Garside: Heimathafen Neukölln
First success, great success.
I don’t have a formula for how I want to present this information just yet, so bear with me for the first few.
Organization: Heimathafen Neukölln (Home Port Neukölln, though it loses sentiment in translation)
Location: Karl-Marx-Straße 141, Neukölln
Since: 2009
Services & Community Engagement: ”Wir sind Volkstheater!” Heimathafen Neukölln offers a performance space for community theater pieces, musicals, public readings, dance (and more!), with the goal of “giving a voice to the neighborhood of Neukölln.” They also produce original pieces, often about life in Neukölln; for example, the upcoming Meine Mutter, Karl-Marx-Straße und der Rest der Familie.
My interaction with them? I saw the last performance of “Arab Queen,” the third part of the Neukölln-Trilogy, in which the main character is torn between her desire to be an obedient Muslim daughter at home, and a free-spirited lover of dancing, table tennis, and boys in the streets of her Berlin.
The two-hour performance was stunning. The theater is just a small square of a room—there couldn’t be more than 60-70 seats—and the only semblance of a set was the raised white platform in the center of the room that stood in for a bed, a dancefloor, a kitchen table, usw.
But the three characters knocked it out of the park.
I don’t think it’s necessary (nor am I qualified) to give a sociological analysis of the demographics of the audience members on my particular evening of viewing pleasure, but I will say this: if you think the average person in, if not all of Germany, at least Berlin, is not interested in Turkish culture and the lives (and perhaps, plight) of the third generation of Turkish migrants who arrived in the 1960s and thereafter, you may want to think again.
SpielArt, a theater critique-magazine for Berlin and Brandenburg, agrees: “If so many people want to see this piece … then one must not be afraid for the future of multicultural life in Berlin.”
An interesting first organization, indeed.
After much fretting (read: sitting in cafés and parks, people-watching and reading), I received two delightful back-to-back emails: one from a contact affiliated with NYU, who is currently working to develop a course on my exact Garside topic; one from Bastian, who works at the Türkische Gemeinde Deutschland, with whom she put me in touch after hearing about my project.
I’m meeting with him on Thursday (Donnerstag, for those of you hoping to get some German out of this incessant rambling), to go over my general plan and goals (hopes, dreams, etc.). Then—to my great delight and surprise—he offered to put me in touch with someone from “Management,” who he thinks will be better equipped to speak to the sort of information I’m interested in learning.
Well, well.
Things are off to a not-so-shabby start. I’ve passively taken in a few Turkish events, in case my proposal (which demands a rather active involvement from the organizations I’ve selected) meanders a bit from its stated path: the Turkish market (including the excellent steel drum band, comprised of young Turkish boys, that I stopped to listen to); Neuköllner Maientage (see previous post); and a film screening of Nader and Simin (admittedly about Iranians, not Turks, but a foray into migrant culture, nonetheless) at Freiluftkino Kreuzberg.
A brief comment concerning the last event: as when I realized my reading level had prepared me to read childrens’ books, it turns out that films in a foreign language with German subtitles (again, Untertitel, if you’d like) are exactly the speed with which I can keep up. They synthesize a lot of information in one little sentence across the bottom of the screen. They use (relatively) simple vocabulary and syntax. And they are given in context. Even when some of the words trip me up, I can rely on my eyes to fill in the gaps my ears can’t handle.
It was delightful. I understood, conservatively, 92% of the movie. Not bad.
Still waiting to hear back from Regenbogenfabrik, GLADT, and Ballhaus Naunynstraße. I’m particularly interested in the Voicing Resistance festival that BN is hosting from June 9 to June 20.
Up next on my contact list? Professor Yurkadul from Humboldt Universität, Professors Gürbey and Hoff from Freie Universität, and Werkstatt der Kulturen.
Did I mention Karneval der Kulturen is this weekend? You can only imagine how excited I am.
Reminders & Rejuvenators
As you (may or may not) know, I’m not particularly fond of lists. However, sometimes they serve a purpose, and for today at least, that is true.
1. Sleeping in during summer vacation is not a crime.
2. Getting to know your apartment hosts over homemade granola and (later in the day) wine is a rather delightful benefit of paying a little extra to not stay in a hostel.
