkering on a project (an underground parking lot on UdL) were boring through concrete when they stumbled across a live explosive from...
1945.
Apparently this happens a lot. They find an old bomb, or anti-personnel-explosive from WWII in the subway, or under a playground, or in the basement of a shopping mall, etc., etc., then call in the army to remove it, and then drive it deep into Brandenburg where they can explode it with robots in a field.
Pictures of the bomb were in the papers today. It's about the size of a human torso, and quite badly rusted. Apparently the metal on the head had decayed down to only a couple of milimeters in thickness.
That means, just one tap with a hammer and pow, Berlin's center becomes a crater.
If only W could invent a time machine, eh?
God I spend too much time in this buttfucking internet cafe.
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