BERLIN

Notes from my moleskin:
-No one drinks water
-Everyone drinks beer
-People of actual color live here
-Over 35: No English
-Under 35: English 
-Germans follow every rule unquestioningly, everyone else jaywalks
-So much bad modernism
-Wide boulevards
-Not as many Nikes
-Hipster girls have this signature early-80's bowl cut, very cute


Cities have existed throughout history not just as places or destinations, but as characters, contributing to the public dialogue in and of themselves. They speak their own language to the people who inhabit  them, sometimes shouting, sometimes whispering; sometimes a laugh can be heard, and often their painful history can be felt. Berlin, more so than most other cities in the past century, has endured an immense amount of pain in its short lifetime. The scar which runs through the city is demarcated by a red brick path, winding in and out of roads, through buildings, forever dividing the east and west side of the city, despite that the neighborhoods that once stood on either side continue to meld together in typical gentrified fashion. Surely the legacy of the Wall will never be forgotten in the divided city, but each year that passes puts it deeper into the cultural consciousness, healing the scar little by little. 

The city’s memorials douse the pain of the War in an eternally apologetic tone, leaving the many new young urbanites with a tone of placid remembrance. The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe is one such place adorned with a profound reverence that I haven’t seen in any other site. Walking through each of the rectilinear cement formations placed evenly apart, one is met with a quieted solitude which silences the hurried thoughts of city life. The wordless space was designed to allow the visitor to experience her own emotions amongst the crevasses between blocks. The memorial acts as a blank, lifeless city for the dead, an empty canvas for which each visitor paints his feelings and thoughts upon them, perhaps to be at ease for just a moment. To me, the space served an even larger purpose, carrying with it the burden of representing a memorial for memorials. Children played hide and seek in the narrow alleyways, couples kissed in the shadows; these demonstrate not that the memorial isn’t being respected for what it is, but that it is so elegantly designed that it has woven itself into the natural urban fabric of the city. I found my silence there. 

In a high school Creative Writing course, I once wrote a short story called “The Difference Between East and West Raccoons.” It was an extended metaphor about the Donner Party, shown as a gaze of raccoons who leave their burning forest in the east to travel to a promise land in the west. Most of the pack didn't make it to their destination because the pain they endured en route drove them to madness as they ate each other in rapacious desperation. My ultimate message was to show the fatal demise of believing in a non-existent promise land, how this changes people into entirely different characters with an evolving motive, how there is a remarkable difference between these raccoons from their humble beginnings in the east to their vicious selves in the west. They are no longer the same raccoons once the few remaining survivors reach the forests of the golden state. 

Today this piece means something else to me. The history of “east and west” has graced world history time and time again: the New Frontier of the American West, the dominance of the globalized western culture, "conflicts in the Middle East". Historians (namely from the West) have twisted the meaning of these dichotomous cardinal directions into whatever the Present deems formidable. The West can be the beacon of culture and innovation, while the East can be exotic and mystical, despite that neither holds true. 

When riding my bike through Berlin, my adventure partners kept telling me with repetition: “Now we’re in the East”, “Now we’re in the West.” These two sides, once divided by an ocean of turbulent politics, are now joined together, but insist on differentiating themselves. I ask: what is the difference between East and West Berliners?

Berlin is surely a city that is between identities. The fantastic cultural influence of the city and the increasing affluence of the country at large are increasingly positioning Berlin as the leading city for the creative class of Europe. 20-somethings from Spain and Turkey flock to Berlin in search of jobs, stimulus, and affordability; this is the hyperbolic “west” they seek. Those outside of the city consider it a wellfare state, sucking the resources out of the affluent surroundings. Some Germans I spoke to were wholly resentful of Berlin’s media-celebrated cultural richness, despite that the city can’t seem to pay its own bills. Regardless, I leave the city feeling perplexed by what it wants to be, but amazed at what it is: a young, rebellious, vibrant metropolis that deserves to be spelled here as boldly as it lives: BERLIN, I  give you a resounding smile, a pat on the back, a slap on the ass, for all you’ve been through you’re still amazing the world. You may not be so poor anymore, but sexy you are still. 

København

Notes from my moleskin:

-everyone is blonde

-everyone wears Nikes

-I can’t tell if anyone is gay

-everyone is white

-lots of shawarma food

-7-Elevens are everywhere

-slot machines in bars?

-Carhartt everywhere

-the honor system prevails

-freakin expensive

-beards are not in (or have they not arrived yet?)

