The Berlin Stories

The sign over the nightclub in the photo reads, 'here it is right', this was Berlin, during the Weimar years. Whatever your tastes and proclivities there was a place for them and 'it was right'.

The notorious club, called El Dorado, is now - not unsurprisingly - a Bio Market for organic produce in the touristic gay district, Schoenberg. We are a long way from the debauchery of the roaring 20s.

Here I was again in beautiful Berlin. The city that bewitched and captivated me over all other cities. The city that makes me constantly anxious that someday I might go back to it, and find the charm, the decadence and the indomitable character transformed into eco-friendly, anaesthetised,  politically correct bio markets.

Even Berlin is not immune from the encroachment from neo-liberal capitalist infiltration. Even one of the poorest cities in Germany has 'Upper East Side Berlin', rising from the completely demolished Eastern side, like concrete visual sores along the majestic landmarks of Gendarmenmarkt.

Yet I can't help feel the city is changing in ways that are clearly visible, and ways that are not so visible. And as I ran from the dire Cairo reality, into the arms of good, old Berlin I wondered will the restless spirit that permeated Berlin of the 80s and 90s and that I got a very small glimpse endure, or will it all be transformed into another Upper East Side or Kurfürstendamm.

It seemed that this question was haunting me wherever I go. Cairo or Berlin, all the same.

While in Berlin itself I never had the chance to write. Between shuttling in-between West and East for rehearsals, and trying to get my modest gadget starting, and socializing with friends, there was never enough time to sit down and dwell on the many experiences the city gives me and the many emotional states that it brings about in me.

Maybe I had to leave it and inhabit a completely different urban reality and allow memory to do its magic.

What came out of memory was a collection of stories, that I was actively writing or authoring while they took place.

In memory and appreciation, I decided to name these experiences after Christopher Isherwood's cult classic, the Berlin stories.

In Hipster Heaven

Faraway, on the Hill of the Cross, in a district with a long history of being a modest housing for struggling workers or the lower ranks of civil service, one that later transformed into a safe haven for non-German residents and immigrants, there among the marginalized and the outlawed, developed a gay scene.

A scene that is more kitschy, less glossy, more edgy and definitely a far cry from the leather bars of Prenzlauer Berg or the slick bars of Schoenberg.

This is the homeland of the alternative and the gathering point for all white hipsters.

Come one, come all, come ye of every kind, this is the place to fight against stereotypes to create a new stereotype, this is the place to fight commodity fetishism, only to create second-hand commodity fetishism, this is the place to resist ageist gay attitude, only to exclude anyone over 35, this is the only place where we celebrate the downtrodden, shabby chic of Kreuzberg, only to completely refashion it after New York East Village hipsters.

Welcome to the only place in Berlin, where everyone only speaks English at bars and clubs.

I am serious.

There are more expats here in gay bars and clubs than anywhere else in Berlin.

Welcome to the place, where the authentic is fetishized to the extreme.

I don't like Kreuzberg. I think it is ugly.

And I don't like hipsters. Substituting one consumerism with the other hardly makes it any better. No matter how retro-chic it is. It still operates with the same internal, contradictory dynamics that a capitalist consumerist society operates.

Not that I am the one to diss consumerism, I am just as guilty of it as the girl next door.

But I will be God damned before I change outfits and claim that this is the true spirit of the 'anti-establishment'.

Not because its retro or second-hand (you still paid 20 euros for that pair of jeans you idiot) or because you live among the "immigrants", does it make it morally superior in any way.

Or remotely more attractive for that matter.

But against my own aversion to hipsters and their 'communes', I decided to pay a visit to the Hill of the Cross, and go down the Via Dolorosa, known as Kottbusser Tor, going through the 2 stations of the cross, better known as Rosas and Moebl Olfe.

Moebl Olfe as the name suggests used to be a furniture store that was turned into a gay bar/club. It operates within the same niche of most 'establishments' in Kreuzberg, its alternative, grungy and people wear more used clothes than orphans in Congo.

You find a lot of the hippie artists who come to Berlin sprawled all over the place, accompanied by graduate students (mostly Americans) who are trying to spend some time  in a place that is slightly more "intellectual" (i.e. European) than their usual milieu.

There I sat sipping on my old Berlin vice, Apfelschorle  and looking around trying to see through the thick smoke (Berlin is one of the few places in Europe where people are still allowed to smoke in bars and restaurants) and the green-hued light and the endless sea of moustaches attached to the faces of twenty-something year olds.

It is hard to make it out what everyone is saying above the general clamor of all their voices combined (the place was packed on a weekday).

Before too long we decided to move to the next station, the station of the rose, and one of the landmarks of the scene, Rosas.

It is everything you want or expect in an "alternative" gay bar. Its incredibly kitschy (there is fake dark pink fur on the walls), its run by a big butch lady, and had a big sign over the jukebox saying, 'the jukebox is not your personal dj' (or something like that).

Despite being completely overcrowded with people, we managed to find a table and as I sat on those uncomfortable, high chairs, I started looking around, inspecting my surroundings, looking at the people who frequent such a place and it was a relief to find it more age inclusive (there were men who were actually 40 and older), there were a few natives (a rare species around these areas), and some people were actually dancing.

Unlike other homosexual waterholes, this one had fans and loyal bar goers. Those who knew the big lady and her place and that gave the place a sense of history and a certain depth. It was a place that was actually connected to its context, 'Germans' went to it, drank in it, sang it, danced in it, it was not just another abandoned factory space or an old furniture store, that was turned into an "alternative queer space", it was a bar that normal folks went to.
But that does not stop it from still being an expat or a hipster magnet, so as I sat I could overhear the lady sitting next to me talking in thick Italian accent to a random homosexual she just met about her work in a fashion magazine based in New York.

