It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

In fact, it was a pretty normal November day in Berlin.  Cold, grey, slightly damp.  Unpleasant.  I was waiting at a bus stop (which sadly was nothing like the one above).  For a long time.  Feeling more and more cold.  And grumpy. And missing my car.  Keeping busy trying to come up with a really clever Facebook status about the annoying buses in Berlin.

On the way home, I stopped in a flower shop and had the most friendly person ever serving me.  Chatty, joking, even liking the BBC!  That’s all it took to make me forget about being cold and grumpy!  Suddenly Berlin seemed like a much brighter place.  And that Facebook status never did get written.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

Just a normal November day in Berlin.

Like the elderly couple who live a floor above me.  They look nothing like the couple in this picture and yet in some way they are very similar.  They have been married a long time, have probably brought up a family, but still they enjoy each other’s company.  What fun to watch them walk down the street together.  Only recently that has not been happening.  For weeks, I only ever saw the husband.  I didn’t feel I could ask about his wife, since I don’t know them well at all and the news probably wasn’t good.  What joy then to see them together again just a few days ago!  I don’t know whether the wife was ill and has now recovered, or what the story is.  Either way – seeing them walk down the street together brought a smile to my face.

Or my landlord and his wife, who live just across the courtyard from me. I don’t chat to them all that often (though they are very friendly) but you kind of get to know the rhythm of someone else’s life when you live almost on eye level.  A couple of times a year, they go off on a long holiday in the sun (they are retired!) and it feels strange not seeing any signs of life over there.  Yesterday morning I noticed that the blinds were down in their kitchen.  They are back and somehow life feels just that little bit more normal again

Then there are the people who we only see once but who somehow still leave a mark.  Like this man I saw on the underground last week.  He was blind, using a stick to navigate the platform and train.  Not only that, though, he also had his 2 young children (about 2 and 4 years old) with him.  Two stressful situations going on at the same time yet he was so calm!  Amazing!  Quite an inspiration.

So often I hardly notice the people around me.  I guess that’s what happens when you live in a major city.  Which makes it so much more special when I do notice the people who are so much more than just part of the scenery!

Walking on history

In Berlin, you often do that quite literally.

You find these Stolpersteine (stumbling blocks) outside a good number of buildings in Berlin (and elsewhere in Germany and beyond.  Read more here).  These particular ones I often pass on my way to the station.  What a powerful reminder of people who used to walk these same streets.

Admittedly Berlin has had more than its fair share of history but aside from the big stuff, I do often wonder about the lives that were lived in my little apartment in the 100 or so years before I moved in…

It was Just Another Night in the Middle East

For a few months, I lived alone in the Middle East. I mostly loved it. [If Roommate is reading—you know I missed ya, girl.] But all the bills and maintenance were left to me. So, my guard, Mohammad [it’s his real name, but there’s no point in changing it] is this younger—my age-ish—man who I think is pretty handsome. Whenever I need something I just text him the number “6.” Within minutes he’ll be sheepishly ringing the doorbell. Usually I fling the door open and greet him like a circus clown, so excited that he’s here to fix my problem! [Side story: For maybe 4 times straight, I requested his presence because the light in my kitchen was out. And probably all 4 of those times, once I coaxed him into my door, after he propped the door open, and I stood in the kitchen flipping the light switch on and off , saying in Arabic, “I need help, ya Mohammad. There is a problem. See? There is a problem. I need help.” He would stand on a chair, tap the light bulb and… it magically went on. (Whoopsies.)]

Lucky for him, I was always baking cookies.

Anyways, on this particular night, my kitchen light was in good working order [I know, right?!] and I didn’t even text him—he came to me! I was making cookies [shocker] and as I put on a long-sleeved cardigan, scarf and sweatpants to cover my shorts and tank top, I opened the door to find that he had a bunch of bills in his hand. I could usually decipher what I was paying. I just looked for the drops of rain and knew that one was water, and electricity, well, that was the other one. But tonight he wanted me to understand something.

