There were rumors , or outright lies last week that we might be in for a bit of rain. No such luck, Berlin is one big frying pan. To its credit, however, there is neither humidity nor overcastedness, and for the most part, a nice breeze is to be felt wherever one goes. The only remedy to the heat in this unairconditioned European city is acquiring a tall glass of Beer and downing it. That, or taking a little trip to one of the many ponds and / or swimming pools in and around the city. I myself biked not that far north of Prenzlauer  Berg last week up to Hohenschönhausen, where the Stasi used to have thier HQ and conduct their interrogations / tourture / intimidation etc etc to go swimming in one of the open lakes. In fact, there was a fenced in area with an artifical beach. But one had to pay 3.50 for admittence when one very easily could just sit on the grass and jump into the relatively clean water. For sure, there was a “No Swimming” sign, but if that didn’t dissuade the intergeneral crowd of 50 strong that had lain their towels down along the grassy, willow-shaded banks of the lake, why should it have dissauded me? It was exceptionally refreshing to feel cool waters after such a consistantly hot and unforgiving summer. Right now, I’m just so goddamn schvitzing that I’d gladly welcome any form of percipitation that the good lord might choose to bestow on us. 

 

 

I attended the much-hyped Loveparade yesterday after a week spent reporting on the controversy surrounding the much-famed event’s dramatic return. In a piece that ran in the Arts section of yesterdays NY Times (http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/15/arts/music/15para.html?_r=1&oref=slogin), I wrote about the rift between the current management of the Loveparade and its founder and lead visionary, the Berlin-based DJ Dr. Motte. After being so deeply steeped in the lore and myth of the Loveparade for the past week, I found myself somewhat disappointed by the actual event that occured yesterday along the Straße des 17. Juni. There was so sex or hardcore drugs; the crowd, though thick at times, was pretty spread out and sparse in areas; the much-hyped $30,000 sound systems didn’t sound all that fantastic to me. I guess the most daring and provocative act I witnessed was mass public urination. Still, it was pretty awesome seeing so many people come together. And even thoughthe merely curious seemed to be the majority, there was a fair-share of hardcore raver-types who scaled the 100ft. lamp-posts wearing precious little and danced to the thumping bass that echoed through the Tiergarten.

Some cities have their beauty enhanced by the rain. Paris, for instance. Who can ever forgive Paris for being so goddamn romantic during a downpour? The rain acts as a filter and makes everything more vibrant, more melancholy, more full of joie de vivre. In Berlin, for whatever reason, rain doesn’t have the same magical properties. Here, everyone and everything gets thoroughly, mercilessly, sopping wet. In my neighborhood of Prenzlauer Berg, a sudden downpour today rendered the entire area paralyzed. Parents crowded into an ice cream shop with their children and waited there helpless for the storm to pass. Waitresses dashed madly outside to their tables to remove salt and sugar shakers. A little Pakistani market down the block from me was wiping its apparently-not-too-waterproof windows off from the inside.
I was in the ice cream parlor along with twenty or so stranded mothers and daughters (plus another American who was screaming into his cell-phone something or other about a photo exhibit). I naturally treated myself to a scoop of ice-cream (a crappy rum-flavor) and when the rain finally seemed to be letting up, made a dash for my building (about 200 meters away). In every alley-way were huddled fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, sons and lovers etc… while from apartment windows, older couples looked out to laugh at me. Not terribly romantic, eh?
The rain also came as a sore disappointment to me since it foiled my plans of going to the Komischer Oper tonight to see their production of Weber’s Der Freischütz. I guess I could still make it if I made a mad dash, but I really don’t feel up to donning my Sunday Best only to soil them. If this were Paris however, I wouldn’t think twice about venturing off to the opéra in the pouring rain. I would barely feel the raindrops would barely grace my blazer and I’d arrive at my seat completely 100% dry. 
 

 

This is, I realize, an uncharacteristically informal and autobiographical entry. Please don’t get any ideas about me being some overly sensitive, emo, hipster type with a loft in Park Slope.
Two nights ago, I found myself in the East Village with my friend Asher. I joined him for the tail-end of an experimental “drone” concert / film presentation at the recently-opened “The Stone,” an intimate music venue on 2nd and Ave C. As we zigzagged our way to Union Square, looking for a café, we passed by some loserish club. On the sidewalk, lay a bbrown paper bag with what appeared to be a self-improvement audio-cassette sticking out. The bag caught my eye, and I halted to see what it was. I would have walked away immediately, where it not for the plastic case of a DVD I made out underneath the cassette. I bent down to the level of the bag and started sifting through, to the annoyance and bewilderment of my friend. I soon realized I had stumbled upon a goldmine.
What first met my eye were four DVDs with Chinese characters, they appeared to be soft-core Asian pornos. Further down, I spied vhs’ of Singin’ in the Rain, The Good, the Bad, and The Ugly and the first two Austin Powers movies. I decided to take the whole bag with me, chuckling to myself that the previous owner had fantastic taste in movies, and a soft spot for Asian porn.
Asher and I sat down on the steps of Union Square Park and ritualistically burrowed deep into my brown paper bag, while around us, daredevils twirled thier trick bikes around horrified pedestrians. We uncovered more and more classics such as Kubrick’s Lolita, Psycho, Drunken Master, Jurassic Park, His Girl Friday. The greatest discovers, though, were Transformers: The Movie - still in shrink-wrap - and a bootleg of Star Wars: Episode 1, the Phantom Menace. I offered Asher a selection of the films. All he was truly interested in was the Transformers movie, which - though it looks simply stunning to me - I parted with sans regret.