3. Whenever I start to think I know how to navigate a Berlin neighborhood, I should just stop thinking and take out a map.
4. Unlimited monthly train passes for 53 euro make my wayfinding mishaps more manageable.
5. Beer just tastes better in Germany.
Lammsbräu Kristallweizen. Not my favorite, but it was refreshing.
6. Old brick buildings (cf. the former Anhalter Bahnhof and the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtnis Kirche) designed by that lovable rapscallion Franz Heinrich Schwechten are gorgeous.
Yes, this is where I went to school.
7. If you are kind to Italian waiters (read: if your German instantly gives you away as an Ausländer, and they call you on it), they will do nice things.
Yes, I ate it all. Please take your judging to someone else’s blog.
8. Berlin in the summer, whether or not you’re sitting outside a café, truly is a delight.
Outside Café Möbel, Oderberger Straße.
And as for the narrative you’re so anxiously awaiting?
I’ve contacted half of my proposed organizations, and am keeping my eyes peeled for spontaneous (combustions?) additions to the list. I think most of Berlin checks out around noon on Fridays, so I’m not going to get my hopes up regarding responses until the weekend is well over. I’ve also sent two invitations for coffee/beer “dates” with potential contacts in two organizations. We’ll see where those go.
The Neuköllner Maientage festival/carnival/insanity was so odd. It was the wrong demographic of people, enjoying a tweeny carnival with American music and German Christmastime snacks and goodies. Very strange. Here, you’ll see.
Just imagine a sort of techno-ized Taylor Swift song playing with this ride.
And the Bayern-Chelsea soccer match tonight? Let’s just say fireworks almost came in through the window out of which I was sticking my head. It was the perfect end to a perfect Saturday of leisure, ambling, indulging, and reminding myself that I’m here for travel and reflection.
Housekeeping
After nearly missing both of my flights (Universe, are you jealous you didn’t win a Garside to Berlin?), and investing more time trying to find my way to my first apartment than I had planned, I spent the better part of my first 24 hours in my favorite city asleep.
That’s right: a 7-hour nap.
Cue the caffeine 8 hours later and I was looking at a long, sleepless night. Did you know it starts getting light in Berlin in the summer at 4:30 a.m.?
Regardless, I managed to unpack the few items that made the shortlist to get into my 20-lb. suitcase, meet my apartment hosts (who are a delightful couple, transplants from Britain), and take care of some administrative tasks.
If the first breakfast is any indication of the quality of my trip to come, I’m in it to win it: homemade granola with yogurt, a fresh cup of French-pressed coffee, and a few pages of Pirsig.
So crunchy, I know.
Today, I’m off to buy fruits and vegetables (Obst and Gemüse, if you’d like) from the Turkish Market, my transit pass, and perhaps check out the 47th annual Neuköllner Maientage. Oh, and coffee. Naturally.
In case you’re curious, my room, the kitchen, and the living room:
Yes, I understand everything looks red.
Mmmm, blue kitchen.
Living Room
All endings are beginnings, too.
Clichés aside, I’ve spent the last week or so winding down and wrapping up, closing one chapter so that I might begin penning the next.
Hey, Martel.
I’m officially a Rice alumna, with all the rights, responsibilities, and privileges appropriate to that title. (Thanks for the sass at commencement, President Leebron.)
Perhaps a testament to my self-given reputation as an informal PR associate for the City of Houston, my last 24 hours in the city involved a smattering of my favorite places, though they were chosen by friends who were saying goodbye to the city, too: Miller Outdoor Theater for Houston Ballet’s free performance of Giselle; West Alabama Ice House for Lone Star and Tacos Tierra Caliente for a delicious barbacoa taco; Agora for a dirty iced chai; Melange Creperie for a peach-and-lemon-cream-cheese crepe.
For my next trick, I’ll re-disappear into the depths of my favorite Berlin neighborhoods to carry out my project on Turkish community organizations in Kreuzberg and Neukölln. (Thanks for paying for my cliché post-college Europe trip, Rice!)
You can find me, on given days, here. And on the days you can’t find me, I’m submerging myself in the summer bliss of Berlin, and although I’m sorry, I can’t let you into that sacred space.