Let’s be honest here for one little minute: I didn’t really care. It was always about the same, relatively small amount. I just gave him the money and he went to the offices and paid the bills for me. He’d bring back whatever change there was. Easy. Finally! One thing in my life here is easy!!!

But ooohhhh, nooooo. Handsome Muhammad [can I call him that?] wants to mess everything up. We both start off with perfect attention and smiles of hope. He props open the door and keeps hitting the light in the hallway to stay on. I get my wallet and give him the amount on the bill, but he signals me to wait and listen to him. I ask him, in Arabic, “You know I don’t know what you’re saying, right?” He laughs, nods his head, motions for my silence and continues. [Oh. This is serious.] I try giving him double the amount, thinking that I didn’t pay last month, or that they’re changing it or something. [Whatever. Fix it. Want a cookie, Muhammad?]

So we proceed to stand there, talking over each other in our own languages, me trying to shove money on him, telling him he is a good man, that I trust him, and him wanting me to get it. [Since when?!]

Finally I stop him and say, “Mohammad. Come, eat a cookie. [I’m so Arab. The answer is always to eat!] I’ll call my friend.” He succumbs to three warm, chocolate chip cookies for all his trouble and I call my go-to Middle Eastern/American “father.” He’s fluent.

No answer.

Ok, I call his best American friend. No answer.

I call the only Western man I know within 3 miles of my house. No answer.

Great. [Ya know how I’ve been talking about the no husband thing? And how I have to swallow my pride and ask for help? Well, three men are unreachable. What if I was being kidnapped?!]

Then I proceed to call another American guy who just so happened to score an “advanced low” on his Arabic language skills. Congratulations to him, he’s getting a phone call from me.

“Hi Daniel,” [we’ll call him Daniel], “This is Sarah. Can you translate for me? I’ve got my guard here and he’s eating all my cookies and won’t take my money.”

Laughing, “Uh, sure, Sarah. Put him on,” came Daniel’s response.

“Ok! Thanks! His name is Mohammad,” I say.

Mohammad happily takes my telephone and I stand there. They talk and talk and talk and finally Mohammad hands me the phone with an expectant look on his face. Daniel explains that I need to pay the money and some other small circumstance that I can’t even remember now, and I yell, teasingly, at Mohammad, in English: “Ya Mohammad!! Why didn’t you just say so!!?!” Daniel’s on the phone laughing and Mohammad just laughs, shakes his head at me and helps himself to two more cookies.

Moral of the Story:
If you semi-epic-fail at speaking the language,
and asking for help doesn’t necessarily work,
just bribe and reward those around you
with possibly the best part of being American:
Chocolate Chip Cookies.

It worked for me.

And it was just another night in the Middle East.

Each day, sugarhigh send me the latest on the amazing Berlin arts scene.  Yesterday, they were at their very best.  Sit back and enjoy.

An ever-so-slightly modified excerpt from Plato’s Symposium:

The original nature of socks was not like the present. Once socks were a distinct kind, constituted by the union of the right sock and the left sock—the powerful pair. Great was the pairs’ might and strength, and they planned an attack on the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial councils. At last, after much reflection, Zeus thought of a way. “Socks shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two,” he declared. After the division, each single sock was sentenced to a life spent searching for its other half. The nature of socks then was originally one and they were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love.

Socks have a maddening habit of separating themselves from their predestined other half. But they need not be doomed to lives of heartbreak and loneliness, nor do we need to be left with a drawer full of unusable singles. Artist Tabea Mathern’s Lost Sock Project is an open call for submissions of abject, single socks, which will be woven into a large-scale work of textile art.

Together, forever. —[sh]

Absolutely loving the creativity!  I wish some of it would rub off…

So – be kind to all those lonely socks and send them to the Lost Sock Project!

See more of Kyoko’s work here!

Spider Alley, the place only the bravest children dare enter.

Brave the sticky webs and wrapped bundles of mummified bugs, spun and wrapped, ready to stick in your hair.

Run, run, run!