-people are nice in ways I didn’t know existed

-doesn’t get dark until 10:45 PM

-sun rises at 3:30 AM

-Irish girls bring out the fun

-playing the Macarena in bars is acceptable 

My first impressions of Copenhagen were nothing short of a mild disappointment. My expectations of the city were calibrated for the lively, cosmopolitan energy I experienced prior to coming, and my arrival was a bit anti-climactic. The city can feel bland at times: the prevailing 19th-century constructions that line most of the streets create a curtain of red-brick Haussmann-like repetitive dullness. Racially, the city is homogenous: white, blonde, handsome. The local culture is so pleasant, it would seem everyone is sedated; zombies medicated into a state of complacent friendliness. It took this skeptical American several days to understand that there are entirely different social paradigms here. Just lock your bike’s back wheel to the frame; no need to chain it in maximum-security fashion to a pole. People will trust your word without much questioning. The honor system prevails. Nothing made my pessimism more evident than when it was contrasted with the convivial demeanor of Copenhageners. I am aware, however that several factors shaped this impression: a) most locals thought I was Danish (see: everyone is blonde; everyone is white), and b) having come out of another harsh Scandinavian winter, the general mood of the city during the season of 19-hour daylight is a palpable mixture of relief and bliss. 

Taking these first impressions, I was quick to say the city is too homogenous, both in built form and social climate. A small city in a very small country. Once these premises are accepted, however, I was able to relax in this surprisingly open and fluid city. 

The gay scene in Copenhagen is quite small, but I was informed this was because there was little need for the separation of sexualities. Many locals prided themselves for contribution to a city that embraces a mixture of so-called “minorities”— code for gay men and anyone who’s skin tone is darker than than the “2” on my toaster. This made things especially difficult for me because I had to recalibrate my gaydar to the “Euro” setting, which is undergoing maintenance at the moment. Back in San Francisco, someone may not look gay, but I can smell it on them. 

From the outside, Copenhagen is viewed by some as the “hippie city”, not because of its terribly liberal or open vibe, nor because of any lax treatment of marijuana sales (outside Christiania), but because the people are slow, participating in a  pace of life that is lazy and relaxed, and high fashion is not a common sight. The general garb appears functional and comfortable, without seeming too Freshman-in-college (think solid sportswear, not sweatpants). 

All in all, what struck me most is that this is a city where nothing has happened to them. There isn’t really any cultural trauma to live with, as you might see in Berlin or New York, and their worst period appears to be the “motor invasion”, a period from the 40’s-70’s in which the country’s affluence brought an influx of cars to the city center. The city is clean and orderly and functioning. Its people are content with their lifestyle, but they seem to have no idea that getting a Master’s degree isn’t free most other places. 

Copenhagen, you were good to me. Thanks for teaching me to relax. 

New York City

New York is a colossally massive city, and summing it with a generalized, sweeping judgement would be an error that millions have already made before me. What can be said about the city is that it is America’s city, for better or worse. It is the emblem that represents American values at their most extreme, a magnifying prism that separates the fibers of our society into neat primary colors on a subway map. Which line are you? New Yorkers will insist that they are the least American, they will dogmatically differentiate themselves from “them” and cite their cosmopolitan urbanity, their superior transit, their intense approach to vertical dwelling a defining separator from the perceived slow, homogenous suburban landscape that most Americans live in. What I see, however, is precisely what Americans want, although it may not be evident at first sight. 

New York is money-obsessed, it is driven by an increasingly accelerated momentum toward power and influence, and it certainly succeeds at this. American values, whether we like it or not, are not driven by dreams or hope or community, but by money, and this is something to come to terms with. 

We can think of nothing better to show our pride and resilience after the destruction of two towers than to build a single taller one, brighter and with more office space than ever before, and we like to call it “triumphant.” This is the ethos that Americans link to freedom, that New Yorkers equate to power. What they don’t see, however, is the prison they’ve built for themselves, codified in ever-growing castles of rich elite, looking down upon the minions as they trap themselves amongst the clouds of Midtown. What they don’t seem to realize is the commodification of a horrendous tragedy, the obliteration of solemn reverence in favor of loud bigness, and its so ugly it can only be American. Early plans from the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation included constructing a subterranean shopping mall beneath the 9/11 Memorial. 

Times Square was once a space for city dwellers to gather and celebrate baseball games and holidays, a civic space for the rich and poor. Today’s Times Square is a freakish imitation of itself, with jumbotrons so bright you can’t see the charade before you. It is surely a caricature of its own history, a capitalist’s wonderland in the theme park that is the island. 

 If the cities of the world were children on a playground, New York would be the loud, screaming bully, pushing the others around and insisting she’s the best there ever was. I’ve always felt that if you have to say it, its probably not true. 

Manhattan, and increasingly parts of Brooklyn, is the quintessential American ecosystem, teeming with imperatives toward constant spending in the 24-hour lifestyle. Neighborhoods are fetishized like fashion trends, and the excess populous of this real estate rush are pushed one stop further along the L-train every year. New York is in no way unique in its self-destructive gentrification, but it is certainly the best at it that I’ve seen. 

New Yorkers have an unabashed pride in their city, and rightfully so. New York is so many colors, so many wonderful chaotic happenings at once that its hard to believe they all exist in one place. From the monstrous verticality of Manhattan to more moderate-scaled Brooklyn, and everything in-between, there is so much to see in New York, and it certainly cannot be described as one thing, because it is so many at any given time. 

I only got a tiny slice of the city on this visit, and I both loved and hated what I saw, but it can be said that there is absolutely nothing quite like New York City.