I’ll try to update about general goings-on, and not just give you the Garside(bury) Tales.
If you find yourself in Berlin between May 17 and July 6, drop me a line. You’ll know where to find me.
I’m beginning to think unicorns might be real
Maggie recommended Professor Zammito’s class because of his lecturing prowess. What she didn’t tell me was that ideas from his performances would crop up throughout the rest of my day, almost every day. For people who like saying that learning doesn’t end when you leave the classroom, come take a course by John Zammito.
Monday evening, Fahad and I went to a lecture at the Rothko Chapel. It was the first time I had been to an organized event in the space and though I must admit that some of the feeling of reverence brought about by the space’s austerity was gone, the chapel is indeed a tremendous place to hold an event in honor of history. Tariq Ali spoke about the uses and abuses of history, likely in support of his most recent work with Oliver Stone, On History, but the book didn’t take center stage. Ali’s mind did. He welcomed discussion on topics typically taboo in America, and refuted them soundly. It was refreshing to hear someone (a Pakistani living in exile in London) rebuke our standard notions of political correctness.
Had Fahad and I not heard Zammito’s Pascal lecture earlier that morning, I think the overall effect of Ali’s arguments would have been much less overwhelming. As it was, I had just grappled with Pascal’s idea of man’s wretched position of simultaneous magnificence and pathetic-ness. I had just discovered his argument for the place and importance of the heart between body (read: machine) and mind (read: reason).
So Ali’s words shook me.
And Fahad, too, I think. We needed to talk things over, and half-price cake night at Empire seemed to be the appropriate venue for that.
Wednesday saw us (joined by Carmel) at Ecclesia for the first TEDxHouston Salon event. We watched three Talks and shared in some fascinating conversations. And of course, what did one speaker mention but Galileo’s emphasis on the importance of the language of math. Of triangles. (Perhaps, of unicorns.)
Everything comes full circle.
Cheers to the three-day weekend
There’s something inexplicably delightful about waking up on a Sunday morning, heading outside to borrow some much-needed energy from the warmth of a January sun, and running into two friends carrying bags of groceries and a grill.
Though an avid football player, I don’t tend to watch games too often, as three-hour increments of free time are (or so I have convinced myself) hard to come by.
But when baited by peppered bacon and apple-smoked cheeseburgers, how can one resist? The weather was perfect, the boys had set up the grilling station just outside the door, and the spread of meats, cheeses, and vegetables was enough to draw a certain 90-pound great dane to our side of Martel.
Preparation started at 11:30, grilling shortly after kickoff. Though the outcome of the game wasn’t favorable to our beloved franchise, its high-stakes, high-intensity character made it fun (read: stressful) to watch. Coupled with Maggie’s commentary, the spinach-dip-in-a-bread-bowl, and a seemingly endless supply of libations, we passed the afternoon in a blissful state of near NFL-nirvana.
And so, regardless of where next year takes us, down the different paths we’ve chosen, it’s sunny afternoons like these that will forever paint my memories of Martel.
On not putting baby in the corner
I find it oddly perfect that it took seven semesters to figure out how to select classes: take the professor’s favorite class.
In two of my classes on Monday, the professors stated outright that this class is their favorite to teach; this class is their baby; they have refined this class to perfection.
What a new thought! So simple, and yet of course professors have a hierarchical preference for their own academic offerings. It follows, then, that a student should seek out the class that professor most enjoys teaching, most enjoys preparing for, most enjoys engaging students in.
The first day of senior spring found me in awe of the magnificence of true love of knowledge. Whether lecturing for an hour on two words, or getting worked up about two gardens—occupying two vastly different geographies—these professors were motivated by joy. It’s not the first time I’ve felt humbled by certain departments at Rice, but it was the first pang of remorse I’ve experienced at the idea that, soon, I will no longer being a humanities warrior, fighting the encroaching STEM world to show the importance of reading great works and standing in wonderment before them.
Houston, Houston
Carmel and I went to this terrific lecture at the Contemporary Arts Museum of Houston (whose recent redesign still tickles me … CMYK) entitled, “The Spectacular of Vernacular,” an accompaniment to a current exhibit at the museum. It was a panel discussion by five Houstonians who explained what everyday Houston meant to them in their everyday world.