(To look at the real thing, click here: Spider Alley)

One of my earliest childhood memories is of being stuck in the little play area in our garden, which had a fence around it to stop us running off.  However, there was a little gap between the fence post and the wall that I was able to squeeze through.  On this particular day, though, there was a big fat spider sitting just where I needed to get through.  Why I wanted to get out, I have no idea.  Maybe I was just bored.  What I do remember is the battle going on inside me.  I was scared of the spider.  Yet I didn’t want to stay in there any longer.  Should I be brave? Could I somehow avoid the spider?  Should I try calling my Mum?

No idea what I did in the end.  Maybe the spider just left.  Or maybe my Mum came and I no longer needed to squeeze through the gap to get out.  Either way, I lived to tell the tale.  Still don’t much like spiders, though!

Basque table linen, British Portmeirion pottery and artwork made in Israel by a lovely Dutch friend. 

All coming together on my dining table. 

Love it!

]]> http://baytaschwarz.wordpress.com/2011/09/10/fusion/feed/ 0 bayta SL373134 http://baytaschwarz.wordpress.com/2011/08/27/elections-and-all-that/ http://baytaschwarz.wordpress.com/2011/08/27/elections-and-all-that/#comments Sat, 27 Aug 2011 10:28:35 +0000 bayta http://baytaschwarz.wordpress.com/?p=544 ]]>

We have local elections coming up, and there are posters everywhere along the streets. Looking at them, it seems the parties think this is meant to be a contest in tackiness.  I mean, do they really think people will believe they are suddenly all caring and kind?  Maybe it’s just me, but all this election campaign stuff just makes me more and more cynical towards politics and politicians.

Which kind of makes me mad because I don’t want to be cynical.  Living in a democracy and being able to vote is such a privilege, and it’s sad when that is spoiled.

So here’s my idea: why not abandon all the posters etc.   Just give me a leaflet letting me know what you actually stand for, and be done with it.  I can do the rest!  It’s not going to happen, but it’s a nice dream.  [Incidentally, since writing this and before pressing publish, I came across this website Wahl-O-Mat which helps you compare what the different parties have to say on various issues.  Definitely a step in the right direction and so much better than posters!  I also realised that watching mainly BBC news has not really prepared me well for making decisions on Berlin issues...]

Sadly, there are also posters that are not just annoying but downright offensive.  Boy, freedom of speech is definitely a good thing but how sad is it that some people are so full of hatred and fear!

On a lighter note, here’s a poster I actually find amusing:

And no, I still have no idea who I will actually be voting for.  But vote I will!

Here are some words from Isaiah 32 I happened to be reading this morning

Some day there will be a king who rules with integrity, and national leaders who govern with justice.  Each of them will be like a shelter from the wind and a place to hide from storms. They will be like streams flowing in a desert, like the shadow of a giant rock in a barren land.  Their eyes and ears will be open to the needs of the people.  They will not be impatient any longer, but they will act with understanding and will say what they mean.  No one will think that a fool is honorable or say that a scoundrel is honest.

If only this was true of any of the candidates…

I can’t quite remember how many years into my cross-cultural life I realised I no longer knew where I belonged.  The first 19 years of my life were spent in one city (Hamburg, Germany) but since then, I have moved around quite a bit: UK, France, back to Germany, Russia and then 15 years in the UK.  Somewhere in there I realised the word home had lost its meaning.  Or maybe it had gained additional meaning.  There was “home” in the sense of a place that had shaped me and that held childhood memories.  But “home” as a place where my deepest relationships were, where I understood the cultural cues, and knew how to relate – that was a different place.  There was definitely pain involved in realising I had lost something many people take for granted.  At the same time, there was SO MUCH I had gained by living cross-culturally, that there was no way I would want to change anything.  The price was real, but it was definitely worth paying!

If nothing else (and there are lots of other things!), it has helped me gain a much deeper understanding of some of my favourite verses in the Bible (from Hebrews 11):

“They admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth.  If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return.  Instead, they were longing for a better country.”

A year ago, I moved to Berlin and am discovering that re-entry adds a whole other angle to the idea of “home”!  But that is a story for another day…