Even fashionistas go to hipster heaven.

Never date a Hamburger?

People from Hamburg have a reputation of being reserved, arrogant and with a dry, almost bitchy, sense of humor.

Hamburg is also thought of as the original birthplace of hamburger. So if you are a beef girl, its your city. Or so the myth goes.

But I had no real experiences with people from Hamburg or hamburger beef. 

I only knew one girl from Hamburg and she actually talked about how Hamburgers usually boasted their lifestyle and education and because I had no reference, I could not judge for myself.
The people, the beef, all remained a mystery.

But thanks to the democratic effect of cyberspace (you don't need t actually go to Hamburg to talk to people from Hamburg or even hook up with one), I got to know one gentleman from Hamburg. Total German beef. 

And the whole thing about Germans being reserved is hardly noticeable in online personal interactions, because of how specific the context is (people don't have to rely on any social skills while they hooking up online - hardly any. And the fact that it is very compartmentalized by preferences, physical characteristics, personal biography,.....etc makes it almost impossible that anyone would have to deal intimately with someone directly before sifting through the endless filters that social networking websites create) you rarely have any problems communicating with German men. By the time you find your specific interest or niche, you have narrowed down your choice to a few men whom you are certain are interested as well (if the shoe fits).
So I got to talk to this gentleman from Hamburg, who was very sweet in the few messages we exchanged, and was actually quite pleasant (with emoticons and smiles, the whole spiel). And even made the effort to text me when we exchanged numbers. Something I found quite promising.
We agreed to meet, and in the middle of Berlin, literally, we met as a summer storm started. 

The initial plan was to go to a park nearby and then if things "clicked" we go back to his place. Now with the lightening and thunder it was hardly the atmosphere for a walk in the park.

So we skipped the formalities and went straight ahead back to his place.

As a foreign subject, and a foreign subject from a country going through fundamental social and political change, I understand the curiosity some might have about my "context" and where I come from but nothing prepared me to the interrogative assault  that awaited me.

There in a nice penthouse overlooking Hackescher Markt we sat on the balcony and a torrent (not the links you use to download pirated copies of movies and porn but the overflow of something) of questions came flying in my face (only questions nothing else).

It came at me from everywhere (yup those questions and nothing else) questions of such detail, that I had to squeeze my brain to come up with 'right answer'. It felt as if I was sitting for an essay exam in my final year in college, gruelling and just as stressful.

After an endless series of those questions punctuated by uncomfortable pauses of silence, I thought that maybe after all my Northern beef patty was not interested. Maybe I read all the signs wrong and he prefers older, white muscular men.

There was no telling what that hamburger was thinking, and as it was raining cats and dogs outside, I decided to stay in and see where all this is going.

Then all of sudden as he was going to make sure the windows were firmly closed, he turned around and started kissing me. That was unexpected!

Don't get me wrong, I found him attractive and I liked the fact that I was kissing him, but I just did not understand how Deutsche beef operates.

Needless to say from then on he kept saying something then doing exactly the opposite. 

By the end I was fed up and bored and just wanted him - not even myself- to get off so I can leave. 

Its not in me to leave a man hanging. Once I start something I like to finish it.

And get off he did. At least someone did.

And just like that, he wanted me out of his house as soon as he had his fun.

I was not very keen on staying, and I didn't really care, but I was just surprised by how erratic and nonsensical it all was.

Never had I ever had burger that was that difficult to process. But then I never had a hamburger before.

A Moment with Martin and Diane

Berlin is not just the hipster homeland or toxic beef (where have all the juicy beef gone?). There is much more to it, than tacky post-modern architecture and long, fancy boulevards where the Russian Mafia shops.

Its a city that has a history and in many cases a complex and astonishing one.

One of the few monuments of Berlin that was perfectly restored, almost to its original condition (you see it and you think the war never happened) is the Martin-Gropius Bau.

Originally a museum, it is now one of the most beautiful exhibition spaces in Berlin.

Don't let its Neo-Renaissance style put you off, it has a stunning architecture and the space is designed in such a way it just makes you exhale out all your cares the moment you cross the staircase.

So art or not, I decided that even if I was not going to attend any performances (a sin if you are in Berlin! - it even rhymes) or go to shows or exhibitions, I was going to go the Martin-Gropius Bau just to sigh.

But then sometimes life throws us little gifts here and there, and the exhibition for this summer was a retrospect for the work of Diane Arbus (1923-1971). 

I have not heard of Diane Arbus before and this was the first time I get introduced to her work. It was one of those serendipitous moments where you least expect to find inspiration and then it comes to you in the most unexpected of ways.

Her stark, sometimes austere style stealthily revealed a unique and heartbreaking intensity. Her photos were mostly frontal, almost confrontational, with recourse to little "effects", it placed you in very direct position to her subjects: The freaks, the giants, the retards, the drag queens, the Puerto Ricans,.....etc. It was all there. In your face, literally.

Not in an aggressive, visually imposing way, but rather through a very interesting sense of composition, that slowly invites you in and then, BAM, slaps you in the face with how intense it is!

It was liberating to be among the freaks and the immigrants, the circus performers and New York Jews, the retards and the hipsters (for once), it was liberating for just a bit, to witness those moments where someone's humanity is so manifest it overrides anything else. 

If there is no other achievement for Arbus that in itself suffices.