The scene was intimate, the audience engaged, the speakers (for the most part) on their game.
And even though I’ve been back in Houston since late December 2010—hard to believe, trust me—those five stories made me nostalgic for the Houston I know and love, that I often have trouble articulating to others, but that I defend to the very end.
The evening got me thinking about what my Houston means to me, and, with a nudge from a friend’s letter, I quickly came to realize that a large part of my Houston existence is devouring the fine arts scene.
In addition to working at the Houston Ballet this summer, I had the pleasure of seeing:
The Intergalactic Nemesis, at The Wortham Center
Taming of the Shrew, by the Houston Ballet
David Eagleman, speaking at the Houston Public Library
2001: A Space Odyssey, of Movies at Miller Outdoor Theatre
Kriegie Wartime Log, a HopeWerks production
The Mikado, by the Gilbert & Sullivan Society
Dayton Bramhall and The Gourds, at Miller Outdoor Theatre
Spring Awakening, by Generations Theatre
Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, at the Alley Theatre
Othello, Houston Shakespeare Festival at Miller Outdoor Theatre
Taming of the Shrew, ibid.
A gallery opening, at Spring St. Studios
In addition, I went to countless practicás, courtesy of Second Cup Swing, browsed some terrific art by Lisa Chow, and was rewarded by my supervisor with a snippet performance of an aria.
Not to mention my arts-filled jaunts to San Francisco and Chicago.
I think, more than anything, I just wanted a list of all of the incredible talent I saw this summer, most of it compliments of free performances. If that’s one thing I wish people knew—and respected—about Houston, it’s that we take our arts seriously and we share them generously.
Thanks, Houston, for a lovely summer.
Bagels, and books, and bikes … oh my!
I woke up tasting bagels.
I can’t remember if a dream planted that grainy seed or if it came, unbidden, on another sensory channel. Maybe I’m preemptively celebrating Coffeehouse’s new location renovations (that I peeked at in the RMC yesterday). Regardless, Hot Bagel Shop called my name.
Carmel and I drove over, ordered our bagels and a coffee, and sat in the parking lot listening to a story about Machu Picchu on NPR. It was early—the sun not yet taunting us—and we rolled the windows down for the breeze. I had my library books (and two DVDs!) in the trunk for a post-breakfast drop-off run.
Sated, we returned home, only to realize we had just driven through the part of town where we could’ve bought Carmel a helmet to accompany his new bicycle (Safety First, cf. the Martel Judicial Code).
So we went back out, this time Fleet Foxing over to the Village on our blue and purple two-wheelers.
In our excitement (read: because we are idiots), we forgot to check and make sure the bike store would be open at half-past ten on a Sunday morning.
It wasn’t. Not ’til noon.
I suggested we go to Salento and wait out the remaining 90 minutes, only to realize neither of us brought anything to do. And goodness knows we couldn’t have made it if we had to sit and talk to each other the whole time.
Which is right about the time Carmel remembered there’s a Half Price Books two blocks over from the bike store. We trekked over there, walked up to the door with extreme trepidation about its opening hours, and found ourselves in luck! 10 a.m. and all is well (at least at HPB on University … on a Sunday).
We browsed for a bit—he in sci-fi and graphic novels, I in German history—until I ventured upstairs where I hit the jackpot: clearance fiction. I found a book Carmel had been contemplating buying at Borders’ not-so-on-sale going-out-of-business sale, picked it up and looked at the $1 price tag.
Winning.
I grabbed A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (honest to God because someone had redesigned the cover of it for the final project of my Typography and Design class three semesters ago), also for $1, and headed on my merry way.
We checked out, went to Salento, read until shortly before noon (when, as you’ll recall, the bike store opens) and then biked back to the … bike store to get the thing for which we undertook this epic journey.
Carmel outfits his new biker alter-ego, is talking up the sturdiness of the tires and how it makes biking on Houston’s pothole-ridden streets less tragic, when the guy at the counter invites us to join he and a group of friends for their weekly Thursday pub crawl on bike: Valhalla, Frank’s, W. Alabama Ice House.
Sometimes, I forget that Sundays are a special kind of wonderful.
